The Barber of Paris
by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #37453 · 693,773 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Barber of Paris
Author: Paul de Kock
Translator: Edith Mary Norris
Release date: September 16, 2011 [eBook #37453]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37453
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BARBER OF PARIS ***
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
[Illustration: frontispiece]
THE WORKS OF
CHARLES PAUL DE KOCK
_The Barber of Paris_
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY
EDITH MARY NORRIS
The C. T. Brainard
Publishing Co.
Boston New York
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
THE FREDERICK J. QUINBY COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
_LOUIS E. CROSSCUP
Printer
Boston, Mass., U. S. A._
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I PAGE
The Barber's House 1
CHAPTER II
The Great Nobleman and the Barber 14
CHAPTER III
Blanche. A History of Sorcerers 35
CHAPTER IV
The Chevalier Chaudoreille 54
CHAPTER V
The Music Lesson 74
CHAPTER VI
The Lovers. The Gossips 87
CHAPTER VII
Intrigues Thicken 106
CHAPTER VIII
Conversation by the Fireside 129
CHAPTER IX
The Closet. The Abduction 140
CHAPTER X
The Little House. A New Game 155
CHAPTER XI
The Pont-Neuf. Tabarin 177
CHAPTER XII
A Nocturnal Adventure 189
CHAPTER XIII
The Tete-a-Tete 198
CHAPTER XIV
Ursule and the Sorcerer of Verberie 218
CHAPTER XV
Love and Innocence. A Shower of Rain and the
Talisman 239
CHAPTER XVI
How Will It End 260
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I
Who Could Have Expected It? 1
CHAPTER II
Happy Moments 23
CHAPTER III
A Day with Chaudoreille 38
CHAPTER IV
The Little Supper 54
CHAPTER V
Having Money and Power One May Dare
Everything 74
CHAPTER VI
The Rendezvous. Strokes of Fortune. The Hotel
de Bourgogne. The Sedan Chair 102
CHAPTER VII
Poor Urbain 126
CHAPTER VIII
The Chateau de Sarcus 135
CHAPTER IX
The Meeting. Projects of Revenge 164
CHAPTER X
The Little Closet Again 183
CHAPTER XI
The Storm Brews 197
CHAPTER XII
The Return to the Chateau 212
CHAPTER XIII
The Marquis Visits Blanche at Night 226
CHAPTER XIV
Urbain's Visit to the Marquis. Chaudoreille's
Last Adventure 242
CHAPTER XV
Julia's Story. What was Contained in the Portfolio 258
CHAPTER I
THE BARBER'S HOUSE
Upon a certain evening in the month of December, of the year one
thousand six hundred and thirty-two, a man walked at a rapid pace down
the Rue Saint-Honore and directed his steps towards the Rue Bourdonnais.
The individual appeared to be forty years old or thereabouts; he was
tall as to his figure and sufficiently good-looking as to his face; the
expression of the latter, however, was rather austere and at times even
melancholy; and in his black eyes might sometimes be noted an ironical
light, which belied the suspicion of a smile.
This ungenial personage, on the occasion of which we are writing, was
wrapped, one might almost say disguised, and he looked like one who
would lend his personality to disguise; he was wrapped, then, in a long
brown cloak which only came down just below his knees, and he wore,
drawn low down over his eyes, a broad-brimmed hat, which, contrary to
the fashion of the day, was ungarnished by a single feather, but which
effectually protected his face from the rain which was now beginning to
fall very heavily.
The Paris of that time was very different from the Paris of today. The
condition of the beautiful capital was then deplorable; many of the
streets were unpaved, many of them were only partly paved; heaps of
rubbish and filth accumulated here and there before the houses,
obstructing the course of the water and stopping the openings of the
drains. These waters being without outlet, overflowed on all sides,
forming puddles and filthy holes which exhaled miasmatic and foetid
odors. Then one might have alluded with truth to--
Paris, city of noise, of mud and of smoke.
The streets were unlighted. People carried lanterns, it is true; but
everybody did not have these, nor were lanterns any defence against the
robbers who existed in very large numbers, committing a thousand
excesses, a thousand disorders, even in broad daylight, being only too
well authorized in crime by the example of the pages and lackeys whose
habit it was to amuse themselves each night by insulting the passers-by,
abducting the girls, mocking at the watch, beating the sergeants,
breaking in the doors of shops, and annoying the peace of the
inhabitants in a multiplicity of ways, excesses against which parliament
had in vain promulgated statutes, which were incessantly renewed, and
just as incessantly violated with impunity.
The stealing of purses, and even of cloaks, was then a thing so common
that the witnesses of the robbery contented themselves with laughing at
the expense of the victim, without ever running after the thief. Murders
were committed in broad daylight on the squares and on the walks, the
criminals insulting their victims as they departed.
There were two kinds of thieves,--cut-purses and tire-laines. The first
nimbly cut the strings of the purse, which it was then the habit to
carry hung at the belt; the second, approaching from behind, rudely tore
the passer's cloak from his shoulders.
Vainly from time to time they executed some of these criminals. These
examples seemed to redouble the audacity of the vagabonds, the insolence
of the pages and lackeys. Justice waxed feeble, while custom allowed
each one to execute it for himself. Duels were nearly as common as
robberies; it was considered a great honor to have the power to boast of
having sent many people into the other world. Indubitably this was not
the golden age, nor the good old times so vaunted by some poets, so
regretted by those gloomy minds which admire only hoops and
farthingales.
We do not pretend to write history, but we have thought it necessary to
recall to the reader the state of Paris at the time in which our barber
lived. Undoubtedly he has already divined, by the title alone, that the
story is not of our time; for now we have in Paris many artistes in
hairdressing, many coiffeurs, and many wigmakers, but we have no longer
any barbers.
The individual whose portrait we have just drawn, having reached a
corner of the Rue des Bourdonnais, stopped before a pretty house on
which was written in big letters, "Touquet, Barber and Bathkeeper." At
that time the luxury of signs was not known, and the streets of Paris
did not offer to the consideration of loiterers a character from Greek
or Roman history at the front of each grocer's or haberdasher's shop.
The portrait of Mary Stuart did not invite one to go in and buy an ell
of calico; nor did Absalom, hung by the nape, indicate to one that he
was passing a hairdresser's parlors. We have made great progress in such
matters.
The man who had stopped before the barber's house would have had, no
doubt, much trouble in reading what was written on the front of the
shop, which was shut; for the night was dark, and, as we have already
said, there were no street lamps to aid those who ventured to be out in
the evening in the capital. However, he seized the knocker of the
smaller door, which served as an entrance, and gave a double knock
without hesitating, and as one who was not afraid of making a mistake;
in fact, it was the barber himself. In a few moments heavy steps were
heard, and a light shone against the lattice-work above the door, which
opened, and an old woman appeared, holding a candle in her hand. She
nodded, saying,--
"Good God, my dear master! you have had horrible weather. You must be
very wet. I have been praying to my patron saint that nothing should
happen to you. Oh, if one only had a secret for preserving one's self
from the rain! I'm very sure there are some people who can command the
elements."
The barber made no answer, but passed toward a passage which led to a
lower room in which there was a big fire. On entering the apartment he
began by removing his cloak and hat, from which latter escaped a mass of
black hair which fell in ringlets on his collar; he unfastened a large
dagger from his belt, it being then the custom not to venture out
without being armed. Touquet hung the dagger over the mantelpiece, then
threw himself into a wicker armchair and placed himself before the fire.
While her master rested, the old servant came and went about the room;
she placed the table beside the barber's armchair, drew from a buffet a
pewter cup, some plates, a cover. She placed on the table tankards
containing wine or brandy, and some dishes of meat which she had
prepared for the supper.
"Has anyone been here during my absence?" said the barber, after a
moment.
"Yes, monsieur; first, some pages, to know the news and adventures of
the neighborhood, to talk evil about everybody, and to mock at the poor
women who were weak enough to listen to them. Oh, the young men of
today are wicked. How they boasted of their conquests! Some bachelors
came to be shaved, then the little dandy who's delighted to wear powder,
protesting that soon everybody will wear it. Perhaps they'll powder the
hair likewise; still, that may preserve it from something worse. Ah, I
forgot; and that big, noisy and insolent lout who, because he has a
satin doublet and a velvet mantle, a hat adorned with a fine plume, and
beautiful silver points, believes that he has the right to play the
master over everything."
"Ah, you're speaking about Monbart?"
"Yes, of that same. He made a great shouting when he found you were not
here. He said that since monsieur is rich he neglects his business."
"Why should he meddle with it?"
"That's just what I thought, monsieur. M. le Chevalier Chaudoreille also
came. He fought a duel yesterday in the little Pre-aux-Clercs and killed
his adversary, and he had still another duel for this evening. Blessed
Holy Virgin! that men should kill each other like that, and often for
some mere trifle."
"Let them fight as much as they please; it's of little importance; it's
not my business. Did anybody else come?"
"Oh, the gentleman who is so droll that he makes me laugh, and whom I
have sometimes seen play in the farces which everybody runs to see at
his theatre in the Hotel de Bourgogne,--M. Henry Legrand."
"Why don't you say Turlupin?"
"Well, Turlupin, since that's the name they give him at the theatre, and
by which he's also known in the city. He does not make one melancholy.
He came with that other who plays with him, and acts, they say, the old
men, and delivers the prologues which precede the pieces."
"That's Gautier-Garguille?"
"Yes, monsieur, that's his name. He wanted to be shaved, bathed and have
his hair dressed; but as you were not here, one of them played the
barber and shaved his comrade; then the other took the comb and soapball
and rendered him the same service. I wished at first to prevent them,
but they wouldn't listen to me; if they didn't make me sit in the shop
and talk downright nonsense about scent and soap. Some people who in
passing had recognized Turlupin and his companion stopped before the
shop; presently the crowd grew dense, and when they wanted to leave they
could not find a way through; but you know Turlupin is never
embarrassed, and, having uselessly begged the curious to let them pass,
he went into the back shop and brought a bucketful of water, which he
emptied entirely upon the crowd. Then you can imagine, monsieur, the
excitement, the shouts of everybody. Turlupin and Gautier-Garguille
profited by the confusion to make their escape."
"And Blanche," said the barber, who appeared to listen impatiently to
old Marguerite's story,--"I hope that she was not downstairs when these
merry-andrews attracted such a crowd about my house."
"No, monsieur, no; you know very well that Mademoiselle Blanche seldom
comes down to the shop, and never when there is anybody there. Today, as
you were away, she did not leave her room, as you had advised her."
"That's well; that's very well," said the barber.
Then he drew near the fire, supporting one of his elbows on the table,
and appeared to fall again into reflection without listening to the
chatter of his servant, which continued as if her master were paying the
greatest attention to her.
"Mademoiselle Blanche is a charming girl; oh, yes, she is a charming
child,--pretty, very pretty. I defy all your court ladies to have more
beautiful eyes, or a fresher mouth, or whiter teeth; and such beautiful
hair, black as jet and falling below her knees. And with all that, so
sweet, so frank, without the least idea of coquetry. Ah, she is candor,
innocence, itself. Of course, she's not yet sixteen years old; but there
are many young girls at that age who already listen to lovers. What a
pity if such a treasure as that should fall into the claws of a demon!
But we shall save her from that. Yes, yes; I'm sure of it. I shall do
all that's necessary for that, for it's not enough to watch over a young
girl; the devil is so malicious, and all these bachelors, these
students, these pages, are so enterprising, without counting the young
noblemen, who make no scruple of abducting young girls and women, and
for all compensation give a stroke of the sword, or cause to be whipped
by their lackeys those who complain of their treatment. Good Saint
Marguerite! what a time we live in! One must allow one's self to be
outraged, offended, robbed even,--yes, robbed,--for if you should have
taken your man in the act, if you demand justice, they will ask you if
you yourself were a witness to it. If you say no, they will dismiss the
guilty person, and if you say yes, they will first find out if you have
the means of paying the expenses of the law, in which case you may have
the pleasure of seeing the thief flogged before your door, and that will
cost you a heap. But if it is someone with a title who has offended you,
it's necessary for you to be silent about it, unless you wish to finish
your days at the Bastile or at the Chatelet."
Marguerite was silent for some minutes, awaiting a response from her
master. Receiving none, she presumed that he tacitly approved of all she
was saying, and resumed her discourse.
"Finally, they pretend that it's always been thus. They hang the little
ones, the bigger ones save themselves, and the biggest mock at everyone.
One's ill advised to go to law now that the advocates and the attorneys
drag a lawsuit along for five or six years, receiving money from all
hands, so as to maintain their wives and their daughters in luxury,
playing the Jew to ruin their poor clients. As to the sergeants, they
run all over to find criminals; but if they arrest some thieves, they
let them go very quickly, for fear that the latter will give them some
money. Poor city! Don't we hear a frightful noise every night? And still
we're in the best neighborhood. And that does not prevent them from
committing vandalisms, robberies, murders. There are shouts, a clash of
arms; what is the use of provosts, sheriffs, sergeants, archers, if the
police do so badly? It's not the merchants I pity; they'll give
themselves to the devil for a sou; they sell their goods for four times
more than they cost; to draw customers, they allow every passer-by to go
into their shops, leaving them at leisure to chat with their women, to
take them by the chin, to talk soft nonsense, to make love to their
face,--all that to sell a collar, some rouge, a dozen of needles. It's a
shame to see everything that goes on amongst us. If I go to market to
get my provisions, I'm surrounded by thieves who amuse themselves by
stealing from the buyers and the sellers; they rummage in the creels and
baskets, then they sing in my ears indecent and obscene songs. Good
Saint Marguerite! where are we in all this? The scholars, more debauched
than ever, insulting, pillaging, doing a thousand wickednesses; the
young men of family who haunt the gambling-dens, the drinking-houses,
always armed with daggers or swords. Ah, my dear master, Satan has taken
possession of our poor city and will make us his prey."
Marguerite stopped anew and listened. The barber still kept the deepest
silence, but he was not asleep. Several times he had passed his right
hand over his forehead and pushed back his curls. For those who love to
talk, it is much the same whether they are listened to or believe
themselves to be listened to. The old servant was enjoying herself; she
did not often find so good an opportunity to talk, and she began again
after a short pause:--
"Thanks to Heaven, I am in a good house, and I can say with pride that,
during the eight years that I have lived with monsieur, nothing has
passed contrary to decency and good manners. I remember very well that
when they said to me, eight years ago, 'Marguerite, M. Touquet, the
barber-bathkeeper of the Rue des Bourdonnais, is looking for a servant
for his house,' I considered it twice. I beg your pardon, monsieur; for
bath-keepers' houses and lodging-houses don't have a very good
reputation. But they said to me, 'M. Touquet is in easy circumstances
now; he doesn't take lodgers; he is contented to exercise his calling in
the morning, and for the rest he hardly ever sees anybody at his house,
where he is carefully educating a little girl whom he's adopted.' My
faith! that decided me, and I've not had cause to repent my decision. If
there come in the morning to the shop a crowd of men of all professions,
not one of them penetrates to the interior of the house. Monsieur does
his business honorably, I am proud to say; and that which I admire above
all is the interest which he bears for the orphan he has taken under his
care, for I believe that monsieur has told me that she is an orphan.
Yes, monsieur has told me so. She surely merits all that anyone can do
for her, that dear Blanche; but I believe I have not told monsieur by
what means I preserve her from the snares that wait for innocence. Oh,
it's a secret, it's a marvellous secret, which I shall confide to
monsieur. The neighbor opposite the silk merchant told me how to make
it; it is a little skin of vellum, on which some words are written; then
one signs it, and it becomes a talisman to prevent all misfortunes.
Queen Catherine de Medicis had a similar one which she wore always; the
talisman which I have given to Mademoiselle Blanche, very far from
attracting evil spirits, should make them fly from a place and prevent
the effect of all sorceries which anyone could employ to triumph over
her virtue. Oh, the precious talisman, monsieur! Alas! if I had had one
eight years ago!--But you don't sup, monsieur; haven't you any
appetite?"
Touquet rose abruptly and went to look at a wooden timepiece which stood
at the end of the room.
"Nine o'clock," said the barber impatiently; "nine o'clock, and he has
not come."
"Why, are you waiting for someone, monsieur?" said the old servant in
surprise.
"Yes; I'm waiting for a friend. Put another drinking-cup on the table;
he will sup with me."
"I very much doubt whether he will come," said Marguerite, while
executing her master's orders; "it's late and the weather is frightful;
one must be very bold to risk himself in the streets at this hour."
At this moment somebody knocked violently at the door of the passageway,
and the barber, smiling to himself, cried,--
"It is he!"
CHAPTER II
THE GREAT NOBLEMAN AND THE BARBER
On hearing the knock old Marguerite started affrightedly and looked at
her master, as she faltered,--
"Must we open the door at this time of night, monsieur?"
"Of course, haven't I told you already that I was waiting for a friend?"
replied the barber, putting some more wood on the fire, "go to the door
at once."
The old servant was very fearful; she stood and hesitated; but a single
look from her master decided her; she took a lamp and directed her steps
towards the corridor which opened into the passageway of the house.
Marguerite was sixty-eight years old; work and the weight of years had
long since bent her body and deprived her limbs of their natural
agility; she could only walk slowly, and the high heels of her large
slippers made a uniform flapping noise which the poor old hand-maid
could not prevent and of which she was, indeed, unconscious.
The good woman had shuffled as far as the middle of the passageway, when
another knock, louder than the first one, shook all the windows of the
house.
"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Marguerite; "he's in a great hurry. Which of my
master's friends would allow himself to knock in that manner? There are
some panes broken, I'm sure. Can it be Chaudoreille? Oh, no; he only
gives a very soft little knock. Turlupin? Of course not; I should hear
him sing in the street. Besides, he's not my master's friend. Ah, I'm
very curious to know who it can be."
Despite her curiosity Marguerite did not advance more quickly. However,
she arrived at the door, and, having mentally recommended herself to her
dear patron saint, she decided to open it.
A man wrapped in a large cloak which he held against his face, his head
covered with a hat ornamented on the edge with white feathers, and drawn
well down over his eyes, so that no one could see them, appeared at the
end of the passageway, and asked in a loud voice if this was Barber
Touquet's house.
"Yes, monsieur," said Marguerite, trying, but in vain, to discover the
features of the person before her. "Yes, this is it; and it's you, no
doubt, for whom my master's waiting."
"In that case conduct me to him," said the stranger.
Marguerite closed the door and bade the unknown follow her. While
guiding him along the passageway and the long corridor which they had
to traverse, she turned often and held her lamp to the stranger, under
the pretence of lighting him, but in fact to try to see something by
which she could recognize the person whom she had introduced into the
house. Her efforts were in vain. The stranger walked with his head down,
holding his cloak against his face. Marguerite was reduced to examining
his boots, which were white, with turned-over mushroom-shaped tops, and
garnished with spurs. This seemed to indicate a refined dress; but many
men then wore similar ones, and this part of his dress could not help
Marguerite in her conjectures. They reached the lower room, and the
stranger entered with a light step, while the servant said to her
master,--
"Here's the person who knocked. I do not know if it is the friend you
were waiting for; I was not able to see him."
The barber did not allow Marguerite time to finish her phrase. He ran
toward the stranger and made him come to the fire, saying to him,--
"Thou hast arrived at last, then. I feared that the night, that the bad
weather--But place thyself here; we will sup together."
"Good," said the servant to herself; "in order for him to sup it will be
necessary for him to remove his mantle, and I shall at last be able to
see his face. I don't know why, but I have the greatest curiosity to
know this man. If it is one of my master's friends, it must be that he
has come here very rarely. I did not recognize his voice; his height is
ordinary,--rather tall than short; he should be young. Yes, he's not a
scholar; however, I bet he's a pretty fellow; by his walk I judge him to
be a military man. We shall see if I'm mistaken."
The old maid did not take her eyes from the stranger, who had thrown
himself on a chair, and made no sign that he wished to relieve himself
of his cloak and hat, both of which were drenched with rain.
"If monsieur desires it," said Marguerite, approaching the stranger's
chair, "I will relieve him of his cloak, which is all wet; and I can dry
it while he is supping."
"It is unnecessary," said the barber, putting himself precipitately
between the old woman and the stranger, who had not stirred; "we have no
need of your services. Leave us, and go to rest; I will shut the street
door myself when my friend leaves."
Marguerite seemed petrified on receiving this order. She looked at her
master, and was about to allow herself to indulge in some observations;
but the barber fixed his eyes upon her, and Master Touquet's eyes had at
times an expression which compelled obedience.
"Leave us," said he again to his servant; "and above all, do not come
down again."
Marguerite was silent. She took her lamp, bowed to her master and turned
to leave the room, throwing a last glance on the man of the mantle, who
remained motionless before the fire and whose features she could not
see. She was obliged to go to bed without being able to base her
conjectures on facts, without knowing if she had rightly divined the
age, the condition, the face of the unknown. What a punishment for the
old maid! But her master pointed with his finger to the door of the
room, and Marguerite went at once.
As soon as the old servant had departed, and when the sound of her steps
was no longer heard, the stranger burst into a shout of laughter and
threw his hat and his cloak far from him. Then one perceived a man of
thirty-six years or thereabouts; his features were fine, noble and
spirituel. His brown mustache was lightly outlined above his mouth,
which in smiling disclosed very beautiful teeth. His expressive eyes, in
turn tender, proud and passionate, denoted one who was in the habit of
expressing all his sentiments; but the disgust, the weariness, which
were depicted also on the pale and worn features of the stranger seemed
to indicate that, having once indulged his passion, it was only with an
effort that he could bring himself to experience it again.
His costume was rich and tasteful; the color of his doublet was a light
blue; silver and silk were blended on the velvet which formed the
foundation; superb lace bordered the collar which fell on his
shoulders; a large white belt surrounded his figure, and a sword
ornamented with precious stones glittered at his side.
Since the departure of his servant the barber had changed his tone
toward the stranger. Respect, humility, had replaced the familiarity
which Touquet had affected in Marguerite's presence.
"Deign to excuse me, monsieur le marquis," said he, bowing profoundly to
his guest, "if I permitted myself to be too familiar, with my thee-ing
and thou-ing; but it was only according to your orders, the better to
deceive my servant and prevent her from having any suspicions as to your
rank."
"That's all right, my dear Touquet," said the marquis, displaying
himself before the fire; "I assure you I had the greatest trouble to
maintain my gravity before the poor woman, who did not know by what ruse
she could see my face, which would not have been a very great matter,
for it is hardly presumable that she would have known me."
"No, monseigneur, she does not know you; I think so at least, for M. le
Marquis de Villebelle has made so much talk about himself with his
gallantry, his conquests, his feats of arms. His name has become so
famous, his adventures have made so much noise, that the lowest classes
of society know him,--the bugbear of fathers, of tutors, of husbands,
of lovers even; for monseigneur knows no rival. Your name is spoken with
terror by all the men, and makes all the women sigh, some with hope and
the others in remembrance; besides, as monsieur le marquis sought
pleasure wherever he found beauty, since he sometimes stooped to the
humble middle classes, and has deigned to honor with his regards some
pretty shop girl or simple villager, it would not be impossible that my
old Marguerite might have served with some house where monsieur le
marquis had left souvenirs. It was, therefore, much better that she
should not see monseigneur when he came to my house incognito."
"Yes, certainly; I wish to remain unknown; it is necessary now that I
should put more mystery into my love affairs. Be seated, Touquet; I have
many things to tell you."
"Monseigneur--"
"Be seated; I wish it. Here I lay aside my rank and my grandeur; in you
I see the first confidant of my loves, the clever servant of my
passions, the audacious rascal for whom gold excited the imagination,
and who knew no obstacle when a purse filled with pistoles was the
recompense of his services. You are still the same, I am certain."
"Ah, monsieur, age makes us more reasonable. Seventeen years have passed
since I had the honor of serving you for the first time; but since that
time my head is steadier; I have learned to reflect."
"Do you wish to become an honest man? But it is not more than ten years
ago that you were serving me; you were still a knave then. Does your
conversion date from that epoch?"
"Monsieur le marquis is incessantly joking. He calls those services
knaveries which I rendered to him because I was so strongly attached to
him."
"Call it what you will, it matters little to me. It's not necessary with
me, Master Touquet, to play the hypocrite, and man of scruples. In fact,
are you disposed to be useful to me? Is your genius extinguished, and
will gold no longer resuscitate it?"
"To serve you, monsieur le marquis, I shall be always the same; you need
not doubt my zeal or my devotion."
"All in good time. That is all that I ask of you; be a saint with other
people if that pleases you, but see that I always find you the same to
me as you were formerly."
Touquet did not answer, but he turned his head and his features seemed
to grow sad. However, he soon recovered himself and turned smilingly
toward his guest, who was tapping the wall of the chimney with his feet,
and who remained for some time silent, as if he had forgotten that he
was still at the barber's. The latter waited with impatience for the
marquis to resume his discourse. At the end of five minutes the noble
seigneur broke the silence.
"My dear Touquet, when I recall the events of my life to my memory, I am
truly astonished that I am still in the world. Why, during all this
time, has not the dagger of a jealous husband or father fallen upon my
head? How many men have sworn to ruin me! And the women,--if all those I
have betrayed had executed their projects of vengeance! Thanks to
Heaven, we are not in Italy or in Spain; and, while we have among the
French some vindictive spirits, who hold rancor toward one who has
betrayed them, the total is small. Inconstancy is not an unforgivable
crime among these ladies, who deign sometimes to put themselves in our
places and say they would not have done differently to us."
"Certainly, monseigneur, your life, at least since I have had the honor
to be attached to you, has been a continued series of very spicy
adventures, and some very dangerous ones. Abductions, seductions, duels,
attacks with force, made openly,--nothing stopped you when you had
resolved upon anything. Could you find any obstacles? Rich, noble,
generous, fortune and nature have done everything for you, monsieur le
marquis. You have profited by it; you have enjoyed life; many men have
envied you your good fortune."
"My good fortune! Do you truly imagine that I have been happy?"
"And what should have prevented your being so, monseigneur?"
"Nothing; and that is perhaps why weariness and disgust have often
attacked me in the midst of the pleasures, the voluptuousness, I have
tasted. Sometimes, without doubt, I have felt happiness, but it has been
so short and has fled so rapidly. The appearance of beauty has inflamed
my senses and made my heart palpitate. The charming sex, which I
idolize, has always exercised an absolute empire over me. At the sight
of a pretty woman I love, or at least believe I love; but no sooner are
my desires satisfied than my love expires, and I am obliged to seek a
new object to reanimate my benumbed senses."
"Happily, this capital contains any quantity of pretty faces; the city
and the court afford you sufficient to vary your pleasures."
"Sentiment and memory are alike exhausted. I fear that, having once had
force to take fire, my poor heart has become like those imperfect gun
flints on which the hammer strikes without effect. I am tired of the
intrigues of the court, which are even easier than the others. Where do
you think I could find something more spicy? There everything is done
with etiquette, and everyone is so polished. We know life too well to
get angry at the least infidelity; one leaves or one takes with the most
profound obeisances, and this wearies one to death; courtiers have
nothing new to offer one. What should I accomplish in Marion de Lorme's
circle? I should see always the same faces. When the Cardinal had made
her fashionable, I didn't find the woman so witty that one would wish to
have anything to do with her. How different with this young and
beautiful Ninon! People will long speak of her; her name will go down
the centuries. But she has too much wit and too little love, for me. My
heart, cold before its time, needs to come in contact with a passionate
heart in order to rewarm itself. In the city one does not fare much
better with the women. The little bourgeoises have become coquettes.
Still, if they only knew how to be cruel; but a name, a figure, a rich
cloak, seems to turn their heads. The merchants know how to rob us, and
the grisettes entice us; and in the midst of all that the husbands are
so kind, so complacent; they fear us as they would fire; our titles
render them mute; of honor they are hopeless. If this continues, it will
be necessary to make love a la turque; we should only have then to throw
the handkerchief."
"Then, monsieur le marquis, one always has the resource of wisdom; and,
since I have not had the honor of serving you for ten years, without
doubt you have acquired that."
"My faith, yes; for it's not necessary to speak of common adventures,
which are not worth the trouble of reciting. I have been in the army; I
have been in battle; that afforded me much pleasure, and I would
willingly have stayed there much longer; but peace is made, I have
returned, I have visited my lands, and have laughed with some little
peasants who were sufficiently pleasing, but so awkward, so simple. By
the way, I forgot to tell you; I married."
"Married! What, monseigneur! you?"
"Undoubtedly; my marriage was very necessary; my rank, my place at the
court--and then I was overloaded with debt. That didn't make me uneasy;
but they had arranged this marriage; the Cardinal, the Queen herself,
desired it. I married the daughter of the Count of Laroche. My wife was
very good, of very sweet character; she didn't trouble herself about my
intrigues; she had what was necessary to me. I loved her--very honestly,
as one can love his wife; but she died two years ago and left me no
heir, which is intensely disagreeable. I had an idea that I should love
children very much."
"Then you are a widower, monsieur?"
"Yes; and I find myself the possessor of a considerable fortune, very
well considered at court, in favor with the Cardinal, and even able to
obtain, should I desire it, the most important employment."
"I conceive, then, that monsieur le marquis wishes more secrecy in his
love affairs."
"Ah, my poor Touquet, I don't believe that ambition will ever have much
charm for me, but nobody knows; and there are some convenances at the
court which one must not break; besides, secrecy lends a charm to the
most simple act. But why have you not enrolled yourself under Hymen's
flag? I find that you are more thoughtful, less cheerful, less lively,
than formerly."
"No, monsieur le marquis; I am still a bachelor."
"Oh, well, I believe you are better so. In your position a wife would
restrain you,--you who are so clever, so discreet, in conducting an
intrigue. Women are so curious; she would want to know everything, which
would be troublesome for you. Besides, you have never been very gallant;
you care for nothing but gold. It is your god, your idol; a well-filled
purse makes you inventive, capable of working marvels. It's true that
you play with it a quarter of an hour afterwards and at dice or cards
soon increase the fruit of the efforts of your genius."
"Ah, monseigneur!"
"Yes, you are as big a gambler as you are a knave; I remember it very
well. Perhaps in ten years you have become wiser; I almost believe so,
for you appear in very easy circumstances, and this house does not
indicate poverty; this servant, this supper served for you--The deuce! I
must taste your wine."
"Ah, monseigneur, it is not worth offering to you."
"I always like best that which is not offered to me."
While he was saying these words the marquis filled one of the cups with
wine and swallowed it at a draught.
"Really, it's not so very bad."
"Ah, monseigneur, if it were on your table--"
"Then I should find it detestable; but what will you have? Variety is
the spice of life. And you have become rich, then?"
"No, not rich, but well enough off to buy this house."
"What! the house belongs to you?"
"Yes, monsieur le marquis."
"Deuce take it, Master Touquet, it must be that you have made some big
hauls in order to become a proprietor."
The barber's face contracted; his black eyebrows frowned and almost met;
he slowly rolled his eyes around him, and murmured with an effort,--
"Monsieur le marquis, I swear to you--"
"O mon Dieu! I do not ask you to swear, my poor Touquet," said the
marquis, laughing. "You are as uneasy as if you had become a lieutenant
in crime. Do you think that I came here to inquire as to the manner in
which you made your fortune? But by all the devils, I do not believe
that you earned this house in your barber shop."
"Monseigneur, I assure you that my economies--"
"Yes, that's all very well; let's leave all that and speak of the
subject which brought me here, for, of course, I came to you for
something, and I'll be damned if I remember what it was."
The barber appeared to breathe more freely; his face assumed its
habitual expression, and he raised his eyes to the marquis, who seemed
to throw aside his insolence to explain the motive of his nocturnal
visit.
"When I saw you this morning on the Pont-Neuf, I was following a young
girl, a pretty little puss; without being a perfect beauty, she was
graceful and interesting in appearance, with sparkling and very
intelligent eyes. I do not believe that we should have much trouble in
making a conquest of her. However, she walked faster, and would not
answer any of my compliments. I carefully wrapped myself in my cloak,
not wishing to be recognized by our amiable profligates, who would have
made sport of me for running after a grisette. The little girl stopped
to listen for a moment to Tabarin's songs, and it was while she was
before the quack that I saw you and recognized you immediately; you have
one of those faces that nobody forgets."
"I had also recognized you, monseigneur, in spite of the cloak in which
you were enveloped; for ten years have not changed your features,
monsieur le marquis, and one could not easily mistake that noble figure
which captivates all the belles."
"You flatter me, rascal; which means that I have aged. But let's go on.
As soon as you had given me your address, I returned to the side of the
little one."
"If monsieur le marquis had explained to me this morning what he was
after, I would have spared him the trouble of following this young
girl."
"No, I had a good opportunity of examining her further; besides, I had
nothing else to do. She took the road to the city, which she entered by
the Rue de la Calandre, I still talking to her; she only smiled, without
answering me, but her look was not severe. At last she stopped before a
perfumer's shop; I wished to go in with her, but she opposed me, saying
in a very singular tone, 'Monsieur le Marquis de Villebelle is too well
known for him to go into this shop with me; I should lose my reputation,
and I beg monsieur le marquis not to compromise me.' Well now, my dear,
Touquet, can you imagine this grisette who pretends that I should cause
her to lose her reputation? As for me, I confess that I was so much
surprised by finding myself known to the young girl and hearing her
speak thus, that I remained like a fool in the middle of the street;
meanwhile my beautiful conquest had entered, and disappeared by the back
of the shop."
"As I told you, monseigneur, you are known in all classes of society;
even a young girl of twelve years is as much afraid of you as she would
be of Count Ory of gallant memory."
"Better and better! Women are always curious to know these men who have
been pictured to them as so dangerous. Poor parents! When they tell them
to fly from me, it makes them run after me. Here, Touquet; here's some
gold. You will see this young girl, then; since she knows who I am, you
cannot easily promise her that I will be faithful. No matter; promise
her anyhow. In three days let me find her at my little house in the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine; you know it."
"Yes, monseigneur; I remember it; it is the one that you formerly
possessed."
"Yes; but I have made it a delightful retreat. You shall see it;
pictures, mirrors, marble, alabaster, are there mingled with silk,
velvet and the most precious stuffs. I have spent more than fifty
thousand francs upon it. Oh, it is divine! I have had some charming
suppers there with Montglas, Chavagnac, Villempre, Monteille, and some
other profligates of the court."
"Was it not there, monsieur le marquis, that I led that young girl whose
abduction made such an uproar? That was, I believe, our first affair of
this kind; you were then a little more than nineteen years of age; and
the little girl--"
"Why the devil do you recall that?" said the marquis, making an angry
movement, and pressing in his hand the purse he was about to take from
his belt, and on which the barber had already laid avaricious eyes.
"Pardon, monsieur le marquis," said Touquet; "but I did not think I
should displease you in recalling the adventure which commenced your
reputation. The young person was beautiful and good, and the father, one
of King Henry's old archers, did not understand joking. His arquebus was
aimed at you, the ball went through your hat; but your sword stopped the
old man, and he fell at your feet, while I bore off in my arms his
insensible daughter."
"Be silent, wretch," cried the marquis, suddenly rising, and looking
angrily at the barber, who received his glances with perfect
indifference.
The conversation was again interrupted; the marquis walked rapidly up
and down the room, and appeared buried in his reflections; soon,
however, broken words escaped him, but they were not addressed to
Touquet. The marquis seemed violently agitated as he said in a low
voice,--
"Poor Estrelle! what has become of you? She loved me--she believed me to
be a simple student. I loved her also; yes, never since that time have I
experienced a feeling which I can compare with the love with which she
inspired me. I was young--ah, Heaven is my witness that I did not wish
to fight with her father. Thanks to Heaven, his wound was very trifling
and was soon cured; but Estrelle, when she learned my name and that
event, cursed me. Yes, I believe I can hear her still. Then she escaped
from that house where I had hidden her. I love her still. Since that
time I have never heard of her; and you, Touquet,--have you never met
her since?"
"Never, monseigneur; I have neither seen her nor heard her speak."
"Poor Estrelle!" said the marquis after a moment; and the barber added
in a low tone,--
"She would now be thirty-four years of age, or very near that."
This remark appeared to lessen somewhat the marquis' regret.
"In fact," said he, again approaching the fire, "she would be nearly
that age if she were living, and would not appear the same to me as the
one I formerly knew. How time passes! Come, let's forget all that; after
all, it is much the same as any other adventure,--a chapter in the
history of my life."
"And did the marquis say that the young girl lived in the Rue de la
Calandre in the city?"
"The young girl? What young girl?"
"The one monseigneur followed this morning."
"Yes, to be sure; I had forgotten. You will easily recognize her: her
figure unconstrained, her walk brisk; twenty years or thereabouts, I
presume; nut-brown hair, black eyes, beautiful teeth, her skin a little
brown. I do not think she's French. Something lively in her
countenance; nothing that indicates timidity or simplicity. This is all
the information which I can give you."
"It is sufficient, monseigneur; in two days I hope that the young person
will be at your little house."
"That's very good.--Wait; this is for your expenses, and I promise you
as much more if you are successful."
While saying these words the marquis threw on the table the purse filled
with gold, which he still held in his hand, and a smile escaped the lips
of the barber. His guest resumed his cloak and replaced his hat on his
head.
"It is late," said the marquis, wrapping himself in his mantle, "and I
must go home. The day after tomorrow, toward ten o'clock, I will return
to learn the result of your proceedings."
"Shall I find anybody at your little house?"
"Yes, Marcel, one of my people, a devoted servant who lives there
constantly. I will warn him."
"That is enough, monseigneur, and I hope that you will be pleased with
me on this occasion."
"I leave it all to your zeal; in fact, the little one is very pleasing,
and ought to amuse me for some time. Come, my dear Touquet, let us
follow our destiny. Gallantry, voluptuousness, pleasure,--that is my
life; that is the road which I follow where my passions lead me. I
should not know how to follow any other walk now; like a blind man who
trusts in Providence, I do not know if this road will lead me to
happiness; but I cannot turn aside from it."
The marquis turned his steps toward the door, and Touquet proposed to
his distinguished guest that he should guide him to his dwelling.
"Thank you," said the marquis, "it is unnecessary; I have my sword, and
I fear nothing."
While uttering these words the marquis had plunged into the street and
disappeared from the barber's sight. The latter closed the door and
returned to the little room. Arrived there, he hastened to take the
purse which lay on the table; he counted the pieces which it contained,
nor could he raise his eyes from the sight of the gold. But soon a dull,
melancholy sound was heard; it was Saint-Eustache's clock striking two.
The barber turned pale; his hair seemed to stand up on his head; he
threw about him gloomy glances, as if he feared to perceive some
frightful object; then he placed the purse in his bosom, took a lamp and
went toward the door at the end of the room, murmuring in a sad voice,--
"Two o'clock! Let's go to bed. Ah, if I could only sleep!"
CHAPTER III
BLANCHE. A HISTORY OF SORCERERS
The welcome day had succeeded to the long and rainy night; the merchants
had opened their shops, the watchmen were taking their much-needed rest
after their fatiguing nocturnal duties, while the more hardy robbers of
the darkness had given place to the sneaking pickpockets and thieves who
exercised their calling in broad daylight in the most populous quarters.
The servant maids were up and about, briskly performing their morning
tasks; husbands left the nuptial couch, for then it was usual for one to
sleep with his wife, at least among middle-class people, to betake
themselves to their daily avocations; wives and mothers were attending
to the needs of their households and their children; lovers who had
dreamt of their sweethearts went to endeavor to realize some of their
dreams; and the young girls who always thought of their sweethearts
whether they were sleeping or waking, went, thinking of them still, to
their daily work. In that time, as in this, love was the dream of youth,
the distraction of the middle-aged, and the memory of the old.
The barber was always the first to rise in the house. He had no
servants, although his means would well have allowed it; but when anyone
asked him why he did not take a boy to help him and to watch in the
shop, Touquet answered,--
"I do not need anyone; I can conduct my business alone, and I'm not fond
of feeding idlers who are good for nothing but to spy on their master's
actions and go and talk about them in the neighborhood."
The barber knew that Marguerite, though a little curious and somewhat of
a gossip, was incapable of disobeying him in anything; she went out to
buy the necessary provisions for the house, then she went upstairs again
to the young girl of whom we have heard her speak, and with whom we
shall soon have a better acquaintance. Marguerite went down only when
her master was absent, which was rarely. Finally, the barber could not
dispense with a maid since he had taken the little Blanche to grow up
under his roof.
Touquet himself opened his shop; he looked up and down the street, but
it was yet too early for customers to come. The barber was dreamy,
preoccupied; he was thinking of the commission which had been given him
by the marquis; then he returned indoors, saying,--
"Chaudoreille is late this morning; however, it's his day to be shaved."
Marguerite appeared at the entrance to the room; and, after looking
about her on all sides, perhaps to assure herself that the stranger of
the night before was not still there, she greeted her master
respectfully, and said to him,--
"Monsieur, Mademoiselle Blanche is up and wishes to know if she may come
and say good-morning to you."
The barber still threw a glance into the street; then he passed into his
back shop, saying to his servant,--
"Blanche may come."
Marguerite had hardly made a sign to someone in the passage when a young
girl, light as a deer and fresh as a rose, sprang into the little room
where Touquet was waiting, and ran toward him with the most lovely
smile, saying to him,--
"Good-morning, my good friend!"
Then she offered Touquet her candid forehead, and the barber approached
her and brushed it lightly with his lips. One would have said that a
painful feeling restrained him, and that he feared to wither that tender
flower.
Marguerite's portrait had not flattered Blanche. The young girl was as
pretty as she appeared innocent and ingenuous. Her dark hair, smoothed
in bands on her forehead, fell in ringlets on her right shoulder.
Powder, which the court ladies had then begun to use, had not spoiled
Blanche's beautiful tresses. Her skin accorded perfectly with her name.
Her mouth was fresh and tender; and her blue eyes, shaded by long
lashes, had an innocent and sweet expression, as rare then as now.
What a pity that her pretty body should be imprisoned in a long corset,
the bones of which seemed forcibly to compress its charms! But it was
then the fashion. Today we have better taste; we wish that the figure
should be in its place; we wish, above all, to be able to embrace it
without being hindered by farthingales, basquines, paniers or hoops.
Happily, the ladies are of our opinion, and everybody gains thereby.
Despite her long figure, straight corset, frilled sleeves, and her
high-heeled shoes, Blanche was no less pretty. Beauty adorns everything
that it wears, and innocence lends a more bewitching and genuine charm
to beauty. Blanche had, then, every quality which could please. However,
the barber did not appear to remark the attractions of the young girl;
one would have said that he feared to look at her, as he had feared to
touch his lips to her forehead.
"Did you have a good night?" asked Blanche of him.
"Very good, I thank you."
"Marguerite was afraid that you went to bed very late because you had
one of your friends to supper with you."
"I don't know why Marguerite should make such a remark, nor what
necessity there was that she should tell you I had anyone here last
night."
While uttering these words Touquet looked severely at Marguerite, who
dusted and wiped the furniture without daring to look at her master.
"But, my dear," answered Blanche, "is there anything bad in one's
supping with one of his friends?"
"Undoubtedly not."
"What harm, then, has Marguerite done in telling me that?"
"A servant should not incessantly tell tales about everything her master
does. It should be very indifferent to you, Blanche, whether anyone
comes to see me in the evening or not."
"Oh, mercy, yes, since you won't let me come down, though that would
amuse me much better than staying in my room."
"A young girl should not talk to everybody, and many people come here of
whom I know very little."
"Yes, in the morning; but in the evening you only receive your friends."
"I receive very few visitors in the evening except Chaudoreille, whom
you know."
"Oh, yes; and he makes me laugh every time I see him, for he will give
me lessons in music, and I believe at the present time I know much more
about it than he does. You will never let me leave my room."
"Blanche, isn't it apparent to you that that is not convenient?"
"But when you are alone I should like much better to keep you company
and chat to you, than to listen to Marguerite's stories, which often
make me very timorous and prevent me from going to sleep."
"You know that I'm not very chatty; after a day's work I'm tired and I
like to rest."
"And Marguerite said that you didn't go to bed until very late, that you
kept the light burning a long time, and that she doesn't know if you
sleep one hour every night."
The old servant coughed, but unsuccessfully, to make Blanche stop
talking; but the latter, not thinking that she had done anything wrong
in repeating all that, paid no attention to her and continued to speak.
Marguerite, in order to avoid her master's look, wiped and dusted with
new ardor; but this time the voice of the barber made itself heard, and
it was she whom he addressed.
"Marguerite, I said to you when you came into my house that I detested
curious, indiscreet people,--servants who spy on their master. Do you
remember it?"
"Yes, yes, monsieur," said the old servant, continuing to rub the top of
the table.
"How do you know, then, whether I sleep late, whether I keep the light
burning a long time, whether I am awake at night?--you who should be in
your room at nine o'clock every evening and go to bed immediately."
"Monsieur, I beg your pardon; but at times, when the wind blows or the
thunder growls, it's impossible for me to sleep; then, monsieur, I get
up to pray to my patron saint, or cross my shovel and tongs, or to place
a branch of boxwood on my bed. You know boxwood conjures the storm; and
if they had taken some of it formerly to the Arsenal, on the Billi
Tower, it would not have been entirely destroyed by lightning in the
year 1537 or '38--I don't know which exactly."
"Hang it! leave your boxwood and the Billi Tower alone; answer the
question I asked you."
"That's what I'm doing, monsieur; it's always the wind or the storm
which makes me wakeful, and as my window faces yours (when I say faces,
it's a story above), then I see your light sometimes, and it seems to me
that monsieur is walking about in his room. I'm not very certain of it,
for there are curtains, and the shade deceives one sometimes."
"As I wish to prevent you from having the trouble of making sure that I
am asleep, this evening you will change your room, and you will sleep in
that which is above my apartments."
"What, monsieur! in that room where nobody ever goes? I do not believe
that it has been inhabited since I came here, and I fear--"
"That's enough; see that you obey; and take care not to spy again on my
actions, or I shall be forced to send you away from the house."
"Mercy! how ashamed I am at having made you scold Marguerite!" said
Blanche, again approaching the barber. "If she said that, my friend, it
was because of the interest she takes in your health. You know well that
she is very much attached to you; but since it makes you angry, I
promise you it shall not occur again. Come, that's the last of it; you
won't say any more to her about it--will you?"
Blanche's voice was so sweet, so touching, that Touquet lost his air of
severity and very nearly smiled as he answered,--
"Yes, that's the last of it; let us there leave it. As to you, Blanche,
continue to be good, docile."
"And you will let me go out a little--will you not? You will allow me to
go to walk in the Pre-aux-Clercs or on the Place Royale?"
"We shall see; we shall see a little later. To amuse yourself, vary your
employments."
"That's what I do, my dear; I often leave my needle to spin some thread;
or, better still, I take my tapestry work. Oh, you shall see; I'm making
something very pretty."
"I know your talent--your taste. You have a sitar; you can amuse
yourself by playing on it. Chaudoreille has given you some lessons."
"Yes; now I can play as well as he can, for I believe he's not very
practised on it, although he says he's a great musician. But all that
hardly ever amuses me; I should like much better to sit at the window
which looks on the street, but you won't let me open it."
"No, Blanche; too many people are passing in this neighborhood; you
would be seen, ogled, insulted, by the bachelors, the pages, who take
pleasure in annoying people."
"Well, I won't open my window. However, if you were willing I could put
a mask on my face; then they could not see me."
"They would notice you none the less; besides, Blanche, only the court
ladies are permitted to wear masks. I repeat to you, avoid the glances
of these impertinent louts who run the streets, ogling at all the
windows. You are not yet sixteen years old. In some years I shall leave
Paris; I shall sell this house, and I shall retire into the country;
there you can enjoy more liberty, and there you will taste pleasures
which are worth more than any this city could offer you.--But someone is
coming into the shop; go, Blanche, upstairs to your room."
The young girl kissed the barber and quickly regained the passage, from
which a staircase led to her chamber. She sighed lightly as she entered
it, and said to herself, while glancing around her,--
"Always here! Always to see the same things! No one to speak to except
Marguerite! She is very good, she loves me very much; but sometimes her
stories are very wearisome to me. Well, then, if I must--" and Blanche
took up a piece of tapestry which she was making and sang, while
working, one of the three airs which her music master had taught her.
Soon the door of the room opened; Marguerite had followed the young
girl, but did not arrive as soon as she, because her legs had not the
vivacity of sixteen years. The old nurse pouted, for Blanche was the
cause of her having to change her room, which was no small matter to
Marguerite. Blanche perceived it; she ran in front of the old woman,
made her sit down, and took her hands, while saying to her with a
calming smile,--
"Are you vexed with me, nurse? You must have seen that I said all that
without thinking that there was anything wrong in it."
Who could resist Blanche's smile? The old woman was much more sensitive
to such sweet manners because people rarely used them with her; and that
is why sometimes an old man loses his reason when a pretty girl casts a
tender glance at him, because for a long time he has not been in the
habit of receiving such glances.
"Who could remain angry with you?" said Marguerite, pressing Blanche's
hand; "but for all that, it's very disagreeable to change rooms--to move
at my age."
"I will help you, dear nurse; I will carry everything."
"Oh, it's not that; it's on the same landing; it's not far to carry
things. But the room I've lived in for eight years, ever since I came
here, was, thanks to my prayers and precautions, protected from the
visits of all evil spirits. There I could defy all attempts of sorcerers
and magicians; and all that I did there I shall have to do over again in
the new room where I am to sleep."
"Do you believe, then, Marguerite, that sorcerers will come to visit you
if you don't take all your precautions?"
"And why not, mademoiselle? Don't those people get in wherever they can
penetrate? There are a great number of them in Paris. They carry away
the corpses off the gibbets of Montfaucon; they commit a thousand
horrors to make their sorceries successful. It is now nearly fifty years
ago (it was my mother who told me that story) that a lackey, ruined by
play, sold himself to the devil for ten crowns. The demon transformed
himself into a serpent and took possession of the lackey, introducing
himself into the latter's body by the mouth; and from that time on the
unlucky man made horrible grimaces, because the devil was in his body.
Some years later a watchman was carried off by a sorcerer."
"Ah, dear nurse, you are going to tell me some more of those stories
which will make me timorous at night."
"I don't tell you these to make you tremble, but to prove to you that
it's necessary to be on one's guard against magicians, and not to be
like those incredulous people who doubt everything when we have so many
examples of the power of magic. I'll not do more than cite to you the
Marechale d'Ancre and Urbain Grandier, who lodged some devils in the
bodies of some pious Ursulines at Loudun; that is too frightful. But I
will only tell you what happened to a magician called Cesar Perditor;
that dates seventeen years back, or thereabouts. You see, my dear child,
that's not very ancient."
"But, dear nurse, aren't you going to begin your moving?" said Blanche,
who did not seem very eager to hear Marguerite's story.
"We've plenty of time," answered the old servant as she drew her chair
close to Blanche's, delighted to relate a story about sorcerers,
although that would make her tremble also. Marguerite commenced
immediately:--
"This Cesar was, said they, very well versed in his magic art, and
produced at his will both hail and thunder. He had a familiar spirit,
and a dog that carried his letters and brought back the answers to him.
At a quarter of a league distant from this city, on the Gentilly side,
he lived in a cave, in which he caused the devil and all his infernal
court to appear. Ah, my poor child; they say that at a great distance
from the cave a frightful noise might be heard every night. He made love
philters, and wax images, by means of which he caused the persons they
represented to languish and die.
"One day--no, it must have been one night--an old man came to the cave,
who appeared to be suffering and in great distress. A great lord, a
libertine, a worthless fellow, had stolen away his daughter, his only
child; the old man in his despair, unable to obtain justice, went to the
magician to procure the means of revenging himself upon the man who had
outraged him."
"Nurse, it seems to me your master is calling you," said Blanche,
interrupting Marguerite.
"No, no; he did not call me. Except at meal times, what need has M.
Touquet of me? But as we were saying, the old man went to seek a
magician, and the latter promised him help; in fact, they heard more
noise than usual in the cave that night,--so much that the lieutenant of
police sent some people there, and Cesar was taken and led to the
Bastile, where soon after the devil strangled him."
"And the old man, nurse?"
"He never returned to his dwelling; without doubt the devil carried him
away also, or else the great nobleman, having learned that he had gone
to the magician's house. But nobody knows anything further about it.
Still, that will prove to you, my dear, how dangerous it is to have
anything to do with those people."
"Dear nurse, this little talisman which you gave me, that I wear,--is
not that the work of a sorcerer?"
"Certainly not, darling; on the contrary, it is to preserve you from
their snares that I gave it to you. It is under the protection of my
patron saint; with that, my dear Blanche, you could go about, run
anywhere; your innocence would not be in the slightest danger."
"Why, then, does my good friend never permit me to leave my room?"
"Ah, my dear Blanche, it is because M. Touquet does not believe in
talismans; and it is very unfortunate for him."
"But you, Marguerite, who are afraid of everything,--why don't you carry
a similar talisman?"
"Ah, my child, the quality of yours consists principally in preserving
your virtue, and at my age one has no need of a talisman to preserve
that."
"My virtue! Do magicians take virtue from young girls?"
"Not only magicians, but fascinating gallants,--finally, all the
worthless fellows of whom M. Touquet was talking to you this morning."
"And what would these people do with my virtue?"
"My dear child, that is to say, they would seek to turn your head, to
give you a taste for coquetry, dissipation, baubles, vanity and deceit;
then you would be no longer my good, sweet Blanche."
"Ah, I understand; but, dear nurse, without a talisman I fully believe
that I should never have those tastes. I would do nothing that should
cause trouble to those who had taken care of me from my infancy, who
have done so much for me since I lost my father."
"That's all very well, my child, but with a talisman you see I am much
easier; and if M. Touquet believed about it as I do, he would give you a
little more liberty. Not that I blame him for fearing for you the
attempts of worthless fellows; you are growing every day so pretty."
"Dear nurse, do worthless fellows trouble pretty girls, then?"
"Alas, yes, my dearie. I have seen them often do so; and, unfortunately,
the pretty girls listen willingly to the good-for-nothing fellows."
"They listen willingly to them, nurse? Is it because they speak better
than other men?"
"No, not better, but they know so well how to dissemble; their speech is
golden, their eyes deceptive, their manners--Ah, how glad I am that you
have a talisman!"
"But, nurse, since I do not leave my room--"
"That's true, my dear; but you will not always keep your room, and under
my watchful care it seems to me that one could very well allow you to
take a little walk from time to time. M. Touquet is severe--very
severe--to make me change my lodging because I noticed that he did not
sleep at night. Is it my fault--mine--that he does not sleep?"
"He prevents me from opening my window."
"Ah, that is because it opens on the street; and if he knew you looked
so often through the lattice--But no one can possibly see you; the panes
are so small, so close together."
"Oh, yes; it is like a grating."
"A father could not be more strict."
"Ah, Marguerite, he stands to me in the place of mine."
"Yes, yes; I know it well; however, he is no relation--is he?"
"No, Marguerite; I believe not."
"According to what I heard in the neighborhood, before I came into his
service, you are the daughter of a poor gentleman who came to Paris to
follow a lawsuit about ten years ago."
"Yes, dear nurse; I was then five years and some months of age. It seems
to me, however, that I still remember my father; he was very good, and
he often kissed me."
"And your mother,--do you remember her?"
"Alas, no; but I believe I can still remember the time when my father
and I arrived here; we had been a long time in a carriage, and came from
far off."
"And M. Touquet lodged you, for then he kept lodgings; and after that?"
"I was very tired; they gave me something to eat and put me to bed in
this room, and I have always occupied it since."
"And after that?"
"I did not see my father again. The next day M. Touquet told me he was
dead."
"Yes; it was very unfortunate, they say. There were then, as there are
very often still, fights in the night between pages and lackeys and
honest men, who were often attacked by these cursed scoundrels while
entering their own houses. That night they committed a thousand
disorders in the streets of Paris; several persons were assassinated;
and your poor father, who had gone out, was, while returning, drawn into
a brawl, and perished trying to defend himself. That is all that I have
learned; do you know anything further?"
"No, Marguerite; besides, you know very well that my protector does not
wish me to talk about that."
"Yes, because he fears that it will give you pain."
"He has deigned to keep me near him, to educate me as his daughter and
give me some accomplishments; and I have for him the most lively
gratitude."
"Oh, yes; he has done very well by you. He loves you, although he is not
caressing, nor does he say much; and I am very sure that he has the
greatest interest in you. It seems that he does not intend himself to
marry, although he is still young. He is in easy circumstances,--more so
than he wishes it to appear."
"Do you believe that, Marguerite?"
"Ah, hush! If he knew that I had said that, and that I had sometimes
seen him counting gold, he would send me away for it."
"You have seen him counting gold?"
"I did not say that to you, mademoiselle. No, no; I have seen nothing.
Ah, mon Dieu! what a gossip I am! I had much better go and attend to my
moving."
"I will go with you, dear nurse."
"Come then, if you like, Blanche."
Blanche followed Marguerite as she went up, and hastened to carry the
furniture and clothing of the old servant to the opposite room. In vain
Marguerite cried to her,--
"Slowly, mademoiselle; don't carry anything until I have sprinkled it
with holy water."
Blanche, to spare Marguerite fatigue, had very soon finished the moving.
"You will be better here," said Blanche; "this room is more convenient,
larger."
"I shall find it pretty sad," said Marguerite, casting fearful glances
around her. "That large alcove, those dark hangings, those recesses--Oh,
mademoiselle, do see, if you please, if there is anything in that big
closet."
Blanche ran to open the closet, and, after having looked through it,
brought to Marguerite a little book, thick with dust.
"That's all I've found, dear nurse," said she, presenting the book to
the old woman, who put on her spectacles and said,--
"Let's see a bit what it is."
Marguerite succeeded, with no little trouble, in reading,
"Conjuring-book of the Sorcerer Odoard, the Famous Tier of Tags."
"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Marguerite, letting the book fall; "I am lost if
that sorcerer has slept in this room. Misericorde! a tier of--"
"What does that mean,--a tier of tags?"
"That is to say--that is to say, mademoiselle, a very wicked man, who
doesn't love his kind; a man who casts spells to make folks unlucky."
"Are there any of those sorcerers now?"
"Alas, yes, my dear child; they are always casting spells, for I have
met during my life several persons who have been bewitched by them. Let
us burn that; let's burn that quick."
Marguerite hurried to throw the book of sorceries on to the hearth,
where she lit a fire; then she began to pray to her patron saint, and
Blanche went down to her work.
CHAPTER IV
THE CHEVALIER CHAUDOREILLE
Blanche and Marguerite had no sooner taken their departure from the back
room and returned to their customary avocations, than Touquet hastened
to meet a man who had come into the shop, saying to him, in a friendly
tone,--
"Come in, come in, my dear Chaudoreille, you've made me wait a deuce of
a time and today I have something really important to say to you."
The personage who had just come into Maitre Touquet's house was a man of
a very striking and peculiar appearance, about thirty-five years of age,
though he appeared at least forty-five, so worn was his face and so
hollow his cheeks. His yellow skin was only relieved by two little
scarlet spots formed on the prominence of his cheek bones, which by
their brightness and their gloss betrayed their origin. His eyes were
small but bright; and M. Chaudoreille rolled them continually, never, by
any chance, fixing them on the person to whom he was speaking. His short
snub nose contrasted with his large mouth, which was surmounted by an
immense red mustache, the color of his hair; while beneath his lower
lip a tuft of beard terminated in a point on his chin.
The height of the chevalier was barely five feet, and the leanness of
his body was accentuated by the threadbare close jacket which enveloped
it; the buttons of his doublet were missing in many places, and some
ill-executed darns seemed ready to gape into holes; his breeches, being
much too large, made his thighs appear of enormous size, and made the
legs which issued from them appear still more lanky, for his boots, with
flaring tops which drooped to his ankles, could not hide the absence of
calves. These boots, of a dark yellow, had heels two inches high, and
were habitually adorned with spurs; the doublet and smallclothes were of
a faded rose color, and accompanied by a little cloak of the same tint,
which barely covered his figure; in addition to these, he wore a very
high ruff; a small hat surmounted by an old red plume, worn slanted over
one eye, an old belt of green silk, a sword which was very much longer
than anyone else carried, and of which the handle came up to his breast.
The above is a very faithful portrait of the one who called himself the
Chevalier de Chaudoreille, if we add that his slight Gascon accent
denoted his origin; that he marched with his head high, his nose in the
air, his hand on his hip, his legs stiff, as though ready to put himself
on his guard; and that he appeared disposed to defy all passers-by.
On entering the shop Chaudoreille threw himself on a bench, like one
overcome by fatigue, and placed his hat near him, crying,--
"Let us rest. By George! I well deserve to. Oh! what a night! Good God!
what a night!"
"And what the devil did you do last night to make you so tired?"
"Oh, nothing more than usual for me, it's true: flogged three or four
big rascals who wished to stop the chair of a countess, wounded two
pages who were insulting a young girl, gave a big stroke with my sword
to a student who was going to introduce himself into a house by the
window, delivered over to the watch four robbers who were about to
plunder a poor gentleman. That's nearly all that I did last night."
"Hang it!" said Touquet, smiling ironically, "do you know, Chaudoreille,
that you yourself are worth three patrols of the watch? It seems to me
that the King or Monsieur le Cardinal should recompense such fine
conduct and nominate you to some important place in the police of this
city, in place of leaving a man so brave, so useful, to ramble about the
streets all day, and haunt the gambling-hells in order to try to borrow
a crown."
"Yes," said Chaudoreille, without appearing to notice the latter part of
the barber's phrase, "I know that I am very brave, and that my sword has
often been very useful to the State--that is to say, to the oppressed. I
work without pay; I yield to every movement of my heart; it's in the
blood. Zounds! honor before everything; and in this century we do not
jest. I am what somebody at court calls a 'rake of honor': an offensive
twinkle of the eye, a rather cold bow, a cloak which rubs against mine,
presto! my sword is in my hand; I am conscious of nothing but that; I
would fight with a child of five years if he treated me with
disrespect."
"I know that we live in the age when one fights for a mere trifle, but I
never heard it said that your duels had caused much stir."
"What the devil, my dear Touquet! the dead cannot speak; and those who
have an affair with me never return. You have heard tell of the famous
Balagni, nicknamed the 'Brave,' who was killed in a duel about fifteen
years ago. Well, my friend, I am his pupil and his successor."
"It's unfortunate for you that you didn't come into the world two
centuries earlier; tourneys are beginning to be out of fashion, and
chevaliers who right all wrongs, giant killers, one no longer sees
except on the stage at plays."
"It's very certain that if I had lived in the time of the Crusades I
should have brought from Palestine a thousand Saracens' ears, but my
dear Rolande was there. This redoubtable sword, which came to me from a
distant cousin, was the one carried by Rolande the Furious; it has sent
a devil of a lot of men into the other world."
"I'm always afraid that you will fall over it; it seems to me too big
for you."
"It has, however, been curtailed an inch since I have had it, and that
by reason of its having been used so much. I fear that if I should
continue in the same style, it will become a little dagger."
"Stop talking about your prowess, Chaudoreille; I have to speak to you
of matters more interesting than that."
"If you will shave me first; I have great need of it. My beard grows
twice as quickly at night when I do not sup in the evening."
"It looks as if you had dieted for some days, then."
While the barber prepared everything that was necessary for shaving
Chaudoreille, the latter detached his sword. After having looked all
over the shop in search of a place in which it seemed convenient to put
it, he decided to keep it on his knees; he relieved himself of his
cloak, then he took off the faded ruff which surrounded his neck, and
abandoned his odd, lean little figure to the cares of Touquet, who came
forward bearing a basin and a soapball. The barber began by taking and
throwing into a corner of the shop the sword which Chaudoreille was
holding on his knees. The chevalier made a movement of despair,
crying,--
"What are you doing, unhappy man? You will break Rolande, the sword
which Charlemagne's nephew carried."
"If it's such a good blade it won't break. How do you think I can shave
you holding that great halberd on your knee?"
"It's necessary to handle it with care at least. Zounds! you are nearly
as quick as I am."
"Do you want me to cut your mustaches?"
"No, no,--never. A chevalier without mustaches! What are you thinking
of? Do you want people to take me for a young girl?"
"I don't think anyone could so deceive himself."
"That's all right; I especially pride myself on my mustaches, and the
imperial that gives a masculine air. Ah, King Francis the First knew
very well what he was doing when he wore that little pointed beard on
his chin. Don't you think that I bear some resemblance to that monarch?"
"You resemble him so much, in fact, that I defy anyone, no matter who it
might be, to perceive it. But let's get to my business: I wish to employ
you. Your time is free?"
"Free? Yes; that is to say, for you there is nothing that I won't leave.
I've only two or three amorous appointments and five or six affairs of
honor; but those can be put off."
"There's some money to be earned."
"I'm a man who would put myself in the fire to make myself useful."
"The business is not positively my own."
"Yes, I understand,--a delicate mission. You know that I've already
served you in many such cases."
"I hope that you'll be more adroit this time; for the manner in which
you conducted yourself in the last matters in which I employed you
should have prevented me from asking you to serve me again."
"Oh, my dear Touquet, don't be unjust; it seems to me that I managed
them passably well. First, you desired me to carry a letter to a young
lady without letting her parents know of it."
"Yes; and you positively gave the note to her mother."
"What the devil! how should I know it was her mother? That woman had
rouge, flowers, laces, a corset which made her waist about as thick as
my purse; I believed her to be the young lady. With their hoops,
basquines and immense head-dresses, it will soon be impossible to
distinguish the sexes."
"Another time I told you to feign a quarrel with one of your friends, so
as to draw a crowd together in the street in order to stop the chair of
a young woman to whom someone wished to speak; but after two or three
blows had passed you ran away."
"Ah, my friend, but that does not detract from my bravery. I knew that
the quarrel was only pretended; despite that, at the third blow I felt
the blood mount to my face, and I ran away for fear of getting angry."
"This time I hope you will conduct yourself better."
"Speak, if you have need of my valor."
"No, thank God, I shan't have to put your valor to the proof; the matter
is very simple and will not cost you a great effort of genius."
"So much the worse; I swear by Rolande that I feel disposed to brave
every terror.--Take care, my friend; your razor almost touched my nose;
you will end by taking off a piece, and that would destroy the charm of
my physiognomy."
"Fear nothing, most valorous Chaudoreille; I will respect your face; it
would be a pity to spoil it."
"Yes, most assuredly; it would cause tears to more than one great lady
who deigns to look with favor upon your humble servant."
"Those great ladies would do well if they gave you another doublet, for
yours has well earned its retirement."
"My dear fellow, love doesn't pause for such trifles; I please with or
without a doublet; the figure is everything, and I'm more than a match
for many a chevalier covered with tinsel and gewgaws; besides, if I
wished to have some lace or cuffs or trinkets, I should not have to give
more than a smile for them. Ah, by Jove!--Take care there, my brave
Touquet. See! your neighbor's dog is going to take my ruff. Ah, the
rogue! he's holding it in his chops."
"You must take it away from him."
"That's very easy for you to say. That cursed dog bites everybody."
Chaudoreille got up, half shaved, and ran and took his sword, which he
drew from the scabbard; but during this time the dog had left the shop,
carrying off the ruff, and the boastful chevalier pursued him into the
street, crying,--
"My ruff! Zounds, my ruff! Stop thief!"
The shouts of Chaudoreille made the dog run more quickly, and the
passers-by looked on with astonishment at the half-dressed man, with one
cheek shaven and the other covered with soap, who ran, sword in hand,
crying, "Stop thief!" The idlers gathered--for there were idlers as
early as 1632--and followed Chaudoreille, that they might see the end of
the adventure. The children stoned the dog, which redoubled its speed,
passed through an alleyway and disappeared from Chaudoreille's sight.
The latter, who could do no more, stopped at length, heaving a big sigh.
His anger was redoubled when he saw everybody looking and laughing at
him; he swore then, but so low that nobody could hear him; and, making
the best of his way through the crowd which surrounded him, he sadly
regained the barber's house.
"You must be a fool, to run through the street like that," said Touquet,
who had grown impatient during Chaudoreille's race; "you deserve that I
shouldn't finish shaving you."
"Oh, zounds! that is very easy for you to say; I have been robbed--a
magnificent ruff."
"You can put on another."
"I haven't another."
"With a smile you could have as many as you wish."
"Yes, yes; but I'm not by way of smiling just now."
"Come, calm yourself. If our affair is successful, as I've no doubt it
will be, I'll give you some crowns with which you can buy other collars;
for ruffs are no longer in fashion."
This assurance alleviated somewhat Chaudoreille's grief, and he reseated
himself, that the barber might finish shaving him.
"You will go today into the city," resumed the barber, while finishing
the chevalier's toilet,--"into the Rue de la Calandre; you will go into
a perfumer's shop which is about half-way down the street."
"Yes, yes, I know; that is where I supply myself."
"Better and better! It will be easier for you to obtain an entrance. You
should know, then, the young girl whom I will describe to you: twenty
years old, of medium height, unrestrained figure, brown hair and
intelligent black eyes."
"Listen; I don't believe that I know her, seeing that it's two or three
years since I bought any perfumery, because scents make me nervous."
"If you could dispense with lying to me, Chaudoreille, at every turn,
you would give me great pleasure."
"What do I understand by that? I lie? By jingo! I swear to you, by
Rolande--"
"Hold your tongue and listen. A great nobleman is in love with the young
girl whose portrait I have just given you. This great nobleman is the
Marquis de Villebelle."
"By Jove! What, the Marquis de Villebelle! He's a jolly fellow, who
makes everybody talk about him. I'm delighted to work for a man of that
stamp; he's as brave as he is generous. That's a profligate after my own
heart. I shall be glad to give him proofs of my zeal and my genius."
"You'll have to begin by holding your tongue; remember, the least
indiscretion will cost you dear. I should not have told you the name of
the one who is concerned in this matter if the young girl had not known;
but as she might herself tell you, it is better that you should learn it
from me. Remember, you are still in my employ, and not in that of the
marquis. I could myself have discharged the commission which he gave me,
but I am beginning to have a reputation for probity and wisdom; it is
generally thought that, turning from the errors of my youth, I no longer
mix in intrigues, and I don't wish to disturb the good opinion they now
have of me in this neighborhood."
"Ah, rascal, you're as mischievous as a monkey; you think of nothing
but increasing your business, and your cold, severe air deceives some
people. You're right, by jingo! One must dissemble; it's the essence of
intrigue, and I shall try to throw off the appearance of being a
libertine and a profligate in order that I may be more successful in
wheedling the little innocent."
The barber shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and again approached the
blade of his razor to Chaudoreille's nose. The latter's face became
still paler, except the spots on his cheeks, where the color seemed
immovable.
"Curse it!" cried Touquet, while holding the end of Chaudoreille's nose
between his fingers, to prevent him from moving, while he plied the
razor; "can't you ever keep still and refrain from trembling beneath my
razor blade? You deserve to be slashed all over your face.--Come, get
up; it's finished."
"Many thanks," said Chaudoreille, breathing more freely; "I am shaved
like a cherubim. Oh, you have a hand as dexterous as it's nimble. That
makes seventy-seven shaves that I owe you for."
"That's all right; we'll reckon that later."
"I know that you'll recall it to me; you're not like the barber who
shaved one of my friends on credit, and who made a notch in him every
time, to mark the shave, he said."
"Before the people come in, let us agree on what we have to do."
"Speak on; I am listening while I am washing myself."
"You will go, then, to the perfumer's shop, and while buying
something--"
"Oh, yes; a collar or a ruff."
"No matter,--no matter what."
"I find that ruffs suit me better."
"Hold your tongue, cursed chatterer; there's nobody here to notice your
face. You will enter into conversation with the young girl I have
depicted; you will say to her that M. le Marquis is in love with her to
the point of distraction."
"Yes; I shall say to her that he will stab himself before her eyes if
she won't meet him."
"It's not a question of killing himself, idiot. That's a fine way to
seduce a grisette!"
"I never seduced them any other way."
"Talk about presents, jewelry; they respond to that much quicker."
"Each one to his own method; as for me, I never make love that way; for
the rest, I'll say everything that you wish; I'll make the marquis as
generous and magnificent as a native of Gascony."
"Finally, you will demand a rendezvous, in the name of the marquis, for
tomorrow evening."
"Where shall it be?"
"Wherever you like, but preferentially in an unfrequented quarter."
"Very well; and after?"
"Oh, the rest is my affair."
"A moment: if the little one doesn't grant an interview?"
"What are you thinking of? A shop girl who knows that she is pleasing to
the noble Seigneur de Villebelle--I am certain that she's on
tenter-hooks already because no messenger has reached her. You must
beware of committing any blunder which will render you unsuccessful."
"Be easy; I'm not a clown, I flatter myself, and I wish by this affair
to put myself in the good graces of the marquis."
"Yet again, it is not for him, but for me, that you are doing the
business; if you should allow a single word of this adventure to escape
in the town, if you should have the misfortune to mention the marquis,
remember that then the blade of my razor won't leave that face whole
about which you seem to make such a fuss."
The barber's eyes evinced his firm determination of keeping his promise;
Chaudoreille hastened to get his sword and attach it to his side while
murmuring,--
"Yes, undoubtedly I make much of my face; it is very worthy of the
trouble, and has given me many happy moments. This devil of a Touquet is
always joking, but between friends one should not get angry. We are both
aware of our mutual bravery, and it's superfluous for us to give proofs
of it. I swear to you by Rolande that I will use the greatest
discretion, that I may be relied on. Our acquaintance doesn't date from
today; for nearly fifteen years we have been united in friendship. We
are two jolly fellows who have played our pranks. How many intrigues
have we conducted by our skill, without counting our personal prowess!
You, built like a Hercules, an antique figure, noble carriage,--you
would have adored big women--that is to say, tall women; I, smaller but
well made, with a more modern physiognomy,--I prefer them more graceful
and slender. But love never troubled you much; you prefer money. Ah,
money and play,--those have been your pleasures. As for me, I'm fond of
gaming also; I play a very strong game of piquet. But gallantry employs
a great part of my time. I can't help it; I love the women. But that's
not astonishing; I am their spoilt child; they have strewn the path of
my life with flowers, without counting all those that still remain for
me to cull. I dedicated to them my heart and my sword. But love and
valor do not always lead to fortune; you have gathered wealth quicker
than I, and I compliment you upon it. While I have been following after
some Venus, you have conducted without my aid some intricate intrigues;
for this house did not belong to you formerly, and now you are the
proprietor of it; it did not fall to you from the clouds."
"What are you meddling with?" said the barber angrily. "What does it
matter to you how I acquired this house? When I've employed you haven't
I paid you, and often a good deal better than you deserve? I've already
told you, Chaudoreille, that if you wish that we remain friends, and if
you desire through me to earn money from time to time, you had better
not begin your foolish questions, nor seek to learn that which I do not
judge fit to confide to you; otherwise I shall show you my door and you
will never enter it again."
"Oh, not so fast. By jingo! he's a little Vesuvius,--this dear Touquet.
If I gave way to my natural temper we should see some fine things;
however, that's ended; silence on that subject. Now I am dressed; I lack
nothing but my ruff; how can I go out without that?"
"You went out very well a minute ago, half dressed."
"But a minute ago I was sword in hand, and in those moments I see
nothing but my victim. It's all right; I will pull my cloak up a little
higher. Ah, I was forgetting an essential. That I may buy something in
the little one's shop it's necessary that I should have some money, and
my pockets are empty this morning."
"Wait; take these ten crowns, on account of what I shall give you if you
fulfil my instructions correctly."
"That's well understood," said Chaudoreille, taking the money and
drawing from his belt an old silk purse, which had formerly been red, in
which he placed, one by one, with an air of respect, the ten pieces
which the barber had given him.
"It's still too early," said Touquet, "for you to go to the perfumer's;
those dames do not open their shops as early as we do ours; while
waiting till the time comes for you to execute your commission couldn't
you go up and see Blanche, and give her a music lesson? That will amuse
her, and I notice that she does not find much to distract her in her
room, where she sees no one but Marguerite."
At the name of Blanche, Chaudoreille raised his eyes to Heaven, and
heaved a sigh which he stifled immediately, crying,--
"By the way, how is she, the pretty child? I was going to ask you about
her, for it is a century since I have seen her."
"She's very well, but she's tired of being in the house and wishes to go
out."
"What the devil! why don't you send me more often to keep her company? I
can amuse her, my beautiful Blanche, and I can play something for her."
"I'm not sure that you can amuse her much. Blanche said to me that you
always sang the same things, and that she now knew as much as you do of
the sitar."
"These young girls are full of conceit. I confess that she's made rapid
progress, and that is not astonishing; I have a way of teaching which
would make a donkey capable of singing songs; besides, the little one is
intelligent, but I flatter myself that I can still teach her something
more."
"Chaudoreille, I have given you a great proof of my confidence in
permitting you to see Blanche; you must swear to me that you will never
speak of her beauty."
"Be easy; when by chance anyone asks me if I know the young girl who is
under your care, I answer--since we are on the subject--that I have seen
her three or four times, and that she is neither one thing nor the
other,--one of those faces which people say nothing about."
"That's well; if anyone imagined that this house held one of the
prettiest women in Paris, I should nevermore have a moment's peace; I
should be incessantly tormented by a crowd of gallants, of profligates,
of libertines; I should see this house become the rendezvous of all the
worthless fellows of the neighborhood. I couldn't go away for a moment
without one of them trying to introduce himself to Blanche, and
Marguerite's watchfulness would be as insufficient as my own to
frustrate all the enterprises of these gallants. It is to avoid all this
annoyance that I withdraw Blanche from the notice of curious people."
"Oh, as far as that goes, you do very well; I quite approve your
conduct; you must not let them see her, nor allow her to go out for a
moment. If you wish, I can say everywhere that she's horrible,--blind of
one eye, lame, and hump-backed."
"No, no; one must never overdo one's precautions and fall into a
contrary excess."
"It would be so sorrowful if some miserable adventurer should carry this
beautiful flower away from us."
"How? carry her away from us?"
"I should say carry her away from you; it is only by favor that I see
her. She is, in truth, a jewel; she has the candor, the innocence of
childhood. Ah, zounds! how happy you are, Touquet, for you are guarding
this treasure for yourself, I'll wager."
"For myself?" said the barber, knitting his brows; then he was silent
for a moment, while Chaudoreille, placed before a little mirror,
occupied himself in studying some smiles and glances of the eye. "I have
already told you that I do not like questions," responded Touquet at
last; "but I see that you will be incorrigible until your shoulders have
felt the weight of my arm."
"Always joking. You are really a most ironical man."
"Come, go up to Blanche's room; you can stay three-quarters of an hour.
You must leave by the passageway; I don't wish the people who will be
here to see you come from the interior of the house. You will go where I
told you, and you will come and give me an account of the result of your
enterprise."
"At your dinner hour?"
"No, this evening, at dusk."
"As you please, as you will. Ah, mon Dieu! I am thinking how I can go up
to my young pupil without a ruff."
"Will that prevent you from singing?"
"No, but decency--this naked neck. Lend me a collar,--anything."
"Hang it! is it necessary to make so much fuss? Do you think that
Blanche will pay much attention to your face?"
"My face! my face! It would seem, to hear you, that I am an Albino."
"Here's somebody coming; get out."
The barber pushed Chaudoreille into the passage, where the latter
remained for a quarter of an hour, seeking by what manner he could hold
his cloak, and deciding at last to go up to his pupil.
CHAPTER V
THE MUSIC LESSON
Blanche was seated at work near her window, the small, dim panes of
which scarcely permitted her to distinguish anything in the street.
However, from time to time she glanced downward in that direction to
distract her thoughts; not that she was at all sad, or that she had
anything to trouble her, but a young girl who is nearly sixteen years of
age experiences in the depths of her innocent heart certain void, vague
desires which she cannot easily account for. She sighs, she becomes
dreamy; a mere nothing renders her uneasy; the least noise, the sound of
an unknown voice, makes her heart beat more quickly; she looks oftener
in the mirror; she pays more attention to her toilet, though, as yet,
there is nobody in particular whom she wishes to charm. But a secret
instinct implants in her the desire to please, a sure symptom that she
begins to feel the need of loving; and, for that reason, she falls into
reveries and sighs without knowing why--so it was, at least, in the time
of which we are speaking. As to the young girls of our own time, they
dream, also, but they sigh less.
The character of the barber, the cold, serious manner which he wore
before Blanche, did not invite confidence, and imposed a restraint on
the young girl, whose ingenuous heart seemed to seek a friend. She
respected Touquet and obeyed him; she regarded him as her benefactor,
but she could not chat freely with him, for the barber's laconic answers
always appeared to indicate little desire to engage in a long
conversation. To make up for this, Marguerite was very chatty, and would
willingly have passed the entire day in gossip; but the sole subjects of
her conversation were sorcerers, magicians and robbers, and these were
not at all amusing to Blanche, who preferred, to Marguerite's appalling
stories, a tender love-song or a story of chivalry, the heroes of which
were very strong on love; and one of that ilk had no less prowess as a
paladin because he was faithful to his lady for twenty years.
Blanche was dreaming, then, when somebody rapped softly at her door; and
immediately Chaudoreille's odd little head appeared between the door and
the wall, and he said in mellifluous accents,--
"May one come in, interesting scholar?"
Blanche raised her eyes and burst into a fit of laughter on perceiving
Chaudoreille's face, this being the effect his appearance ordinarily
produced on the young girl.
"Come in, come in, my dear master," said she, rising to curtsey to
Chaudoreille, who then introduced himself entirely into the room, bowing
to Blanche three times, so low that each time his sword fell before him,
and on rising he was obliged to put Rolande into his scabbard again.
"I am so much in the habit of drawing him," said Chaudoreille, "that he
can't rest quietly in his sheath for two hours at a time.--Come, be
quiet, Rolande; you know well, my dear companion, that the night never
passes without my giving you some occupation."
"Why, Monsieur Chaudoreille, do you fight every day?"
"What else could you expect, beautiful angel? It is my element; I should
not sleep if I had not drawn my sword, and I should fall ill if three
days were to elapse without my ridding the earth of an impertinent
fellow or a rival."
"O good Heavens!"
"But let us leave that subject and speak of you, delightful creature.
You seem to me fresher and more beautiful than ever; it is the unfolding
of the bud, it is the opening of the flower, it is the fruit which--By
the way, how are you?"
"Very well. Did you come to give me a music lesson?"
"Yes, if you will permit me the pleasure. It is a long time since I had
that happiness."
"I hope you're going to teach me something new."
"By Jove! I'm not at the end of my tether. Besides, were new songs
lacking, your beautiful eyes would inspire me to improvise a ballad in
sixteen couplets."
Blanche brought her sitar and handed it to Chaudoreille, who raised his
eyes to Heaven and heaved a big sigh as he took it.
"Are you going to be ill, Monsieur Chaudoreille?" questioned the young
girl, astonished at this moaning.
"No, I am not ill; however, I feel rather uneasy," answered
Chaudoreille, venturing to try the effect of the glances and smiles
which he had studied before the glass.
"You seem to have difficulty in breathing," responded Blanche; "perhaps
your supper last night did not agree with you."
"Pardon me; I swear to you it did not trouble me in the least. I have a
horror of indigestion. Out upon it! I never put myself in the way of
having it."
"Sing to me the air you are going to teach me; that will make you feel
better."
"She is innocence itself," said Chaudoreille to himself while tuning the
sitar; "she doesn't understand what makes me sigh. Despite that,
however, I can see that she's glad to see me. Patience; before long her
heart will awaken, and I shall be its conqueror."
Blanche took up her work again; Chaudoreille seated himself near her,
and after a quarter of an hour's tuning of the sitar, coughed,
expectorated, blew his nose, turned around on his chair, arranged his
cape, pursed his mouth, passed his tongue over his lips, and at last
commenced in a shrill voice, which pierced the ears, an ancient ditty
which Blanche had heard a hundred times before.
"I know that, my dear master," said she, interrupting Chaudoreille in
the middle of a point d'orgue, which he seemed willing to prolong
indefinitely; "that's one of the three you have already taught me."
"Do you think so?"
"Wait; I'll sing it for you."
Blanche took the instrument, and, gracefully accompanying herself, sang,
in a melodious voice which gave a charm to the old ballad.
"That's very well, indeed," said Chaudoreille; "you sing the passages
precisely in my manner; I seem to hear myself."
"Teach me another, then," said the young girl, returning the instrument
to him; and Chaudoreille intoned a virelay on the great feats of Pepin
the Short.
"I know that, too," said Blanche, stopping him.
"In that case I will sing you a charming villanelle."
"Mercy! that will be the third of those you have taught me. Don't you
know any others?"
[Illustration]
"Pardon me, but as a cursed dog ran off with my ruff while I was being
shaved, I cannot venture a new song while my throat is naked; it would
embarrass the middle notes. Nevertheless, the villanelle is always a
novelty, since I ever sing it with variations."
"Well, I'll listen," said Blanche, glancing towards the street.
Chaudoreille heaved another sigh, and when he had taken a position which
seemed to him more favorable for displaying his graces, he commenced the
villanelle, which he sang to Blanche every time that he gave her a
lesson:--
I have lost my turtle-dove,
And her flight I must pursue,--
Is she not the one I love?
You regret your own fond dove,
As the loss of mine I rue;
I have lost my turtle-dove.
At this moment some perambulating singers came into the street. They
stationed themselves in front of the barber's house and, accompanying
themselves on their mandolins, sang some Italian songs. Blanche listened
eagerly; this music, so different from that which she heard from her
master of the sitar, stirred her pulses deliciously, and approaching the
window she cried,--
"Oh, how pretty that is!"
"Yes, undoubtedly it's pretty," said Chaudoreille, who believed the
young girl to be speaking of the villanelle; "but it's necessary to
acquire the same expression that I have given it. Notice it well, 'I
have lost my turtle-dove,'--the accent tremulous with grief; raise the
eyes to the ceiling, beat time with the left foot. 'And her flight I
must pursue,'--a distracted air, and always the same accompaniment with
the thumb and index finger. 'Is she not the one I love?'--a soft,
flute-like sound, and make a movement of surprise while sustaining the
falsetto. 'You regret your own fond dove,--' that demands much
expression. 'You regret,'--an exquisitely performed shake,--'your own
fond dove,'--inflate the sound and ascend still."
"Ah, I should be contented if I could only hear such music often," said
Blanche, who had paid no attention to what Chaudoreille was saying, and
had listened only to the Italians.
"I should much like to give you a lesson every day, lovely damsel; but
my occupations overwhelm me--and then, Master Touquet does not often
permit me the pleasure of seeing you; when far from you I sing without
ceasing,--
You regret your own fond dove."
"It's a barcarolle--is it not, monsieur?"
"No, my dear girl; that's called a villanelle, the favorite song of our
ancient troubadours, and of shepherds who bemoaned their shepherdesses."
"What a pity that I don't know Italian!"
"What do you require Italian for,--in order to say,
Is she not the one I love?"
"Be quiet, be quiet; they're singing in French now," said Blanche,
pressing close to the window-panes, and signing with her hand to
Chaudoreille not to stir.
"What's that you're saying?" cried the sitar master, rising in
surprise,--"for me to be quiet! Does that noise out there disturb you
too much? To the devil with the street singers who prevent you from
hearing me! I hardly know how to restrain myself from going to drive
them away with a few blows from my good blade Rolande!"
"If I only dared open my window for a few moments," sighed Blanche. "But
no, I must not, for M. Touquet has firmly forbidden me to do so. What a
pretty, pretty air! Ah, I shall easily remember that,
I love to eternity
My darling is all to me;
that's the refrain."
"No, divine Blanche, you are mistaken; these are the words,--
I have lost my turtle-dove,
And her flight I must pursue,--
Is she not the one I love?"
The singers departed. Blanche then left the casement, and, on turning,
saw Chaudoreille with his neck elongated, the better to execute a note.
She could not restrain a desire to laugh, which was evoked by the face
of the chevalier; and the latter remained with his mouth open, not
knowing how to take the young girl's laughter, when Marguerite entered
the room.
"It's burned at last," said the old woman as she came in.
"What is burned," cried Chaudoreille,--"the roast?"
"Ah, yes, indeed; it's a book of witchcraft, of magic. It was very hard
to get it to burn, those books are so accustomed to fire."
"What is that you say, Marguerite? You have books of magic,--you who are
afraid of everything? Do you wish to enter into communication with the
spirits of the other world?"
"Ah, God keep me from it, Monsieur Chaudoreille. But I'll tell you how
that book came into my hands, where it didn't stay long, for it seemed
to me that that cursed conjuring-book burned my fingers. My master
wished me to change my room--because--but I oughtn't to tell you that."
"Try to remember what you wished to tell me."
"Well, it seems I must quit the room I've occupied, to go into one in
which no one has set foot during the eight years I have been in the
house; and, to judge by the look of it, no one had visited it for a long
time before. It's so dark, so dismal; the window-panes, which are two
inches thick with dust, hardly allow the daylight to penetrate into the
room."
"I had an idea--God forgive me--that she was going to recount to me all
the spiders' webs she had found there. What do you think of it, my
charming pupil?"
Blanche did not answer, for she had paid no attention to what Marguerite
said; she was committing to memory the sweet refrain which had appeared
so pretty to her, and was repeating in a low voice,--
"I love to eternity;"
and Chaudoreille, seeing her steeped in reverie, would not disturb her,
fully persuaded that the young girl could not defend her heart against
the charms of the villanelle.
"It's not a question of spiders," resumed the old servant, rather
ill-humoredly; "if I had not seen that which--but at the bottom of a
closet Mademoiselle Blanche found a diabolical book; it was the
conjuring-book of a sorcerer named Odoard. Have you ever heard tell of a
sorcerer by that name?"
"No, not that I remember. If you were to ask me about a brave man, a man
of spirit, a rake of honor, most certainly I should have known him; but
a sorcerer! What the devil do you think I should have to do with him?
These people don't fight."
"Monsieur Chaudoreille,--you who are so brave,--you must render me a
service."
"What is it?" inquired Chaudoreille, paying more attention to
Marguerite's words.
"Just now, after having burned the conjuring-book of that Odoard,
surnamed the great Tier of Tags, I made another inspection of my room,
sprinkling holy water everywhere, as you may well suppose."
"And what followed?"
"At the end of the alcove I perceived a little door,--one would never
have supposed there was a door there; but, though old, I have good eyes,
and, while pushing the bed, which made the wainscot creak, I saw the
door."
"To the point, I beg of you," resumed Chaudoreille, whose eyes betrayed
the uneasiness he tried in vain to dissemble.
"Well, now, I confess to you, monsieur, that I didn't dare open that
door. It was no doubt the door of a closet; but that alcove is so
gloomy, so dark. Finally, I'll be very much obliged if you'll come up
with me and go first into whatever place we find there. I daren't ask M.
Touquet, for he'd scoff at me."
"And he would be right, by jingo! Why, Marguerite, at your age, not to
have more courage than that!"
"What can you expect? I'm afraid there may be a goblin in that closet,
who will jump in my face when I open the door, which has perhaps been
closed for many years; for I've never seen M. Touquet enter the room."
"Don't goblins pass through keyholes? Come, Marguerite, I blush for your
cowardice."
"No one can say that sorcerers are rare in Paris. Haven't they
established a Chamber at the Arsenal expressly to judge them?"
"That's true, I confess; but I don't see what makes you imagine there
are any in this house?"
"Ah, Monsieur Chaudoreille, if I was to tell you all I have seen and
heard--and at night the noises which--"
"What have you seen, dear nurse?" inquired Blanche, whose reverie had
flown, and who had heard the last words of the old woman.
"Nothing--nothing--mademoiselle;" and the old servant added, addressing
the chevalier in a low tone, "My master doesn't like me to talk of it,
and he'll send me away if he learns--"
"That's enough; I don't wish to hear anything further," said
Chaudoreille, rising and taking his hat. "And since Touquet has
forbidden you to tell these idle stories, I beg you not to deafen my
ears with them."
"But you'll come upstairs with me and look in the closet--won't you,
monsieur?"
"Ah, mon Dieu! I hear ten o'clock striking; I should be in the city now;
I didn't receive ten crowns for listening to your old stories; I must
run. Au revoir, my interesting pupil. I am delighted that my last
variations gave you pleasure. I hope before long to give you another
lesson. With a master like me, you should be a virtuoso."
While saying these words Chaudoreille drew himself up, placed his left
hand on his hip, arranged his right arm as though he were about to take
his weapon; but, instead of drawing Rolande from the scabbard, he
carried his hand to his hat and bowed respectfully to Blanche; then,
passing quickly by Marguerite, who tried vainly to restrain him, he
opened the door and went downstairs humming,--
You regret your own fond dove,
As the loss of mine I rue.
CHAPTER VI
THE LOVERS. THE GOSSIPS.
The barber Touquet's shop was as usual filled with a motley crowd of
people of all classes. There were gathered students, shopkeepers, pages,
poets, bachelors, adventurers, and even young noblemen; for the fashion
of the time permitted these amiable libertines to mingle sometimes with
persons in the lower classes of society, whether they sought new
sensations in listening to a language which for them had all the
fascinating charm of novelty, or whether it was for the purpose of
playing tricks on the persons with whom they thus mixed.
Master Touquet's shop was large, and moreover furnished with benches,
which latter conveniences were an almost unheard-of luxury in a time
when people took their diversions standing, and when no one was seated
even at the play. The barber by this means extended his custom; he
attended to everything, answered everybody, and did more himself than
ten hairdressers of today. His hand, which was skilful, nimble and
accurate with scissors or razor, had earned him the reputation of being
one of the best barbers in Paris, and drew to his shop many fops,
because in the middle class one held it an honor to be able to say,
while caressing one's chin, "I've been shaved by Touquet." But those
whom he had served sometimes remained for a long time in conversation
with the persons who were awaiting their turn, the greater part of these
idlers desiring to chat for a moment on the news of the day and the
adventures of the night. Towards ten o'clock in the morning there was
always a numerous gathering at Master Touquet's shop.
There one saw all kinds of toilets; but then, as today, rich garments
did not always betoken rank or fortune in those who wore them. The taste
for luxury was becoming general, because consideration was accorded only
to those who had splendid equipages and magnificent clothing. An
appearance of wealth and power obtained all the honors; true merit
without distinction, without renown, remained forgotten and in poverty.
And one assuredly sees the same thing today.
Access to court was easy. For a parvenu to introduce himself there,
often nothing more was necessary than a costume similar to those worn by
courtiers,--the hat adorned by a feather, a doublet and mantle of satin
or velvet, the sword at the belt, the whole enlivened by trimmings of
gold or silver braid. Each sought to procure for himself the most
splendid personal appearance, and many ruined themselves in order to
appear wealthy.
An attempt was, however, made to arrest this tendency to luxurious
habits, which could not hide the poverty of the time. By an edict of the
month of November of the year 1633, it was forbidden to all subjects to
wear on their shirts, cuffs, head-dresses, or on other linen, all
openwork, embroideries of gold or silver thread, braids, laces or cut
points, manufactured either within or without the realm.
In the following year a second edict appeared, which prohibited the
employment, in habiliments, of any kind of cloth of gold or silver, real
or imitation, and decreed that the richest garments should be of velvet,
satin or taffetas, without other ornament than two bands of silk
embroidery; it also forbade that the liveries of pages, lackeys and
coachmen should be made of any other than woollen stuffs. But these laws
were soon infringed; men will always have the desire to appear more than
they are, and women to hide what they are.
Among the different personages assembled in the barber's shop there was
one who chatted with nobody and seemed to take not the slightest
interest in the relation of the scandalous adventures of the night. This
was a young man who appeared about nineteen years of age or a little
over, endowed with a physiognomy by no means cheerful; for one
ordinarily applies that term to those round, fresh faces, red and plump,
which breathe health and gayety. He had beautiful eyes, but was pale;
noble features, but rather a melancholy expression; finally, he had what
one calls an interesting face, and this sort are in general more
fortunate in love than those of cheerful physiognomy. The young man's
costume was very simple; neither ornament nor embroidery adorned his
gray coat, buttoned just to the knee and cut like our frock coat of
today; his belt was black; no ribbons floated from his knees and his
arms; he neither had a sword nor laces, nor plumes on the broad brim of
his hat.
He had been for a very long time in the barber's shop. On entering, his
eyes had appeared to search for something other than the master of the
place; he had thrown glances towards the back shop, and still continued
to do so. Several times already his turn had come and Touquet had said
to him,--
"Whenever you wish, seigneur bachelor."
The young man's simple costume was, in fact, that which was ordinarily
worn by law students in Paris; but to each invitation of the barber the
bachelor only answered, "I am not pressed for time," and another took
his place.
After a time the loiterers and gossips departed and the young man found
himself alone with Touquet, to whom his conduct began to appear
singular.
"Now you can no longer yield your turn to anybody," said the barber,
offering a chair to the stranger. "In truth I cannot shave you; you have
not enough on your chin; but without doubt you came for something, and
I am at your service, monsieur."
"Yes," said the young man with an embarrassed air, turning his eyes
towards the back shop, "I should like--my hair is too long, and--"
"Seat yourself here, seigneur bachelor; you will find that I am skilful;
my hand is as well accustomed to the scissors as to the razor."
The young man decided at last to intrust his head to the barber, but as
soon as the latter paused for a moment he profited by it to turn and
look into the back shop.
"Are you looking for anything, monsieur?" said Touquet, whom this trick
did not escape.
"No--no. I was only looking to see if you were alone here."
"Yes, monsieur; you see I have no need of anybody to help me in order to
satisfy my customers."
"Indeed, someone told me you were extremely skilful."
"And monsieur has had time to judge of my talent, he has been nearly two
hours in my shop."
"I had nothing pressing to do; and then, I wished to obtain some
information of you. Tell me, my friend, who occupies the first story of
this house."
"I do, monsieur," said Touquet, after a moment's hesitation.
The young man seemed vexed then that he had asked the question.
"May I learn, monsieur, how that interests you?" resumed Touquet,
looking at the unknown attentively.
"Ah, it is that I am looking for a lodging--in this quarter. One chamber
would suffice me. Do you not take lodgers, and could you give me a room
if this house belongs to you?"
"This house does belong to me; in fact, monsieur, I cannot grant your
request. For a long time I have let no lodgings, and I have no room in
the house, which is not very large."
"What! you cannot let me a single chamber, a closet even? I repeat to
you, I wish to have one in this neighborhood; I often have business in
the Louvre. I will pay you anything that you ask."
"Anything?" said the barber, glancing ironically at the young man's
simple garments. "You are getting on, perhaps, a little, monsieur
student. All the same, your desires cannot be gratified, and I advise
you to renounce your plans."
Touquet dwelt on this last phrase, and the young man's face reddened a
little; but the barber had finished his ministrations, and the former
had no way of prolonging his stay with a man who did not appear to wish
to continue the conversation, and to whom he feared he had said too
much. The bachelor rose, paid, and at last left the shop, but not
without looking up at the windows of the house.
"That's a lover," said Touquet, as soon as the young man had taken his
departure. "Yes, his uneasiness, his looks, his questions--oh, I
understand it all. I have served too many lovers ever to be deceived
about that. Curse it! this is just what I feared. What vexations I
foresee! What anxieties are about to assail me! He must have seen
Blanche, but where? when? how? She never leaves the house without me,
and that very rarely; however, this young man is in love with her, I'll
bet a hundred pieces of gold. Halloo there, Marguerite! Marguerite!"
The old servant had heard her master's loud voice; she mentally invoked
her patron saint and went down to the shop.
"How long is it since Blanche went out without my knowing it?" said the
barber suddenly.
"Went out? Mademoiselle Blanche?" said Marguerite, looking at her master
in surprise.
"Yes,--went out with you. Why don't you answer?"
"Blessed Holy Virgin! that hasn't happened for two years; then
Mademoiselle Blanche was still a child, and you sometimes allowed her to
go with me to take a turn in the big Pre-aux-Clercs. But since that time
the poor little thing has not been out, I believe, except twice with
you, and that was at night, and Mademoiselle Blanche had a very thick
veil."
"I didn't ask you if she had been out with me. And has any young man
been here in my absence who has asked you about her, or who has sought
to be introduced to her?"
"Indeed, I would have given him a warm reception. Monsieur doesn't know
me. Except the Chevalier Chaudoreille, mademoiselle has seen no one; as
to the latter, he came this morning to give her a music lesson."
"Oh, Chaudoreille isn't dangerous; but if some student, some young page,
should come in my absence and seek to see Blanche, remember to send such
heedless fellows away promptly."
"Yes, monsieur, yes. Oh, you may be easy. Besides, hasn't the beautiful
child always about her a precious talisman which will preserve her from
all danger? I defy ten gallants to turn her head so long as she carries
it, and I will see that she does not leave it off."
"Watch, rather, that she does not open her window; that will be better.
If that should happen, I should be obliged to give her the little room
which opens on the court."
"Ah, monsieur, Mademoiselle Blanche would die there of weariness; there
one can barely see the light, and the poor little thing does not go out,
and could only work during the daytime with a candle."
"Unless she opens her window, it will be a long time before she occupies
it," said Touquet in a low voice, making a sign to the servant to leave
him, which the latter did, saying,--
"What a misfortune not to have faith in talismans! If monsieur believed
in them, he would not deprive that poor little thing of every
amusement."
The barber had not been mistaken in judging that the young man, who had
had so much difficulty in tearing himself away from the shop, was a
lover.
The Italian's song had so captivated Blanche's ears that the young girl
had stood close to her casement, and had not budged from it during the
time that her music master had made his variations on the villanelle. At
the same moment Urbain was passing, and he had stopped to listen to the
music, and while listening his glance was carried to Blanche's window.
At first he had seen nothing but some very small panes; but at last,
through these panes, his eyes could distinguish a face so pretty, eyes
so blue and so full of the pleasure that Blanche was experiencing, that
the young man had remained motionless, his looks fixed upon that window,
near which the charming apparition remained. When the music ceased the
pretty face disappeared, and the young man had said to himself,--
"I was not in error; there is an angel, a divinity, in that house."
And as that angel, that divinity, lived in the modest house of a barber,
the bachelor had believed he should penetrate into the third heaven in
entering Master Touquet's shop; but he returned to ideas more
terrestrial on seeing nothing but men who had come to be shaved, who had
about them nothing divine, despite all the essences with which their
chins were besmeared. Urbain had glanced towards the back shop, hoping
to perceive the pretty figure of the first floor, and had prolonged as
much as possible his stay in the barber's shop. We have witnessed the
result of his conversation with the barber.
The young man departed, very much out of sorts; he perceived that he had
made a blunder in questioning the barber, who was probably his adored
one's father; for the young men of that time were inflamed with love as
quickly as those of today. He felt that before going into the shop he
should have obtained some information in the neighborhood, and he
decided to finish as he should have begun. In all times the bakers have
had very correct ideas about their neighbors, because the neighbors are
all obliged to go or to send to the baker's. Urbain went into a shop at
a little distance, and while paying for some rolls entered into
conversation with the woman who was behind the counter,--a conversation
in which all the servants who arrived at that moment took part.
"Do you know a barber in this street?"
"A barber? Yes, my good monsieur; down there at the corner of the Rue
Saint-Honore,--Master Touquet. Has monsieur some business with him? Oh,
he's a very skilful man at his trade, and has made lots of money, by
shaving beards, or in some other way. What that is I won't pretend to
tell you. That's so--isn't it, Madame Ledoux?"
"It is true," said Madame Ledoux, resting a basket of vegetables on the
counter, "that Touquet has not always enjoyed an excellent reputation. I
have lived in the neighborhood for eight years and, thank God, I know
everything that has passed here,--all that everybody has done here, and
all that everybody is still doing; and that reminds me that yesterday
evening I saw Madame Grippart come home at ten o'clock with a young man,
who left her in front of the grocer's shop after having held her hand in
his for more than two hours, while that poor Grippart was peacefully
slumbering, for he goes to bed at nine o'clock. That doesn't trouble
him; he well deserves it, for he went about everywhere saying that his
wife had a strong breath, and those things need not be said.--But to
return to Master Touquet. Oh, that's a sly blade, a crafty, cunning
fellow. I've known him since he settled in this street; he's been here
nearly fifteen years. He rented the house which belonged to M. Richard.
You know, my neighbor, the old cloth merchant?"
"The one whose wife had two fat, plump twins seven months after they
were married?"
"Who didn't look at all like their father. It's the same. Well, this
Touquet was then barber, bathkeeper and lodging-house keeper, and report
says that beside that he helped young men of family in their love
affairs. He then kept two shop-men, and should have made money; however,
he was for a long time miserably poor, since his shop-men left him
because he did not pay them. Everyone was very much astonished ten years
ago when Touquet kept with him, and began to educate as his own child,
the daughter of a man whom he did not know, who had come to lodge with
him by chance, and who was killed the same night in a fight between some
worthless fellows and the officers of the watch. The poor man! they
found his corpse down there,--Rue Saint-Honore, before the draper's
shop. Do you remember it, Madame Legras?"
Madame Legras, who had just come into the baker's shop, began by
throwing herself on a chair and crying,--
"Good-day, ladies! Good Heavens! how dear the fish is today, nobody can
look at it."
And Urbain sighed, saying, "The fish will take us away from the barber";
but to advance in love one must often have patience, and in the midst of
all this gossip that which concerned Touquet was precious to the young
bachelor.
"I wished to have an eel to feast my husband, but it was impossible."
"Is it his birthday?"
"No; but he took me yesterday for a walk around the Bastile, and one
compliment brings on another. I can say with pride that there are few
households so united as ours. During the four years that I have been
married to my second husband, M. Legras, we have quarrelled only five
times; but that was always for some trifling cause. What were you
talking about, ladies?"
"Of our neighbor Touquet, about whom this gentleman desired some
information."
"Touquet the barber? My word, ladies, you may say whatever you will, but
I don't like that man."
"He's a very handsome man, however."
"Yes, of the same height as M. Legras; but there is something hard and
false and stern in his appearance."
"Yes, for some time past; formerly he was gayer, more open. Now monsieur
never chats; he has grown proud."
"That's not surprising; he has made money."
"Yes, by shaving beards perhaps."
"It's a good deal more likely he has made it by assisting the love
affairs of some great nobleman, in procuring and abducting some beauty."
"Come, ladies, don't be so malicious. As for me, you know I haven't a
bad tongue. Touquet is very skilful at his trade. I know very well that
in order to buy and pay for that house where he now is he must have
shaved a good many faces; but they say now the barber is very steady
and economical."
"When the devil is old--"
"Touquet is not old; he's hardly over forty years."
"Adopting that little girl should have brought him good luck."
"That's what I was telling monsieur. Poor little thing! Nobody knows
anything about her, except that she had a father."
"Well, neighbor, somebody found a letter on him having for an address,
'To Monsieur Moranval, gentleman.'"
"Ah, he was a gentleman?"
"Yes, my dear. Oh, I remember all that as if it were yesterday."
"How fortunate one is in having such a memory! And what did the letter
say?"
"It seemed that there were only a few lines of which nobody could make
much of anything; someone recommended to this Moranval to take great
precautions in the business which brought him to Paris. But what
business? Nobody knows anything about it."
"Did they find nothing else on him?"
"No; there is little doubt that the poor man was robbed after being
murdered."
"Did they go to Touquet's to inquire what he knew about it?"
"Touquet answered the officers of justice that the man had come down to
his house the evening before, and had introduced himself as a gentleman
who was about to remain for some time in Paris; that he had first asked
him to put his little girl to bed, and that later he had gone out,
saying he should be absent for an hour or so. Touquet had waited up for
him a great part of the night, and it was not till the next day that he
learned from public rumor that a man had been found murdered in the Rue
Saint-Honore, a short distance from his house; that, being already
uneasy about his guest, he had gone to see the victim, and had
recognized the man who had arrived at his place the evening before."
"I hope that's a history. Unfortunately, one hears only too many similar
stories. Ours are really cut-throat streets, and it is not well, after
nine o'clock, to be out in them. The gentlemen of the parliament make
decrees often enough, but it doesn't do much good. A little while ago,
it seems a counsellor of the Chamber of Investigation was similarly
murdered. The parliament has just promulgated a new ordinance against
these worthless fellows--haven't they, monsieur?"
"Yes," said Urbain; "the public prosecutor has just complained of
murders, assassinations and robberies, which take place every day, as
many upon the highways as in the city or the suburbs, by armed persons
who forcibly break into houses, and that through the negligence of the
police officers who do not properly perform their duty. Parliament
yesterday passed a new decree, ordering that vagabonds, men of bad
character, and robbers, should vacate the city and the faubourgs of
Paris within twenty-four hours."
"Well, you'll see, tonight we shall hear a bigger rumpus than ever."
"And the barber Touquet is not married?" resumed Urbain, who wished to
return to the subject of conversation which was interesting to him.
"No, he's a bachelor," said Madame Ledoux.
"And this young girl that lodges with him--"
"She's the little one whom he adopted."
"She had no other protectors?"
"What could you expect, since nobody knew her parents? Touquet has, they
say, taken very good care of her; I will do him the justice to say that.
He has taken into his house, to wait on the little one, a servant, old
Marguerite, a gossip, who is always seeking for preservatives against
the wind, the thunder, the sorcerers, or even for talismans to guard her
dear Blanche against the snares of the gallants."
"Blanche, then, is the name of the young girl?"
"Yes; that is her name."
"And this old woman is the only one about her?"
"Mercy! isn't that enough? Besides, the little one never goes out, and
no one ever sees her even put her nose out of the window."
"Tell me, ladies, don't you think, with me, that the barber has brought
up this pretty child for himself, and that he would not take so much
care of her unless he was in love with her?"
"Indeed, that might very well be possible. Touquet is still young, and
perhaps wishes to marry her."
"Nonsense! I don't believe that; and besides, they say that the young
person is not good-looking. I have heard it said by an ugly little thin
man, with a long sword, who is often at the barber's shop, that the
orphan is very ugly."
"Ugly!" cried Urbain quickly. "That's a frightful lie!"
"Ah, monsieur has seen her, then?" immediately said the gossips, looking
at the young man with a mischievous air.
The latter felt that he had committed an imprudence; but having nothing
more to learn from these dames, he made them a low bow and left the
shop, leaving the gossips to talk among themselves.
"Well, if he hasn't gone, and he didn't tell us what he wanted with
Touquet."
But Urbain had learned enough; and while directing his steps toward the
Rue Montmartre, where he dwelt, our lover cogitated thus:--
"She's not the barber's daughter; he has stood to her in place of a
father, but he has no rights over her except those accorded to a
benefactor by a grateful heart. She's the daughter of a gentleman,
which is much better; my father was a gentleman also, who valiantly
fought under King Henry. The old soldiers still remember Captain
Dorgeville, and the name which he has transmitted to me is pure and
without stain. I am alone in the world; I am my own master. Like her I
have no parents, for a year ago death deprived me of my good mother. My
fortune is very moderate,--twelve hundred livres income and a little
house by the seaside. That is all my father left me; but she has nothing
more, and by working I could render her happy. I am about to take my
bachelor's degree, but I shall now leave this unfruitful career; science
brings fortune too slowly. I don't know, however, if I could please her.
Yes, that's the first task with which I should occupy myself. If she
loves me, I will ask her hand of the barber. He will wish to assure her
happiness; he could not refuse me unless he himself---- If these women said
rightly he is in love with her. The hard tone with which he answered me
this morning, his refusal to lodge me in his house, make me believe it.
And that wretch who dared to say that she was ugly!--when object more
enchanting never met my eyes. Ah, it wasn't of her he was speaking. If
such a thing could happen, I should like to see her, to tell her of the
love which she has inspired; and, if I could manage to please her,
nothing then could prevent me from becoming her husband."
These were, somebody will say, very foolish plans concerning a young
girl whose face one had only perceived through some very dim
window-panes; and it was on the possession of this almost ideal object
that Urbain already based the happiness of his life. But let us look
back on our own lives. We were hardly more reasonable,--happy if between
us and the chimeras which enchanted us there was nothing thicker than a
pane of glass.
CHAPTER VII
INTRIGUES THICKEN
Chaudoreille now started off at a great pace towards the city. The ten
crowns which he felt in his purse, on which he prudently kept his hand
while walking, caused him to hold his head even more arrogantly than he
usually did. He had placed his little hat over his left eye in such a
manner that the old red feather with which it was adorned fell precisely
over his right eye, and as he walked mincingly along, at each step that
he took the chevalier could thus enjoy the waving of his ridiculous
plume.
Never had the Chevalier de Chaudoreille felt so clever, so inordinately
satisfied with himself. Blanche's image, so sweet, so beautiful, her
delightful manner, which possessed all the innocent witchery of
girlhood, was still before his eyes, and as he was never lacking in
confidence as to his own merits, he readily persuaded himself that the
young beauty could not see him with indifference, and was even a little
taken with him. On the other hand, the enterprise with which he was
charged by the barber, as the agent of the Marquis de Villebelle,
flattered his self-love. He believed himself the friend, the confidant,
of the Marquis de Villebelle, although the latter had never spoken to
him; but he thought that the adroitness with which he would serve him in
his amorous plan would be sooner or later known to the great nobleman
and would win his favor. Full of this idea, he hastened to reach the
shop of which Touquet had spoken. Before entering, Chaudoreille resumed
to himself,--
"One mustn't go in here," said he, "looking like a snob, and turn the
shop upside down without buying anything. I must not forget that I am
sent by a great personage. They have given me ten crowns on account, as
the price of my services, but I can very well spend twenty-four sous."
This determination taken, he opened the door of the shop and entered
nimbly; but in wheeling round in order to appear more graceful and to
bow at the same time to the right and left, he sent Rolande's scabbard
through one of the panes of the glass door, and it broke in a thousand
pieces.
Chaudoreille's face lengthened and he felt some confusion, for he
calculated that the price of the pane already exceeded the sum he had
intended to lay out. Two young persons seated behind the counter burst
into laughter, while an old woman placed opposite murmured between her
teeth,--
"He must be very awkward."
"I will pay for it," said Chaudoreille at last, heaving a big sigh.
"Indeed I should hope so," responded the shopkeeper; "but has anyone
ever seen a man carry a sword bigger than himself?"
At these words the chevalier drew himself up and stood on his tiptoes,
and glanced angrily at the old woman.
"It's very astonishing," said he, "that anyone should permit herself
such reflections. I carry the weapon that suits me, and if a bearded
chin had said the same thing to me, my sword would have immediately
taken the measure of his body."
"I didn't intend to say anything to make you angry," replied the
shopkeeper, softening; "only it seemed to me that that long sword would
embarrass you in walking."
"Embarrass me! That is a different thing," and Chaudoreille turned his
back to the shopkeeper to approach the young ladies, saying to
himself,--
"I didn't come here to discuss the length of my sword. Let's leave this
woman's twaddle."
"What do you wish, monsieur?" said a young, squint-eyed girl, with a
flat nose, thick lips and crooked chin, whose dark-red skin seemed
covered with a coat of varnish.
Chaudoreille looked at her for some moments, saying to himself,--
"By jingo! she's not very much like the portrait of the little one which
they gave me. It's true that love is blind, and that great noblemen like
original faces."
But after looking at the person who addressed him, Chaudoreille glanced
a little farther and perceived another woman measuring some ribbons. At
the first glance the barber's messenger recognized the young girl whose
portrait had been drawn for him. She was all Touquet had painted her,
though he could not then see the color of her eyes, which were bent on
the ribbon. Chaudoreille approached her and, bowing graciously, said to
himself,--
"This is our affair. I have an astonishing tact for divining correctly.
Other people hesitate for an hour; but I recognize immediately those who
have been pointed out to me, and I am never deceived. Here are some
delightful ribbons," said Chaudoreille, leaning on the counter,
carelessly caressing his chin, and trying to imitate the free manners
and impertinent tone of the profligates of the day.
The young girl then raised her eyes to the chevalier; their brightness,
their expression, arrested Chaudoreille in the midst of a compliment
from which he expected the most happy results.
"By jingo! what a glance! what fire!" said he, taking a step backward,
while the damsel continued to look at him.
In order to enchant her he attempted to turn a light pirouette, in which
Rolande's scabbard just missed putting out the eye of the cat, which was
lying on a neighboring stool. A mocking smile played on the lips of the
young girl, who said, "What ribbon does monsieur wish?"
"What ribbon? My faith! I don't much know. Something to match the rest
of my costume. It is to make a knot for Rolande."
"And who is Rolande, monsieur?"
"My sword, beautiful brunette, which I will pass through the body of him
who denies that you have the most beautiful eyes in the world."
Delighted at his compliment, Chaudoreille said to himself in an
undertone,--
"Take care; we mustn't go too far, or be too amiable; I must not forget
that I did not come here on my own account. This young girl appears
somewhat smitten, from the way she looks at me. Zounds! if I had a ruff
I would with good-will cheat the Marquis de Villebelle of the little
one. Come, Chaudoreille, hide your charms if you can; don't dart your
glances at this pretty person, and hasten to tell her that she must not
occupy herself with you."
While saying this Chaudoreille unrolled and examined twenty different
ribbons, approaching them to the handle of his sword and throwing from
time to time a glance about him, to assure himself that he could speak
without being heard by the other two women in the shop.
This manoeuvre did not escape the eyes of the young girl, who smiled,
and seemed to wait for Chaudoreille to explain himself. Happily for
Chaudoreille, two people came into the shop, and while the old woman and
the other damsel were serving them, he opened a conversation in a low
tone.
"I did not come here only to buy a ribbon, celestial merchant."
"If you wish anything else, speak, monsieur, and you shall be served."
"Julia, have you not finished with monsieur?" said the old woman
impatiently, looking angrily at the long falchion of the chevalier,
which, every time he moved, threatened her cat's eyes.
"Monsieur has not decided yet," answered Julia, while Chaudoreille cried
with an impertinent air,--
"It seems to me that I should be allowed to choose my own colors. When a
man like me comes into a shop, one should, my good woman, keep him there
as long as possible; if you wish to have my custom, leave me to chat as
much as I please with this beautiful child."
This insolent mode of speech was then so much in fashion, that she
remained silent, in place of putting the chevalier out, as would be done
now to a coxcomb who behaved like Chaudoreille.
"Oh, by jingo! if one did not keep these little shopkeepers in their
place I believe they would permit themselves to make observations to
us," said Chaudoreille, approaching for the twentieth time a
gold-colored ribbon to his doublet. "This color goes very well with my
cloak. What do you think of it, adorable damsel?"
"I think that these ribbons are too fresh to blend with monsieur's
clothing, and that that one swears at them."
"I confess that the velvet of my jerkin is a little tarnished, but what
could you expect? When a man fights he necessarily attracts dust and
powder. Here's a cloak that I've not had more than six weeks, and I'll
wager that you would say it had been worn for some months."
"Decide on your ribbon, monsieur," said the young girl, without
answering.
"Give me a gold-colored rosette," said Chaudoreille; and he added in a
mysterious tone, "I have something very important to communicate to
you."
"I doubt it," said Julia.
"Come," said Chaudoreille to himself, "I'll wager that she believes that
I'm in love with her and is impatiently awaiting my declaration. I'm
incorrigible; I let myself go, and I have turned her head without even
perceiving it. Let us hasten to disabuse her.--No, beautiful brunette,
you need not doubt it," responded he, lowering his eyes with a
coquettish air; "I ought to confess to you that it is not of myself that
I seek you, and that I am only the ambassador of Love, when you would
have taken me for Love himself."
Julia's hearty laughter prevented Chaudoreille from continuing, and he
did not know at first how to take this excessive gayety; but his
self-love always made him place things to his own advantage, and he
decided to laugh also, while saying in a low tone to the young girl,--
"Isn't it very funny to behold in me a lover's messenger?--I, who could
cheat them all of their conquests. It's a great joke, in truth."
"Come, monsieur ambassador, give me your message," said Julia, looking
pityingly at the envoy.
Chaudoreille threw a glance all around him, put a finger on his mouth,
examined the persons who were in the shop, pushed from him a stool on
which the cat was lying, then leaning toward Julia with the air of a
conspirator, he whispered in her ear,--
"A great lord sent me to you. He's a rich and powerful man; he's a
personage in favor; he's the gallant who--"
"He's the Marquis de Villebelle," said Julia impatiently. "I've known
him for a long time. What does he want with me? What has he bidden you
say to me? Come, monsieur, speak."
"It must be that I am very adroit," said Chaudoreille, "when without my
speaking she divines everything that I wish to say to her.--Since you
know his name," resumed he, again approaching his face to Julia's ear,
the latter brusquely pushing him away, "I have no need of telling you.
This great nobleman adores you."
"Undoubtedly he did not employ you to express his sentiments."
"No, but he sent me to ask you to meet him. If you do not accord him
this favor, he will set fire to the four corners of this street, that he
may have the pleasure of saving you, fair Julia,--for it is thus I
believe that you are called, which makes me think that you are not
French. Have I rightly divined?"
"Has anyone commissioned you to ask that question?" asked Julia, looking
at Chaudoreille disdainfully.
The latter bit his lips, put his left hand on his hip, and said in a
bass voice,--
"What shall I say to the noble Marquis de Villebelle, of whom I am the
intimate confidant, and whom I represent at this moment?"
"Tell him to choose his messengers better," said Julia in a dry tone.
"I was sure of it," said Chaudoreille, taking some steps backward; "she
has fallen in love with me; it is my personal attractions that have
played me this trick. All this is very disagreeable; I should have
disguised myself a little, or at least should not have permitted my eyes
to make fresh wounds. There is money to be got here. By jingo! I must
not lose sight of that;" and Chaudoreille repeated to Julia, not
allowing her, as a matter of prudence, to see more than his profile,--
"What shall I say to the marquis? Where will you walk tomorrow evening?"
The young girl waited for some moments in silence, appearing to reflect
deeply; while Chaudoreille fingered his purse, very anxious as to her
answer, and saying to himself,--
"In any case, I shall not give them back the ten crowns.
"Tomorrow evening at eight o'clock, on the Pont de la Tournelle," said
the young Italian at last; for Julia, in fact, was not French.
"'Tis enough," responded Chaudoreille, continuing to hold himself in
such a manner as to show only his profile; "I have nothing more to ask
of you; let us part, for fear the sight of me make you change your
resolution."
The messenger already had hold of the knob of the door when Julia
recalled him.
"You have forgotten to pay for your ribbon, monsieur."
"By Jove! that's true. What the devil has got me? I'm as stupid as
possible."
While saying this Chaudoreille drew forth his purse, rattling the ten
crowns that it held as loudly as possible, counting and recounting them
several times in his hand.
"I don't know if I have any change about me," said he. "Ordinarily I
carry nothing but gold, it is so much lighter. How much is it, beautiful
merchant?"
"Thirty sous, monsieur."
"Thirty sous for a rosette!" cried Chaudoreille to himself, making a
grimace, and putting the coins back in his purse. "That seems to me a
considerable price. You must notice that the ribbon is very narrow."
"For a man who carries nothing but gold," said Julia, "I am astonished
that monsieur should bargain over such a trifle."
"I'm not bargaining; but still it seems to me that you might knock
something off, and that for twenty-four sous one ought to have a superb
rosette. No matter; I'll pay it with a good grace; give me my change."
He presented one of the crowns with a sigh, and while Julia was counting
out his change he fastened the gold-colored rosette to Rolande's handle.
The effect that the ribbon would produce somewhat mitigated his regrets
at paying thirty sous for it. He took the money, and, recalling to
himself that they could ask him to pay for something else, he ran to the
door, darted into the street and disappeared as quickly as possible.
"And my window-pane," said the old shopkeeper,--"did he pay for my
pane?"
"Ah, mon Dieu! no, madame," answered Julia.
"I was sure of it. Run, my good girls, run as fast as you can. That
wicked coxcomb, trying to play the spark, with his old threadbare
mantle, with his old feather that I wouldn't take to dust my shelves!
He turned everything upside down here, and just barely missed putting
out my cat's eyes; he was impertinent to me, bargained for two hours
over a rosette, and ran away without paying for the pane. He's some
pickpocket, some cutpurse."
The two damsels opened the shop door and looked down the street, but
could see nothing of monsieur le chevalier.
"It's my fault, madame," said Julia; "I should have asked him for the
price of the window. I will pay for it."
"Yes, mademoiselle; that will teach you another time not to listen to
the conversation of these gentlemen who make so much trouble and haven't
a sou in their pockets."
The young Italian did not answer. It is probable that at that moment she
was not interested in the pane of glass or in Chaudoreille.
Night approached. For some hours all had been silent in the barber's
shop; for he, following his habitual custom, had closed his shutters as
soon as day declined, since he was not in the habit of receiving
strangers and waited on no customers in the evening. This was the time
that Touquet had chosen for his dinner hour, although people commonly
took this meal much earlier. The barber's dinner, therefore, also passed
for a supper.
As soon as Marguerite called from her kitchen, "We are waiting for you,
mademoiselle," Blanche left her room and quickly went down into the
lower room where the meal was served. Touquet dined with the young girl.
This was the moment of the day when they were longest together, although
the barber always appeared to wish to abridge the time as much as
possible, remaining at the table only as long as was absolutely
necessary in order to satisfy his appetite, and answering only in
monosyllables to all that Blanche said to him, so as not to prolong the
duration of the repast.
This time the barber was, as usual, seated near the hearth, waiting for
Blanche to come down; but when she appeared, contrary to his custom, he
raised his eyes to the young girl and seemed to wish to read hers.
Surprised at being thus regarded by him whose looks had always evaded
her smile, Blanche involuntarily lowered her eyes, which beamed with
truth and innocence, and a little more color appeared in her cheeks; for
the barber's look was more piercing than usual.
Touquet already seemed reassured. The expression of Blanche's features
had dissipated the uneasiness which he had felt; he placed himself at
the table and made a sign to the lovely girl to take her accustomed
place. The meal seemed as though it would pass in silence as usual;
Marguerite only, while changing the dishes, ventured some remarks, to
which Blanche answered a few words.
But all of a sudden the young girl appeared to recall an agreeable idea,
and cried,--
"My friend, did you hear the music this morning?"
"The music," said Touquet, glancing furtively at Blanche; "yes, I
believe I heard it."
"Oh, it was so pretty! They sang in Italian at first; then afterwards in
French,--a romance. Wait; I believe I can remember the refrain," and
Blanche sang with expression,--
"I love to eternity,
My darling is all to me."
The barber knitted his thick eyebrows while listening to Blanche.
"What! you have already learned the romance?" said he in an ironical
tone.
"No, not all the romance; the refrain only."
"And that was the first time you had heard it?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Did you open your window then?"
"No, though I should very much have liked to do so; but I glued myself
against the window so as to hear better."
"And to see better, no doubt."
"See! Oh, I like to hear much better," answered Blanche, almost
frightened at the barber's glance.
"Are there no curtains at your window?" asked Touquet in a moment.
"Yes, monsieur, there are curtains," answered the young girl timidly.
"Blanche, I've told you that I don't like you to expose yourself to the
oglings of the coxcombs who pass and repass in the street."
"But, my friend, can anyone see me through the windows?"
"Yes; no doubt of it."
"Oh, well, my friend, if that displeases you, I won't go to the window
again."
Touched by Blanche's sweetness, the barber assumed a less severe
expression, and, rising from the table, he said, almost kindly,--
"Go back to your room, Blanche; I will try soon to render your life less
monotonous. Yes, I feel that you cannot continually remain in such dull
retirement."
"Why, I am all right, my friend; and if I could only learn that romance
altogether, but M. Chaudoreille only sings me his villanelle, and that
is not amusing."
"I will buy you some others."
"Oh, try to get me the one I heard this morning,--
I love to eternity.
Can you remember it?"
"Yes, yes; I will remember it.--But I am waiting for someone to come; go
upstairs to your room."
Blanche curtseyed to the barber and gayly went up to her room, while
Touquet said to himself, following her with his eyes,--
"Come, I was wrong to make myself uneasy; she knows nothing of him."
An hour after this conversation somebody knocked at the barber's door
and Marguerite admitted Chaudoreille, who came into the lower room with
the important air of a man who is very well pleased with himself.
"You're very late," said Touquet, signing to him to seat himself.
"Why, what the deuce, my dear fellow! Do you think that these affairs
are so speedily arranged?"
"I don't believe, however, that you've been all this time in the shop
where I sent you."
"No, undoubtedly; but I passed a greater part of the time there. After
that it was necessary for me to have some dinner, for you did not invite
me to partake of yours, I believe."
"Well, were you successful? Give me an account of your mission."
"I went there. Wait, while I dry my forehead a little."
The barber made a movement of impatience and Chaudoreille passed over
his face a little silk handkerchief, which for prudence' sake he never
unrolled. After emitting some exclamations of fatigue, during which
Touquet impatiently stamped his foot, he commenced his story.
"To go to that place in the city I could take two roads; I don't know
but I could take three."
"You wretch! take a dozen if you like, but get there."
"It was necessary for me to get there, and then to return here. I
decided on going by the Pont-Neuf, then down the quay into the street.
You know, where they sell such good tarts."
"Chaudoreille, you're mocking at me."
"No, I'm not; but it seemed to me I should tell you everything that I
did. But you are so petulant. Finally, I took the shortest way. I went
into the shop where the young girl works."
"That's good luck."
"I entered with that grace which characterizes me; I bowed first to an
old woman who was on the right, and afterwards bowed to two young girls
who were on the left. In the middle of the shop I saw nobody but a cat
sleeping on a stool."
"No doubt you bowed to the cat also."
"Oh, if you interrupt me I shall get all mixed up. They asked me what I
wanted; I answered, dissembling my designs, 'Let me see some ribbons.'
They showed me some reds, some blues, some greens, some yellows, some
oranges; during this time I examined the two little ones. As nature has
endowed me with a penetrating eye, I recognized immediately the one you
depicted for me."
"You spoke to her?"
"A moment and you shall see how I conducted the matter. I was
sufficiently adroit to get her to serve me. She asked me what color I
had decided upon; but I, with careful cunning, did not decide in order
that I might prolong the conversation. At last, by a happy chance, some
other people came into the shop; then we were less observed."
"And you told her what had brought you there?"
"I decided first for a gold color, and I got her to make a rosette for
Rolande. Wait; don't you think this becomes me well?"
So saying, Chaudoreille rose and put his sword near Touquet's face, who
pushed the chevalier rather brusquely into his seat, exclaiming,--
"If I didn't restrain myself I should break every bone in your body to
teach you not to abuse my patience thus."
"There's no pleasure in conducting an intrigue with you," said
Chaudoreille, a little disconcerted at being reseated so heavily; "but
if you wish that I should come to the facts, here I am. I made known to
her the intentions of the Marquis de Villebelle."
"His intentions? I didn't communicate them to you."
"That is to say, his love, his passion. At last I demanded a meeting for
tomorrow evening."
"Well, what then?"
"She hesitated for a long time, reflected for a long time; then I
redoubled my eloquence; I pictured the marquis dying of despair if she
repulsed his vows."
"Idiot! was that necessary?"
"Yes, certainly; it was highly necessary; the little one was weighing
it."
"Did she make any wry faces?"
"No; on the contrary, she gave me the most interesting glances."
"Finally, is she coming?"
"Yes, by jingo! she's coming. Yes; but it took me to decide her."
"Tomorrow evening?"
"Yes, at eight o'clock."
"Where is she to be?"
"On the Pont de la Tournelle."
"That's good."
"As soon as I had got her answer, I attached my rosette."
"Excuse me from the rest; I know enough."
"You must know that in bowing too precipitately I broke a pane, for
which they made me pay a crown, and for which I hope I shall be
reimbursed.--Ah, that's not all; I know that the lady is named Julia,
and also that she is an Italian. You see I did not lose any time. Are
you pleased with me?"
"Yes, it's not so bad," said Touquet, with a less gloomy expression,
approaching a table on which Marguerite had, according to her usual
custom, placed some cups and a pewter pot full of wine. "Stop your
eternal chatter; I'm well enough pleased with you. Drink a cup of
wine."
"You call exactitude of detail chatter," said Chaudoreille, filling one
of the cups up to the brim; "but I was trying to show you that I did not
steal the money which you gave me. As for the pane of glass, I had to
make that circumstance known to you, for I had only nine crowns
remaining.--Ah, I forgot; the gold-colored rosette cost me two crowns,
so I've only received seven."
"Two crowns for that miserable knot," said the barber, glancing
mockingly at the handle of the sword. "Chaudoreille, you have missed
your vocation; you should be a steward; you know how to swell your
bills."
"What must I understand by these words, I beg of you?"
"That that rosette did not cost over fifteen sous."
"Yes, for a passer-by, for an unknown, perhaps; but when one represents
a great nobleman, shopkeepers fleece him, and I didn't believe that I
should haggle. If anyone had asked me three times the price, I should
have given it without uttering a word."
"Calm yourself," said Touquet, smiling at the heat with which
Chaudoreille tried to prove that he had spent three crowns; "we must
reimburse you for your ruff."
"Oh, I'm not uneasy about that, but what shall I do tomorrow? Shall I go
to the rendezvous? Shall I carry off the little one?"
"No; that concerns me only. I can trust you to startle the game for me,
but I don't think proper to let you bring it down."
"You know me very little still, my dear Touquet. I believe that you
should render more justice to my adroitness and my valor. If you knew
how many intrigues I have drawn to a successful end! It's necessary to
see me in moments of difficulty. I take precedence over everybody; I
would abduct a Venus under the eyes of Mars, and all the Vulcans would
not make me afraid."
"I don't doubt it, but I don't want to put you to the proof."
"All the worse for you, for you would see some very surprising things.
No obstacle would stop me; when I'm excited I'm an Achilles. Wait; I
should just like once, by chance, that you should find yourself in some
danger, that you should have need of help; then, as quick as lightning,
with Rolande in my hand--"
At this moment a noise was heard in the street, and Touquet, squeezing
Chaudoreille's arm exclaimed,--
"Be quiet! be quiet! I hear something."
"What does it matter to us what they are doing in the street? There are,
perhaps, some young men laughing and amusing themselves. Let them do it.
I tell you, then, that, brandishing my redoubtable sword--"
"Be quiet, then, stupid," resumed the barber, holding the chevalier's
arm still more tightly; "they are beginning again."
They then distinctly heard the sound of a guitar which someone was
playing near the house.
"Someone who loves music," said Chaudoreille.
"Hush! let us listen," said Touquet, whose features expressed the most
lively anxiety, while the chevalier murmured in a bass voice,--
"They don't play at all well; they have need of some of my lessons."
Almost immediately a voice was heard which, accompanied by the guitar,
sang a tender romance, of which the refrain recalled to the barber the
words which Blanche had quoted to him.
"No more doubt of it," said Touquet, rising suddenly; "they are singing
to her. Ah, reckless fellow, I'll go and take away from you all desire
to return here."
While saying these words the barber ran to get his poniard, which hung
over the fireplace, while Chaudoreille changed color and murmured,--
"What the devil is the matter with you? What are you going to do? and
who are you going to do it to?"
"To an insolent fellow who is in front of this house. Come,
Chaudoreille; follow me. If there were ten of them, they should have the
pleasure of feeling my poniard. You shall also have the pleasure of
chasing and chastising these blackguards."
While saying this Touquet ran into the shop and hastened to open the
door, being by that means sooner in the street than if he had gone by
the passageway. While he precipitately drew the bolts, Chaudoreille rose
with a good deal of fury and ran three times round the hall, crying,--
"Where the devil have I laid my sword?"
This feat accomplished, he perceived that Rolande had not left his side,
and cried to Touquet, who could not hear him,--
"Stupid that I am! In my hurry I did not see him. I am with you; I have
only to draw him from the scabbard.--Come then, Rolande.--It is this
cursed knot which holds him. Plague be on the rosette! Touquet, here I
am; amuse them a little until I can draw Rolande from the scabbard."
But the barber was already in the street, while Chaudoreille remained at
the back of the room, appearing to be making futile efforts to draw his
sword, crying all the while,--
"I am with you! Cursed rosette! Without it I should have already killed
five or six."
CHAPTER VIII
CONVERSATION BY THE FIRESIDE
It was really for little Blanche that somebody was singing and
accompanying himself on the guitar. Lovers are the most imprudent of
mortals. Urbain in loving Blanche was experiencing love for the first
time, for he would have scorned to have given the name of love to those
momentary caprices of the fancy which are extinguished as soon as
gratified; and even at the early date at which we are writing, the young
men permitted themselves to have such whims; but when they loved truly
that lasted in those good old times, or so they say, much longer than it
does today, at least among the little shopkeepers. The great have always
had their privileges, in love as in everything else.
A first love causes one to commit many imprudences; but the second time
that one's heart is assailed by the tender passion, one has a little
more experience; and the third time, one knows how to hide his play. It
is necessary to become habituated to everything; and if women do not
invariably hold to their first love, are not invariably faithful to it,
it is only that they may acquire this habituation, and it would ill
become us to call it a crime in them.
But Urbain disturbed himself very little, as it will appear; he had
unceasingly before his eyes the face of the enchantress he had perceived
at the window, and he ardently desired to see her when there should be
nothing between them. What he had heard from the gossips of the
neighborhood had strengthened his hope and perhaps added to the feeling
he already experienced for her, for there was something romantic in the
history of the young orphan; extraordinary events inflame the
imagination, and that of a lover takes fire very easily.
But before seeking to surmount the obstacles which stood in the way of
gaining the one he loved it was first necessary to obtain her love,
without which all his plans could avail him nothing. One may brave the
jealousy of a rival, the watchfulness of a tutor, anger, vengeance, and
the daggers of a thousand Arguses; but one cannot brave the indifference
of the beloved object. Before that obstacle all prospects of happiness
vanish. A very much smitten lover wishes to find a heart which responds
to his own. That brutal love which is satisfied with the possession of
the body, without caring for that of the soul, could only exist among
the petty tyrants of former times, who plundered travellers and achieved
the conquest of women at the point of the sword; then, putting their
victims behind them on their horses, as a custom-house officer possesses
himself of contraband goods, went off to enjoy themselves with their
booty in the depths of their fastness, troubling themselves very little
that the unhappy creatures responded to their loathsome caresses only
with tears.
Today love is more delicate. Before everything, one desires to please;
and with his guineas the great lord wishes to touch the heart as well as
the hand of the pretty dancer; and he succeeds, because dancers
generally carry their hearts in their hands.
While taking his humble meal Urbain said to himself,--
"How shall I see her? How shall I make myself known to her?
Blanche--what a pretty name! and how well it suits her! But the barber
doesn't seem very tractable; his house is a veritable fortress. It is
necessary, before everything, that that charming girl should know that I
love her, that I adore her. This morning she listened to the musicians,
and appeared to be greatly pleased with the last romance they sang. I
know that romance; I'll go this evening and sing it under her window;
perhaps she will show herself; perhaps at night she opens her window to
take the air."
The air was a little nipping, for the season was severe; but a lover
always believes it is springtime. Delighted by the idea Urbain went
home to get his guitar, and waited impatiently, until the streets should
be deserted, to go and serenade a woman whom he did not know.
This Spanish custom was then much in fashion in France. There are still
some little towns where it is preserved, and where one may hear between
ten and eleven o'clock sentimental songs accompanied by the guitar; but
in the great capitals it is only the blind and the organ-grinders who
sing love in the streets.
The hour propitious to lovers having arrived, Urbain went to the Rue des
Bourdonnais; he had easily recognized the barber's house, having
specially noted it in the morning; a feeble light which shone between
the curtains of Blanche's window seemed to indicate that the young girl
was not yet sleeping, and, without reflecting that the other dwellers in
the house would hear him, Urbain had sung with the most tender
expression he could put in his voice.
We have seen what followed on this imprudence. At the sound of bolts
being drawn, the young man softly departed, and, hiding at the entrance
of the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, he heard the threats and the swearing
of Touquet.
"He's escaped," said the barber, reentering the lower room and angrily
throwing his sword on the table. These words seemed to break the charm
which held Rolande in his scabbard; and Chaudoreille, drawing his sword
suddenly, and making it flash in the air, ran precipitately into the
shop, crying,--
"And now, master singers, I'll let you see something fierce."
"Don't I tell you there's no one there," repeated Touquet, while
Chaudoreille appeared to wish to draw the bolts of the door. "I made too
much noise; the rascal heard me and ran off."
"Are you quite certain there's nobody there?" said Chaudoreille, still
brandishing his sword.
"Yes, quite sure."
"I have a great inclination to go into the street and satisfy myself as
to that."
"Do as you please about it; you are your own master."
"No; on reflection, I believe that would be a blunder; they may perhaps
come back; it will be better to let them approach without fear; then we
can fell suddenly upon them, and give them no quarter."
So saying, the chevalier put Rolande into the scabbard and returned to
the lower room, where he seated himself before the fire and again filled
his cup with wine, which he swallowed at one draught, to cool--so he
said--his anger.
The barber strode up and down; he was strongly agitated, and appeared to
have forgotten the presence of Chaudoreille, as he murmured at intervals
in a gloomy voice,--
"That which I feared has happened at last! That beautiful bud has been
seen, and they will all wish to cull it. They will seek to learn who she
is, where she comes from; there will be a thousand remarks, a thousand
inquiries, and who knows where that will lead? Bungling fellow that I
am! I well had need to guard the child. I believed I had made a master
stroke which would disarm all suspicion. I ought to have foreseen that
one day she would be sixteen, that she would be charming, and that in
order to possess her they would employ all the stratagems which I have
often used on behalf of others."
"My dear fellow," said Chaudoreille, carrying to his lips for the third
time a goblet filled to the brim, "my honest Touquet, if you don't want
to take care of the little one any longer, give her to me, and I'll
answer to you for it that no fop shall be allowed to see her face."
"What shall I give you?" said the barber, as if he had only just become
aware of Chaudoreille's presence. "What are you talking about? Answer
me!"
"Oh, by jingo, you were speaking of the young flower you have sheltered;
I heard you very plainly."
"You heard me!" cried Touquet, seizing Chaudoreille by the arm with
which he was holding his full cup; "and what did I say? What did you
hear? Speak, wretch! Speak, will you?"
"Take care! you're shaking my arm. Here's my doublet all stained with
wine now. What the deuce! You'll have to give me another."
"What have you heard?" repeated the barber in a threatening voice,
raising his closed fist on Chaudoreille, while with the other hand he
shook him so briskly by the arm that a great part of the wine covered
the jaws and neck of the chevalier.
"Nothing, nothing, I swear to you," murmured the latter, lowering his
eyes, so as to avoid the barber's gaze. "I only said to you that this
wine has a fine bouquet, and that if you wished to give me some bottles
to keep I should carefully guard it from all eyes. I believe that's what
I was saying; for, in truth, you've turned me upside down with your
irritable conduct, and I don't know what I'm saying."
Touquet loosened his hold of Chaudoreille's arm, as if ashamed of his
hasty movements, and, resuming his calmer tone, seated himself near the
latter.
"There are some things I wish to keep secret--not that they're of any
great importance; and, for the matter of that, I don't think that you
will ever allow yourself to prate about my affairs; you are too well
aware that my dagger would at once deprive you of the organ of which you
made such use."
"What the deuce do you suppose I could blab about you?" said
Chaudoreille, drying his face and his clothing with his little silk
handkerchief, and pinching his lips, as if doubting whether Touquet had
not already cut out his tongue. "You never tell me anything about your
business, and I'm not a man to invent the slightest untruth."
"I've told you what all the world knows,--that I have sheltered Blanche
since she had been left an orphan at my house, and that I know no more
than anyone else about her father or her family. She is now grown up and
pretty. Lovers will begin to come; that's what vexes me. They'll seek to
learn everything about this young girl, and assuredly they won't know
more about it than I am telling you. The one who was singing just now is
known to me; he came into my shop this morning, and stayed two hours, in
the hope that Blanche would appear. Do you hear me, Chaudoreille?"
"I hear you--if you wish me to," said the chevalier, continuing to rub
his doublet; "for I don't know if I should or if I should not hear you.
That shall be as you wish."
"I wish you weren't quite so foolish," said the barber, glancing
scornfully at his neighbor.
"No words of double meaning," answered Chaudoreille; "you know I don't
like them. This cursed wine stains, and for the moment I don't know
where to get another doublet."
"He's a mere child, a scholar, who has not yet a beard on his chin,"
said the barber after a moment's silence, which was only interrupted by
the rubbing of the handkerchief on the spots impregnated by wine. "He
shows the small experience he has had in love intrigues by coming to
sing before my door--in order to let me know who was there. The poor boy
has much need of a lesson."
"He certainly is not first-rate at the guitar.".
"I don't believe that he can be known to Blanche. No--but that romance
he was singing,--it's precisely the same as the one she mentioned to
me,--
My darling is all to me."
"That doesn't equal--
Thou hast lost thy fond dove too.
Zounds! what a difference in the melody!"
"No, Blanche is candor itself; she would not have spoken to me of that
romance had she known the young man. Why the devil haven't you taught
her something else besides that old rubbish of Louis the Twelfth's time?
If you had taught her to sing something pretty she would not have been
enraptured at the first romance sung by wandering minstrels."
"What do you say? Are you talking to me?" said Chaudoreille, raising his
head.
"Of course I am, since you call yourself a professor of singing."
"My dear Touquet, listen well to what I am going to say: I don't tease
you about your method of shaving beards, and don't you meddle with my
way of teaching music. Each one to his own trade. You know the proverb.
I teach my pupils nothing but masterpieces, and I'm not going to cram
their heads with the little gurglings of those miserable clowns who
travel from Naples here singing the same roulade."
"It's vexatious, then, that the young girls prefer these roulades to
your masterpieces. You gave Blanche a music lesson this morning, and she
tells me that you have wearied her with your villanelle."
"Had anyone but you told me that?" cried Chaudoreille, rising in
vexation. "I should have attributed it to jealousy. But it's getting
late; it's been a tiring day, and I must go to rest. If, however, you
wish me to remain here for fear the singers should return, I will
sacrifice my repose."
"No, no; it's unnecessary," said the barber, smiling. "They won't come
back; go to bed."
"You have no need of my services tomorrow evening, then?"
"No--however, if you like to be walking on the Pont de la Tournelle at
the hour agreed on, you could at any rate serve as a spy for us."
"Sufficient," said Chaudoreille, pulling his hat over his eyes; "you can
count on me in life and in death; I shall be at the rendezvous at the
exact hour, and Rolande shall be sharp. Good-by!"
So saying the chevalier passed through the passageway into the alley and
opened the door of the house. He thrust his head out into the street,
and, after glancing cautiously to the right and left, went on his way
like a stag who hears the sound of the chase.
CHAPTER IX
THE CLOSET. THE ABDUCTION
As everything coheres, everything is connected in this lower world,
there is no chance; but there are many rebounds which transmit from one
to another events, effects, for which we bless or curse fate,--as they
are fortunate or unfortunate,--instead of tracing them to their original
causes, from which, in truth, we are sometimes removed so far as to have
no cognizance of them.
Thus it came to pass that our young Urbain had blessed chance on
perceiving that the light was still burning in Blanche's room; but if
the young girl had not gone to rest it was not by chance, but because
Marguerite could not decide to go up to bed in her new room before
knowing where the little door in the back of her alcove led.
Now if the garrulous old maidservant had not confessed to her master
that she had witnessed his nightly vigils, the latter would not have
made her change her lodging; and the fear which induced him to do so was
due to other causes still more remote; thus, by a series of events,
Marguerite's gossip had led to Blanche's hearing Urbain's sweet and
tender voice sing the romance which had so enchanted her in the morning.
"Yes, mademoiselle," said the old woman, some moments before the young
lover began to sing, "I know I should die of fright if I should have to
sleep alone in that horrid room, formerly inhabited by a magician,
without knowing where that little door leads to--perhaps into that
Odoard's laboratory. Who knows whether he isn't still there? These
sorcerers are sometimes shut up by themselves for half a century,
searching for secrets which will enable them to give human kind into the
hands of the devil. I am sure that M. Touquet, who is very indifferent
in regard to everything pertaining to sorcerers, has not once been into
that room. Let me pass the night in your room, my child; tomorrow, when
it's daylight, we'll go together and open that door, since the Chevalier
Chaudoreille wasn't polite enough to do so. I can pass the night in this
easy chair; I shall be much better here than upstairs, and I can tell
you some interesting stories before you go to sleep."
Blanche could not refuse Marguerite what she asked as a favor; the old
woman was relating her third story of sorcery, and the young girl, who
felt that her eyes were growing heavy, was about to go to bed, when the
sounds of a guitar were heard.
Blanche listened, and made a sign to Marguerite to be silent, and soon
recognized with delight the air which she was desirous of learning.
There is something sweeter, more seductive, in music thus heard in the
middle of the night; it finds its way more quickly to the heart.
Urbain's voice was flexible and melodious. Blanche, transported,
remained motionless, as though she feared by a single movement to lose a
sound, while Marguerite, gaping with astonishment, looked at the
engaging child without appearing greatly enchanted with the music. But
Marguerite was more than sixty years old, and music had not the same
effect upon her as upon Blanche; the sounds reached no farther than her
ears, while they vibrated deliciously in the depths of the heart of
sixteen.
Very soon, however, the noise which they heard in the street put an end
to Blanche's happiness; she recognized the barber's voice, and the
threats which he pronounced made her tremble, as well as Marguerite, who
cried immediately,--
"Go to bed! go to bed quickly, my child, and extinguish the light; if M.
Touquet sees that we are still awake, if he should find me in here--O
holy blessed Virgin! I shall be lost."
"But why is he so angry?" said Blanche. "Is singing in the streets in
the evenings forbidden? I was so pleased to hear that romance. What harm
was the young man doing?--for it was a young man who was singing--was it
not, dear nurse? It was not the voice of an old man, and, oh, how well
he sang! I have never heard such a pretty voice; it had a singular
effect on me; it made my heart beat with pleasure--didn't it yours,
Marguerite?"
Marguerite, whose heart was beating only with fear, contented herself
with repeating, "Go to bed quickly, put out the lamp, and above all
don't say tomorrow that you heard the singing; that would prove that you
were not yet asleep, and M. Touquet wishes everyone to go to sleep as
soon as they go to bed."
Since it was necessary to yield to the insistence of the old servant,
Blanche went to bed, but she did not go to sleep; the young singer's
voice still seemed to ring in her ears, and on hearing the least sound
in the street she imagined that it was the musician again. As to
Marguerite, after putting out the lamp, she extended herself in an
armchair near the fire and fell asleep, murmuring a prayer to drive away
evil spirits.
The morning after this night, so fertile with events, Blanche arose
early. She was pensive, preoccupied, still dreaming of the young
singer's voice; she felt new desires, and sighed as she glanced toward
the street. Marguerite ran to her work, saying to Blanche,--
"When monsieur is most busily engaged with his customers, we'll go up
together into my room; but, my child, above all don't say anything about
the music."
Blanche promised her, saying, "Why should he be angry because somebody
came to sing such a pretty air under our windows?"
The barber said nothing to the young girl about the adventure of the
night; he contented himself with observing Blanche, and the lovely
child, remembering the threats which she had overheard him utter against
the singer, had no desire to chat; she hastened to return to her
chamber, where Marguerite was not long in coming to rejoin her.
"Now is the time," said the old servant; "monsieur has a good many
people to shave. Come, my child; come up with me, and above all don't be
frightened; I have taken every precaution necessary to drive away the
goblins."
"Frightened!" said Blanche, because she saw that Marguerite was
trembling. "No, dear nurse, no; I assure you that I'm not thinking of
your secret door at all."
Thus saying, Blanche darted lightly up the stairs, while Marguerite
followed her more slowly, saying, "Happy age when one has no fear of
magicians, because one does not understand all their wickedness,--it is
true that she has a talisman."
When they reached the room, Blanche entered quickly, while the old woman
made a genuflexion and invoked her patron saint, after which she decided
also to go into her new room, throwing anxious glances about her.
Blanche had run into the alcove and already drawn the bed into the
middle of the room.
"Wait a moment; don't be so imprudent," cried Marguerite to her. "Is it
necessary to do things so quickly?"
"But, dear nurse, the sooner we open that door, the sooner you'll be
reassured."
"Reassured! that's what I wish. Have you your talisman, my darling?"
"Of course I have. Didn't you sew it yourself inside my corsets?"
"That's true."
"I don't see the door you were talking about."
"It is so well encased in the woodwork."
"Ah, here it is!"
"Wait a moment, mademoiselle, while I throw some holy water before it."
"But there's no key; how can we open it?"
"Well, we must try. I have several keys that I have picked up while
cleaning the house, perhaps one of those will open it."
Marguerite advanced tremblingly towards the end of the alcove. She drew
from her pocket half a dozen rusty keys of different sizes, and was
about to try one of them, but her hand shook and she could not find the
keyhole. Blanche seized one key and tried it unsuccessfully, then a
second; but at the third the young girl uttered a cry of joy, for the
key turned, and Marguerite crossed herself, murmuring,--
"O my God, the door is opening!"
In fact, the door yielded to Blanche's effort and opened, creaking and
groaning on its hinges, and the two women beheld a square closet; but,
as it received no light except from the little door that opened into it,
and as that door led into a dark alcove, one may conceive that there was
little daylight there. Blanche remained on the doorsill and Marguerite
recoiled a few steps, saying,--
"See now, my child; I was right in thinking that that door led
somewhere. Oh, this is as dark as a cave."
"Let us go in here, nurse."
"But not without a light, I hope. Wait; I will go and light my lamp. I
don't know that it is prudent of us to enter this closet."
"But, Marguerite, you see very well that there is nobody here."
"I can see nothing except darkness. Wait; take the lamp, and you go
first, my darling; you have your talisman; nothing will happen to you."
Blanche entered first; she seemed more curious than alarmed, while the
old woman could scarcely persuade herself to follow. The closet was six
feet square, and held nothing but two big empty chests placed on the
floor, which time had covered with dust and spiders' webs.
"Well now, my dear nurse," said Blanche, smiling, "where are the
sorcerers? I don't see anything frightful here."
"In fact," answered Marguerite, glancing all about her; "there's nothing
but four walls, no other door, and these two chests are empty. I'm sure
that no one has disturbed this place for half a century. No matter; I
swear to you that I shall not come back here again. I don't know why I
feel so uneasy here. How the floor creaks under our feet!"
"It's because no one has walked here for a long time; this house is
old."
"Come, my dear child, let us leave this closet; I shall shut the door
and double-lock it, and I shan't open it again while I stay in this
room."
Thus saying, Marguerite pushed Blanche before her, then closed the
little door and double-locked it, murmuring between her teeth,
"Alas! if some sorcerer should wish to open the door that lock would not
resist him; but every night I shall cross my shovel and tongs before
it."
This visit terminated, Blanche went down, humming to herself the romance
of the evening before, and Marguerite returned to her work.
The barber had ordered dinner early; and at six o'clock in the evening
he left the house, repeating to Marguerite:
"Redouble your watchfulness, do not allow any man to go near Blanche
without my permission, and inform me if you hear anyone singing in the
street."
The old woman promised to obey. Touquet wrapped his mantle about him
and left to execute the marquis' plan. As he was accustomed to conduct
similar intrigues, he knew where to procure everything that was
necessary; and at a quarter to eight he was on the Pont de la Tournelle,
while about a hundred feet from him two men awaited his orders near a
travelling-chaise drawn by two horses.
For a long time Chaudoreille had been walking on the bridge. Fearing to
miss the rendezvous, given for eight o'clock, he had arrived at six;
burying his head between his shoulders and hiding his chin under his
little mantle, he tried to give himself the air of a conspirator. With
his left hand on Rolande's handle and the other holding his mantle, he
walked sometimes slowly and sometimes with a precipitant step; and every
time that anyone passed him he did not fail to murmur, in such a manner
as to be heard,--
"How late she is in coming! What can keep her? I am burning! I am
bursting! I shall die with impatience."
As soon as he saw Touquet he ran to him and pulled the edge of his
mantle; then, looking to see if anybody was passing, he said to him in a
mysterious tone,--
"Here I am."
"Well, hang it, I see you!" said the barber, shrugging his shoulders;
"but I'd much rather see the little one."
"She hasn't appeared yet, I can answer for that. I've looked in every
woman's face."
"It's not eight o'clock; let us wait."
"Be easy; I'll go and put myself in ambuscade and examine all the
feminine visages."
"Take care they don't slap you; that would draw a crowd, and wouldn't
please me."
"Slap me! They're more likely to kiss me, I should say; but I'll make a
grimace, so as not to tempt them."
And Chaudoreille, drawing his hat down over his eyes, departed, taking
as long steps as his little legs would permit.
In about three minutes Chaudoreille returned to say to the barber,--
"There's a woman who has just come along by the Pont Marie, and who is
going to pass over this bridge."
"Indeed! Is she the one we are waiting for? You ought to know, if you've
peered into her face."
"No; I wasn't able to do that this time, because she was giving her arm
to a man, and he would have been frightened."
"If she's with a man it's not our young girl; one doesn't bring
witnesses to a lovers' meeting."
"That's correct," said Chaudoreille, and he started off again.
Some minutes later he returned to Touquet, crying,--
"Here's another one who is coming along this way; but this one is alone,
I am sure of that."
"Is it our beauty?"
"No, it is not she."
"You idiot! what did you come and tell me for?"
"So that you should not make a mistake; I thought it was my duty to
avert that."
"Chaudoreille, do me the pleasure of remaining still. I know very well
how to recognize her whom I came to meet without your help; although I
haven't yet seen her, I am certain that I shan't make a mistake; but,
hang it! if she doesn't come to this meeting, I shall send you to drink
the water under the bridge, to teach you to do your errands better."
Chaudoreille had not heard the barber's last words; he was already far
away, but he returned precipitately, looking scared.
"What is it now?" said Touquet.
"A patrol of the watch, which I can see coming, and which is going to
pass by us."
"Well, what of that? What has the watch to do with us? It's not
forbidden to walk on the bridge, and, even if they should see us abduct
a young girl I can answer for it they'll hardly trouble themselves about
that."
"Haven't we a rather suspicious look?"
"You make me ashamed of you."
"I shall pretend to be laughing, to allay their suspicions."
"Wait, perhaps this will give you more courage."
So saying the barber kicked Chaudoreille; but the latter received it
singing, contenting himself by rubbing the part attacked while executing
his trills, because at that moment the watch was passing them. When the
patrol had departed he breathed more freely, and cried,--
"They have taken us for simple troubadours."
"They should have taken you for a fool. A plague on all poltroons! They
are good for nothing except to spoil everything."
"I'm not going to get angry at a matter which doesn't concern me; but on
great occasions it seems to me that stratagem is often better than
valor."
The barber had begun to be impatient, when a young woman came on to the
bridge, walking slowly and glancing from time to time about her.
Chaudoreille had not perceived her, because he was in ambuscade at the
side of the Rue des Deux-Ponts.
Touquet approached the unknown, looked at her and saw that this really
was the young girl whom the marquis had depicted; for her part, the
damsel looked attentively at the barber, and seemed to wait for him to
address her in words.
"Are you not the Signora Julia?" said the barber in a bass voice,
approaching the young girl.
"And you the barber Touquet?" answered she, lifting to him her animated
black eyes.
The barber was surprised at hearing himself named by a person to whom he
believed himself unknown, but, after having considered the young girl
anew, he resumed,--
"Since you know me, you should also know that the Marquis de Villebelle
has sent me to you."
"The marquis is rather ungallant," answered Julia, "in not coming
himself to a first meeting."
"These great noblemen are not the masters of their time; besides, the
marquis has no desire to converse with you about his love on this
bridge."
"Preferring, no doubt, his little house of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine?"
"It seems to me, signora, that you are very well acquainted with
everything that concerns the marquis; after that I have nothing more to
tell you, except that a carriage is waiting a hundred feet from here."
"Very well, let us go."
"The deuce!" said the barber to himself, offering his arm to Julia, that
he might conduct her to the coach; "here is a young girl who doesn't
make a bit of fuss about allowing herself to be abducted. But I must
confess that there's something in her voice and manners very decided and
piquant, which astonishes as well as pleases."
They had reached the carriage when Chaudoreille's voice was heard; he
ran after the barber, crying,--
"There's a woman coming by the side of the Porte de la Tournelle; it is
our little one; I recognized her walk."
Saying these words, Chaudoreille perceived that the barber was
conducting a person to whom he had given his arm.
"How is this? What does this mean? Must I believe my eyes?" cried the
chevalier. "That's our beauty, and what the deuce way did she come? No
matter; we've got her; that's the essential thing. I will protect your
walk."
Chaudoreille then drew his sword, and, giving no ear to the barber, who
bade him depart, ran up to the carriage, crying to the two men who were
near,--
"My friends, here they are. Be adroit, be courageous. By jingo! she must
enter your vehicle, willingly or by force."
Somebody opened the door, and Chaudoreille was a little surprised at
seeing the young person trip first into the carriage. He was about to do
the same, and seat himself near her, when Touquet, taking him by the
breeches, dropped him on all-fours on the pavement, and, following Julia
into the carriage, said to the coachman,--
"Go on!"
"What the deuce! he's going to abduct her without me," said
Chaudoreille, picking himself up. "No, not by all the devils! It shall
not be said that I did not finish this adventure; besides, they've only
given me something on account, and I should like to be settled with
before the marquis gets tired of the little one."
Chaudoreille immediately darted after the carriage; accustomed to
running, he caught up with it, mounted behind, and allowed himself to be
drawn at a great gallop, taking care to hold tightly to the tassels,
which served to support him.
CHAPTER X
THE LITTLE HOUSE. A NEW GAME
The carriage bearing the barber and Julia had soon passed the Porte
Saint-Antoine, which at that period had not attained the dignity of the
Faubourg, but was in a neighborhood where the road is cut by the
boulevards, and which served frequently, as did all thinly inhabited
districts at the time of which we are writing, for a meeting-place for
robbers, vagabonds, pages, lackeys and cut-purses.
The marquis' little house was situated near the Vallee de Fecamp, which
today is replaced by a street bearing the same name, and making the
continuation of the Rue de la Planchette. Crossing this unlighted place
of evil fame in the middle of the night was, at that time, to expose
one's self to as much danger as though passing through the forest of
Bondy. However, many noblemen had chosen this quarter for the theatre of
their gallantries. They possessed small houses there, their ordinary
meeting-places in their love intrigues, and often went out incognito,
but always well armed.
The carriage stopped before an enclosing wall; Chaudoreille looked
about him on all sides. The house was isolated, and the wall which
enclosed the garden appeared unbroken, but Touquet had already alighted
from the carriage; he approached a small door which the chevalier had
not perceived, and rang a bell. Before any one could come to open it
Chaudoreille had left the place which he had occupied, and had offered
his hand to Julia to assist her in alighting from the carriage.
The door was immediately opened by a man servant, who appeared holding a
lantern in his hand, and, merely glancing at the carriage and at the
damsel who was getting out of it, he contented himself with smiling and
making a low bow to the barber.
"Your master has warned you that we were coming?" said Touquet to this
person in a low voice.
"Yes, monsieur," answered the servant, "I am waiting for you."
Here the barber, upon turning around to introduce Julia to the lackey
perceived for the first time the redoubtable Chaudoreille, who stood
bolt upright before the door with his sword in his hand, as though he
were a sentinel on guard. The barber shrugged his shoulders impatiently,
and, after handing Julia in, he unceremoniously dragged the chevalier by
his mantle, and made him also pass into the garden, saying,--
"Since you have followed us here, it is necessary that you should do
something for us."
"That is my duty, by jingo," responded the chevalier, while Touquet
reclosed the garden gate, after having said to the two men who were near
the coach,--
"Wait for me."
They followed along a tiled passageway which led to the house. The
garden was gloomy. The servant who carried the lantern walked i
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