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Frédérique, vol. 1

by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #38331 · 606,086 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Frédérique, vol. 1

Author: Paul de Kock


        
Release date: December 17, 2011 [eBook #38331]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRÉDÉRIQUE, VOL. 1 ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)









[Illustration: frontispiece (Copyright 1905 by G. Barrie & Sons)]


A GENTLEMEN'S DINNER AT DEFFIEUX'S


"Now, then, messieurs, as one should never be ungrateful, as one should
bestow at least a single thought on those who have made one happy, I
drink to my mistresses, messieurs, to whom I bid a last farewell
to-day!"




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME V

FREDERIQUE

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

[Illustration: colophon]

GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._





FREDERIQUE

I--A GENTLEMEN'S DINNER AT DEFFIEUX'S

II--THE CHAPTER OF CONFIDENCES.--THREE SOUS

III--BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF.--AT THE WINDOWS.--IN A BALLOON

IV--THE LOST KEY

V--FILLETTES, GRISETTES, AND LORETTES

VI--MONSIEUR FOUVENARD'S BONNE FORTUNE.--THE GINGERBREAD WOMAN

VII--MADEMOISELLE MIGNONNE

VIII--AN EXPEDIENT

IX--THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE FRONT ROOMS

X--A PINCH OF SNUFF.--A FAMILY TABLEAU

XI--MADAME FREDERIQUE

XII--THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE REAR ROOM

XIII--THE BRIDE AND GROOM AND THEIR KINSFOLK

XIV--A YOUNG DANDY.--A DELIGHTFUL HUSBAND

XV--A VAGABOND

XVI--MADAME LANDERNOY

XVII--MADAME SORDEVILLE AND HER RECEPTION

XVIII--BARON VON BRUNZBRACK

XIX--THE LITTLE SUPPER PARTY

XX--BETWEEN THE PIPE AND THE CHAMPAGNE

XXI--CONFIDENCES

XXII--MONSIEUR DAUBERNY

XXIII--A MOMENT OF FORGETFULNESS

XXIV--COQUETRY AND BACCARAT.--A FIASCO

XXV--A YOUNG MOTHER

XXVI--THE SQUIRREL

XXVII--A CONSULTATION

XXVIII--A WORD OF ADVICE.--AN ASSIGNATION

XXIX--AN ENCOUNTER ON THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES

XXX--CONFIDENCE IS OF SLOW GROWTH

XXXI--DISAPPOINTED HOPES

XXXII--A REVELATION




I

A GENTLEMEN'S DINNER AT DEFFIEUX'S


"A lady said to me one day:

"'Monsieur Rochebrune, would it be possible for you to love two women at
once?'

"'I give you my word, madame,' I answered, frankly, 'that I could love
half a dozen, and perhaps more; for it has often happened that I have
loved more than two at the same time.'

"My reply called forth, on the part of the lady in question, a gesture
in which there was something very like indignation, and she said, in a
decidedly sarcastic tone:

"'For my part, monsieur, I assure you that I would not be content with a
sixth of the heart of a man whom I had distinguished by my favor; and if
I were foolish enough to feel the slightest inclination for him, I
should very soon be cured of it when I saw that his love was such a
commonplace sentiment.'

"Well, messieurs, you would never believe how much injury my frankness
did me, not only with that lady--I had no designs upon her, although she
was young and pretty; but in society, in the houses which she frequents,
and at which I myself visit, she repeated what I had said to her; and
many ladies, to whom I would gladly have paid court, received me so
coldly at the first compliment that I saw very plainly that they had an
unfavorable opinion of me--all because, instead of being a hypocrite and
dissembler, I said plainly what I thought. I tell you, messieurs, it's a
great mistake to say what you think, in society. I have repented more
than once of having given vent to those outpourings of the heart which
we should confide only to those who know us well enough to judge us
fairly; but, as society is always disposed to believe in evil rather
than in good, if we have a failing, it is magnified into a vice; if we
confess to a foible, we are supposed to have dangerous passions.
Therefore, it is much better to lie; and yet, it seems to me, that, if I
were a woman, I should prefer a lover who frankly confessed his
infidelities, to one who tried to deceive me."

"If I were a woman, I should prefer a man who loved nobody but me, and
would be faithful to me."

"Oh! parbleu! what an idea! It isn't certain, by any means, that all
women would prefer such a man. There are faithful lovers who are so
tiresome!"

"And inconstant ones who are so attractive!"

"I go even further, myself, and maintain that the very fact that a man
is faithful more than a little while makes him a terrible bore. He
drives his mistress mad with his sighs, his protestations of love; he
caresses her too much; he thinks of nothing but kissing her. There's
nothing that women get so tired of as of being kissed."

"Oho! do you think so, my little Balloquet? That simply proves that
you're a bad kisser, or that you're not popular. On the contrary, women
adore caressing men; I know what I'm talking about."

"Oh! what a conceited creature this Fouvenard is! Think of it,
messieurs! he would make us believe that the women adore him!"

"Well! why not?"

"Your nose is too much turned up; women like Roman noses. You can never
look sentimental with a nose like a trumpet."

"So you think that a man must have a languorous, melancholy air, in
order to make conquests, do you? Balloquet, you make me tired!"

"I'll give you points at that game whenever you choose, Fouvenard. We
will take these gentlemen for judges. Tell the waiter to bring up six
women,--of any condition and from any quarter, I don't care what
one,--and we'll see which of us two they will prefer. What do you say?"

Young Balloquet's proposal aroused general laughter, and a gentleman who
sat beside me observed to me:

"It might well be that the ladies wouldn't have anything to say to
either of them. What do you think?"

"I think that any ladies who would consent to grace our dessert, at the
behest of a waiter, would do it only on one condition; and men don't
make a conquest of such women, as they give themselves to everybody."

"Parbleu! messieurs, it is very amiable of us to listen to this
discussion between Fouvenard and Balloquet as to which of them a woman
would think the uglier; for my part, I prefer to demand an explanation
of what Rochebrune said just now. He talked a long while, and I've no
doubt he said some very nice things; but as I didn't quite understand
him, I request an explanation of the picture, or the key to the riddle,
if there is one."

"Yes, yes, the key; for I didn't understand him, either."

"Well, I did; I followed his reasoning: he says that a man can love a
dozen women at once."

"A dozen! why not thirty-six? What Turks you are, messieurs! Rochebrune
didn't say that."

"Yes, I did. Isn't it true?"

"Messieurs, I desire the floor."

"You may talk in a minute, Montricourt--after Rochebrune."

"A toast first of all, messieurs!"

"Oh! of course! When the host proposes a toast, we should be boors if we
refused to honor it.--Fill the cups, waiter!"

"This is very pretty, drinking champagne from cups; it recalls the
banquets of antiquity--those famous feasts that Lucullus gave in the
hall of Apollo, or of Mars."

"Yes! those old bucks knew how to dine; every one of his suppers cost
Lucullus about thirty-nine thousand francs in our money."

"Bah! don't talk to me about your Romans, my dear fellow; I shall never
take those people for models. They spent a lot of money for one repast,
but that doesn't prove that they knew how to eat. In the first place,
they lay on beds at the table! As if one could eat comfortably lying
down! It's like eating on the grass, which is as unpleasant as can be;
nobody likes eating on the grass but lovers, and they are thinking of
something besides eating. As for your cups, they're pretty to look at, I
agree, but they're less convenient for drinking than glasses, and the
champagne doesn't foam so much in a cup; and then, you don't have the
pleasure of making it foam all over again by striking your glass."

"Say what you will, Monsieur Rouffignard, the Romans knew how to live."

"Because they wore wreaths of roses at their meals, perhaps?"

"Well, it isn't so very unpleasant to have flowers on your head."

"Oh! don't talk to me, Monsieur Dumouton; let's all try wearing a wreath
of roses, and you'll see what we look like--genuine buffoons, paraders,
and nothing else!"

"Simply because our dress isn't suited to it, monsieur; our style of
dress is very disobliging, it isn't suited to anything; with the tunic
and cloak falling in graceful folds, the wreath on the head was not
absurd. And the slaves who served the ambrosia--in _tableau vivant_
costumes--weren't they attractive to the eye?"

"Oh, yes! slaves of both sexes! That was refined, and no mistake. I tell
you that your Romans were infernal debauchees; they put up with--aye,
cultivated all the vices! Why, monsieur, what do you say to the Senators
who had the effrontery to propose a decree that Caesar, then fifty-seven
years of age, should possess all the women he desired?"

    "'Ah! le joli droit! ah! le joli droit du seigneur!'"

"I would like right well to know if he made use of that right."

"_Fichtre!_ he must have been a very great man!"

"Don't you know what used to be said of him: that he was the husband of
all the women?"

"Yes, and we know the rest."

"I say, you, over there! Haven't you nearly finished talking about your
Romans?"

"What about our host's toast?--Come, Dupreval, we're waiting; the guns
are loaded, the matches lighted."

"Silence at the end of the table! Dupreval is going to speak! Great God!
what chatterers those fellows are!"

"It's not we, messieurs, that you hear; it's the music. Hark, listen!
they're dancing; there are wedding parties all about us--two or three at
least."

"What is there surprising in that? Aren't there always wedding feasts
going on at Deffieux's?"

"For my part, if I kept a restaurant, and had such a class of patrons, I
would take for my sign: the _Maid of Orleans_."

"Oh! that would be very injudicious: many brides would refuse to have
their wedding feasts at your place."

"Hush! Dupreval is getting up; he's going to speak."

"As you know, messieurs, this is my last dinner party as a bachelor, for
I am to be married in a fortnight. Before settling down, before becoming
transformed into a sedate and virtuous mortal, I determined to get you
all together; I wanted to enjoy once more with you a few of those
moments of freedom and folly which have--a little too often,
perhaps--marked my bachelor days with a white stone. Now, then,
messieurs, as one should never be ungrateful, as one should bestow at
least a single thought on those who have made one happy, I drink to my
mistresses, messieurs, to whom I bid a last farewell to-day!"

"Here's to Dupreval's mistresses!"

"And to our own, messieurs!"

"To the ladies in general, and to the one I love in particular!"

"To their shapely legs and little feet!"

"To their blue eyes and fair hair!"

"I prefer brunettes!"

"To their graceful figures!"

"To the Hottentot Venus!"

"To the destruction of corns on the feet!"

"Oh! of course, Balloquet has to make one of his foolish remarks!"

"Messieurs, pardon me for interrupting you, but, in proposing a toast
to my mistresses, pray don't think that I mean to imply that I have
several. I am no such rake as Rochebrune is, in that respect; one at a
time is enough for me. I intended simply to address a parting thought to
those I have had during the whole of my bachelor life. That point being
settled, I now yield the floor to our friend, who, I believe, was about
to reply to the questions that had been put to him, when I proposed my
toast."

Thereupon the whole company turned their eyes toward me, for, I fancy,
you understand that I am Rochebrune. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea
for me to tell you at once what I was doing and in whose company I was
at that moment, at Deffieux's. Indeed, there are people who would have
begun with that, before introducing you to a dinner party at which the
guests are still unknown to you; but I like to turn aside from the
travelled roads--not from a desire to be original, but from taste.

What am I? Oh! not much of anything! For, after all, what does a man
amount to who has not great renown, great talent, an illustrious
reputation, or an immense fortune? A clown, a Liliputian, an atom lost
in the crowd. But you will tell me that the world is made up in larger
part of atoms than of giants, and that the main thing is not so much to
fill a large space as to fill worthily such space as one does fill.

Unluckily, I was not wise enough for that. Having come into possession
of a neat little fortune rather early in life,--about fifteen thousand
francs a year,--but having neither father nor mother to guide and advise
me, I was left my own master rather too soon, I fancy; for while the
reason matures quickly in adversity, the contrary is ordinarily true in
the bosom of opulence.

You see some mere boys, who are compelled to work in order to support
their families, exhibit the intelligence and courage of a full-grown
man. But place those same youths in the lap of Fortune, and they will do
all the foolish things that come into their heads. Why? Because, no
doubt, it is natural to love pleasure; and when we are prudent and
virtuous, it is very rarely due to our own volition, but rather to
circumstances, and, above all, to adversity. Which proves that adversity
has its good side. But, with your permission, we will return to myself.

My name is Charles Rochebrune. I am no longer young, having passed my
thirtieth birthday. How time flies! it is shocking! to be thirty years
old and no further advanced than I am! Indeed, instead of advancing, I
believe that I have fallen back. At twenty I had fifteen thousand francs
a year, and now I have but eight. If I go on like this, in a few years
more I shall have nothing at all. But have I not acquired some
experience, some talent, in return for my money? No experience, I fancy,
as I constantly fall into the same errors I used to be guilty of years
ago. And talent?--very little, I assure you! because I attempted to
acquire all the talents, and could never make up my mind to rely on a
single one. I had a vocation for the arts; the result was that I tried
them all, and know a little something of each one; which means that I
know nothing at all of any value. Painter, sculptor, musician, poet, in
turn, I have grazed the surface of them all, but gone to the root of
none. Ah! lamentable fickleness of taste, of character! No sooner had I
studied a certain thing a little while, than the fatal tendency to
change, which is my second nature, caused me to turn my ambition toward
some other object. I would say to myself: "I have made a mistake; it is
not painting that electrifies me, that sets my soul on fire, but
music."--And I would lay aside my brushes, to bang on a piano; and when
I had made it shriek for an hour, I would imagine that I was a composer
and could safely be employed to write an opera.

There is but one sentiment which has never varied, in my case, and that
is my love for the ladies; and yet they say that in my relations with
them I have retained my fondness for changing. But if one loves flowers,
must one pluck only a single one? I love bouquets _a la jardiniere_.

And, after all, who can say that I would not have been constant if I had
found a woman who loved me dearly, and who continued to love me, no
matter what happened? This last phrase means many things, which the
ladies will readily understand. But I have one very great failing as to
them. I will not confide it to you yet; you will discover it soon
enough, as you become better acquainted with me.

I said a moment ago that my parents--that is to say, my father--left me
some property. My mother had had two husbands, and I was the son of her
second marriage. As she had nothing when she married my father, it is to
him that I am indebted for the fortune which I have employed so ill
hitherto.

But, after all, have I employed it so ill, if I have been happy? Ah! the
fact is that I am not at all certain that I have been really happy in
this life of dissipation, folly, incessant change, regrets, and hopes so
often disappointed. I determined to settle down, to do what is called
making an end of things, which means marrying; albeit marriage is not
always the end of our follies, and is often the beginning of our
troubles. I loved my fiancee; I was not madly in love with her, but I
liked her, and I thought that she was fond of me. An unforeseen
occurrence broke off my projected marriage, and since then I have
entirely renounced all such ideas, because a similar occurrence might
have a similar result. What was it? Ah! that is my secret; I am not as
yet intimate enough with you to tell you everything.

I seem to have been talking a long while about myself; you must be sadly
bored. I propose now to make you acquainted with most of the gentlemen
who were my table companions at Deffieux's; I say "most of them," for
there were fifteen of us, and I did not know them all.

Let us begin with the host, Dupreval, who was giving the dinner, as he
told us, to commemorate his final adieu to his bachelorhood.

Dupreval is a solicitor; an excellent fellow, neither handsome nor ugly,
but a financier, a man of figures and calculations; he is entering into
marriage as one enters into any large commercial speculation. He will
certainly keep his word and abandon the follies of a bachelor, or I
shall be very much astonished; he is a man who will make his way in the
world; he has a goal--wealth; and he marches constantly toward it, never
turning aside from the path.

I admire such men, unbending in their determination, and incapable of
being turned aside from the line of conduct they have marked out for
themselves; I admire them, but I shall never imitate them. Chance is
such a fascinating thing, and it is such good fun to trust to it!

Next to Dupreval sat a stout young man, of medium height, but heavily
built, high-colored, with the bloom and brilliancy of the peach ever on
his cheeks. Unluckily, that never-failing freshness of complexion was
his only beauty, if, indeed, such pronounced coloring is a beauty. His
face beamed with good humor and denoted a leader in merrymaking; his
mouth was a considerable gulf, and his eyes were infinitesimal; but, by
way of compensation for occupying so little space, they were constantly
in motion and very bright, their expression being decidedly bold when
they rested upon the fair sex. His head was covered with a forest of
flaxen hair. Such was Monsieur Balloquet, medical student; indeed, I
believe he was a full-fledged doctor; but he had little practice, or,
rather, none at all; he thought only of enjoying himself, like many
doctors of his age. However, I do not mean to speak ill of Balloquet;
for he was a very good fellow, and we were good friends.

Next to him was a young man of medium height, very thin, and with a very
yellow complexion. An enormous beard, moustache, and whiskers covered so
much of his face that one could see little more than his nose, which was
long and thin, and his eyes, which were sunken and overshadowed by
eyebrows that threatened to spread like his beard. This gentleman had an
air of excessive weariness; that was all that one could make out beneath
the chestnut shrubbery that had overgrown his face. His name was
Fouvenard. I believe that he was in trade; but his business, whatever it
was, seemed to have worn him out. But that fact did not prevent him from
talking all the time of his past conquests and his present love affairs.

At my left was a rotund old party, with an amiable expression, and a
full-blown, rubicund face. It was Monsieur Rouffignard, auctioneer, who
was no longer young, but held his own manfully with the young men. He
did not lag behind at table; indeed, I have an idea that he did not lag
behind anywhere.

The next beyond was a very good-looking young man named Montricourt. He
had rather a self-sufficient air, and, if you did not know him well, you
might have called him conceited; but on talking with him, you found him
much more agreeable than his pretentious costume would lead you to
suppose.

Next came a man of thirty-six to forty years of age, rather ugly than
handsome, with a round face, smooth hair, a shifty eye, and an equivocal
smile, who spoke very slowly, and always seemed to reflect upon what he
was going to say. His tone was honeyed, and his manners excessively
polite. He was a clerk at the Treasury, by name Monsieur Faisande. When
someone, at the beginning of the dinner, said a few words that were a
trifle free in tone, I noticed that he frowned, as a lady might have
done who had strayed among us by mistake. After drinking five or six
different kinds of wine, he pursed his lips less; but at every loose
word that escaped us,--and such things are inevitable at a men's dinner
which has no diplomatic object,--Monsieur Faisande exclaimed:

"Hum! hum! Oh! messieurs, that's a little too bad! you go too far!"

"I may be mistaken," I thought; "but I would stake my head that Monsieur
Faisande is a hypocrite. That offended modesty is, to say the least, out
of place, and almost discourteous toward the rest of us; for it seems a
criticism of our conversation. In heaven's name, did the man think that
if he came to dinner with a party of men, most of them young, and all
high livers, he would hear no broad talk? There can be nothing so
insufferable at a party as one of those people who seem determined to
benumb your gayety by their sullen looks and their stiff manners. When
such a person does appear in a merry company, he should be courteously
turned out of doors."

What would you say of a doctor who should keep crying out during a
dinner:

"Don't eat so much; you'll make yourself ill; don't take any of this,
it's indigestible; don't drink any of that wine, it's too strong!"

No, indeed; at table the doctor disappears, or allows you to eat and
drink anything; nobody can be more accommodating, even with his
patients. And if doctors are so indulgent to the caprices of the
stomach, by what right does a pedant or a hypocrite undertake to put my
mind on a strict diet, and reprove the freedom of my conversation? There
is an old proverb that says: "We must laugh with the fools;" or, if you
please: "We must howl with the wolves."--Whence I conclude that it is,
to say the least, in bad taste to appear shocked by a loose word or a
vulgar jest, in such a company; and this Monsieur Faisande's virtue
seemed to be all the more doubtful because of his behavior.

In my review of the guests I must not forget Monsieur Dumouton, although
I only knew him then from having been once or twice in his company. He
was an individual who did not seem to be universally popular. Not that
he had an unattractive physique; on the contrary, he was a tall, slender
man, rather well than ill looking; his face was amiable, his strongly
marked features did not lack character; his bright, black eyes and high
color seemed to indicate a native of the _Midi_, although there was no
trace of such origin in his speech. But poor Monsieur Dumouton was
always dressed in such strange fashion, that it was difficult, on
glancing at his costume, to avoid forming a melancholy opinion of his
resources.

Imagine a threadbare coat, once green, but beginning to turn yellow, and
made after the style of a dozen years before--that is to say, very
short in front; in truth, it was also short in the skirts, which were
very scant, and hardly hid the seat of his trousers, which were olive
green and only just reached to his ankles, and fitted as close about the
thigh and knee as a rope dancer's tights. His boots were always innocent
of blacking, but, by way of compensation, were often coated with mud.
Add to all this a plaid waistcoat, double-breasted, and buttoned to the
chin; a black cravat, twisted into a rope; no shirt, collar, or gloves;
and a beard that was usually of about three days' growth: such was
Monsieur Dumouton's ordinary costume.

You will assume, perhaps, that he had donned other clothes to dine with
us; if so, you would make a mistake: it seemed that he was not fond of
change. Perhaps he had his reasons for that. However, he had made some
slight ameliorations: he had a false collar, and a white muslin cravat,
the ends of which were tied in a large knot that stood out conspicuously
against the soiled background formed by the coat and waistcoat.

I cannot tell why it was that I imagined I had seen that cravat playing
the part of draw-curtain at a window; it was an unkind thought, I
confess, and I did my utmost to discard it; but, as you must know, evil
thoughts are more persistent than good ones; and whenever my eyes fell
on the ends of that enormous cravat, it seemed to me that I was sitting
by a window.

I must tell you now who this gentleman was who dressed so ill. You will
be greatly surprised to learn that he was an author--yes, a "truly
author," as the children say; a man who wrote his plays
himself,--especially as he had not the wherewithal to buy any,--and
plays which were often very pretty, and which had been acted, and were
being acted still, with success.

But, you will tell me, we have passed the time when men of letters,
dramatic authors, earned barely enough to keep them alive; to-day, the
stage sometimes leads to wealth even; but it does not follow by any
means that all the nurslings of the Muses are destined to acquire
wealth. One may be unfortunate, dissipated, reckless; and once in the
mire, it is hard to extricate one's self therefrom, unless one has a
firm, immovable determination, unbounded courage, and a still greater
capacity for work; and everybody has not these. I cannot say what had
been the trouble with Monsieur Dumouton, what reverses he had had; I did
not know just how he was placed at that time; but, judging from his
costume, it was impossible to escape the supposition that he had known
adversity. Moreover, a few words that Dupreval let fall concerning this
man of letters recurred to my memory. He always said, when Dumouton was
mentioned:

"Poor fellow! he has all he can do to keep body and soul together! He
has plenty of intelligence, too; but he's such a careless devil!"

Whence I concluded that Dumouton was a penniless author; I do not say,
a worthless author. However, I was delighted to be in his company; for
he was jovial, clever, and entirely free from conceit; so what did I
care for his threadbare coat? I saw around the table several handsomely
dressed men, who amounted to nothing under their fine clothes.

I have introduced you now to all of my companions who were not strangers
to me; as for the others--why, if they say anything that makes it worth
our while to listen to them, we shall not fail to hear it.




II

THE CHAPTER OF CONFIDENCES.--THREE SOUS


I have told you that all eyes were fixed on me, and that everybody was
waiting to hear what I might have to say in justification or explanation
of what I had advanced on the subject of men who love several women at
once. For my part, I admit that, far from thinking about what reply I
should make to those gentlemen, I was busily engaged in watching
Dumouton, who was stowing away the contents of all the dessert plates
within his reach, although he was not eating. When he could find nothing
else on the plates that were near him, he attacked one of those
pasteboard structures, usually covered with candies or small cakes,
which no one ever touches, because they are intended simply as
decorations for the table, and one of them often does duty for several
months. I saw one of the waiters glare at him furiously when he saw what
he was doing, and I said to myself:

"I wonder if that poor Dumouton is in the same position as Frederick
Lemaitre in _Le Joueur_, when he stuffs bread into his pocket, saying:
'For my family!'"

"Well, Rochebrune! are you going to speak to-day?" said Dupreval.

"What do you mean?"

"What you were going to tell us."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, messieurs! You see, the wine we have drunk has
confused my memory, and I should find it hard to recall what I said to
you just now. And, to tell you the truth, instead of making speeches
about the best way of loving, which never prove anything, because every
man loves in his own way, which is the best to his mind, it seems to me
that it would be much more amusing for each of us to tell about one of
his _bonnes fortunes_, old or new, according to his pleasure.--What do
you say, messieurs?"

My suggestion was welcomed by enthusiastic plaudits; only Monsieur
Faisande made a wry face, and muttered:

"The deuce, messieurs, tell one of our _bonnes fortunes_! Why, that's a
very delicate subject. I didn't suppose that such things were talked
about, as a general rule. Discretion, messieurs, is the duty of an
honorable man, and, above all, of a lady's man."

"Oh! bless my soul, Monsieur Faisande, if you don't mention any names,
there's no indiscretion; and, as we are entitled to go back to ancient
history, how in the devil are you going to recognize the characters?"

"This Monsieur Faisande is very austere and very modest," murmured my
neighbor, the bulky Rouffignard. "He is very foolish to venture with
ne'er-do-wells of our temper."

"Especially," said Montricourt, "as the fellow's a great nuisance."

"Well, then, messieurs, Rochebrune's suggestion being adopted, who's to
begin?"

"Parbleu! yourself, Dupreval; the honor is yours."

"Very good. Then it will be my right-hand neighbor's turn, and so on
around the table."

Dupreval emptied his glass, to put himself into a more suitable
disposition for telling his story. Meanwhile, I watched Dumouton, who
had entirely stripped one ornament and persistently kept his hands out
of sight under the table. As some of the guests continued to converse,
Dupreval struck his glass with his knife and cried:

"Silence, messieurs!"

Everybody ceased talking, took a drink, and prepared to listen to the
host, who began thus:

"At that time, messieurs, I was a third-class clerk to a solicitor, and
my pockets were seldom well lined. My father gave me six francs a week
for pocket money; as you may imagine, my diversions were very few, and I
often spent my whole allowance on Sunday; then I was obliged either to
procure my amusement gratis during the week, or to abstain entirely; the
latter alternative, I believe, is disagreeable at any age.

"One fine day--or rather, one evening--I was at the play, and found
myself behind two very pretty grisettes--there were grisettes in those
days; unluckily, they are now vanishing from the face of the earth, like
poodles and melon raisers. For my part, I regret them exceedingly--not
the melon raisers or the poodles, but the grisettes; they are replaced
nowadays by lorettes, who can't hold a candle to them. Our friend
Dumouton, by the way, has done a very amusing little sketch on
grisettes, lorettes, and fillettes, which I will request him to repeat
to you in a moment, and----"

"Question!"

"The speaker is not keeping to his subject."

"That is true, messieurs. Excuse me.--Well, I was at the play, behind
two grisettes, and I had only three sous in my pocket; that was all I
had left after buying my ticket, and it was Monday. Such was my plight.
However, that didn't prevent me from making eyes at one of the damsels,
whose saucy face attracted me. For her part, she responded promptly to
my glances; the firing was well maintained on both sides, and seemed to
promise a very warm engagement. I opened a conversation, and she
answered. The young ladies were not prudes, by any means; they laughed
heartily at every joke that I indulged in, and I indulged in a good
many; I was in funds in that respect only.

"It was summer, and the theatre was very warm. Several times my
grisettes had wiped their faces, crying:

"'Dieu! how hot it is!'

"'How I would like a good, cool drink!'

"'That's so; something cool and refreshing would go to the spot, pure or
with water.'

"When they expressed themselves in such terms, I made a pretence of
looking about the house, humming unconcernedly. With my three sous, I
could have given each of them a stick of barley sugar, but that is
hardly refreshing. I remember that an orange girl persisted in walking
back and forth in front of us, and in holding her basket under my nose,
and that I trod on her foot so hard that the poor girl turned pale and
hurried away, shrieking.

"At last the play came to an end, and my grisettes went out; I went with
them, still talking, but taking care to fall behind when we passed a
cafe. They did not live together; and when I was alone with the one to
whom I was particularly attentive, I obtained a rendezvous for the next
day, at nightfall.

"When the next day came, I was no richer, for my office mates were, for
the most part, as hard up as I. However, I was faithful to my
appointment, all the same, still with my three sous in my pocket.

"My charmer was on time. I walked her about the streets at least two
hours. She remarked from time to time that she was tired; but, instead
of replying, I would passionately squeeze one of her hands, and the heat
of my love made her forget her fatigue. Unluckily, she lived with an old
relation--of which sex I don't know; I do know that that fact made it
impossible for me to go to her room, and I had to leave her at her door.

"The next evening, at dusk, we met again. I had the shrewdness to take
her outside the barrier; it was a superb night, and we strolled along
the new boulevards. I tried to coax her out into the country; she
refused, on the ground that she was tired. She expected me to suggest a
cab, no doubt, but I knew better.

"The next day, another rendezvous. My grisette wanted to go to the
Jardin des Plantes. When we came to Pont d'Austerlitz, I had to spend
two of my three sous, and for tolls, not for refreshment; that seemed
cruel, but there was no alternative. We strolled a long while around
the garden, which is an admirable place for lovers, because some of the
paths are always deserted; my conquest was affable and sentimental, but
I replied all awry to what she said and to the questions she asked. I
was haunted by a secret apprehension; I was thinking about going home,
about Pont d'Austerlitz, which she would certainly insist on crossing
again, as it was the shortest way to her house; and I said to myself: 'I
have only five centimes left. Shall I pay for her and let her go alone?
Shall I make her take another route? Or shall I run across at full speed
and defy the tollman?'--Neither plan seemed to promise well, and you can
imagine that my mind was in a turmoil; so that my young companion kept
saying to me:

"'What on earth are you thinking about, monsieur? You don't answer my
questions; you seem to be thinking about something besides me. You're
not very agreeable this evening.'

"I did my utmost to be talkative, attentive, and gallant; but, in a few
minutes, my preoccupation returned. At last my grisette, irritated by my
behavior, declared that she wanted to go home, that she was tired of
walking, that I had walked her about so much the last two or three days
that her heels were swollen as badly as when she used to have
chilblains. So she dragged me away toward the exit. That was the
decisive moment. I began to talk about going home another way that I
knew about, which was much pleasanter than the way we had come. But my
grisette took her turn at not listening, and when we were out of the
garden, and I tried to lead her to the left, she hung back.

"'Why, where are you going?' she cried.

"'I assure you that it's much pleasanter and shorter by the other
bridge.'

"'You're joking, I suppose! the idea of going back through narrow
streets instead of the boulevards! Monsieur is making fun of me!'

"I couldn't possibly prevail upon her; she dropped my arm and made
straight for the bridge.

"'Well!' I said to myself, with a sigh; 'there's nothing left for me to
do.'

"I followed her. When she reached the tollman, I tossed my last sou on
the table and said to my charmer:

"'Go on, I will follow you.'

"She crossed the bridge, supposing that some natural cause detained me a
moment. Meanwhile, I gazed at the river, considering whether I would
jump in and swim to the other bank. But I'm not a fine swimmer, and I
did not feel as brave as Leander, although the Seine is narrower than
the Hellespont. Instead of swimming, I ran along the quays to the next
bridge; when I got there, I was almost out of breath, but that did not
prevent me from running across the bridge, then back along the Seine to
the beginning of Boulevard Bourdon. But that is quite a long distance,
and, although I ran almost all the way, it took quite a long time. I
arrived at last, but I looked in vain for my inamorata; I could not find
her. Tired of waiting for me, or piqued by my failure to overtake her,
she had evidently gone home alone.

"The next day, I went to our usual place of meeting, but she did not
come. I waited there for her several days--to no purpose; and at last I
wrote to her, requesting a reply. She sent me a very laconic one: 'You
made a fool of me,' she wrote; 'and after walking my legs off for four
days, as if I was an omnibus horse, you left me in the middle of a
bridge. I've had enough of it, monsieur; you won't take me to walk any
more.'--And thus that intrigue came to an end; for I never saw my
grisette again; but I haven't forgotten the adventure. Let it serve you
as a lesson, messieurs, if you should ever happen to find yourselves
with only three sous in your pocket."




III

BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF.--AT THE WINDOWS.--IN A BALLOON


Dupreval's tale amused the company immensely. Monsieur Dumouton, who was
better able, perhaps, than any of the rest of us, to understand our
friend's plight, exclaimed:

"Oh! that's true! it's very dangerous to take any chances in a lady's
company, if you haven't any money in your pocket! It's a thing I always
avoid."

It was young Balloquet's turn. The bulky, fair-haired man opened his
mouth as if he were going to sing an operatic aria, and began:

"Dupreval has just told us of an adventure which was not a _bonne
fortune_, messieurs, for it didn't end happily for him; I propose to
tell you of one that can fairly be called a genuine A-Number-One _bonne
fortune_. It happened at a _fete champetre_ given by a friend of mine at
his charming country place in the outskirts of Sceaux."

"Don't name the place," Monsieur Faisande interrupted; "there's no need
of it, and it might betray the originals of your story."

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Faisande, you seem to be terribly afraid of
disclosures. Is it because you fear your excellent wife may be
involved?"

The Treasury clerk turned as red as a poppy.

"I don't know why you indulge in jests of that sort, Monsieur
Balloquet," he cried; "it's very bad taste, monsieur!"

"Then let me speak, monsieur, and don't keep putting your oar into our
conversation; your mock-modest air doesn't deceive anybody. People who
make such a show of decorum, and who are so strict in their language,
are often greater libertines and rakes than those whose language they
censure."

Monsieur Faisande's cheeks changed from the hue of a poppy to that of a
turnip; but he made no reply, and looked down at his plate, which led us
to think that Balloquet had hit the mark. The latter resumed his story:

"As I was saying, I was at a magnificent open-air fete. There were some
charming women there, and among them one with whom I had been in love a
long while, but had been able to get no further than to whisper a
burning word in her ear now and then; for she had a husband, who, while
he was not jealous, was always at his wife's side. The dear man was very
much in love with his wife, and bored her to death with his caresses.
Sometimes he forgot himself so far as to kiss her before company, which
was execrable form; and by dint of sentimentality and caresses he had
succeeded in making himself insufferable to her. Yes, messieurs, this
goes to prove what I said just now to Fouvenard: women don't like to be
loved too much. _Excess in any direction is a mistake_. Moreover,
nothing makes a man look so foolish as a superabundance of love. Well,
while we were playing games and strolling about the gardens, Monsieur
Three-Stars--I'll call him Three-Stars, which will not compromise
anybody, I fancy--kissed his wife again before the whole company; and
she flew into a rage and made a scene with him, forbidding him to come
near her again during the evening. The fond husband was in despair, and
cudgelled his brains to think of some means of becoming reconciled to
his wife. After long consideration, he took me by the arm and said:

"'My dear Monsieur Balloquet, I believe I have found what I was looking
for.'

"'Have you lost something?' said I.

"'You don't understand. I am trying to think of some way to compel my
wife to let me kiss her, and it is very difficult, because she is cross
with me now. But this is what I have thought of: I am going to suggest a
game of blind-man's-buff, and I will ask to be _it_, on condition that I
may kiss the person I catch, when I guess who it is. When I catch my
wife, be good enough to cough, so as to let me know; in that way I shall
not make a mistake, and she'll have to let me kiss her.'

"I warmly applauded Monsieur Three-Stars's plan; his idea of
blind-man's-buff seemed to me very amusing. He made his proposition, it
was accepted, and he was blindfolded. Now, while he groped his way
about, the rest of the party thought it would be a good joke to leave
him there and go to another part of the garden. I escorted Madame
Three-Stars. The garden was very extensive, with grottoes and labyrinths
and some extremely dark clumps of shrubbery. I will not tell you just
where I took the lady, but our walk was quite long; and when we returned
to our starting point, the poor husband was still groping about with the
handkerchief over his eyes. When he heard us coming, he hurried toward
us; I coughed,--to give him that satisfaction was the least I could
do,--he named his wife and kissed her. Then, delighted with his idea, he
replaced the handkerchief over his eyes, requesting to be _it_ again.
We acceded to his wish, and he was _it_ three times in succession. That,
messieurs, is what I call a _bonne fortune_."

"Your story is exactly after the style of Boccaccio!" laughed
Montricourt.--"If this goes on, messieurs, we shall be able to publish a
sequel to the _Decameron_."

"It's Fouvenard's turn."

The hairy gentleman passed his hand across his forehead, saying:

"I am searching my memory, messieurs. I have had so many adventures! I
am afraid of mixing them up. You see, it's like calling on a man for a
ballad who has written a great many; he doesn't know any, because he
knows too many. I beg you to be good enough to leave me till the last;
meanwhile, I will disentangle my memories and try to select something
choice, with a Regency flavor."

"All right! Fouvenard passes the bank on to Monsieur Reffort.--Go on,
Reffort."

Reffort was a personage who had not said four words during the dinner,
but had contented himself with laughing idiotically at what the others
said. He was the possessor of a more than insignificant face, and turned
as red as fire when he was addressed. He rolled his eyes over the
dessert, played with his knife, and murmured at last:

"Faith! messieurs, it embarrasses me to speak, because--I must admit
that--on my word of honor, it has never happened to me."

"What's that, Reffort? It has never happened to you! What in the devil
do you mean by that? Explain yourself."

"Can it be that Monsieur Reffort is as a man what Jeanne d'Arc was as a
woman?" cried Rouffignard. "In that case, I demand that he be cast in a
mould, that a statuette be made of him and sold for the benefit of the
Societe de Temperance."

Roars of laughter arose on all sides. Monsieur Reffort laughed with the
rest, albeit with a somewhat annoyed air, and rejoined:

"You go too far, messieurs; I didn't mean what you think, but simply
that I am not a man for love intrigues. I shouldn't know how to go about
it; and, faith! when my thoughts turn to love, there are priestesses of
Venus, and----"

"Very good, Monsieur Reffort; we don't ask for anything more; we'll call
that _bonnes fortunes_ for cash. Next."

"Messieurs," said the gentleman who came next, in a sentimental tone,
"the best day of my life was that on which I stole a garter at a wedding
party, at Pres-Saint-Gervais--I made a mistake as to the leg; but I saw
such a pretty one, and took it for the bride's. In fact, I didn't want
to go out from under the table. Unluckily, that charming limb belonged
to a lady of fifty; but she was kind enough to make me a present of her
garter."

"And you have worn it on your heart ever since?"

"No; but I have kept it under glass. That's my only _bonne fortune_!"

"I, messieurs," said a young man, who sat next to the last speaker, "was
shut up once for twelve hours in a closet full of bottles of liqueurs;
and when my mistress was able at last to release me, I was dead drunk; I
had tasted everything, to pass the time away. Finding me in that
condition, the lady was obliged to send for a messenger, who took me on
his back like a bale, and on the way downstairs let me roll down one
whole flight. Since then I have had a horror of _bonnes fortunes_."

"Your turn, Raymond."

"I once fell in love with a lady who roomed opposite me. As you can
imagine, I was always hanging out of my window. She was very pretty, but
she didn't reply to my glances; indeed, she often left her window when I
appeared at mine. But I wasn't discouraged by that. I followed her
everywhere: in the street, in omnibuses, to the theatre; I wrote her
twenty notes, but she didn't answer them, and my persistence seemed to
offend her rather than to touch her heart. As I could think of nothing
else to do, I determined one day to try to make her jealous. I
interviewed one of the damsels to whom Monsieur Reffort alluded, and,
for a consideration, she came to my rooms one afternoon. I placed her on
my balcony, so that she might be in full view; I urged her to behave
decently, and retired to await the result of my experiment.

"My neighbor appeared at her window. It was impossible for her not to
see my damsel. I was enchanted, and said to myself: 'She sees that I am
with another, and she will surely be annoyed.' Moreover, the young woman
I had hired was very pretty and might pass for a creditable conquest,
having, in accordance with my orders, clothed herself in a very stylish
gown. But imagine my sensations when she began to smoke an enormous
cigar, a genuine panetela! I tried to remonstrate; she answered that it
was good form. I had become resigned to the cigar, when she suddenly
called out to a young man who passed along the street: 'Monsieur Ernest,
don't expect me to pose for you as Venus to-morrow. I am posing here,
where I get double pay, and don't have to be all naked as I do at your
studio, where I'm always catching cold in the head and other places.'

"Judge of my despair! my neighbor must have heard, for she laughed till
she cried. You can imagine that I dismissed my _poseuse_ instantly. But
see what strange creatures women are! For the next few days, I was so
depressed and shamefaced that I dared not show myself at my window.
Well! then it was that my neighbor deigned at last to answer one of my
notes, and I became the happiest of men."

"We might call that the 'window intrigue.'--Now, Roland."

Monsieur Roland was a young blade with enormous whiskers, and all the
self-possession and _frou-frou_ of a commercial traveller. He threw out
his chest when he began to speak.

"I adored a lady who resisted my advances, messieurs. One day I
succeeded in inducing her to go up in a balloon with me. When we were
once in the air, I said to her: 'My dear love, if you continue to be
cruel, I'll cut a hole in the balloon, and it will be all over with both
of us.'--My charmer ceased to resist me, and I assure you, messieurs,
that it's very pleasant to make love among the clouds."

"I call for an encore for that."

"And I am wondering whether Roland always has a balloon at his disposal,
already inflated, to enable him to triumph over women who try to resist
him."

"What, messieurs! do you doubt the truth of my story?"

"On the contrary, it is delicious," said Montricourt; "I am simply
trying to think of one that would be worthy to serve as a pendant to
your balloon."

"For my part, messieurs," said a tall man with blue spectacles, "as I am
very near-sighted, my _bonnes fortunes_ have almost always ended
unfortunately. When I had been attentive to a young woman, if I went to
see her the next day, I was sure to throw myself at her mother's knees
and say sweet things to her, thinking that I was talking to the
daughter. However, one day, a lady, to whom I had been paying court with
marked ardor, consented to come to breakfast with me. Imagine my
delight! But she said to me: 'For heaven's sake, don't keep on your
spectacles, for I think you are frightfully ugly in them; I detest
spectacles.'--To satisfy her, after ordering the daintiest of breakfasts
and donning the most elegant costume you can imagine, I took off my
spectacles and awaited the visit that was to make me the happiest of
mortals. At last there was a knock at my door. I ran to open it, holding
my arms in front of me, for I could see almost nothing at all, being
short-sighted to the last degree; but I was certain that it was a woman
who came in, because I touched her dress. I didn't give her time to
speak to me--I was so madly in love! I took her in my arms; she tried to
cry out, and I stifled her shrieks with my kisses. Not until it was too
late did I hear her voice saying:

"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, whatever's the matter with you this morning? You
must have swallowed a fulminating powder!'

"Impressed by the accent of that voice, I ran for my spectacles and put
them on. Imagine my wrath! I had insulted my concierge! The excellent
woman had brought me a letter from my fair one saying that it was
impossible for her to come. Since then, I beg you to believe that I have
never made love without my spectacles."

This tale called forth hearty laughter. Then a stout party told us at
great length that his wife had been his only _bonne fortune_.

We all blessed that gentleman, who well deserved the Cross and our
esteem.




IV

THE LOST KEY


Monsieur Faisande's turn having arrived, he reflected, assumed a solemn
expression, and held forth thus:

"Love, messieurs, is not such an entertaining, enjoyable, happy-go-lucky
affair as you all seem to think. Most of you seek to enter into an
intrigue solely to amuse yourselves; but the results, messieurs, all the
results that may ensue from cohabitation between a man and a woman, from
the carnal sin, from----"

"I was perfectly sure that Monsieur Faisande would be more indecent than
the rest of us when he began upon this subject," said Balloquet; "he has
a way of preaching morality that would make a _vivandiere_ blush."

"I should be very glad to know what you consider unseemly in my
language, Monsieur Balloquet?"

"Your language is excellently well chosen; it is technical; but you
produce the effect of a medical book on me; they are most estimable
works in themselves, but young women mustn't be allowed to read them.
Pray go on, Monsieur Faisande; I am terribly sorry that I interrupted
you, you were beginning so well!"

The Treasury clerk pursed his lips and continued, emphasizing every
word:

"I have never had any _bonnes fortunes_, messieurs; and I don't propose
to begin now that I am married."

"What a hypocrite!" muttered my stout neighbor. "I don't know the
fellow's wife, but I pity her; for I am convinced that she has a mighty
poor fellow for a husband."

"What, Monsieur Faisande! not even some trivial little bit of fooling to
tell us? Come, search your memory, did nothing ever happen to you in the
Cite? in Rue aux Feves or Rue Saint-Eloy? There are plenty of frail
damsels on those streets, they say."

This time Monsieur Faisande turned green; he did not know which way to
look, and stammered a few inaudible words. Dupreval, observing his
evident discomfort, and wishing to put an end to a scene which
threatened to lose its comic aspect, hastily asked Montricourt to take
the floor.

The dandy smoothed the nascent beard that adorned his chin, then said in
a low voice, assuming a serious air:

"What I am about to tell you, messieurs, may seem improbable to you.
Understand that I have had a pair of wings made--yes, messieurs, a pair
of wings as magnificent as an eagle's. I fasten them under my arms, and
then, as you can imagine, I go wherever I choose. When a woman attracts
me, I fly in at her window, even if she lives on the fifth floor; I
carry her off, and I win her in mid-air! It's a wonderful thing!"

"I beg your pardon," said Monsieur Roland, ironically; "while you are
making love in mid-air, you can't keep your wings at work; so you must
fall. Look at the birds; they always light to do their billing and
cooing."

"I anticipated that difficulty, my dear fellow; so, before I launch
myself in the air, I always make myself fast to your balloon, which
holds me up."

This witticism ranged all the laughers on Montricourt's side, and even
Monsieur Roland decided to admit defeat.

It was now the turn of Monsieur Rouffignard, the corpulent bon vivant
who sat next to me.

"My story won't be long," he said; "I rush my love affairs through on
time; I don't like to have things drag along. I was in love with a woman
who wasn't handsome, but had a fine figure; and I'm a great fellow for
shape; I tell you, I set store by shape! To speak without periphrasis, I
prefer what's underneath to what's outside. Well! I was making love to
a lady who had little to boast of in the way of features; but such a
superb bust! such well-rounded hips! I said to myself: 'If all that's
only as firm and hard as a plum pudding, it will be all right; for,
after all, one can't expect to find marble unless he goes to a
statue.'--I would have been glad to have a chance to appraise, by means
of a slight caress, more or less innocent, the real value of what I
admired, but my inamorata didn't understand that sort of play; as soon
as I made a motion to touch her, she'd shriek and wriggle and scratch.
'I shall never triumph over such untamed virtue as this,' I said to
myself. But one fine day--that is to say, one evening, she agreed to
meet me. She gave me leave to call between ten and eleven. I took good
care to be prompt. Madame lived alone. She opened the door herself, and
admitted me; but I was surprised to find that she had no light. I
presumed that it was simply excess of modesty, and that defeat in the
dark would be less trying to her; I had the more reason to think so,
because she offered only a slight resistance. I began to grow audacious,
but fancy my disappointment; instead of what I had hoped to find, I
found nothing but _cliquettes_--that is to say, bones, of different
degrees of sharpness. My audacity gave place to alarm; I recalled the
romance of the _Monk_, and the story of _La Nonne Sanglante_; I began to
be afraid that I was alone with a skeleton. But I had in my pocket one
of those devices which we smokers use to obtain a light. I lighted it,
without warning my fair; she shrieked when she saw the flame, and I did
the same when I found that I was tete-a-tete with a beanpole. All I had
admired was false. I alleged a sudden indisposition, and fled. Since
then, whenever that lady meets me, she glares at me as if she would
strike me dead. I am very sorry for her, but one shouldn't pretend to be
a millionaire when one doesn't own a single foot of ground."

It was my turn to relate my adventures. I have had amusing ones and sad
ones; but, presuming that the sentimental sort would be misplaced on
that occasion, I determined on this:

"The scene is laid in the country, messieurs, in a delightful region
about five leagues from Paris. I had gone there to pass a fortnight with
a friend of mine who has a house in that neighborhood; he had
consumption, and was living on milk exclusively; so I leave you to guess
whether the establishment was a lively one. However, one should be
willing sometimes to make sacrifices to friendship. And then, too, there
was a house near by, occupied by several tenants, among them a charming
young widow whom I had met in society in Paris. She was a blonde, with
tender blue eyes and a languishing smile, and an expert coquette, I
assure you! You will say that all women are; but there are gradations. I
renewed my acquaintance with her; in the country, as you have lots of
time to yourself, love does its work much more quickly than in town; and
then, the delicious shade, the verdure, the charming retired nooks where
you can hear nothing but the twittering of birds--are not all these made
to incline one's heart to sentiment, to invite to love? A welcome
invitation, which it is so pleasant to hear! In a word, I made such
progress with my lovely widow, that nothing remained but to obtain a
tete-a-tete. That, however, was not so easy as you may think. The house
where my blonde lived was occupied by a lot of inquisitive, gossiping,
evil-tongued people, whose greatest delight was to busy themselves about
what others were doing. That is the principal occupation of fools in the
country; they get up in the morning to spy on their neighbors, and do
not go to bed happy if they have not done or said some spiteful thing
during the day. My attentions to the pretty widow had been remarked; so
they instantly passed the word around to watch us, to dog our steps; she
and I could not move, without the whole province knowing it. All those
bourgeois and clowns of the pumpkin family were worthy to be police-men
in Paris; and I thought seriously of recommending them to monsieur le
prefet.

"The result was that we had to act with great secrecy. The house where
my widow lived had a large garden. All gardens have a small gate; and
each tenant was supplied with a key to the little gate of the garden in
question, which opened into a lovely meadow. Several times, when talking
with my inamorata in the evening, I had urged her to give me her key, so
that I could get into the garden. By waiting until midnight, I was
certain to avoid meeting any of her fellow boarders, for all of them
went to bed at ten o'clock, as a rule. My constant refrain was: 'Let me
have the key; or else let me in at midnight.'

"At last, one evening when we had met at a neighbor's, as we left the
house my blonde came to me, took my hand, and whispered in my ear:

"'Come to-night.'

"Imagine my joy, my ecstasy! I walked quickly away from her, lest she
should change her mind. Everybody went home, myself with the rest; I
longed so for the time when they should all be asleep! My friend's old
cuckoo clock struck twelve. I left my room at once, stepping lightly,
stole from the house, and hastened to the meadow. I sat down on the
grass, a few steps from the gate, and waited impatiently until it should
open to admit me to the summit of felicity.

"Half an hour passed, and the gate did not open. I said to myself:
'Someone near her has not gone to bed yet, I suppose, and she's afraid
to come down; I must be patient.'--Another half-hour passed and the gate
remained closed. I stood up, thinking that she might have left it
unlocked so that I could go in. I ran to the gate to find out, but it
was locked on the inside. I walked back and forth, I sat down and stood
up, keeping my eyes always fixed on that gate, which did not open. I
thought of everything that could possibly have delayed my lovely widow,
or kept her from coming. One o'clock struck, then the half, then
two.--'She has made a fool of me,' I said to myself; 'she won't come at
all! But what object could she possibly have in keeping me waiting all
night? Does my love deserve such a cruel disappointment? In fact, did
she not, of her own motion, tell me to come to-night? No, it isn't
possible that she purposely makes me pass such wretched hours here.'

"I could not make up my mind to go. Still hoping, I said to myself at
the faintest sound: 'She's coming; here she is!'--But the sound ceased,
and she did not appear. Thereupon I would walk away a few steps, but
again and again I returned.

"Day broke at last, and with it my last hope vanished! For people rise
very early in the country, and, when it was light, I knew very well that
the lady would not risk her reputation by coming out to me. So I
returned to my friend's house, with despair in my heart, swearing that I
would never again address, that I would never look at, that woman who
had made such a fool of me.

"But the next day, chance, or rather our own volition, brought us
together. I was on the point of heaping reproaches on her, but she gave
me no time; with a wrathful glance, she said to me in a voice that shook
with indignation:

"'Your conduct is shameful, monsieur: the idea of making sport of me so!
of making me pass a whole night in the most intense anxiety! For I had
the kindness to believe that something must have happened to you; but I
was mistaken. Why, in heaven's name, did you ask for a thing which you
did not want? It is perfectly shocking! I detest you, and I forbid you
ever to speak to me again!'

"You can imagine my amazement at this harangue. Instead of apologizing,
I overwhelmed her with complaints and reproaches for the sleepless night
I had passed at the garden gate. My manner was so genuine and so
sincere, that the young widow interrupted me.--'What!' she exclaimed;
'you passed the night in the fields? Pray, why didn't you come in,
monsieur?'

"'Come in? by what means, madame?'

"'Why, with the key to the little gate, which I myself gave you.'

"'You gave me the key?'

"'Yes, monsieur; last night, when I spoke to you, I put it in your
hand.'

"Everything was explained. I remembered perfectly that when she
whispered to me she had taken my hand; and that was when she gave me the
key--or, rather, when she thought that I received it; but, alas! she was
mistaken; the key fell noiselessly on the grass, and neither of us
noticed it. You see, messieurs, what trifles happiness depends upon. I
asked pardon and claimed another assignation; but with women a lost
opportunity is seldom recovered.--'Try to find the key,' she said. I
hastened to the place where she had spoken to me the night before. Alas!
in vain did I scratch the ground and examine every tuft of grass; I did
not find the key. A few days later, the pretty blonde went away, and I
never saw her again."




V

FILLETTES, GRISETTES, AND LORETTES


I had performed my task; Dumouton and Fouvenard alone remained to be
heard. The latter having requested the privilege of speaking last, the
man of letters in the yellowish-green coat bowed gracefully and began:

"To speak of one's _bonnes fortunes_, messieurs, is to speak of the
ladies; with me, it is to speak of fillettes, grisettes, or lorettes;
for as to bourgeois dames or great ladies, married or single, I have
always deemed them too virtuous to be the objects of my attachment. That
is my individual opinion; opinions are free. Allow me, therefore, to
indulge in a brief digression concerning fillettes, grisettes, and
lorettes. I know that my colleague, Alexandre Dumas, has discussed this
subject; but there are subjects that are inexhaustible--always
attractive and interesting: women and love enjoy that blessed privilege.


"It has been said that Paris is the paradise of women. Ah! messieurs, he
who said that can never have visited the tiny chambers, the closets, the
attics, sometimes even the garrets, where that charming sex often lacks
the first essentials of life; sometimes by its own fault, sometimes by
the fault of destiny, or, to speak more accurately, of those cruel
monsters of men, who play so important a part in the story of these
young women.

"The _fillettes_ of Paris are the daughters of honest bourgeois or
artisans, whose parents, too much engrossed by their labor or by the
care of their business, put them out as apprentices, or as shopgirls,
or, as happens in the majority of cases, leave them at home to look
after the housework and keep house.

"Imagine a girl of fourteen to sixteen years of age, taken from her
school, and, all of a sudden, because her father has become a widower,
or because her mother sits at a counter all day, burdened with the whole
charge of the household. She has no maid to assist her; for if she had,
she would be a _demoiselle_, not a _fillette_. The _demoiselles_ have
had a good education, they have had teachers who have tried to enlighten
their minds and their judgment and to train their hearts; indeed, they
are supposed to know a great many things; but they are entitled to do
nothing at all during the day, just because they are _demoiselles_.

"The fillettes, on the contrary, have to do everything, and generally
are taught nothing. But you should see how they manage the household
that has been thrown on their hands--mere children, who were playing
with their dolls yesterday. Ordinarily, they begin by sweeping, very
early; but if the lodging consists only of a single room and a cabinet,
the housework is never finished till the end of the day--when it is
finished at all. To be sure, the fillette doesn't work long at any one
thing; she is required to change her occupation every minute; indeed, it
rarely happens that she dresses herself entirely. The young woman whom
you meet on the street early in the morning, carelessly dressed, in
shoes down at heel, with unkempt hair, dirty hands, and a modest manner,
is a fillette.

"She has just begun to sweep, and suddenly she drops the broom, which
sometimes falls against a pane of glass and breaks it; but the young
housekeeper doesn't mind that. She starts to remove her curl papers; she
removes one, she removes two--but just as she has her hand on the third,
she remembers that she hasn't skimmed the stew; so she abandons her
hair, runs to get the skimmer, and brandishes that utensil, humming
Guido's song:

    "'Helas! il a fui comme une ombre!'

And to give more expression to her song, more passion to her voice, she
often holds the skimmer lovingly to her heart. But as she sings, her
eyes happen to fall on her canary's cage; she hastens thither, for she
remembers that she hasn't given the bird anything to eat for two days.
But as she is on the point of opening the cage, it occurs to her that
she would do well to think about her own breakfast; so she turns her
back on the canary, to go and visit the pantry. What she finds there
does not suit her; so she goes down to the fruit stall to buy some fresh
eggs. But on the way, she changes her mind; she prefers preserves, so
she goes into the grocer's, where she meets a young woman who has been
her schoolmate. They chat, and sometimes the chance meeting carries them
a long way.

"'Come with me a minute,' says her friend; 'I live close by, and I'll
show you a dress my fiance sent me from Lyon.'

"'Oh! so you've got a fiance, have you? are you going to be married?'

"'Yes, in two months.'

"'That's funny.'

"'Why is it funny?'

"'Because they don't ever think about marrying me.'

"'You're too young.'

"'I'm only a year younger'n you. But my folks would rather keep me at
home to do the housework.'

"'Come, and I'll give you some candy I got when I was a godmother.'

"'Have you been a godmother? Oh! what a lucky girl you are! you have
everything!'

"It is very hard to resist the invitation of a friend who offers us
candy. The fillette forgets her housework, her stew, her canary, and
even her breakfast, as she chats with her old schoolmate, who has been a
godmother and is engaged.

"When at last she goes home, just as she is entering the house, she is
saluted, and sometimes accosted, by a young man of most respectable
aspect, whom she invariably meets when she goes out. I leave you to
judge at what hour the housework will be done and the soup skimmed.

"This young man is not a lover as yet, but he closely resembles a man in
love, and if ill fortune sometimes be-falls the fillette, who is at
fault? Is she the one to be blamed? should we not charge it rather to
the parents, who so shamefully neglect those who have neither strength,
nor sense, nor experience, to resist the seductions of the world?

"Paris is swarming with these fillettes, messieurs; some remain
virtuous, although they live among dangers; as they have no fortune,
they do not always find husbands, but pass from the fillette stage to
that of an old maid, without becoming better housekeepers by the change.

"As for the _grisettes_, that's another story. The grisette loves
pleasure; she wants it, she must have it. She has at least one lover;
when she has only one, she is a most exemplary grisette. However, they
do not pretend to be any better than they are; they make no parade of
false virtue; they are neither prudish nor shy; they cultivate students,
actors, artists, the theatre, balls,--out of doors or indoors,--promenades,
dance halls, restaurants; and they do not recoil at the thought of a
private dining-room.

"The grisette is a gourmand, and is almost always hungry; she is wild
over truffles, but is perfectly content to stuff herself with potatoes;
she adores meringues, but regales herself daily with biscuit and tarts;
she would climb a greased pole for a glass of champagne, but does not
refuse a mug of cider.

"You know as well as I, messieurs, that when you have treated a grisette
to a dainty dinner, you must not conclude that her appetite is
satisfied. On leaving the table, if you are in the country, the grisette
will suggest shooting for macaroons, and will consume several dozen;
then she will ask for a drink of milk, and a piece of rye bread to soak
in it; then she will want some cherries, then beer and gingerbread. In
Paris, you will have to supply her with barley sugar, syrups, punch, and
Italian cheese.

"Let us do the grisette of Paris justice; she is active, frisky,
alluring, provoking; she is not always pretty, but she has a certain--I
don't know what to call it--a sort of _chic_, which always finds
followers. She handles the simplest materials in such a way as to make
herself a pretty little costume; she often wears an apron, and a cap
almost always; she rarely puts anything else on her head, and she is
very wise; for her face, which is captivating in a cap, loses much of
its charm under a bonnet, unless it be a _bibi_, the front of which
never extends beyond the end of her nose.

"The grisette is a milliner, or laundress, or dressmaker, or
embroiderer, or burnisher, or stringer of pearls, or something else--but
she has a trade. To be sure, she seldom works at it. Suggest a trip into
the country, a donkey ride, a bachelor breakfast, a dinner at La
Chaumiere, a ticket to the play, and the shop or workroom or desk may go
to the deuce.

"So long as we can afford her amusement, she will think of nothing else;
but when her lover hasn't a sou, she will return to her work as cheerily
as if she were going to dine at Passoir's, or to do a little cancan at
the Chateau-Rouge; for, messieurs, you may be sure of one thing--the
grisette is a philosopher, she takes things as they come, money for what
it is worth, and men for what they do for her. She loves passionately
for a fortnight; she believes then that it will last all her life, and
proposes to her lover that they go to live on a desert island, like
Crusoe, and eat raw vegetables and shell-fish. As she is very fond of
radishes and oysters, she thinks that she will be able to accustom
herself to that diet; but in a moment she forgets all about that scheme,
and cries:

"'Ah! how I would like some roast veal, and some lettuce salad garnished
with hard-boiled eggs! Take me to Asnieres, Dodolphe, and we'll dine out
of doors; and I'll pluck some daisies and pull off the petals and find
out your real sentiments, for the daisies never lie. If it stops at
_passionately_, I'll kiss you on the left eye; if it tells me that you
don't love me at all, I'll stick pins into your legs. What better proofs
of love do you want?'

"But Dodolphe finds himself sometimes on his uppers.

"'You say you haven't got any money?' cries the grisette; 'bah! what a
nuisance it is that one always has to have money to live on and enjoy
one's self! Wait a minute; I've got a merino dress and a winter shawl;
it's summer now, so I don't need 'em. They'll be better off at _my
aunt's_ than they are in my room, for there are moths there; they'll be
better taken care of, and with what I can get on 'em we'll go and have
some sport.'

"The grisette carries out her plan: she puts her clothes in pawn,
without regret or melancholy. If she had money, she would give it to her
lover. As she often spends all that he has, it seems natural to her to
spend with him all that she has: she is neither stingy, saving, nor
selfish.

"A grisette's lodging is a curious place; but she hasn't always a
lodging to herself; very often she simply perches here and there. She
will stay a week with her lover, three weeks with a friend of her own
sex, and the rest of the time with her fruiterer or her concierge. When,
by any chance, she does possess a domicile and furniture of her own, the
grisette's bosom swells with pride, even when the furniture in question
consists of nothing more than a cot, a mirror, and one broken chair. She
takes delight in saying: 'I shall stay _at home_ this evening,' or: 'I
don't expect to leave _home_ to-morrow. I have an idea of doing _my
room_ over in color; it's all the style now, especially yellow; when
it's well rubbed, it makes more effect than furniture.'

"It is she who writes on her door, with a piece of Spanish chalk, when
she goes out: _I am at my nabor's, down one flite._

"But the grisette is not obliged to know the rules of orthography; and
if she spoke the purest French, her conversation would probably seem
less amusing; there are so many people who attract by their bad
qualities.

"Sometimes the grisette ventures to give an evening party. When she is
in the mood, she will invite as many as seven people. On such occasions,
the bed does duty as a divan, the blinds as benches, the cooking stove
as a table, and the lamp from the staircase is placed on the mantel to
take the place of a chandelier. Punch is brewed in a soup tureen, and
tea in a saucepan; they drink from egg cups, there is one spoon for
three persons, and the hostess's shawl serves as a table cloth and as a
napkin for all the company; all of which does not prevent the guests
from laughing and enjoying themselves; for the most genuine enjoyment is
not that which costs the most. This is not a new maxim, but it is very
consoling to those who are not favored by fortune."

As he said this, Dumouton glanced down at himself, with a profound sigh.
But encouraged, I doubt not, by a glimpse of the ends of his cravat, by
that profusion of linen, to which he was not accustomed, he speedily
resumed his smiling expression and continued his discourse.

"I come now, messieurs, to the last division of my trilogy, the
_lorettes_, who are grisettes of the front rank--the _tip-toppers_! By
that I mean that they are sought by the fashionable lions, the dandies,
the Jockey Club--in a word, by those gentry who have a liking for
spending money freely with women, and who have the means to do it.

"The lorettes live in the Chaussee d'Antin, the Nouvelle-Athenes, the
Champs-Elysees, the quarter of _sport_, of the _turf_, or, if you
prefer, of the horse traders. They are found, too, in quite large
numbers, in the new streets. When a fine house is completed--that is to
say, when the stairs are in place, so that the different floors are
accessible, the proprietor lets apartments to lorettes, _to dry the
walls_, as they say. They hire dainty suites, freshly decorated;
everyone knows that they won't pay their rent, but the rooms are let to
them because they draw people to the house; they attract other tenants;
not honest bourgeois--nay, nay!--but fashionable young men, rich old
bachelors, and sometimes men with stylish carriages.

"By the way, the lorette is exceedingly frank in this respect. One of
them was inspecting a beautiful suite on Rue Mazagran, when the
concierge, who probably did not know whom he was dealing with, was
simple enough to tell her the price, repeating several times that she
could not have it for less than fifteen hundred francs. Irritated by his
persistence, the lorette stared at him as if he were a monstrosity,
exclaiming:

"'Look you, monsieur, who do you think you're talking to? What
difference does it make to me what the rent is, when I never pay?'

"The lorette dresses stylishly and coquettishly; she leaves a trail of
perfume behind her. She has magnificent bouquets, and her gloves are the
object of much solicitude. At a distance, one might take her for a lady
of rank and fashion; but to hear her speak is fatal, and the illusion
vanishes at once, her language being infinitely less pure than the
polish on her boots.

"The lorette seeks to eclipse the grisette, whom she pretends to look
down upon, but to whom she is vastly inferior, none the less. She has no
lover, she has keepers. And yet she is not a kept woman, for such a one
sometimes remains a long while with the same _monsieur_, whereas the
lorette is constantly changing.

"The grisette likes young men; the lorette prefers men of mature years.

"The Hippodrome and the Cirque des Champs-Elysees are the resorts which
the lorettes particularly affect. In the afternoon, they go thither to
admire the bold horse-men jumping fences, or the women driving chariots
in the ring. The Hippodrome audience being, as a rule, frivolous,
dandified, and fashionable,--especially on weekdays,--these ladies are
almost certain to make their expenses.

"In the evening, they go to admire Baucher; they jump up and down in
ecstasy on their benches when Auriol makes some new hair-raising plunge.
The lorette is never tired of repeating to her _spouse_--for so she
calls her friend of the moment--that she knows nothing more beautiful
than a horse.

"The lorette gives evening parties, where there are always many men and
very few women. All games are played there, from lotto to lansquenet.
These ladies are passionately fond of gambling; but when they take their
places beside a green cloth, they tell you frankly that they propose to
win; it is for you to take your measures accordingly. One day, at a game
of lansquenet, the banker being a pretty lorette, someone discovered
that she was cheating, and she was charged with it; far from denying the
charge, she began to laugh, and retorted: 'Mon Dieu! what does it matter
whether I take your money this way or some other way?'

"The lorette knows nothing but money; don't continue to show yourself in
her presence when your purse is empty, for her love will surely have
followed your cash. She is not the woman to pawn her clothes in order to
have a jollification with you.

"The lorette has handsome furniture, but she doesn't pay for it, any
more than she pays her rent. If you take her to dine at a restaurant,
she will begin by playing the prude. She will declare that she isn't
hungry; she doesn't like this or that; one thing makes her sick, another
is abhorrent to her. But in the end she gets tipsy and has indigestion.

"The proper method, in my opinion at least, is to take a lorette for a
day, a grisette for a month, and a fillette for life, when you meet one
who has found time during the day to dress herself and arrange her hair,
to do her housework, eat her breakfast, watch her soup kettle, and tie
her shoestrings; for then you will have discovered a phoenix, or the
eighth wonder of the world.

"To sum up, the fillette craves sentiment, the grisette pleasure, the
lorette money.

"I venture to hope, messieurs, that you will accept this superficial
study of women instead of a _bonne fortune_; especially as it is a very
long while since fortune has been kind [_bonne_] to me; and, unluckily,
I have had no leisure to think of love making, so that I could tell you
nothing worthy of a hearing after all that I have had the pleasure of
listening to."




VI

MONSIEUR FOUVENARD'S _BONNE FORTUNE_.--THE GINGERBREAD WOMAN


Everybody had listened with pleasure to Monsieur Dumouton's study of
womankind. Only Monsieur Faisande, without a word, left his seat and
disappeared while the author was talking. The disappearance of the
Treasury clerk did not grieve us overmuch, nor did it interfere with our
drinking and laughing and saying whatever came into our heads. But as
Balloquet seemed to possess some private information concerning that
modest personage, I determined to question him on the subject; for I
was anxious to know whether I was mistaken in my conjectures, and
whether I owed Monsieur Faisande an apology for the evil thoughts of him
that had come to my mind.

Fouvenard was the only one of the party who had not yet narrated his
little adventure. Dupreval, our host, turned to that gentleman, whose
features, the nose alone excepted, were buried beneath the wilderness of
beard, moustache, whiskers, and eyebrows, which invaded his face and
threatened to transform it into a wig.

Monsieur Fouvenard passed his hand across his forehead and ran it
through his mane, as he said:

"I have been looking over my catalogue, but I haven't succeeded in
disentangling anything as yet. And so, messieurs, I propose to tell you
the story of my last love affair; it is still quite fresh. It is not my
last _bonne fortune_, but it is the most entertaining, I think, of the
later ones; you may judge for yourselves.

"Two or three months ago, having nothing to do one Sunday, and being
unable to endure the day in Paris, which, as you all know, messieurs, is
insufferable on Sunday, especially when it's fine; for then the streets
and boulevards are overrun by a crowd of people with outlandish faces,
walking arm in arm, four or five and sometimes six in a row, and making
it as tiresome to walk as it is difficult--in a word, I jumped aboard a
train in the first railway station I came to, without so much as
inquiring where it would take me. I believe I would have travelled a
long distance--to Belgium, perhaps--I was so disgusted with Paris that
Sunday! But the train I took did not go so far; my journey was very
brief, and I soon found myself in the pretty village of Sceaux. When I
say _village_, I am wrong, for Sceaux is a small town; but the instant
that I see trees and fields and green grass, I cannot believe that I am
near a town.

"I left my car, or my diligence,--I am not sure which I was in,--and
walked about at random. The Bal de Sceaux, once so brilliant and
crowded, has lost much of its popularity. Everything has its day,
messieurs! open-air balls as well as great empires, and beauty! The
Vendanges de Bourgogne had ceased to exist. That lively restaurant,
where so many banquets and ultra _chicard_ balls used to be given, and
where the women danced in _tableau vivant_ costume,--a place that owed
its vogue originally to its excellent sheep's trotters,--has closed its
doors; let us hope that it will reopen them. And even the Meridien!--the
Meridien! I will not insult you by asking you if you ever went there!
Who is the man, provided he is ever so little a lady's man, who has not
been to the Meridien, where the private rooms were so well arranged for
congenial parties? Well, messieurs, that charming little restaurant,
which, as you know, was close by here, has also closed its doors. In
fact, everything has been demolished, even the Cadran Bleu. That once
famous resort has vanished from Boulevard du Temple. Upon my word, it is
really heartrending! Where shall we go now to dine, when we have a
pretty woman to entertain? I am grieved to say it, messieurs, but
suitable places are becoming very rare in Paris; one must needs go
_extra muros_ to find silence, secrecy, and all the comforts which add
to the charm of a tete-a-tete; and one has not always the leisure to go
out of Paris.

"Excuse me for indulging in these reflections--I return to my subject. I
had been strolling about Sceaux for some time, and I noticed that those
peasant girls who were dressed coquettishly and arrayed in all their
finery, those, in short, who seemed disposed to dance and enjoy
themselves generally, were leaving the town and going in the direction
of Fontenay-aux-Roses.

"I at once made inquiries of a worthy woman who sold gingerbread, and
who seemed to view with an expression of alarm the general desertion of
the population. By the purchase of a huge gingerbread man for four sous,
for which I paid cash, and by praising her cookery, I gained the
huckster's good will.

"'Where are all these girls going in their Sunday clothes?' I inquired,
bravely attacking my gingerbread man's foot.

"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, as if there was any need of asking! _Pardine!_
they're going to Fontenay, on the pretext that there's a fete there
to-day; and there'll be a little fair, and a man to tumble and play
tricks, and make a fool of himself. As if it wasn't a hundred times
nicer here! As if our ball wasn't a hundred times finer! But they all
have the devil in 'em, and they lead each other on. There's no way to
stop 'em. So you're my first customer to-day; I ain't sold two sous'
worth all day long.'

"'Well, why don't you do as everybody else does? What is there to hinder
you from moving your stall and your gingerbread to Fontenay-aux-Roses?'

"'Oh! monsieur, we folks don't go changing about like that. People have
been used to seeing me here, on this same spot, for thirty years; and if
they should miss me, especially on a Sunday, they'd say: "Why, where in
the world's old Mere Giroux? She must be sick, or dead."--And it would
hurt my trade if folks thought that; because, you see, monsieur, I have
regular customers, although you might not think so. They're folks from
Paris, who always buy stuff of me for their young ones, when they come
to Sceaux. And it don't pay to put our customers out; we can't afford to
lose regular ones when we have any, just to make a few more sous one
day; and I have some, as I tell you.'

"I was about to leave Mere Giroux, who was so proud of having regular
customers, when I saw three girls coming along, arm in arm, hopping
rather than walking. Two of them had the costume and general aspect of
the peasant girls of the neighborhood; they were dressed very
coquettishly, in white gowns, silk aprons, little caps trimmed with lace
and bows of ribbon, and even gloves, messieurs; yes, it's not a rare
thing nowadays, in the outskirts of Paris, on a holiday, to see gloved
peasant girls. They don't use musk as yet, thank God! but with time and
railroads, I feel sure that the women of nature will soon perfume
themselves like cultivated women; and, to tell the truth, it will be an
agreeable change, for they don't smell very sweet as a rule. I ask
Nature's pardon, but it's the truth.

"My two peasants, then, had paid much attention to their costume; but,
for all that, under their fine clothes they were genuine rustics. One
could see that by their arms and feet, by their manners, by their loud
laughter, and by the red blotches with which their faces were covered.
Moreover, those same faces, while they were not ugly, were not specially
attractive, except for their extreme freshness. So that my eyes did not
rest long on those young women; but it was not so with the third member
of their party, although her dress was almost a counterpart of her
companions'.

"You see, it isn't the cap that makes a girl pretty, but the way she
puts it on and wears it; and so it is with the rest of her attire. The
young person who caught my eye was some eighteen years of age; she was
above middle height, slender, graceful, and willowy; for one can see
that, at a glance, in the slightest motion of the body. There was
nothing extraordinary about her features, but the face as a whole
attracted one instantly. She was a blonde, with blue eyes and red lips;
when she laughed, her mouth assumed a delicious expression, in which
innocence and mischief were blended; her teeth were well arranged, and,
while they could not be described as 'pearls set in rose leaves,' as it
is customary to describe a pretty woman's mouth, they were beyond
reproach; her hair, which was slightly tinged with gold, was arranged in
little curls, in the style called, I believe, _a la neige_. In that
respect, there was a notable difference between her and her two
companions, whose hair was glued to their temples in little
heartbreakers. What more can I say? There was an indefinable something
about that girl which indicated that she had not always lived in the
fields. There was a savor of Paris about her; for a woman who never
leaves her village does not acquire the manners, the bearing, the ease,
which contrast so sharply with the awkward accomplishments of the
country.

"My pretty blonde wore a striped lilac and white dress. She also wore a
silk apron; but hers was of a grayish purple which harmonized perfectly
with her gown. Her cap was very simple, but in the best taste, and
perched so daintily on the top of her head that it seemed hardly to
touch it. Her shoes were black, and the feet within them were small,
narrow, and gracefully arched; the leg was small, but not thin, and gave
promise of excellent outlines. You will agree, messieurs, that all this
was well adapted to attract my glances.

"The three girls were passing Mere Giroux, when she detained them.

"'Well, where are you girls going, I'd like to know,' she cried, 'that
you're all rigged up and sail by, all three of you, proud as ortolans,
without so much as bidding me good-day?'

"They stopped at that, and bade the dealer in gingerbread good-morning.

"'Bonjour, Mere Giroux!'

"'It's because we're in a hurry; we're going to Fontenay-aux-Roses.'

"'We're going to dance.'

"'We're going to see the shows, and the animals, and the monkeys.'

"'Mon Dieu! you can see all that here! It ain't worth while to go out of
your way to see monkeys!'

"'Nonsense! it's going to be a lovely fete at Fontenay. You can see for
yourself that everybody's going there.'

"'Everybody's just stupid enough; when one makes a spitball, the rest
would rather be hung than not do as much.'

"'Oh! Mere Giroux! how spiteful you are!'

"'I say, you Dargenettes, do your parents let you go running about the
country like this, without them?'

"'_Pardi!_ nobody'll kidnap us. Besides, Mignonne's with us.'

"'Bless my soul! Mignonne's a fine dragon, ain't she? Why, she's
younger'n you! and she rolls her eye the minute anyone looks at her, as
if it gave her cramp in the stomach.'

"Mignonne was evidently the pretty blonde in the centre, for she
answered at once with a saucy little smile, and a glance at me out of
the corner of her eye; for during this conversation I was still
standing near the gingerbread stall, and still munching my four-sous'
purchase.

"'If I am young, Mere Giroux, that doesn't prevent my keeping an eye on
these girls; for I've been in Paris, and I'm not to be caught.'

"'You, Mignonne! nonsense! You'll be caught sooner than the others, I'll
bet! You're too sugary; you'll melt!'

"'Anyway,' cried the other two, 'do you suppose we're afraid of men?
Why, there's nothing frightful about 'em!'

"'If they'd grow, I'd plant a field of them.'

"Whereupon they roared with laughter; but pretty Mignonne took no part
in it; she pulled her companions away, crying:

"'Au revoir, Mere Giroux! Au revoir!'

"'What! ain't you going to buy as much as a stick of barley sugar, to
suck on the way?'

"'By and by, when we come back; to cool us off.'

"When the girls had gone, the huckster complained more loudly than ever
about the nuisance of the fetes in the neighboring villages. For my
part, I was determined to have another look at the blonde whom they
called Mignonne, but I desired, first of all, to obtain some information
concerning her. I began by buying a huge square of gingerbread, larded
with almonds, while loudly praising what I had already eaten. Mere
Giroux, flattered to the melting point, gazed at me with an expression
that seemed to say:

"'Ah! if all the young men who come to Sceaux only liked gingerbread as
much as this gentleman does!'

"'Mere Giroux,' I said, carefully bestowing my new purchase in my
pocket, 'you seem to know those young women who went by just now?'

"'_Pardi!_ I know everybody in the neighborhood, I do!'

"'Are they farmers' daughters?'

"'Yes, the two dark ones are, the Dargenettes. They're good enough
girls, for all their talk about men; if anybody should go too far with
'em, they'd do good work with their feet and hands and nails, I'll
warrant. They like to fool, but they're virtuous! And then, their father
wouldn't stand any fooling. Old Dargenette's a gardener, and he ain't
very pleasant every day. He fondled his wife with his rake when she
didn't walk straight; and I guess he'd do the same to his daughters, if
they should go astray. Country folk, monsieur, talk a little free
sometimes, but you mustn't judge 'em by that.'

"'And that other girl with them, whom you called Mignonne? She carries
herself as if she had lived in Paris.'

"'Yes, monsieur; so she has. Mignonne's the daughter of honest laboring
people of this town; but she lost her father and mother when she was
very young. Then she caught the fancy of a lady in Paris, and she took
her away and said she'd give her a good education. Mignonne Landernoy
had nobody left but an old aunt, who wa'n't none too rich. So she let
her niece go; the child was twelve years old then. She stayed in Paris
three years. I don't know just what she learned there--to read and write
and do embroidery, and sew on canvas--in short, a lot of useless things
that make a country girl fit for nothing. So, when she came back to her
aunt, she couldn't be made to work in the fields again. _Ouiche!_ she
said it made her back ache!'

"'But why did she come back? Why did she leave the lady who took her to
Paris?'

"'Because the lady died, and then, you see, her heirs didn't choose to
keep the little girl from Sceaux. They began by turning her out of
doors, and Mignonne was very happy to come back to her old aunt.'

"'Has she been to Paris again since?'

"'No; but I don't think it's for lack of wanting to. You can imagine
that she's kept something of the manners she learned from living with
city folks: a way of acting, and little tricks of speech--Oh! she's no
peasant now. Why, mamzelle sets the fashions here! When the other girls
want to make themselves a cap, or an apron, or a neckerchief, they say:
"I'll go and ask Mignonne if this will look well on me, and how to wear
it."--And it's Mignonne here, and Mignonne there! Why, you'd think she
was an oracle, nothing more or less! When Mignonne says: "You mustn't
wear that," or: "You mustn't walk on your toes like that," or: "You
mustn't dance on that leg," you needn't be afraid they'll do it. And
then, as Mamzelle Mignonne can read novels, she knows lots of stories
and adventures, you see. So, when she's talking, the peasant girls
prick up their ears, like my donkey does when he feels frisky. Why,
those Dargenettes are as proud as peacocks because Mignonne agreed to go
to Fontenay-aux-Roses with them!'

"'But what does the girl do here, as she doesn't work in the fields?'

"'_Dame!_ she makes over dresses, and makes caps for the other girls;
she's the town milliner, but her poor aunt has only just enough for the
two of 'em. And what I can't forgive the girl for is refusing Claude
Flaquart, a good match for her, who was willing to marry her, for all
she didn't have a sou. Claude Flaquart was mad over her. You see, she's
a pretty little thing--and then, her affected ways are sure to turn a
fool's head.'

"'You say she refused him?'

"'Yes, monsieur! Think of refusing a man who owns a field and a
vineyard, three cows, two calves, rabbits, and geese! What in God's name
does she want, anyway? a lord? a potentate?'

"'What reason did she give for refusing such a fine match?'

"'Reasons! a lot she cared for reasons! She didn't like him; that's all
the reason she gave! She said he was a lout, and that he was lame. As if
a man with cows and calves could walk crooked!'

"'Didn't her aunt scold her?'

"'Her aunt's too good-natured--too big a fool, I should say. Claude
Flaquart had his revenge: he married another girl, a head taller than
Mignonne, and he did well. That's what comes o' sending girls to Paris,
when they haven't got any money to set themselves up in business there.
Mignonne will make a fool of herself with some fine young buck from
Paris--I'd stake my head on it! and by and by she'll be sighing for
Claude Flaquart's cottage.'

"'I am delighted to have bought some of your gingerbread, Mere Giroux;
it's very fine. When I come to Sceaux again, you will certainly see me.'

"'You're very good, monsieur; so now you're one of my customers; that
adds to my stock. You'd ought to buy some of this with citron, monsieur;
you'd think you was eating oranges.'

"'I'll save that for the next time.'

"I knew enough. I bade her good-morning, and started for
Fontenay-aux-Roses, which is only a quarter of a league from Sceaux."




VII

MADEMOISELLE MIGNONNE


Monsieur Fouvenard paused to take breath, and drank a glass of
champagne; while we waited for him to continue his narrative, which, I
confess, interested me deeply. For some unknown reason, I trembled to
think of that pretty little Mignonne yielding to the seductions of the
narrator, who, in truth, did not seem to me particularly seductive. But
I am not a woman, and it is possible that that Capuchin beard possessed
a fascination which I cannot understand.

"I soon reached Fontenay," he continued; "I had only to follow the crowd
of people headed for the fete. Once there, I said to myself: 'I shall be
very unlucky if I don't find Mignonne.'

"I had been strolling about for some time in front of the improvised
stalls on a sort of square, when I discovered my three damsels, still
arm in arm, halting in front of all the curiosities, games, and open-air
shows, and giving full vent to the natural merriment of their age,
intensified by Mignonne's satirical comments.

"Most of the young men bowed to them and made some jocose remark,
generally vulgar and indecent, as the custom is among the country folk,
whose innocence has always seemed to me largely apocryphal. The two
Dargenettes replied in the same tone; but when Mignonne said anything,
the young men did not retort; they sneaked away shamefaced, and I heard
them more than once say to one another:

"'Oh! when Mamzelle Mignonne puts her oar in, I ain't smart enough to
answer her back; she's too sharp, she is! Anyone can see that she's
lived in Paris.'

"I approached the three friends and stopped at the stalls and shows at
which they stopped. Mignonne noticed me, and I fancied that she blushed.
One of the Dargenettes looked at me and said:

"'Look! there's that fellow that was eating Mere Giroux's gingerbread.
It looks funny for a Paris gentleman, with a beard, to eat gingerbread
like that.'

"I saw Mignonne nudge the speaker. Probably she told her to keep quiet,
for I heard nothing more.

"I tried to exchange a word or two with them, but they pretended not to
hear me, and made no reply. However, I saw that they whispered together,
and from time to time looked covertly to see if I was still there. At
last they came to a halt where the dancing was in progress. I was
waiting for that. Dancing is not exactly my favorite pastime; but when
it's a question of seducing somebody's daughter, then I become a
fearless dancer. As for young women, almost all of them love dancing;
indeed, there are some in whom the taste amounts to a passion; but if
they had to dance without men, you may be sure that their love for
dancing would soon vanish. Whence I conclude that the actual pleasure of
capering is a secondary matter. But dancing gives an opportunity to show
one's grace and lightness of foot, to play the flirt, to listen to soft
speeches, often to passionate avowals, accompanied by a pressure of the
hand, before the nose of a jealous spectator, who sees nothing, because
it's a part of the figure!--Is it surprising, then, that almost all
women have an inborn passion for the dance?

"I made haste to engage Mademoiselle Mignonne for a contra-dance; for
the polka has not yet descended upon village fetes. She accepted my
invitation with a well-satisfied air. I at once took her hand, and,
leaving her friends, led her away to our places. I say again that
nothing better for lovers, _in esse_ or _in futuro_, has ever been
invented. I very soon entered into conversation with my partner. I was
careful not to go too fast, and not to begin, like an idiot, by telling
her that I adored her; she would have laughed in my face. But I did not
conceal my amazement at her manner, her bearing, her language; I told
her that it could not be that she was born in a village. Thereupon she
told me what I already knew; but I pretended that I heard it for the
first time. I did not squeeze her hand, but I manifested the deepest
interest in her, and engaged her for the next contra-dance. At first,
she made some objections; but I persisted, and she accepted. I saw
plainly enough that it flattered her to dance with a gentleman from the
city.

"When we joined her companions, who had also been dancing, they were
drenched with perspiration and their cheeks were purple; but their
partners had left them without offering them any refreshment. I made
haste to call a waiter who was selling beer or wine, the only
refreshments to be found at open-air fetes.--Oh, yes! there are also
vendors of cocoa.--The beer being brought, the two Dargenettes did not
wait to be asked twice, and Mignonne saw that it would be useless to
stand on ceremony.

"Thus I found myself one of their party. But I behaved with a restraint
and reserve which would have edified Monsieur Faisande. During the
second contra-dance, Mademoiselle Mignonne talked even more freely; and
I saw that, while she had brought back from Paris the pretty manners and
the more refined language which gave her such a great advantage over the
village girls, she had retained the candor and artlessness which we do
not find in city maidens, even in those who have been reared most
strictly. Mignonne was a strange mixture of innocence and knowledge, of
frankness and coquetry, of simplicity and passion. Her stay in Paris,
the people she had seen there, the reading with which she had tired her
memory, had given her a feeling of distaste for the country, although
her mind and her heart still retained all the primitive freshness of a
virgin nature.--Agree, messieurs, that that child was a charming
conquest to contemplate."

"Faith! there was no great merit in the conquest!" cried Balloquet. "The
girl wouldn't have a peasant, so she was sure to fall into the first
snare laid for her by a man from the city; and then, your beard must
have helped you considerably in triumphing over Mademoiselle Mignonne."

"Why so?"

"Because it partly hides your face."

Fouvenard shrugged his shoulders, threw a bread ball at Balloquet, and
resumed his narrative.

"After the second contra-dance, Mignonne said that she wanted to walk
about. I asked leave to accompany them, and I had been so polite that
they could not refuse me. Indeed, I think that they were not anxious to
do so; the Dargenettes, because they liked to be treated; and Mignonne,
because she was flattered to have a young Parisian for her escort.

"She declined to take my arm; but I walked beside her, as she was no
longer between her friends. I paid for their admission to all the shows
under canvas, of the sort that are always found at an out-of-doors fete.
Mignonne tried to refuse at first, but the two peasants hurried into the
strolling theatre, and the pretty blonde had to follow them in order not
to be left alone with me.

"Toward the end of the evening, we were like old acquaintances. I had
treated them to everything obtainable, and I had even danced with
Mignonne's friends.

"We left the fete together. It was dark, and they accepted my arm. I had
Mignonne on one side, and one of the peasants on the other; the second
had her sister's arm, so that we walked four abreast. Country people
delight in that, and it reminded me unpleasantly of Sunday strollers in
Paris. I would have preferred to walk alone with Mignonne, but it was
impossible.

"It seemed to me a very short walk, notwithstanding the fact that the
Dargenettes sang all the way, and sang horribly false, murdering every
air they tried. But Mignonne did not sing, and I began to press
affectionately the arm that lay in mine.

"Chance willed that we reached the peasants' house before Mignonne's.
They said good-night, and kissed one another laughingly. I heard them
whispering, and could make out that I was the subject. The Dargenettes
said: 'You have made a conquest of the bearded man! Look out he don't
kidnap you!' and other witticisms of the same sort."




VIII

AN EXPEDIENT


"At last I was alone with that pretty girl. I need not tell you,
messieurs, that I became loving, eloquent, urgent. Mademoiselle Mignonne
laughed at everything I said; but it pleased her. As a general rule,
when that sort of thing doesn't please a woman, she doesn't listen to
the man who tries it on. As soon as we are listened to, we can be sure
of triumphing. I requested an assignation. She refused; but I declared
that I would come to Sceaux every day; to which she replied that she
could not prevent my meeting her.

"To make a long story short, messieurs, I met Mignonne the next day, and
the next, and every day that week. I spent a good deal in railroad
fares; but one must be willing to sow if he would reap.

"After ten or twelve days, I had completely turned the girl's head, and
I persuaded her to go with me to Paris, where I promised her a brilliant
existence, pleasure by the wholesale, and, above all, a never-ending
love. Mademoiselle Mignonne set great store by that, I assure you. She
was a romantic maiden. But it costs us men nothing to promise, you
know! I am not sure, indeed, that I didn't mention marriage; but I think
not.

"It all resulted in a little fifth-floor room, under the eaves, in a
house on Rue de Menilmontant. I furnished it with whatever was
necessary, nothing more, and covered the walls with paper at twelve sous
the roll. I must confess that my love was not exacting; she desired
neither a palace, nor a cashmere shawl, nor a carriage; my
presence--that was all that was necessary to satisfy her.

"That state of affairs lasted for several months. At the end of that
time, I would have been very glad to be rid of my conquest; I had had
enough of her. If she had been sensible, I would have said to her,
frankly:

"'My dear girl, I did love you, but I don't love you any more. It was
sure to come, sooner or later; liaisons like ours never last very long;
it's all the same, whether we make an end of it now, or six months
hence. Make another acquaintance, or return to Sceaux, as you please;
for my part, I have the honor to bid you good-day.'

"But, as I said, I had to do with a young woman who had never thoroughly
understood Paris and the Parisians, but who had seen them through a
miraculous prism. Moreover, she proved to have a strength of character
which astonished me. She had honestly believed that I would never leave
her. You will say, perhaps, that it was in my power to cease going to
see her; but, unluckily, at the beginning of our liaison, I had been
idiotic enough to take her to my lodgings, and to show her the shop in
which I am a partner; so if I had let a day or two pass without seeing
her, what would have happened? Why, she would have come after me, either
at my lodgings or at my shop; and that would have led to a very annoying
scene, especially as my partner is almost as ridiculous as Monsieur
Faisande, and believes me to be a perfect Cato.

"So there was nothing for me to do but break with my girl in such a way
as effectually to take away the desire to hunt me up in my own quarters.
A confidential disclosure which she made to me intensified my longing to
put an end to the connection: she informed me that she bore a pledge of
our love. Fancy me with a woman and child on my hands!--Damnation,
messieurs! put yourselves in my place."

Monsieur Fouvenard paused to look at us all. But no one answered; and he
continued, evidently surprised by the profound silence and the almost
stern expression of his hearers:

"So I looked about for an opportunity to break with her; what I needed
was a tempestuous, violent scene, for a German quarrel would not have
sufficed to part us.--I had then and still have a friend, a fellow who
is very enterprising with the fair sex, and almost as fascinating as
myself. That is saying a good deal, perhaps, but it's true. You must
have heard of him: his name is Rambertin, and he is a commercial
traveller who has left Ariadnes in all the places he ever visited. I had
met him several times, in the early days of my liaison with Mignonne,
when I took my love to Mabille or the Chateau-Rouge. He had found the
young lady of Sceaux much to his taste. One day, meeting me when I was
alone and rather depressed, he asked me what I had done with my
_blondinette_.

"'Parbleu!' said I; 'I would to God I had nothing more to do with her!
If you could rid me of her, you would do me a very great favor.'

"'Are you speaking seriously?' cried Rambertin.

"'Most seriously.'

"'Then it's a bargain.'

"'But you don't know that Mignonne adores me; what you must do is to
arrange matters so that I can break with her.'

"Rambertin began to laugh and rub his hands.

"'It seems to me,' he said, 'that I've a longer head than you; for when
it's a matter of breaking off a liaison, I can always think of ten ways
to do it. Of course, you go to see your fair whenever you choose; and
you probably have a key to her room, so that you can go in when she's in
bed?'

"'That is true.'

"'Give me your key. To-morrow I will have one like it, and the thing
will go of itself.'

"The next day, Rambertin had a key like the one I had loaned him, which
he returned to me, saying:

"'I know where the lady lives. It's a house where there's a concierge
with five cats; but I am about your size, I'll cover my face with my
cloak, and this very night I'll sleep in Mignonne's room. I fancy that
she sleeps without a light. I will act so cautiously that she will not
suspect that another man is occupying your place. You must come there
early to-morrow morning; you have your key, so you can come in and
surprise me reposing beside your charmer. I should say that you would
have the right to lose your head then, call her a faithless hussy, and
drop her.'

"I considered it a magnificent plan, and it was put in execution.
Rambertin is audacious beyond description. Everything succeeded as we
hoped. I went to Mignonne's room very early the next morning. She was
still asleep beside my substitute, suspecting nothing. And Rambertin too
pretended to be asleep. But I was no sooner in the room than I made a
great outcry. I called Mignonne faithless, perjured--Oh! messieurs, if
you could have seen the girl's amazement and horror! I assure you, it
was an intensely dramatic picture. She declared that she was not guilty,
that she was the victim of a detestable piece of treachery. She tried to
throw herself at my feet, to force me to listen to her. But as I was not
at all anxious that she should justify herself, I left the room,
shouting that all was over between us.

"I confess that I was afraid that Mignonne would try to see me again,
that she would waylay me somewhere, to try again to convince me of her
innocence; but several days passed, and I heard nothing of her. At last,
I met Rambertin.

"'Well,' I said, 'the _blondinette_ seems to have been consoled very
quickly; you couldn't have had much difficulty in making her listen to
reason.'

"'You're devilishly mistaken,' he replied; 'on the contrary, your
Mignonne is a young woman who refuses to be tamed. At first, being
persuaded that you believed her guilty, she was determined to go after
you, to dog your steps and compel you to listen to her. Faith! my dear
fellow, when I saw how it was, I just simply confessed our little scheme
to bring about a rupture between you two. The effect of that confession
was most extraordinary. At first, the girl refused to believe me, but I
proved to her that I was telling the truth: I had a little note from
you, telling me at what cafe I could find you, to return the key of
Mignonne's room. I showed her that note, and she could have no further
doubt. She said just this: "The infamous villain!" Not another word
about going after you. "Now," says I to myself, "she's at odds with him
for good and all; I must try to obtain my pardon." And I tried to make
her understand that I had loved her for a long while, and that only the
intensity of my passion could have induced me to second you in that
affair. But Mademoiselle Mignonne, without deigning to reply to my
entreaties, pointed to the door and said:

"'"Leave this room, monsieur, and never let me see your face again, or I
will go to the magistrate and tell him of your shameful conduct."

"'I tried in vain to make her understand that the night we had passed
together gave me some rights over her; the fair Mignonne was immovable.
I tried to steal a kiss; she shrieked so loud that the neighbors came to
their windows. And so, faith! I went away; but let her do what she will,
I'll bide my time, I'll seize the first favorable opportunity, and we
won't stop where we are!'

"Such, messieurs, was Rambertin's story, and that is how I broke off my
liaison with the damsel of Sceaux. Don't you think the method I resorted
to was very ingenious? I'll wager that you'll bear it in mind, in order
to make use of it on occasion!"

Monsieur Fouvenard looked at us, one after another, as if he expected
compliments and congratulations; but, on the contrary, nobody spoke, and
almost every face had assumed a serious expression. Indeed, there were
some faces on which he seemed to detect something more than mere
seriousness; for, I am happy to say, his narrative found no sympathy
among us.

As for myself, I had always felt a sort of repulsion for that young man,
a repulsion of the sort that one cannot describe, but that one often
feels for a certain person. At that moment, I was gratified to think
that I had always disliked a man capable of such dastardly, vile
behavior as he boasted of in connection with that poor girl from Sceaux.
The portrait he had drawn of Mignonne interested and touched me; and it
seemed to me that I should like to know her, and to avenge her for the
infamous way in which she had been victimized.

Dupreval, who had observed the unpleasant impression produced by the
bearded man's tale, and who, presumably, was not proud of having that
individual for his guest, was the first to speak.

"It has taken you a long while, Fouvenard," he said, in an almost harsh
tone, "to compose the anecdote you have just told us; but, frankly, you
would have done as well to keep silent instead of regaling us with that
tale of seduction, the denouement of which may be worthy of the Regency,
but is not at all suited to our code of morals; for nowadays, when a man
desires to leave a mistress, it is no longer necessary to degrade her,
to throw her into his friend's arms. Those are old-fashioned methods,
which you have read about in some old memoirs of Cardinal Dubois's time;
but, I say again, you were not happy in your choice of events."

"What's that! old-fashioned methods!" cried Fouvenard, running his hands
through his hair--a favorite gesture of his, especially when he desired
to be impressive, to produce an effect; and it did, in fact, make him a
few lines taller by making his hair stand up for the moment. "I have
invented nothing, messieurs. I have told the story exactly as it
happened. Anyone who doubts it has only to call on Mademoiselle
Mignonne, No. 80, Rue de Menilmontant,--that is, if she still lives
there,--and it is probable that she will give him a mass of details
concerning her perfidious Ernest, which I have forgotten. Ernest is my
Christian name, messieurs, and that is what she always called me. It is
possible that my story shocks you; but, at all events, it's all one to
me. I snap my fingers at your displeasure! You make me laugh, with your
long, solemn faces! I take reproofs from no one; the man who chooses to
administer one has only to speak--I am ready to answer him."

"Oh! messieurs! pray beware!" cried Balloquet, with a laugh. "I warn you
that Fouvenard is extremely quarrelsome in his cups. Three or four more
glasses of champagne, and he's just the boy to defy us all!"

"I beg you not to make fun of me, Balloquet."

"Ah! the boar is bristling up."

"Monsieur," said I, irritated by Fouvenard's tone and manner, "if you
pride yourself on your adventure with this village girl of Sceaux, I
fancy that we, on our side, are at liberty to condemn it. It is quite
possible that that makes no difference to you. For my own part, I
declare that I have deceived many women, but I would never have resorted
to such methods as yours to break with them."

"Parbleu! monsieur, perhaps you don't need to take much trouble to
induce your mistresses to leave you."

"Frankly, I should prefer that to your expedients; the man who is
deceived is often more interesting than the deceiver."

"And you have often been in that interesting position?"

Dupreval put an end to our dispute by rising.

"Messieurs," he said, "I beg you once more to receive my farewell
greeting as a bachelor."

We all rose to shake hands with our host. I observed then that Dumouton
took the longest road, for he made the circuit of the table. But he had
long had his eye on some superb pears which had not been touched; and,
as he passed them, he seized two, which he succeeded, not without
difficulty, in stuffing into his pockets, thereby producing the effect
of two miniature balloons on his hips; and as they raised the skirts of
his coat, they disclosed the fact that the seat of his trousers was of a
different color from the front.

We said good-night, took our hats, and prepared to leave the restaurant.
But the music was still in progress, playing a captivating waltz, which
was like an invitation to ask a lady to dance.




IX

THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE FRONT ROOMS


Balloquet and I were the last to leave the room in which we had dined;
and, as we took our hats, we glanced at each other, beating time to the
music, and I verily believe we were on the point of waltzing together,
when the strains of a polka, nearer at hand, chimed in discordantly with
the other music.

"Oho! there are several balls here, are there?" Balloquet asked a
waiter, who was looking at us and smiling.

"Yes, messieurs; there are two wedding parties: one right below us, on
the first floor, and another on the same floor, but in the salons at the
rear."

"Ah! so there's a wedding going on in the rear, too?"

"To be sure, monsieur."

"What time is it now?"

"Half-past eleven, monsieur."

"The wedding parties should be at their height. Are there many guests?"

"A great many, monsieur. They are hardly able to dance, they're so
crowded."

"Which is the more brilliant party?"

"They're both pretty fine, monsieur. But the one in front rather beats
the other. It's a sweller affair."

"I understand. The one in the rear is more free and easy. They're
probably dancing the cancan there. Sapristi! and it's only midnight! The
idea of going to bed, when other people are going to pass the night
enjoying themselves! when you can hear a lusty orchestra playing tunes
that make your legs itch! Do you like the idea, Rochebrune? Don't you
feel tempted, as I do, to go to one of these balls downstairs, where
they're tripping the light fantastic?"

"I do, indeed! I would go with all my heart. This music makes me dance
all over."

"Do you want to bet that I won't go to one of these balls?"

"Do you mean it? You would have the face to do it, when you don't know
anyone?"

"Why not? I'll show you what a simple thing it would be. There are two
balls. I go to one. If by chance some ill-bred wight sees fit to ask me
who I am, whom I know, why, I have my answer all pat: 'I was invited to
the other party, on the same floor; I made a mistake, that's all.'"

"Upon my word, that would be an excuse. You make me want to do the same
thing."

"Bravo! It's decided: we will both go to the ball. And then, you see, we
know so many people! it would be deuced strange if we didn't see some
familiar face in a large party. Then we will just say in an undertone:
'You brought me here;' and our acquaintance will ask nothing better than
to be our sponsor. Besides, we will dance, and dancing men are always
scarce at balls; sooner or later, it will be the fashion to hire them.
They'll be only too glad to have us. Come, which one do you choose; it's
all one to me."

"And to me, too."

"Well, I'm a good fellow: the ball in front is more stylish; I'll let
you have that one, and I'll take the one behind. Especially, as I feel
in the mood for dancing a cancan, if it's a bit _chicardini_. Does that
suit you?"

"Perfectly."

"We're in patent-leathers and have new gloves. It couldn't be
better.--Waiter, just whisk your napkin over our boots. That's right;
now we're as refulgent as suns; patent-leather boots are a blessed
invention.--Forward! I may be mistaken, but I have an idea that I shall
make a good thing out of this ball; and you?"

"I haven't so much assurance as you. But, deuce take it! after all,
we're not people without hearth or home. And, as you say, we might
easily make a mistake in the party. Come on!"

"That's the talk: forward, to the cannon's mouth!"

We went down one flight; Balloquet humming and hopping; I, slightly
flustered, but none the less determined to enjoy myself. We reached the
landing between the two balls; we heard both orchestras.

"Good luck!" said Balloquet; and he entered the door at the right, while
I turned to the left.

I entered the room where they were dancing. A quadrille was just
beginning.

"A fourth couple here! we want a vis-a-vis!" called a gentleman close
beside me.--Then he looked at me and said: "Won't you be our
vis-a-vis?"

"Gladly," I replied; and glancing about, I saw a lady sitting alone on a
bench. I hastened to invite her to dance. She accepted. We took our
places opposite the gentleman who had no vis-a-vis; the music began and
we did the same; and, lo! I was dancing already before I had had time to
look about me and become acquainted with the company into which I had so
audaciously thrust myself.

But a man who is dancing never has a suspicious look; nobody observes
him or pays any attention to him. It seemed to me that I had taken the
best possible means to become acquainted with my surroundings.

After the first figure, I began by examining my partner, whom I had
chosen at random, so to speak.

Chance had served me well. My partner was a very pretty brunette; her
great blue eyes were at once tender and intelligent, and I deemed them
to be capable of saying many things when they chose to take the trouble.
A slightly aquiline nose, an attractive mouth, beautiful teeth, which
she showed often because she laughed readily, black hair falling in long
curls over her neck, a mode of dressing the hair which I have always
liked--all these details formed a very seductive whole, and that is what
I found in my partner, who was light of foot, slender, with a shapely
figure, and graceful in every movement.

Then I looked about. By the manners of the women, the costumes of the
men, and the prevalent style of dancing, I saw that I had fallen upon a
fashionable assemblage. There was not the slightest suggestion of the
cancan; but, by way of compensation, there was a distinct odor of
patchouli. I was not sure whether they were enjoying themselves much;
but, at all events, they accepted boredom with infinite grace.

I saw many ugly women; in a large party, it rarely happens that they
are not in the majority. That being so, is it surprising that a pretty
woman makes so many conquests? If nature created more of them, beauty
would receive less adulation; but as it appears only at rare intervals,
it attracts more notice.

However, I saw some good-looking women; others who were rather
attractive; others (and that too is common experience) who had no other
attraction than their youth. But I looked in vain for anyone equal to my
partner.

I concluded to open a conversation with her; if, through her, I could
obtain some information concerning the bride and groom, find out
something as to my hosts, it would be of advantage to me in my
embarrassing position.

"I am very fortunate, madame, to have arrived just in time to find you
unengaged. That must be a very rare occurrence, and chance favored me."

"But you see, monsieur, I am in less demand than you seem to think; you
had only to come forward. Have you just come, monsieur? I don't remember
seeing you before."

"Yes, madame, yes; I have not been here long."

"What do you think of the bride? Very pretty, is she not?"

I cast my eyes about me with an embarrassed air; I saw nobody who looked
like a bride. My partner, who noticed my hesitation no doubt, continued:

"Can it be that you haven't seen her yet?"

"Faith! I have not, madame; I have just come, and I have had no time yet
to look for her."

"Look! there she is over yonder, by the orchestra."

I saw a young woman in the conventional costume, with white bouquet and
orange blossoms.

"Do you see her?"

"Yes, madame. But why is she not dancing?"

"Because that great lout of an Archibald trod on her foot just now, and
nearly crushed it. What an awkward creature he is! Anna is obliged to
rest through at least two quadrilles."

I had learned that the bride's name was Anna. That was something.

"Poor Adolphe was in despair. He wanted to fight Monsieur Archibald."

Adolphe--that must be the groom's name.

"I can well understand that," I hastened to reply. "If I had been in
Adolphe's place, I would have been furious, too; for, you know, on the
wedding day----"

"He's so fond of his cousin! But, after all, he could hardly pick a
quarrel with the bride's brother."

The deuce! I was on the point of putting my foot in it.
Cousin--brother--I didn't know where I was. So Adolphe was not the
groom. I was treading on very slippery ground, and had to look carefully
to my steps.

My partner, who was fond of talking, soon began again.

"As for Monsieur Dablemar, I fancy that he cares very little about it.
You know the kind of man he is?"

That question embarrassed me sadly. I wondered who Monsieur Dablemar
could be, and I answered, by way of subterfuge:

"Oh! to be sure; Monsieur--Dablemar probably does care very little about
it. That is just what I was thinking, especially, knowing him--as I know
him."

"Are you very intimate with him, monsieur?"

"Very intimate--why, not precisely, madame--but enough so--to have
a--decided opinion about him."

"Do you think that he will make her happy, monsieur?"

"Whom, madame?"

My pretty partner stared at me in amazement as she exclaimed:

"What do you say? whom? Why, his wife, our dear Anna!"

So Monsieur Dablemar was the bridegroom; there was no longer any doubt.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, madame," I hastily replied. "I meant to say that
she will be happy, madame, very happy. At least, that is my honest
opinion."

"I love to think that you are not mistaken. I knew Anna at boarding
school; I know that she has an excellent disposition; and a husband must
needs be very uncongenial to induce her ever to complain of her lot. But
still, to speak frankly, the other one was prettier."

Once more I was beyond my depth. Who was this other one of whom she was
speaking? I turned and looked in another direction; but my partner stuck
to the point.

"And yet," she continued, "they say that he did not love her, that he
neglected her sadly. You must have known her, monsieur, being a friend
of Monsieur Dablemar?"

"Known whom, madame?"

This time my partner looked at me in a very singular way; I was
convinced that she believed that she had fallen in with a lunatic. She
simply said, with a smile:

"You are absent-minded, aren't you, monsieur?"

"It should not be possible with you, madame."

This compliment changed the current of my pretty brunette's thoughts,
and fully restored her amiability.--Oh! flattery! It is like
calumny--some trace of it always remains.

"Your gallantry, monsieur, cannot prevent my thinking that you are
absent-minded. Still, you may have reasons for not choosing to answer
the questions I asked you."

"Well, madame, it is true, I have reasons--very strong ones, indeed."

"I understand."

Sapristi! she was very lucky to understand; for my part, I confess that
that conversation made me much more uncomfortable than I had
anticipated; for I was most anxious not to appear a lunatic in the eyes
of that partner of mine, who seemed prettier to me every minute. There
are people who gain by being looked at, at close range; they are not
numerous, but my partner was one of them. And I was terribly afraid that
my incoherent replies would give her a very contemptuous opinion of me.

"There goes Monsieur Archibald," she continued, after a moment, "trying
to crush somebody else's foot; the way he capers about is perfectly
horrible; I will never dance near him."

I did not know where she saw Monsieur Archibald, so I smiled without
raising my eyes.

"Of course, you know the lady he is dancing with at this moment?"

"No, madame, no; I don't know her."

"But you haven't looked in their direction."

"I beg your pardon."

"Ha! ha! ha!"

My partner indulged in a burst of merriment which worried me. When she
had ceased to laugh, she said:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, pray excuse me; it is very foolish of me to laugh
so."

"Why, madame? laughing is most becoming to you."

"But such a strange idea passed through my head, that I couldn't
possibly keep a serious face."

"If you would tell me your idea--I should be very happy to be taken for
your confidant."

"Oh! I should never dare; for it was you yourself, monsieur, who made me
want to laugh."

"So much the better, madame; I am delighted."

"Look you: for some reason or other, you seem to me to be very much
preoccupied by something."

"Since I have had the pleasure of dancing with you, madame, there would
be nothing surprising in that."

"Oh! monsieur, you are very gallant, I see; but allow me to remark that
your preoccupation has no sort of connection with me!"

"Do you think so, madame?"

"What do you suppose just came into my head?"

"I can't imagine; but if you would deign to tell me----"

"You will think me very childish.--Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, madame?"

"Well, monsieur, I imagined that you had forgotten your handkerchief!"

I could not help laughing with her. Oho! so I had the aspect of a person
who had forgotten his handkerchief. In truth, a man who is without that
useful article is apt to have an anxious, unhappy look; yes, my partner
had thought of something perfectly consistent with the contortions I
must have been guilty of while she was talking to me. But, to prove to
her that she was mistaken, I drew my handkerchief and blew my nose,
although I had no desire to do so.

My partner made a charming little grimace, and said:

"I trust, monsieur, that you will not bear me a grudge for that jest?"

"Far from it, madame; indeed, it proves to me that you are a skilful
reader of countenances."

"Ah! monsieur, that is very unkind of you!"

"No, madame, for you guessed that I was much preoccupied, and you were
not mistaken; but the cause is much more serious than you supposed."

"Really? And will you tell me what it is?--that is to say, if I am not
impertinent to ask you."

"Oh! I should be very glad to confide it to you; but I dare not."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because I am afraid that you would blame me; and I should be so sorry
to incur your displeasure."

"Make haste; the quadrille is almost over!"

"It is--it isn't an easy thing to tell.--Do you waltz, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"May I have the first waltz?"

"I am engaged."

"Oh! what luck! If you knew, madame, what a position I am in!"

"Would you have told me your secret while we were waltzing?"

"Certainly."

"You will think that women are very inquisitive, but I accept. I was
engaged by a young man whom I don't know; I'll tell him that I made a
mistake and that he may have another one."

"Ah! you are extremely kind, madame!"

The quadrille came to an end, and I escorted my partner to the bench
from which I had taken her. The thing for me to do now was to show a
bold front in the midst of that assemblage. In vain did I look about in
all directions, I did not see a familiar face. The company appeared to
be quite select. It was not one of those wedding parties where the
guests shriek and make a great noise in order to persuade themselves
that they are merry; the men strolled quietly through the rooms, or
chatted with the ladies, without any of the shouts of laughter and
violent gesticulations which sometimes give to a large party the
appearance of a tempestuous sea. The deuce! I found that my presence had
been remarked. I met the eye of a stout young man, who had already
passed me twice and scrutinized me closely. I felt ill at ease; the
self-assurance born of the hearty dinner and the wine I had drunk had
already abandoned me; my conversation with my partner, having aroused a
most ardent desire to form a more intimate acquaintance with that lady,
had instantly dissipated the exhilaration that had led me to commit that
signal folly. I was beginning to reflect now, and it must have given me
an extremely foolish aspect.--Suddenly I saw that a gentleman had
stopped beside me and had taken his snuffbox from his pocket. He had one
of those faces which resemble the turkey rather than the eagle; a face
which might perhaps have been venerable, but for an enormous nose which
covered a great part of it. If I could enter into conversation with him,
it seemed to me that I should cut a less awkward figure.




X

A PINCH OF SNUFF.--A FAMILY TABLEAU


I stepped toward him, and, although I never take snuff, I put out my
hand in the direction of his snuffbox, saying:

"With your permission?"

The gentleman was just closing the box, but he hastened to reopen it,
and said to me with an expression to which he tried to impart much
significance:

"Just try that, and tell me what you think of it."

I saw that he attached great importance to the quality of his snuff.
Indeed, when one has a nose of such dimensions, it is natural enough to
give much thought to the question of snuff. I took an enormous pinch,
and resigned myself to the necessity of inhaling it with all my force.
The snuff caught in my nose and throat and eyes all at once. I choked
and sneezed, but I tried to dissemble my inexperience and to appear well
pleased.

My friend shook his head knowingly, as he asked:

"Well! what do you think of it?"

"Excellent! delicious! I have never taken any so good."

"Parbleu! I believe you. Do you recognize it?"

"No, frankly, I do not. But, perhaps, by trying to--wait a moment."

I did what I could to prolong the conversation, for I was determined not
to part with my interlocutor until the orchestra played the first
measure of the waltz. Unluckily, I was not well posted on the subject of
snuff.

"It's of no use for you to think," continued the man with the snuffbox.
"It's a mixture that I make myself. There's _robillard_ in it, and
Belgian, and caporal."

"Ah! I thought there was some caporal. I recognized that."

"There's very little of it. When I have mixed them in just the right
proportions, I add two or three drops, no more, of _eau de melisse_."

"Ah! that's what it is; I said to myself: 'It seems to me that I
recognize that taste.'"

"The taste is barely perceptible; but it lessens the strength of the
_robillard_, which makes people sick sometimes."

"_Fichtre!_ _robillard_ is quite capable of it, especially on an empty
stomach. I have known people, who--but, after all, it depends on whether
you're used to it."

At that moment, I cut such an idiotic figure in my own eyes that I was
tempted to laugh in my own face. Luckily, I had to do with a party who
seemed to be of about the same calibre.

"Monsieur," he said, as he closed his snuffbox, "this is the result of
protracted study; and yet, I never studied chemistry!"

"You astound me! I would have sworn that you were a chemist, simply on
the strength of your snuff."

"That is what many people have said; but I ought to tell you that I have
taken snuff ever since I was thirteen years of age."

"You are quite capable of it!"

"It was prescribed for a disease of the eyes--which, by the way, it
didn't cure. I tried to make Anna take it for an ear trouble she had at
seven years of age; but I couldn't do it. You can't imagine, monsieur,
all of that child's devices to avoid taking snuff. In the first place,
she used to hide my snuffbox, and more than once she threw it out of the
window; then she filled it with very--unpleasant things; I prefer not to
say what they were, but she spoiled my snuff, and she tried to disgust
me with it. Ah! what a mischievous little witch! Who would believe it
now, eh?"

I made no reply, for his mention of Anna reminded me that my partner had
called the bride by that name. Was I conversing with some near relation
of the newly married pair? The thought disturbed me, and I tried to lead
the conversation back to the snuff. Once more I held out my hand,
saying:

"I wonder if I might venture to ask for another pinch--it's so very
good! And now that I know what it's made of, I shall relish it better."

My gentleman solemnly took his snuffbox from his pocket, and was about
to open it, when a girl of fourteen or fifteen years, and very ugly, ran
up to him, crying:

"Uncle Guillardin, you mustn't forget that you're going to dance with me
first; I want to dance, I do, and I've missed three already."

"Yes, yes, don't worry, Joliette; I'll dance with you, as I promised."

"The next one?"

"Yes, the next one."

"Cousin Archibald invited me twice, too, and then he didn't come to get
me; that was awfully mean of him. I told him I'd complain to you, and he
said: 'Go and polk, and let me alone.' That was all the nastier of him,
because he knows I can't polk."

Monsieur Guillardin--I knew now my snuff taker's name--opened his box
and offered it to me; and paying no further heed to the little girl,
who remained by his side, he said:

"One day, monsieur, when I had persisted longer than usual in trying to
make Anna inhale a few grains, it occurred to her to blow into the box
with all her might just as I handed it to her. You can imagine the
result: the snuff filled my eyes--she had taken the precaution to close
her own; I suffered horribly, and for two whole days I couldn't see. But
after that, I ceased trying to give her snuff--Take a pinch."

I sacrificed myself a second time. I have no idea how I succeeded in
inhaling it, but I know that my eyes smarted and that I felt strongly
inclined to weep.

Mademoiselle Joliette, the inaptly named little girl, who had remained
with us, roared with laughter.

"I should think monsieur was trying to be like you, uncle, when Cousin
Anna blew into the snuffbox," she said.

"What! are you still here, Joliette? Go back to my daughter, for you are
maid of honor, you know, and your station is beside the bride."

But Mademoiselle Joliette began to smile in a singular fashion, which
raised her eyebrows--they were naturally too high--and gave to her face
the effect of a mask. Her eyes were fixed upon me; she apparently had
something to say, and dared not say it; my presence seemed to embarrass
her. For my part, being by that time perfectly sure that the individual
with the huge nose was the bride's father, I deeply regretted having
addressed him, and I looked every minute in the direction of the
orchestra, hoping to see the musicians take their instruments.

Monsieur Guillardin seized the opportunity to fill his own nostrils with
snuff; that operation took some time, for each of them must have held
half an ounce; but suddenly Mademoiselle Joliette threw up her head and
began:

"Well, I don't care, uncle; I'm going to tell you why I am staying here.
It's because Cousin Archibald, who was staring at monsieur, said to me
just now: 'Joliette, go and ask father who that man is that he just gave
a pinch of snuff to, and that he's talking to now. I don't know the man,
and I don't think he's been here long. I want to find out who he is,
because there are sharp fellows who sneak into wedding parties sometimes
when they are not invited, so as to stuff themselves with cakes and
ices. But I don't propose to have any such tricks played on us.'--That's
what my cousin told me to ask you."

Imagine my plight; imagine the figure I cut while that detestable little
Joliette was saying all this. I am certain that I changed color several
times. However, I took the boldest course; I forced myself to laugh, and
to act as if I considered the question extremely amusing. When he saw me
laugh, the venerable gentleman with the huge nose deemed it fitting to
do the same, murmuring:

"Ha! ha! That's a pretty good one! I recognize my son Archibald there.
Oh! he's a hothead. Ha! ha! ha! why, if anyone should presume to join
our party without an invitation, he'd annihilate him; he'd begin by
jumping at his throat, like a bulldog. Ha! ha! it's very amusing! My
dear love, just go and tell him that monsieur is--that monsieur's name
is--that I am talking with----"

Monsieur Guillardin looked at me as he uttered these incomplete
sentences. He was just beginning to realize that he too did not know me,
and he awaited my reply with his nostrils open wider than his eyes.

I cannot describe my sensations; I felt huge drops of perspiration on my
forehead, my mouth was parched. It was not stout Archibald's wrath that
alarmed me; but to be treated as a suspicious character, as an intruder
who had come there to get ices and punch! Ah! that thought drove me mad,
and I realized all the impropriety of my conduct. I would have been glad
to vanish through a trapdoor, like stage demons, and take the risk of
breaking a bone or two in my descent.

At that moment the orchestra gave the signal for the waltz.--O blessed
music! never didst thou seem to me so sweet, so melodious, so alluring!
I bowed to the bride's father, saying:

"I beg your pardon, but I am engaged for this dance."

And I fled toward the pretty brunette, who was my last hope, my anchor
of safety. Probably my face betrayed a part of the torment and anguish
that I had just experienced, for the lady rose quickly and put her arm
about me. We began to waltz, and she at once opened the conversation.

"What in heaven's name is the matter, monsieur? you seem much less
cheerful than you were--and that secret that you were to confide to
me----"

"Oh! I am going to tell you everything, madame; I shall be too happy if
you deign to be indulgent to me, and to understand that this is only an
escapade, reprehensible no doubt, but undeserving of---- Mon Dieu! I
don't know what I am saying."

"Speak, I beg you; explain yourself."

"Of course--I believe I am treading on your foot now."

"That's of no consequence."

"First of all, madame, I must tell you that my name is Charles
Rochebrune, that I was born in Paris, of respectable parents; I can
easily prove what I assert."

"Great heaven! do you take me for an examining magistrate? Why do you
tell me all this?"

"So that you may know that I am not a mere vagrant. I had some fortune
once, and I still have about eight thousand francs a year."

"Does this mean that you desire to marry me, monsieur? It is my duty to
warn you that I am married."

"No, madame, no; I don't say all this as a prelude to asking your hand;
but so that you may know that I am not a nobody, a vagabond."

"Oh! I assure you, monsieur, that you haven't the look of one."

"True; but looks are so deceitful that sometimes---- Mon Dieu! now I am
out of step."

"Never mind; pray finish."

"Very well! understand, then, madame, that I dined at this restaurant
to-day with a number of other persons, all men. The dinner was given by
Dupreval, a solicitor, who is about to marry. We celebrated his farewell
to bachelorhood and drank to his approaching marriage; which is
equivalent to telling you, madame, that the champagne was not spared.
The dinner was prolonged to a late hour; we heard the music of this ball
and of the one in the rear--for there's another wedding party there."

"I know it, monsieur. Well?"

"We were just going away, another young man and myself, who were the
last to leave our dining-room, when the music, the delicious waltz they
were playing, gave birth to the most insane idea."

"Ah! I believe I can guess."

"A little enlivened by the champagne, seduced by the melodious music--in
short, madame, Balloquet said to me--Balloquet is my friend's name:
'Let's join the festivities, although we are not invited. Do you go to
one, and I'll go to the other. If anybody notices our intrusion, if we
are questioned, we'll say that we have made a mistake in the party.'--I
allowed myself to be led away by Balloquet's reasoning; he went into the
other ballroom, and I--I came here."

Instead of being indignant, as I feared, my partner burst into a hearty
laugh, which the music hardly sufficed to drown. I allowed her to laugh
freely for several seconds, then I continued:

"So you forgive me, madame?"

"Oh! absolutely, monsieur. What you have done doesn't seem to be very
criminal. It's a little audacious, perhaps, but so amusing!"

"But, madame, it is most essential now that somebody should act as my
sponsor; for the bride's brother, Monsieur Archibald, has noticed me;
and just now, while I was conversing, unwittingly, with an immense nose,
which proves to belong to the bride's father----"

"Monsieur Guillardin?"

"Even so. Well, as I was saying, a young person, instructed by this
corpulent Monsieur Archibald, came and asked Monsieur Guillardin who I
was. It seems that Monsieur Archibald is not always affable, and that he
would probably take this pleasantry of mine badly. As for myself,
madame, I realize that I have done wrong, that I have been guilty of a
reckless piece of folly; but if this Monsieur Archibald tells me so in
unseemly language, I swear that I am not of a temper to put up with it."

My pretty brunette had ceased to laugh.

"In truth," she murmured, "Anna's brother is the sort of fellow who
doesn't understand practical jokes. He's a fool, and, being a fool, he
is exceedingly sensitive; he loses his temper and quarrels over an idle
word. He is very strong, it seems, and that gives him much
self-assurance."

"It matters little to me how strong he is! I am no boxer, myself, and I
don't fight as street porters do."

"Mon Dieu! what is to be done?"

"If you would condescend, madame, to be kind enough to say that I am an
acquaintance of yours, that you invited me to come here--in a word, if
you would present me?"

"I would ask nothing better if I were alone here; but my husband is with
me, and he knows everything and sees everything; he's worse than the
_Solitaire_. He would ask me instantly where I met you."

"See, madame, how they are staring at me already! Look, as we pass
Monsieur Archibald, he points me out to several gentlemen standing near,
and I have no doubt that he is saying to them: 'Do you know that man?'
and they all say _no_."

"Oh! mon Dieu! you make me shudder, monsieur!"

"Look out for me when the waltz comes to an end--and I fancy that will
be soon."

"But I don't want them to turn you out. You waltz so well--really, it
would be a great pity."

"You are too kind, madame; however, if I am not taken under somebody's
protection, it looks as if the affair would turn out badly for me."

"Mon Dieu! if only Frederique were here! she would get you out of the
scrape on the instant, I know."

"What! a lady named _Frederic_?"

"Yes, monsieur--Frederi--que."

"Ah! I understand, the feminine of Frederic. And this lady?"

"She expected to come to Anna's wedding; she promised me she would; but
she hasn't come."

"They are quickening the pace; a few turns more, and I shall be
ignominiously expelled! What I shall regret most of all, madame, is
you--who have been so indulgent to me, and whom it is impossible to see
for an instant without ardently desiring to see you again."

"Oh! monsieur----"

"However, if Monsieur Archibald is discourteous, if he doesn't choose to
accept a proper apology, I promise you that I will show him that he
hasn't a dastard to deal with."

"Oh! don't talk like that! you make me tremble. If I should see my
husband, I----"

My pretty partner did not finish her sentence; the music stopped, the
waltz was at an end. But, almost instantly, my partner uttered a joyful
exclamation and dragged me toward the outer door of the ballroom, saying
in an undertone:

"Come, come; you are saved; here is Frederique!"




XI

MADAME FREDERIQUE


I have no need to say whether I allowed myself to be guided by my pretty
brunette. We forced our way through the crowd, at the expense of a
number of feet which came in our way; my partner held my hand, and I
pressed the protecting hand with which she held it, so that it could not
escape me.

We reached the door of the ballroom just as a lady, newly arrived, was
coming in. My conductress rushed to meet her, dragged her into a small
room set apart for those who wished to converse, and, still without
releasing my hand, led her into a window recess, apart from everybody,
and said to her, laying her hand on her arm:

"Frederique, you have arrived in the nick of time to confer a great
favor on monsieur, and on myself, who--who take an interest in
monsieur."

"What must I do? Tell me, my dear Armantine. I am all ready."

"Listen: you know monsieur, you invited him to come to the wedding,
where he was to ask for you; but as you had not arrived when he came, he
didn't know to whom to apply. Now that you are here, you must introduce
him. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly! it's the simplest thing in the world! Take my hand,
monsieur, if you please; for, as I am to present you, you must be my
escort, for a few moments at least."

"With great pleasure, madame!"

"How lucky it is that I came without an escort, and that my husband has
catarrh! It's a true saying that good fortunes never come singly."

"You will condescend, then, madame, to----"

"Why, it's all arranged; I am delighted to do anything to oblige
Armantine. By the way, your name, monsieur, if you please; for, if I am
to present you, I must call you by name."

"Charles Rochebrune."

"Very good! An advocate, I suppose? All the young men are advocates."

"I am not in practice; but I studied for the bar."

"That is quite enough. Now, let us go into the ballroom."

My new acquaintance passed her arm through mine and leaned on it as if
we had known each other for years. I felt altogether reassured; I walked
with my head erect, my face had recovered its serenity, and I was no
longer afraid to look about me.

My partner left us as we entered the ballroom, and the lady on my arm
asked me in an undertone:

"Do you know my name?"

"I know only that one by which she called you just now."

"I am Madame Dauberny, eight years married; I am twenty-seven years old,
and my husband forty-four; he is wealthy and has no business. He doesn't
care for society, balls, etc., but I go about without him. I was born
at Bordeaux, and my parents were of the same province. I think that you
are well enough posted now, in case anyone should talk to you about me."

"Yes, madame; thanks a thousand times!"

What I especially admired was the ease and fluency with which my
companion said all this to me as we walked through the crowd; I am
certain that no one who saw her talking to me would have suspected that
she had never seen me until that evening. But Monsieur Guillardin and
the bride came forward to meet my protectress, and I saw the stout
Archibald too, walking behind his sister, and continuing to scrutinize
me closely while he saluted Madame Dauberny.

"How late you are!" cried the bride, taking my companion's hand.

"We were in despair!" said the venerable proboscis; "it is half-past
twelve, and we were just saying that Madame Dauberny would not come,
although she had promised to."

"And here I am, you see. I never break my promises. Ah! that makes
Monsieur Archibald laugh; however, it is quite true, monsieur."

"I was laughing with pleasure at seeing you, madame."

"You are too polite, monsieur. But I am the more culpable for being so
late, because I have caused sad embarrassment to an unfortunate young
man to whom I had said that I would be here at eleven, and that he need
only ask for me and I would present him. I refer to monsieur, who has
been looking for me here nearly an hour, so he tells me; and, failing to
find me, he didn't know to whom to appeal. Allow me to introduce
Monsieur Charles Rochebrune, a distinguished advocate--and a mighty
dancer. I thought that you would readily welcome a friend of my
childhood."

At that, I made a profound bow to the bride and her father, and to the
hulking Archibald, who condescended to smile upon me, while Monsieur
Guillardin exclaimed:

"All friends of yours are welcome, fair lady! I trust that you do not
doubt it. But I have already had the pleasure of making the acquaintance
of monsieur, who appreciates my snuff. But I confess that I didn't know
with whom I was talking, and I was just about to ask him, when he left
me, to go and waltz. If he had told us that he came at your invitation,
that would have been enough to ensure him a hearty welcome."

"You are too kind, Monsieur Guillardin, but Monsieur Rochebrune is quite
as well pleased to have me here;--are you not, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame," I replied, with an expression that made Madame Dauberny
smile; and it seemed to me that that smile caused Monsieur Archibald to
make a wry face.

"But where is Monsieur Dablemar? I don't see him anywhere."

Madame Dauberny had hardly asked the question, when a short man, dressed
in good taste, but very slight and with an affected manner, came running
toward us, crying:

"Ah! here she is at last, the one person we longed so to see, and of
whose coming we had despaired! I must dance with you; I engage you for
the next dance--that is to say, if you will deign to grant me that
favor."

"We will see--later. I never dance as soon as I arrive; pray give me
time to look about."

"My poor Anna has had to rest a little while; her brother trod on her
foot; and he did well, too, for it is a good thing for her to rest: she
was dancing too much, she----"

This gentleman, in whom I had no difficulty in discovering the
bridegroom, stopped suddenly when he caught sight of me, evidently for
the first time. My introductress, who had dropped my arm for a moment,
took my hand and said to him:

"Monsieur Charles Rochebrune, a good friend of mine, whom I take the
liberty to present to you."

Monsieur Dablemar bowed to me, as courtesy required. Thus I had been
well and duly introduced to the bride and groom and the bride's kindred;
I was one of the wedding party, and I could walk about fearlessly
through the salons.

Having no longer anything to fear on my own account, my first
pleasurable occupation was to scrutinize at my leisure the woman who had
so gallantly come forward to be my buckler, and who, although she did
not know me, although she had never seen me, had been willing to take my
arm and to present me to a numerous assemblage as a person whom she knew
intimately. I realized that she had done it at the request of a friend,
to whom, as well as to me, she undoubtedly thought that she was doing an
important service; but, none the less, there was a flavor of audacity in
the performance that pleased and charmed me. Was it devoted friendship?
was it recklessness of disposition? was it eccentricity, originality? I
had no idea as yet, but I was deeply indebted to the lady, for she had
extricated me from a bad scrape.

In the first few moments after my introduction, I was too excited, too
preoccupied, to think of examining the person who introduced me; all
that I could say was that, at first glance, she seemed to have a very
becoming air of originality. Now that my embarrassment had vanished, and
Madame Dauberny was talking with the bride, I could venture to examine
her.

The person whom my pretty partner had called Frederique was rather above
middle height, rather slender than stout, but exceedingly well formed,
with a something brusque and cavalierish in her gait and her carriage
which was wonderfully becoming to her; her foot, while not remarkably
small, was well formed; she carried her head erect, and slightly thrown
back, and often rested one hand on her hip, like a man.

Madame Dauberny was not precisely a pretty woman; indeed, one might have
passed her without noticing her; but the more you looked at her, feature
by feature, her charm inevitably grew upon you; for there was a great
deal of expression in her very mobile countenance. She was a brunette in
the fullest acceptation of the term; her hair was of such an intense
black that it was almost blue; this is not a witticism; extremely black
and glossy hair sometimes has a bluish tinge; but such hair is rarely
seen.

Her eyes were very dark blue, well shaped, and with abundant lashes; she
fixed them uncompromisingly upon the person with whom she was talking,
and they seemed to defy you to make them look down or humble themselves
before anyone on earth. They denoted a woman of strong character, an
energetic woman. Shall I say, a passionate woman? I think that I should
err: strong natures are able to hold their passions in check, instead of
allowing themselves to be dominated by them, like---- But I must finish
my portrait. Gracefully arched, heavy eyebrows--but not too
heavy--surmounted those expressive eyes; the nose was a little large,
but straight, and the nostrils, slightly dilated, opened but little more
when she smiled. She had a large mouth, and her lips were rather thin;
but the teeth were very white and regular. That mouth was well adapted
to raillery and persiflage; and it was most eloquent in expressing
contempt and anger.

Madame Dauberny was naturally pale, and even by candle light her skin
was not white. She had an oval chin and a high forehead. So much for her
features; but all these details give a very insufficient idea of the
general effect of that unusual face. It was necessary to see her in
order to understand her; in the short time that I spent in examining
her, her face changed entirely three or four times.

There was one thing that pleased me greatly, and that was her accent, in
which there was a faint suggestion of the _Midi_, which, to my mind, is
fascinating in a woman. She had a well-modulated voice, like almost all
those who are born on the banks of the Garonne; it was not soft, but the
accent deprived it of anything like harshness. And then, it reminded me
of a fascinating Bordelaise, whom I had loved dearly, and known such a
short time! On the whole, I was decidedly flattered to be considered
Madame Dauberny's friend. But that did not cause me to forget my
agreeable partner, to whom also I was deeply indebted. I was anxious to
learn something concerning the pretty brunette. I tried to make up my
mind to ask her friend Frederique about her.

At that moment, she came toward me and whispered as she took my arm:

"Will you be my escort once more?"

"Ah, madame! I am too happy that you deign to accept me as such."

"Let us make a few turns about the room, and I will finish my task of
giving you such information as you need concerning the company; then you
will be free to return to Armantine."

"Armantine? Oh, yes! that is the lady who spoke to you in my behalf?"

"To be sure. You know her, do you not?"

"Not at all. I never saw her before; but I had danced a quadrille and
waltzed with her."

"Well! this is a little strong! And what was the source of her deep
interest in you?"

"The fact that I had told her of a mad prank I had just committed; of
which I will tell you as well, with your permission."

"I not only permit it, but I insist upon it; for, after all, it is well
that I should know something about the friend of my childhood."

I told Madame Dauberny the story that I had previously told her friend.
She listened attentively, without moving an eyebrow. Her impassiveness
frightened me. But when I had finished, she shook her head and smiled
slightly, murmuring:

"It was a little _risque_! So your friend is at the other ball?"

"Yes, madame."

"And your friend's name is----?"

"Balloquet."

"What does he do?"

"He is a doctor."

"There's no great crime in all this, provided that you really are, as
you say, an honorable man."

"Ah, madame!--this suspicion----"

"Is fully justified, it seems to me; for, after all, monsieur, you may
be a very bad character, one of those young men who cannot be received
in good society. You may have said to yourself: 'I'll go and have a
little sport at the expense of all those people!'--What would there be
surprising in that? Oh! what a face you are making! Be careful, or
people will think that I am making a scene; and when a woman makes a
scene with a man, it means that she has some claim upon him. You must
see that your long face is compromising to me."

I was horribly vexed; certainly she had a right to suspect me; but the
mocking tone she had assumed, her manner, which denoted anything but
conviction, and the expression of her face, augmented my chagrin, and I
did not know what to say. How could I prove to her that I had not lied?

At that moment, a man of some forty years, stylishly dressed, and not
ill-looking, but with a vague and shifty look in his eyes, stopped in
front of us and paid a compliment or two to the incredulous Frederique.
I glanced at the new-comer, whose face was not unfamiliar; he caught my
eye and bowed to me very affably. I cannot describe the thrill of
pleasure which that bow afforded me, although I did not know who had
bestowed it upon me.

"Ah! do you know Monsieur Rochebrune?" Madame Dauberny inquired.

"Yes, madame, I have met monsieur several times in company, notably at
General Traunitz's and at Madame de Saint-Albert's receptions."

"True," said I, searching my memory; "I remember very well having had
the pleasure of meeting monsieur at those receptions."

"To tell the truth," rejoined Madame Dauberny, "I should have been
surprised if Monsieur Sordeville had not known you, knowing all Paris as
he does, and all that everyone is doing, all that takes place!"

"Oh, madame! you accredit me with much more knowledge than I possess,"
replied Monsieur Sordeville, smiling with what he intended for an
affable expression, which accorded ill with the natural character of his
face. "You are very late, madame; Armantine was distressed at your
non-appearance; which, however, did not prevent her dancing. But
Monsieur Rochebrune can tell you that, for I saw him waltzing with my
wife, and very well, too, I assure you."

"What, monsieur! was it your wife with whom I had the pleasure of
waltzing?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Why, what extraordinary mortals you are!" cried Madame Dauberny,
looking from one to the other, with an ironical expression. "You know
each other, and yet monsieur does not know that it was Madame Sordeville
with whom he waltzed?"

"What is there so surprising in that, madame? I have met Monsieur
Rochebrune at parties to which my wife did not accompany me; that
happens every day. Because one is married is no reason why one should
not go out sometimes without his or her spouse; and I may say that you
yourself are proving the truth of that statement this very evening."

Monsieur Sordeville said this in a meaning tone. Now that I knew that he
was my charming partner's husband, I examined him more closely. He was
very good-looking; his features were regular, and he had rather a
distinguished face; but I was not attracted by it.

Meanwhile, Madame Dauberny had not remained passive under the little
shaft Monsieur Sordeville had let fly at her; but I did not hear her
rejoinder, because my pretty partner came up and took her husband's arm
just as her friend was speaking to him.

"My dear Armantine," said my patroness, "you do not know, do you, that
your husband is acquainted with Monsieur Rochebrune, whom I took the
liberty of bringing to this festivity? He's a terrible man, is your
husband; if I had undertaken to introduce anyone here under a false
name, he would certainly have discovered the whole intrigue."

The pretty brunette smiled and blushed slightly; then she put her arm
through her friend's and led her away, but not before I had whispered in
Madame Dauberny's ear:

"Well! are you convinced now that I did not lie to you?"

"I never thought that you were lying," she replied, squeezing my hand as
a man would do.

Monsieur Sordeville remained with me. He seemed inclined to continue the
conversation, and I asked nothing better than to become more fully
acquainted with the husband of a lady who pleased me exceedingly. For if
he had a face which did not attract me, I was at liberty to think of his
wife while I was talking with him.

"She is an extremely agreeable person--Madame Dauberny!" Monsieur
Sordeville began.

"Yes, she is very agreeable; she seems to have much wit."

"Have you never before been in a position to judge of her wit?"

I bit my lips; I had said a stupid thing; but I hastened to add, in an
off-hand tone:

"What I meant to say was that she has even more wit than she allows to
appear on the surface."

"Ah! do you think so? I must say that it seems to me that she doesn't
hide what wit she has."

I saw that I should have difficulty in extricating myself; when one has
strayed into a bad road, it's the devil and all to get back to solid
ground. And then, too, that Monsieur Sordeville had an embarrassing way
of making one talk. The bride's brother happened to be passing us at
that moment. He stopped and said to Monsieur Sordeville:

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Madame Dauberny."

"Madame Dauberny! Oh! she's a _gaillarde_, she is!"

Monsieur Sordeville raised his eyebrows slightly as he replied:

"Hum! that word is a little strong!"

"Why so? I mean by _gaillarde_ a decided character, which never bends,
and does nothing except in accordance with its own desires; which takes
its stand above a multitude of everyday prejudices, and snaps its
fingers at what people will say. Indeed, Madame Frederique--she prefers
to be called that, you know, for she detests her husband's name--Madame
Frederique, I say, makes no bones of declaring that she does only what
she pleases, and that she intends to do everything that she pleases.
When a woman says that, I should say that one may well call her a
_gaillarde_!"

Monsieur Sordeville smiled, and said simply:

"People say so many things that they don't do! Sometimes, it is to
obtain a reputation for originality."

"And you, monsieur," continued Archibald, turning to me, "you, who are
one of Madame Frederique's early friends, do not you share the opinion
of her which I have just expressed?"

I saw that Monsieur Sordeville was covertly watching me, and I replied,
measuring my words:

"Since I have had the honor of knowing Madame Dauberny, monsieur, I have
always recognized in her the possessor of many invaluable qualities, and
a keen wit, slightly satirical perhaps; as for her faults, I know of
none; but clever people are becoming so scarce that they may well pass
for originals."

My interlocutors held their peace. Monsieur Sordeville shook his head,
and Monsieur Archibald pursed his lips. The orchestra played the prelude
to a quadrille. I determined to perform a noble deed, which would put me
on good terms with the bride's family: I invited Mademoiselle Joliette
to dance.

The ugly child accepted with unbounded delight. While we were dancing, I
saw Madame Dauberny looking at me with a smile that seemed to say:

"That's a very clever thing you are doing."

For my own part, I hoped to reward myself in the next quadrille by
inviting the seductive Armantine.

But while we were executing the final figure, a great uproar suddenly
arose outside the door; people were shouting and quarrelling in the
corridor, and I fancied that I recognized Balloquet's voice. Either he
had not been so fortunate as I, or he had been guilty of some
imprudence. I ran in the direction of the outcry.





XII

THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE REAR ROOM


As I stepped out into the hall which separated the two ballrooms, the
dispute seemed to be growing warmer. I could distinguish Balloquet's
voice perfectly, shouting:

"Once more, messieurs, I tell you it's a mistake, a simple mistake. What
the devil! any man may be mistaken. I mistook one party for the other.
Wedding parties are a good deal alike, as a rule, especially after the
dancing begins. There's not enough harm done to whip a cat for."

The waiters did their utmost to restore peace, testifying that Balloquet
had dined upstairs with some most respectable gentlemen.

I succeeded in forcing my way through the crowd. I saw a number of
grotesque faces, which would not have been out of place in the
_Charivari's_ caricatures. Most of the men had retained beneath their
gala dress the vulgur or stupid air which the finest coat cannot
conceal. They were all very hot against poor Balloquet, who was as red
as a cherry and gesticulating in the midst of them like one possessed. A
stout man of some fifty years, whose eyes looked as if they were made of
glass, they were so expressionless and so protruding, held him by the
arm and kept repeating:

"You don't get off like this, _bigre_! You either belong here or you
don't, that's all! Proofs! proofs! I want proofs!"

A tall, fair-haired young man, with a weak, stupid face, and hair
brushed flat over his forehead almost to his eyebrows, seemed to be
threatening Balloquet, as he said:

"And what did you do to my wife? tell me that! Did you or didn't you?
Petronille ain't capable of lying about it. She told me you pinched her!
That's a pretty way to do--pinch the bride, when you don't belong in the
party! If you'd been invited to the wedding--but that wouldn't be any
excuse."

"I was dancing, monsieur le marie; my hand may have gone astray. If I
did pinch her anywhere, I thought it was part of the figure, and----"

"Oh! that's a good one! that don't seem reasonable!"

"But, monsieur, you don't understand."

"You don't get off like that, _bigre_!" cried the fat man with the
glassy eyes; "proofs! proofs! proofs!"

At that moment, to add to the uproar, a corpulent dame of at least sixty
years of age, with a flat nose, smeared with snuff, her face encircled
by a flaxen false front, the curls of which, artistically grouped in
terraces, made her look as if she wore whiskers, and overladen with
flowers, ribbons, lace, and false jewelry, appeared in the midst of the
men, crying in a shrill voice:

"I don't want Pamphile to fight! I forbid him to fight! What's it all
about? You shan't fight, Pamphile--I'd sooner fight myself, in my son's
place. O my son, I'm your mother, or I ain't your mother! Monsieur's an
intruder, a villain, a blackguard. Throw him out of doors! Call the
watch!"

"No, madame, I am not a villain," retorted Balloquet, glaring savagely
at the old woman, who was bedizened like a circus horse; "and I'll prove
it."

"Go back to the ballroom, Madame Girie; this is no place for you; we
don't need a woman's help to settle this business."

"I tell you, I don't want my son to fight!--Come, Pamphile, come back
with me; don't get mixed up in this row."

"Oh! do let me alone, mamma! Go back with the other ladies."

"No! no! I don't want you to fight because monsieur pinched your wife.
Mon Dieu! what a terrible thing! In the first place, Petronille had no
business to tell you of it. God! if the late Girie had fought every time
anyone pinched me! But I didn't tell him! I took good care not to
complain! I was too fond of my husband to do that; and he--oh! he loved
his lovely blonde! You ought to hand monsieur over to the watch.--Watch!
watch!"

Madame Girie persisted in shrieking: "Watch!" waving her arms, striking
everybody within reach, and increasing the confusion immeasurably by
trying to restore peace.

It was at that moment that I succeeded in reaching Balloquet's side, and
released him from the man with the glassy eyes.

"What's all this, messieurs?" I exclaimed.--"What has happened to you,
my dear Balloquet? Why are all these people so incensed with you?"

Balloquet uttered a cry of joy at sight of me, and cast a haughty glance
at his adversaries, saying:

"You see that I didn't lie to you, messieurs; here's my friend, who is a
guest at the other wedding and has come in search of me.--Isn't it true,
Rochebrune, that you have come to fetch me, and that I am Arthur
Balloquet, medical practitioner, and that I am not the sort of man to be
turned out of doors?"

"Proofs! proofs! proofs!"

"I don't want my son to fight!--Listen to your mother, Pamphile!"

"You pinched Petronille; I stick to that!"

"But I made a mistake!"

"Watch!"

"In God's name, Madame Girie, be good enough to hold your tongue!"

A small man, whom I had not yet seen, as he was hidden by the crowd,
succeeded in passing his perfectly curled blonde head under Madame
Girie's ear rings, and said, gesticulating freely after the manner of
Mr. Punch, for he bore a strong resemblance to a marionette:

"Allow me! allow me! we must try to understand each other. Monsieur says
he came to my cousin Pamphile Girie's wedding party by mistake; but a
mistake like that don't last an hour, and monsieur's been with us more
than an hour. I noticed him; he drank punch every minute; he made more
noise than all the rest of the company, and I said to myself: 'That
man's a _boute-en-train_![A] Oh! he's a famous _boute-en-train_!' But
monsieur must have discovered that he didn't know us; that the bride and
groom were not the ones who invited him. It seems to me that that's
good, logical reasoning. I'm a logical man!"

The little automaton was not such a fool as one would have supposed at
first sight. Balloquet was at a loss for a reply to his speech. I made
haste to take the floor.

"Messieurs, my friend Arthur Balloquet has not deceived you; he is a
most estimable physician, and incapable of offending you intentionally.
He mistook the salon, that is all; you must not see anything more in the
affair than there really is in it."

"And I was so comfortable where I was," said Balloquet, "that I could
not make up my mind to go away."

This compliment allayed the ferocity of the vitreous-eyed gentleman.
However, he was about to repeat his demand for proofs, when, on turning
his head, he saw Monsieur Guillardin, who had come out to ascertain the
cause of the uproar, accompanied by Madame Dauberny. She came to my side
and whispered:

"I presume that your friend Balloquet has been putting his foot in it?"

As I said yes with my eyes, we heard a cry of surprise:

"Why, there's Monsieur Guillardin--my landlord!"

"Himself, Monsieur Bocal. What are you doing here, pray?"

"What am I doing? Why, I am marrying my daughter Petronille to Monsieur
Girie here.--Come forward, Girie; come, I say, and speak to my landlord,
to whom I sent cards, I am sure."

The tall, fair-haired youth came forward with the loutish air that never
left him, and bowed sheepishly to Monsieur Guillardin. This incident
produced a fortunate diversion; attention was diverted from Balloquet,
although Madame Girie continued to mutter:

"Oh! if my son should fight, I should be sick three times over! But he
shan't go out, or, if he does, I'll follow him! I'm capable of anything
where Pamphile's concerned. When he ain't home at eleven o'clock or
twelve, I go and sit at the window, and there I sit all night, till he
comes home. When I hear a horse, I says: 'There's my son.'--Sometimes I
don't have anything on but three undervests and two chemises! but I
don't care; I snap my fingers at the risk of catching cold!"

But nobody listened to Madame Girie. Monsieur Guillardin, having
acknowledged the salutations of Monsieur Bocal and long-legged Pamphile,
said to the former:

"Faith! my dear monsieur, this is a curious coincidence. I'm here for
the same purpose that you are."

"I don't understand."

"I have married my daughter to-day, and we're celebrating the occasion
right beside you here."

"Is that so? can it be possible? This other wedding party is yours? I
mean, that you're marrying your daughter--no, giving her in marriage?"

"Yes, monsieur," interposed Madame Dauberny; "and I have been waiting a
long while for Monsieur Balloquet to ask me to dance. I told him that I
should be at Mademoiselle Guillardin's wedding."

Balloquet stared in amazement when that lady, whom he did not know,
called him by name; but he replied at once:

"I am at your service, madame; but, you see, I was trying to explain
matters to these gentlemen, and----"

"Oh! that's all over! let's not say any more about that!" cried Bocal,
grasping Balloquet's hand. "If I had had any idea that you were invited
to my landlord's wedding party!--Madame, messieurs, we shall be much
flattered if you will honor us with your presence, if you will deign to
come to our ball.--I beg you, Monsieur Guillardin, to do me that honor.
Let me present Petronille--Pamphile, go and call Petronille.--Come,
madame and messieurs, pray take a turn at our ball.--Cousin Ravinet,
make our friends stand aside and make room for my landlord."

Cousin Ravinet was the little man who talked like Mr. Punch; he rushed
into the room where Monsieur Girie's wedding was being celebrated,
crying:

"Here comes my cousin's landlord! He's coming to our party. Bocal's
bringing him.--A little music, please. I say there, you in the
orchestra!"

The musicians supposed that he was calling for dance music, and they
began to play a polka. Monsieur Guillardin, impelled almost by force by
his tenant Monsieur Bocal, found himself in the ballroom at the rear.
Madame Dauberny and I followed him, as did Balloquet, the latter being
escorted almost in triumph by the bridegroom, who had taken his arm.

"You ought to have told us right off that you were a friend--a friend of
friends of ours," said Girie. "Then we wouldn't have quarrelled. As
you're invited to the party of my father-in-law Bocal's landlord, why,
give me your hand! I must insist on your dancing the next dance with
Petronille."

"You're too kind, Monsieur Girie. As for the mistake I made in pinching
your good wife----"

"Nonsense! don't say any more about that! It was a joke--just a joke!
Look you, if you're a good fellow, you'll stay with us--as long as
you're enjoying yourself. Now we know each other, we'll have some sport;
we'll raise the deuce. It's agreed, ain't it? You stay with us; and at
supper I'll take good care of you."

"What's that? you're going to have a supper?"

"Parbleu! I should say so! What does a party amount to without supper?
You'll stay, won't you?"

"Faith! Monsieur Pamphile, you are so kind--your company is so lively;
I'm tempted to let the landlord's party go by the board."

Madame Dauberny and I were walking behind them, and heard every word of
their conversation. She had taken my arm as if we were old
acquaintances, and she said in an undertone:

"It will be fortunate if your friend Balloquet stays here, for I think
that he's a little exhilarated, and if he should come to Anna's ball he
might say something that would compromise us by betraying our little
fraud."

"You are entirely right, madame; but you need have no fear: Balloquet
will stay here. He has been told of a supper to come, and he is one of
those persons who never refuse a meal, even when they have had four
during the day."

"That speaks well for his digestion.--Mon Dieu! just look: I believe
that they propose to make us dance now. Monsieur Bocal is trying to
induce his landlord to polk. It must be that the man's lease is nearing
its end, and he wants to renew it."

The music had, in fact, excited Monsieur Bocal, who deemed it his duty
to walk in step and was almost polking when he presented his landlord to
his daughter Petronille, who was a plump, chubby-cheeked wench, very
fresh and red, with no other recommendation than her youth.

Monsieur Guillardin took out his snuffbox and offered it to the bride,
who muttered:

"Snuff! Sneeze all the time I'm dancing! I guess not! And I haven't got
a handkerchief, either."

"Do you polk?" Madame Frederique asked me.

"Yes, madame."

"Very well; then let us take a turn. I prefer to make my entry dancing;
it will be more amusing. Indeed, I see some faces already that make me
long to laugh. Come, monsieur, they say that you waltz beautifully; let
us see if you polk as well."

We started off. I was in luck that evening: after an excellent waltzer,
I found myself with a partner who polked to perfection. We danced
forward and backward, and turned in every direction. Our manner of
dancing seemed to arouse the admiration of the company, for I heard
people say as we passed:

"Look! there's a couple who dance pretty well!"

"Just look at those two; see what pretty steps they take!"

"Who are those people?"

"They belong to the party in front, the wedding party of Monsieur
Bocal's landlord's daughter; Monsieur Bocal invited them."

"They polk mighty well; they must be ballet dancers at least."

"I'll bet they belong to the Opera."

Madame Dauberny heard this last. She laughed heartily, but that did not
interfere with her running comments on the wedding guests:

"Look at that couple yonder; for ten minutes they have been in the same
spot; they are trying to polk, and can't go forward or back.--You will
notice a tall woman in pink, in the corner at our left, with a garland
of green leaves on her head; she has struck the attitude of a caryatid,
and seems disposed to weep.--And see those two ladies, or demoiselles,
polking together, and bumping into everybody.--And that little man
hopping about with a tall partner."

"That's Cousin Ravinet."

"On my word, there are some sweet caricatures here! There are some very
good-looking girls, but they look like grisettes; probably that's all
they are. I am very curious to know what Monsieur Bocal's business is."

The music stopped. The heat was stifling in the ballroom.

"I have had enough of it," said Madame Dauberny; "besides, I believe
that Monsieur Guillardin has returned to his daughter. Take me back to
the other party; then you may return here, if you choose."

"I beg you to believe, madame, that I too prefer the company of which
you are one."

"I believe you; I should be sorry for you if it were otherwise. But you
must return and speak to your friend Balloquet. Balloquet! you must
agree that that is a singular name for a physician. If I were ill, I
would never put myself in the hands of a doctor named Balloquet!"

"So you think that the name is of some consequence, do you, madame?"

"Much, monsieur; if your name had been Balloquet, I could never have
made up my mind to say that you were a friend of my girlhood."

While we talked, we had returned to the Guillardin party, of which I was
now a duly accredited member. But as a quadrille was beginning just as
we entered the ballroom, Madame Dauberny seated herself by the door, and
I stood beside her, delighted to be able to continue my conversation
with the amiable Frederique; for to my mind she was extremely amiable,
and if I had not been in love with her friend Armantine---- But it is so
pleasant to be in love, even when it amounts to nothing, and vastly more
so when it may amount to something. I was still in the dark as to how it
would be with my new passion; but one is always at liberty to hope.

"I am under great obligations to you, madame, for what you have done for
me to-night."

"Mon Dieu! you have already expressed your gratitude, monsieur! I trust
that I shall hear no more of it."

"You know now, madame, that I have sometimes met Monsieur Sordeville in
society; but that is not enough for me. I should be glad to make myself
known to you more fully; and if you will allow me to call and pay my
respects to you----"

Madame Dauberny looked at me a moment with a strange expression; I would
have liked to know what was passing through her mind; but she soon
replied, with her deliberate air:

"No, monsieur, no; I will not allow you to call on me; indeed, why
should you do so?"

"Why, to have the pleasure of being with you, madame; and because I
desire to make myself better known to you; and----"

"No; it's unnecessary, I tell you. I am entirely convinced, monsieur, of
your good faith in all that you have told me; what more can you desire?"

"Nothing in that direction. But when one has once had the pleasure of
being your escort, it is painful, madame, to think of the possibility of
never seeing you again."

"Never! That is a word that ought to be stricken from the dictionary,
monsieur, don't you think?"

"I agree with you, madame, for it is a very sad word."

"And false three-quarters of the time. However, if you really wish to
see me again, don't be disturbed; you will have an opportunity."

"Where, madame?"

"At Armantine's."

"Madame Sordeville's? But I know her no better than I do you."

"True; but her husband knows you. Talk a little more with him, and I
will undertake to say that he'll invite you to his house."

"Do you think so, madame?"

"Try it, and you will see. Ah! here's the terrible Archibald coming
toward us. Beware, or you will make an enemy of him!"

"How so?"

"Because I am sure that he thinks you are making love to me. He is
capable of believing even more than that; and you must know that he has
made me a declaration of love."

"I presume that that must be a common experience with you."

"That is quite true."

"And Monsieur Archibald has simply followed a road which many men are
tempted to take."

"Look you, monsieur, I agree that a man may make a declaration of love
to a woman, without meaning anything in particular; that is the
commonest thing in the world; and if a woman is ever so little
coquettish and attractive, she can safely bet that she will extort a
declaration from every man she knows. So there's no great merit in
that. But because a woman is less coy than another, because she says
frankly what she thinks, because she doesn't play the prude and isn't
afraid to laugh at a joke, because, in a word, she has in her manners
more or less unconstraint, originality, character, boldness if you
will--to imagine, therefore, that that woman is likely to be an easy
conquest, that a man has only to--you can divine what I do not say----
Well! monsieur, that is a very grave mistake, born either of stupidity
or monumental conceit."

Did she say that for my benefit? I could not tell. Still, I had made no
declaration; and although I had expressed a wish to see her again, to
thank her again, it seemed to me that that was perfectly natural after
the service she had rendered me. No; she simply meant to give me a
warning. But in that case she must be convinced that I proposed to make
love to her? She was mistaken, for I thought only of my charming
partner, Madame Sordeville.

The quadrille came to an end, and I left my place, thinking that I would
return for a moment to the other ball, to make sure that Balloquet would
not come in search of me, and to see what he was doing as Monsieur
Bocal's guest. From the glimpse I had caught of that other function, I
fancied that there were likely to be some amusing sights there, and
that love was probably treated there in another fashion than in the
salons at the front of the house.




XIII

THE BRIDE AND GROOM AND THEIR KINSFOLK


At Mademoiselle Bocal's wedding feast, punch, mulled wine, and
_bischoff_ were circulating all the time, and the ladies partook of that
species of refreshment as often as the men. From this fact it will be
understood that at the Bocal ball there was an enthusiasm which
threatened to develop into wild revelry. Most of the ladies were as red
as poppies; some of them laughed incessantly; others, who were
presumably very sentimental in their cups, rolled their eyes in a
languishing way that drove you back to your entrenchments; others, whom
the punch made melancholy, heaved prodigious sighs and were damp about
the eyes.

As for the men, they were almost all loquacious and noisy, and I believe
that I might safely say, tipsy.

When I entered the ballroom the second time, I looked about for
Balloquet. I discovered him sitting beside a brunette with a headdress
of roses, whose cheeks were of a brilliancy and lustre that dimmed the
hue of the flowers. Their conversation was so animated that the young
doctor in embryo--for to that class Balloquet belonged--did not notice
me, although I had planted myself directly in front of him.

I concluded to tap him on the shoulder.

"Monsieur Balloquet," said I, "I would be glad to say a word to you, if
possible."

"It isn't possible at this moment. I am engaged. I am explaining to
mademoiselle the proper method of applying leeches."

And Balloquet gave me a meaning glance. I understood that his interview
had reached an interesting point, and I was about to walk away, when I
felt a hand on my arm. It was the little marionette named Ravinet, who
was trying to make fast to me, and shouting--for everybody in the room
shouted instead of speaking:

"Ah! you're one of the landlord's guests; I recognize you. You're the
man who polks so well! It's very polite of you to come back to us.
You'll polk again, won't you? If you want to please Aunt Chalumeau,
you'll invite her; poor, dear woman, she's never polked in her life, and
she's dying to. Her hair dresser told her she had the right make-up."

I had no inclination whatever to put Aunt Chalumeau's make-up to the
test, and I told Cousin Ravinet, who struck me as being well primed, and
persisted in hanging on my arm:

"I will tell you in confidence that I shall not polk again for some
time; I am very tired."

"Oh! that's a pity. Do you belong to the Opera?"

"I? No, indeed!"

"Are you related to my cousin's landlord?"

"No; I am a friend of his."

"And that lady who was dancing with you don't belong to the Opera,
either?"

"By no means."

"We all thought you did. You jigged it so well!"

"Monsieur Ravinet----"

"Ah! you know my name!"

"I have that honor. Do me the favor to tell me what Monsieur Bocal's
business is."

"What's that! don't you know my cousin?"

"I know that he's the bride's father, and that he's Monsieur
Guillardin's tenant; that's all."

"What! you don't know Bocal the distiller's shop, on Rue Montmartre?
He's one of the largest distillers in Paris."

"Ah! he's a distiller, is he?"

"Why, everybody knows him!"

"I must tell you that I very rarely have dealings with distillers."

"He's the man who makes the syrup of punch--that's a famous brew! Did
you ever drink it?"

"No; and I am not anxious to."

"Oh! you must take some, and tell us what you think of it.--Come here
quick, Cousin Bocal! I say! here's a gentleman from your landlord's
party; he's never tasted your punch."

The stout man with the glassy eyes stopped at Cousin Ravinet's summons;
then he came to me and gripped my other arm, saying with an effusiveness
that scorched my cheeks, for he had the unpleasant habit of speaking
within an inch of your nose:

"Ah! monsieur, you're one of my landlord's guests. Surely you won't
insult me by joining us without taking something?--Here, waiter!"

"You are too good, Monsieur Bocal, but----"

"The punch is made with my syrup; it's perfumed, and sweetens your
breath."

"That is what I was just saying to monsieur, cousin----"

"I say there! waiter!"

"Waiter! bring some punch! My cousin is calling you!"

Cousin Ravinet was determined to do his part. The two men held me so
that I could not escape. A waiter arrived with a salver. I realized that
I should get into serious difficulty if I refused; it would be quite
likely to draw down upon me the wrath of Madame Girie, whom I spied in a
corner, whispering with some other women. So I swallowed the glass of
punch, hoping that I should be set free; but I was disappointed.
Monsieur Bocal led me away toward his daughter Petronille, saying:

"You must dance with the bride."

"It's a very great honor, but----"

"Oh! you must dance with her. My landlord refused to dance, but he's an
elderly man. But a famous dancer, a zephyr, like you, can't refuse."

I did not know how to evade the honors with which I was overwhelmed.
Monsieur Bocal had already said to his daughter:

"Petronille, you're going to dance with monsieur--my landlord's friend."

"But, papa, I am going to dance with Freluchon."

"What do I care for Freluchon! I tell you, Petronille, you're going to
dance with monsieur; and you'll see how he dances. All you've got to do
is stand straight----"

"But I promised poor Freluchon two hours ago, and he's gone to wash his
hands on purpose, because he's lost his gloves; he'll be mad."

"For heaven's sake, Monsieur Bocal," said I, "don't let me interfere
with your daughter's plans! I will dance with her later; I should be
very sorry to offend anyone."

"On the contrary, monsieur, it will give me much pleasure," said Bocal.
"I don't care a snap of my finger whether Freluchon's angry or not. The
idea of putting ourselves out for him! Not much! You shall dance this
dance with the bride. Hark! there goes the orchestra; take your places
quick!"

Escape was impossible. What had I tumbled into? Those people were as
obstinate as mules, and a refusal on my part would irritate them; people
of little education are always extremely sensitive with fashionable
persons, for they feel their inferiority; they are afraid of being
laughed at, when no one has any idea of laughing at them.

I made the best of it and took my place beside the bride, who did not
act as if she were overjoyed to dance with me and probably regretted
Freluchon.

"Who's going to dance opposite the bride?" shouted Monsieur Bocal, in
stentorian tones.

"I am! I am! here I am!"

And a tall, thin, bald-headed old man appeared, leading by the hand a
girl of seven or eight. There was a vis-a-vis which would not afford me
any distraction! I heard a muttering behind me, then groans, then
Monsieur Bocal's voice above all the rest. It was probably Monsieur
Freluchon, indignant to find that he had washed his hands for nothing.

The quadrille began. The bride went into it with all her heart; she was
a buxom wench, who had made up her mind to let herself go on her wedding
day, and was determined to do what she had set out to do. If only I did
not get in the way of her feet, I felt that I should be lucky. The tall
old man, who stood opposite her, danced with a zeal deserving of the
greatest praise; he persisted in taking all the little steps and even
essayed some leaps and bounds; the perspiration rolled down his face
after the second figure, but he did not omit a step. He was a
conscientious dancer, and would have been in great demand under the
Empire. The little girl hopped about in every direction, and made a mess
of every figure; she was always behind me when she should have been in
front; but I was indifferent and let her wander about at her pleasure.

I was convinced that Cousin Ravinet had spread the information that I
was a famous dancer, for there was a crowd about our set. The good
people must have been sadly disappointed, as I did nothing but walk
through the figures. Indeed, I heard some voices muttering:

"Bah! it wasn't worth while to put ourselves out; I can dance better
than that. Ravinet must have seen double; he don't even know how to do
the _basque_ step!"

I felt called upon to try to talk with the bride.

"You must be tired, madame?"

"Tired? why?"

"You have probably been dancing a long while."

"_Dame!_ if the bride didn't dance, it would be a pretty wedding! The
men have to ask me to dance; that's what they were invited for."

I bit my lip, as I rejoined:

"This is a very happy day for you, madame, is it not?"

"A happy day! Oh! it's rather amusing just now; but I've found it pretty
stupid all day!"

"Ah! is that so? But I presume that you love the man you have married?"

"Oh, yes! well enough, as far as that goes; not too much; but it'll
come; pa said it would come."

"Would it be impertinent of me to ask what your husband's business is?"

"My husband's? He sells sponges, at wholesale; we're going to keep a
sponge shop."

"That must be a good business."

"_Dame!_ I don't know anything about it. I shan't like it very much to
be among sponges all the time. But we won't have any dog, anyway; that
was one of the first conditions I made."

"Ah! you don't want a dog; I judge that you dislike dogs?"

"Mon Dieu! no, I like all kinds of animals. But it's on account of the
song."

"Ah! is there a song about dogs?"

"About the _Sponge Man's Dog_! Don't you know that song?"

"No; I must admit that it is entirely unknown to me."

"It's a comic song; every verse ends like this: 'And it was the sponge
man's dog.'--Everybody knows that refrain, and pa says to Pamphile: 'If
you had a dog, people would always sing that song when they saw him.
That might injure your business.'--And Pamphile says: 'I'll never have a
dog, I swear,' and I married him. Pa did well, didn't he?"

"I admire Monsieur Bocal's foresight."

"He insisted, too, that my mother-in-law shouldn't live with us."

"In that respect I applaud him; for mothers-in-law seldom agree with
their daughters-in-law."

"Especially as Madame Girie---- Why, she's a woman that would set
mountains to fighting if she could; and yet, she says she adores her
children! it's amazing how happy they've been with her! Pamphile's
younger brother was very delicate, so she said; she insisted on his
purging himself all the time, taking cathartics and enemas. When he came
home at night after dining out, Madame Girie was always waiting for him
on the stairs, with a syringe. If he refused to have an enema, she'd
chase him through all the rooms. The next day, she'd purge him without
telling him, by putting something in his coffee. In fact, she pestered
the poor boy so with what she called her little attentions, that one
fine morning he went off and enlisted in the dragoons; he preferred that
to being syringed."

"Faith! I believe that I would have done the same if I had been in his
place."

"Madame Girie said he was an ingrate. She didn't want her other son,
Pamphile, to marry, so's he could stay with her. You can see that that
prospect didn't tempt 

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