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The Bath Keepers; Or, Paris in Those Days, v.1

by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #40335 · 519,544 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Bath Keepers; Or, Paris in Those Days, v.1

Author: Paul de Kock


        
Release date: July 25, 2012 [eBook #40335]

Language: English

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Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
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produced from images available at The Internet Archive)








[Illustration: _Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons_]

_LÉODGARD RETURNS TO HIS FRIENDS_

_All the young men ran to meet Léodgard, for it was really he who was
approaching. As they drew near him they were struck by his pallor and by
the sinister gleam of his eyes, which avoided theirs._




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME VII

THE BATH KEEPERS;

OR,

PARIS IN THOSE DAYS

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

[Illustration]

GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

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




THE BATH KEEPERS;

OR,

PARIS IN THOSE DAYS




I

RUE COUTURE-SAINTE-CATHERINE


It was two o'clock on a cold, damp morning; the fine snow, which melted
as soon as it touched the ground, made the streets slippery and dirty,
and Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine,--then called
Couture-Sainte-Catherine,--although it was one of the broadest streets
in Paris, was as black and gloomy as any blind alley in the Cité to-day.

But these things took place in the year one thousand six hundred and
thirty-four; and I need not tell you that in those days no such devices
for street lighting as lanterns, gas, or electric lights were known. The
man who should have discovered the last-named invention, which, in
truth, savors strongly of the magical, would surely have been subjected
to the ordinary and extraordinary torture for a recompense.

Those were the good old times!

Everything new aroused suspicion; people believed much more readily in
sorcerers, the devil, and magic, than in the results of study and
learning and the reasoning of the human intellect.

Was it that men were too modest in those days? If so, they have reformed
most effectually since then.

In those days, very few persons ventured to be out late in the streets
of Paris, where the police was most inefficient and often worse.

The young noblemen sometimes indulged in the pastime of beating the
watch; that diversion was permitted to the nobility. To-day, the
prowlers about the barriers are the only class who undertake to beat the
gendarmes from time to time; but the gendarmes are not so accommodating
as the watch of the old days.

There were not then some thirty or more theatres open every evening for
the entertainment of the people of the capital and of the strangers
drawn thither by its renown. A single one had been founded and was
patronized by Cardinal de Richelieu, who, unfortunately for his glory,
had undertaken to add to his other titles thereto the title of author.

But all great men have had their weaknesses. Alexander drank too much,
which was infinitely more reprehensible than to write wretched verses;
Frederick the Great insisted that he was a talented performer on the
flute; and Louis XIV danced in the comédies-ballets which Molière
composed for him.

The farces which were then being performed by Turlupin, Gros-Guillaume,
and Gauthier-Garguille ended with the daylight, their theatres being in
the open air. People dined at noon and supped at six o'clock; and when a
worthy bourgeois remained at a friend's house as late as nine o'clock,
he looked upon it as a genuine revel, as a youthful escapade, and
hurried home at the top of his speed, carrying a lantern, and shuddering
with terror many a time as he passed through the lanes which were then
called streets, and in which, if he should happen to meet any
evil-minded person, he was certain of obtaining no assistance from any
house or shop; for when the curfew had rung, everything must be closed,
and you might not even have a light in your house, if you wished to read
or work, or for any reason not to go to bed.

Why do we call that period "the good old time"?

That is a question I have often asked myself.

Is it because people were not entitled to go to bed, to work, to
entertain their friends, to amuse themselves when they had the desire,
the need, or the fancy so to do?

Is it because people broke their necks after dark in the streets?
because thieves, then called _Truands_, _Mauvais Garçons_, _Tireurs de
Laine_, or _Coupeurs de Bourses_, plied their trade in broad daylight on
Pont Neuf and in other localities, laughing in your face if you ventured
to remonstrate?

Was it because the shops were dark and filthy, devoid of taste and
refinement?

Was it because duels were fought on street corners, or in the public
squares, two or four or twelve a day, as unconcernedly as we go boating
to-day; and the authorities took no steps to prevent this butchery?

Was it because edicts were promulgated every day whereby such a one was
forbidden to wear silk, another to wear velvet, this woman to have a
gilt girdle, another to dress in certain colors, which were too
brilliant, too conspicuous for her walk in life?

O short-sighted politicians! O paltry critics! who anathematize luxury,
who seek to restrict refinement, who censure coquetry, and who do not
understand that by such theories you strike at our commerce, our
manufacturers, our mechanics--in a word, all our _workers_!

In heaven's name, what harm is done if a plebeian who has money dresses
fashionably, luxuriously even, if such be his taste, his caprice?

Are you afraid that he may eclipse you, who assume to belong to the beau
monde? Try to make yourself distinguished by your manners, your bearing,
your grace, your courtesy, your language; surely you must know that
those are things that cannot be bought!

For my own part, I would be glad to see all the working girls in silk
dresses, velvet bonnets, and lace-trimmed caps, and all the workingmen
in patent-leather shoes and white gloves.

Where would be the harm?

Is not the picture of refinement more attractive than that of
slovenliness, poverty, and want?

Does not the money that a man spends on his dress do him more honor than
that which he throws away at the wine shop?

But let us return to Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and to the period
when the events that we are about to describe took place.

A young man came out of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and passed the Hôtel de
Carnavalet, before which artists and admirers of sculpture always paused
to gaze at the waving lines of the great portal, and the masks and
bas-reliefs that adorned the arches of the windows--the work of the
immortal Jean Goujon.

Fortunate structure, which the genius of an artist was to make famous
forever, and to which, at a later time, a woman of intellect was to add
renewed lustre by making it her residence!

But at the period of which we write, Madame de Sévigné had not taken up
her abode at the Hôtel de Carnavalet.

The hour was not propitious for halting in front of the mansion, for it
was very near Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which at that time extended to
Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine; moreover, the person who came from the
first-named street did not seem to be in that frame of mind which fits
us to pass judgment on the objects of beauty we may meet on our road.

He was, as we have said, a young man. Twenty-five years was his age; he
was tall, slender, and well built; there was in his carriage and in
every movement the ease of bearing which denotes the man of the world,
and the manners which point to familiarity with cultivated society, and
which one does not lose, even in low company, when one has inherited
them from a long line of ancestors.

In addition to grace of form, this young man possessed a handsome face
and clean-cut features; his brow was lofty and proud; his black eyes
were large and bright, and surmounted by very dense eyebrows which
almost met, thus imparting at times a somewhat sombre expression to the
organs of vision below them, which flashed fire when animated by wrath,
but could, on occasion, assume an expression of gentleness and
tenderness which it was difficult to resist; a small mouth, well
supplied with teeth, and shaded by a small moustache; an oval chin
adorned by a _royale_; and a forest of black hair which fell in thick
curls over his neck and shoulders--such, physically, was Léodgard de
Marvejols.

As for his moral character, this story will instruct us sufficiently
therein.

Clad in a handsome doublet of crimson silk, slashed with white satin;
knee-breeches of the same material, held in place by a white belt with
silver fringe, to which was attached a long sword, with a hilt of the
finest steel, ornamented with fringe and bows of ribbon; the young
cavalier's feet and legs were encased in funnel-shaped top-boots of
yellow leather, with buckles at the instep; spurs affixed to those
light boots indicated that they seldom contributed to wear out the
pavements. A broad collarette, trimmed with lace, served as a cravat,
and a small velvet cloak was thrown over the shoulders and clasped on
one side. Lastly, a hat with a pointed crown and broad brim, turned up
in front, and surmounted by a long white plume attached by a steel
button, was the young man's headgear; and it must be said that it was
infinitely more graceful and refined than the hideous hats that we wear
to-day.

We must do justice to the "good old times" in this respect: the costumes
worn by men were much more graceful, more dignified, more attractive,
than they now are; for we must, before everything, be impartial, and
award praise as well as blame.

Léodgard de Marvejols walked rather quickly, but sometimes he stopped,
like a person who is very much preoccupied, and to whom it matters
little that it is two o'clock in the morning, and that the streets are
deserted.

At these times he usually thought aloud, or talked to himself--a
practice which is more common than is generally supposed; and as the
young nobleman had supped very copiously, his monologues were quite as
energetic as if he were still accompanied by boisterous revellers.

At this time Léodgard was very near the new convent of the _Annonciades
Célestes_, or _Filles Bleues_, which one of the mistresses of Henri IV,
the Marquise de Verneuil, had founded in the year 1626.

The blue girdle and cloak worn by the Annonciades had already caused
them to be styled _Filles Bleues_; which fact did not prevent those
saintlike women from being held in great veneration in their quarter; so
that, in broad daylight, people would have been terribly scandalized to
hear our young man swear roundly so near that asylum of repentance, and
exclaim, as he leaned against the wall of the convent:

"Par la mordieu! if that Jarnonville had not left the game, I should
have won twice as much, thrice as much; I was in luck; I should have won
until morning. And that D'Artigues, and Cournac--to refuse to take the
dice--when I offered them their revenge at lansquenet--that swindlers'
game! and when I was losing! God damn me! I would stake my patrimony, my
moustaches, my mistress, if anyone would give me anything on them, and
my soul, if the devil would take it.--Let me see: how much did I win
from them? five or six hundred pistoles at most; and even so, I am not
sure that their rose crowns aren't clipped or counterfeit. A noble
night's work, on my word! as if that would make up what I have lost! I
know that I may continue to win to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow;
that I may win as often as I have lost.--Ah! I will win! I must! I must
win enough to buy another _petite maison_, as I have lost mine to that
infernal De Montrevers.--Where in the devil am I to take my pretty
courtesan, Camilla, to-morrow?--This is strange; I feel dizzy; that
Jurançon wine was good, but it is heady.--Where in the devil shall I
take my new conquest to-morrow? Cournac refused to lend me his _petite
maison_, on the pretext that he was to have company there. The coxcomb!
he boasts of it, but it is a lie; I know from his esquire that when he
goes there he is always alone! However, we shall find some place of
shelter to take our belle; I am in funds now, and with a well-filled
purse one is welcomed cordially everywhere.--Apropos of my purse, let us
be sure that I haven't lost it. By hell! I am quite capable of it, I am
so dizzy!"

At that thought, the young man hastily put his hand to his belt; but his
eyes almost immediately resumed a serene expression, as he felt his
purse, which was round and full. He could not resist the desire to take
it in his hands and feel the weight of it, saying to himself:

"At last, I am not going home with an empty purse. Ten thousand devils!
it is a long time since that has happened to me!"

And Léodgard was about to restore the purse to his belt, when a person
who had drawn near to him, quietly and unperceived, caught his arm,
saying:

"It is unnecessary; don't give yourself the trouble to put it back."




II

A ROBBER


The man who had halted in front of Léodgard was tall and strong, and
seemed rather young than old; he was so strangely attired, that, after
meeting him once, it would be difficult not to remember him.

A black doublet fitted close to his body, like a silk shirt; he wore
laced half-boots; a leather belt, in which were thrust pistols and a
poniard; and a broad baldric, from which hung a short sabre--a sort of
dagger with a very broad blade. All this part of his costume was
concealed by an ample caftan of olive-green cloth, which had a hood of
the same material, and which we may compare to a modern _caban_.[A] His
head was covered with a red cap, trimmed with long wild boar's hair.
This cap was pulled down so far that one could hardly see his eyes; only
a long, thin nose could be distinguished, the lower part of the face
being completely hidden by moustaches and a heavy beard of the same
color as the hair on his cap.

[A] A thick woollen cloak, with a hood.

All these details formed a most unprepossessing whole, and gave the man
the aspect of a porcupine.

But one was taken by surprise when there came from that bearded face,
instead of a harsh and threatening voice, a soft, almost melodious
sound; there was in the bandit's speech something mellow and vibrating,
which, with a rather pronounced Italian accent, gave it a decided charm.

Léodgard raised his head and was completely taken aback when he saw this
individual standing in front of him; but, instead of complying with his
suggestion and refraining from putting his purse away, he instantly
withdrew his arm, replaced the gold in his belt, and, stepping back,
scrutinized the robber; who stood quietly in his place and submitted to
the examination, like one who was in no hurry at all and was content to
await the convenience of the traveller he proposed to plunder.

"Pardieu! I cannot be mistaken," cried Léodgard, after a moment; "you
are the famous Giovanni, the Italian robber, but lately arrived in
France, who has already filled Paris with the fame of his exploits, his
audacity, and, above all, his address!"

The man in the olive-green caftan bent his head slightly, replying in a
flute-like voice, as if highly flattered by the compliment:

"Yes, signor, I am he."

"Ah! By my faith, I do not regret the meeting! Since the beginning of
the winter, I have heard so much of you and your prowess, Master
Giovanni, that I have more than once longed to make your acquaintance.
For you are no ordinary robber--everybody does you that justice; you
are ceremonious and well-mannered, and, it is said, very agreeable to
the persons you rob. That is a decided change for us; our French thieves
are so vulgar, such pitiful wretches! Come, since chance has served me
so well to-night, let us talk a little. Have you a few moments to give
me before we decide the fate of this purse?"

"I shall be very glad to talk with you, signor; I have time enough, for
yours is the last business I shall do to-night."

"And it will not be the most profitable for you, I warn you, Giovanni;
for I am not in the mood to give up my purse to you; it is too well
filled for that!"

The robber's only reply was a satirical laugh.

Léodgard de Marvejols had found a stone, on which he seated himself;
Giovanni remained standing with arms folded, and the conversation began.

"Why did you leave your beautiful Italy to come to France? Would you not
be more at ease in the vast plains that surround Rome, or on the slopes
of the Pausilippo, or lying lazily beside the blue sea that bathes the
feet of Naples, than in this dark and filthy street, beneath this gray
sky, in this cold mist which chills us to the bone as it clings to our
garments?"

"The sky of Italy is beautiful, signor, but love of change lies deep in
the heart of man."

"That is true; I grant you that. Moreover, since the days of Queen
Catherine de' Medici, of sinister memory, it seems that all Italians
have agreed to meet in Paris. We see your compatriots everywhere--at
court, in the city, in exalted positions, in the finances. The Italians
have brought us poisons,--with the way to make use of them,--the art of
telling fortunes by cards, of reading the stars, of learning the
future.--I try in vain to think what they have given us in exchange for
all this----"

"Music, signor."

"Ah! to be sure: music! They do, in fact, sing better than we do; but,
frankly, I do not think that that makes the balance even. I should have
supposed that Concini's tragic end would have allayed to some extent the
ardor of your compatriots for living in Paris. But I see that it is not
so, and that we have not yet seen the last of the Italians."

"One finds much to entertain one in France, signor."

"That must needs be so, since everybody desires to come here!--But tell
me,--for your manners and language seem to denote a man of some
education, and that you are not such a devil as you seek to appear, with
that shocking cap, in which you probably disguise yourself for a
purpose,--what train of events has led you to adopt the hazardous
profession in which you are now so famous? Do you feel disposed to tell
me?--For my own part, I confess that I am very curious to know your
adventures, assuming that you are not resolved to keep them secret."

"Mon Dieu! signor, I am ready to gratify you: the events of my life are
very simple--like those that come to multitudes of young men in all
lands. I am the son of a most respectable physician of Florence; indeed,
my father had amassed some wealth; he desired to make me a _dottore_
like himself, but I had not the slightest calling for the medical
profession. By way of compensation, I had a decided calling for
gambling, the joys of love, and of the table. I played, and contracted
debts. At first, my father paid them; but in time he tired of paying
money for me; he besought me to abandon the sort of life I was leading.
_Que diavolo!_--it was too late, the twig was bent! I allowed myself to
be led astray by fellows to whom all means of procuring money were
justifiable. I left Florence, I changed my name, from regard for my
family, and I followed the current. One travels rapidly on that road! As
I was dexterous and fearless, I soon left behind all those whose
imitator I had been. I became famous at Naples, at Rome, at Milan,
throughout Italy. But my description was spread broadcast, and, in spite
of the care with which I concealed my features, I was obliged to leave
my native land. Then it was that I came to France, to Paris, where I
have been plying my trade for six months, in the teeth of the watch, and
despite the efforts of the police and of monsieur le cardinal's
bloodhounds. However, I will confess to you in confidence that I have as
yet found no one among all your lovely Frenchwomen comparable to the
pretty girls of Florence and Milan. I have left some tender memories in
those cities. Indeed, I would stake my head that I am not yet entirely
forgotten there; and on my own part--but, pardon me! I am too
loquacious, I abuse your patience.--That is my story, signor; as you
see, there is nothing very extraordinary in it."

While listening to the robber, Léodgard had become gloomy and pensive;
his head had fallen on his breast, and it was difficult to say whether
he was still listening or was lost in thought.

Giovanni, having for some moments refrained from disturbing the silence
of the young man to whom he had related his adventures, said at last:

"I beg pardon, signor; I have told you what you wished to know, but the
night is hastening, and I must soon think of returning to my lair. So,
give me your purse, and I will take leave of you."

"Have you any companions, any confederates?" asked Léodgard abruptly,
without answering the robber.

"No, indeed; I am no such fool! I work alone, and I am the better for so
doing. If I had had confederates, I should have been caught long ago! As
you must know, in all ranks of society, a man is never betrayed, except
by his own people. Come, my young gentleman, let us finish our business.
I know that this street abounds in memories, and that it is well worth
while to pause and consider it. A few steps from here, during the night
of June 13, 1392, the Connétable Olivier de Clisson, coming from the
Hôtel Saint-Pol, where he had supped with the king, was treacherously
assaulted and murdered by Pierre de Craon, chamberlain and favorite of
the Duc d'Orléans, brother of King Charles VI. By a most fortunate
chance, Clisson wore a coat of mail under his clothes; he received more
than sixty sword and knife thrusts which did not reach his body; but he
was finally wounded in the head and thrown from his horse; he fell
against the door of a baker's shop, which was ajar, and his assassins
took flight."

"Malpeste! Giovanni, so you know our history too!" said Léodgard,
apparently taking pleasure in listening to the brigand.

"And why not, signor? I have told you that I am the son of a
_dottore_!--And that Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which you have just
left--I have been following you for some time, you see--that Rue des
Francs-Bourgeois will always figure in your annals. There it was that
two miserable wretches lived toward the close of the last century--two
poor brothers, beggars, in short, who possessed the talent of imitating
perfectly the baying of a pack of hounds and the notes of a number of
hunting horns. Certain leaders of the League formed the plan of using
those beggars to lead your King Henri IV into a trap, knowing his
passion for the chase. One day when the king was enjoying that sport in
the forest of Vincennes, the noise of a pack of hounds, of horns, and of
hunters, very distant at first, suddenly drew near; a black man, forcing
his way through the underbrush, appeared before Henri IV and said to him
in an awe-inspiring voice: 'Did you hear me?'--But neither the king nor
any one of his train ventured to follow that man, who, it is said, was
to have hurled a lance at the king if he had tried to come up with him.
And all this was the work of the Leaguers and of the two beggars from
Rue des Francs-Bourgeois!"

"By my faith, Master Giovanni, you have told me something that I did not
know!--Pray go on; I see that one cannot fail to profit by your
conversation."

"I am extremely sorry, my young gentleman, but I can talk no longer. As
I reminded you just now, the hastening night forces me to retire, for I
know that my description is so well known that it is impossible for me
to show myself by daylight in this costume."

"Aha! that means that you have another for the sunlight? Pardieu! you
are wise, for this one is very well known. Those persons who have had
dealings with you have not failed to draw your portrait. I have already
heard of this olive-green robe de chambre, so to speak, and of this
horrible hairy cap."

"In that case, signor, you will understand that it is time for me to
disappear."

"Very well! go! what prevents you? You have been too courteous to me for
me to seek to cause your arrest. No, no! that would be a downright
felony on my part!"

"In that case, signor, add to your complaisance the favor of handing me
your purse, and I will go at once."

"My purse!" rejoined Léodgard, with a slight contraction of his heavy
eyebrows; "you shall not have it! I told you that I would keep it. But
as I do not wish to have made you talk for nothing, I will give you two
pretty rose crowns."

"No, my young gentleman; I cannot assent to that bargain; I have told
you that I must have your purse just as it is, and have it I will!"

"Come, then, and take it!"

As he spoke, Léodgard sprang to his feet and quickly drew his sword;
then he glanced at Giovanni as if to defy him. The Italian did not show
the slightest excitement, but simply shook his head, murmuring:

"Oh! I knew that the young Comte Léodgard de Marvejols was a gallant
youth!"

"Ah! you know me, do you?"

"Per Dio! Do I not always know those whom I address? Otherwise I should
run the risk of wasting my time by attacking poor devils without a sou!"

"But you might often have found me in that condition."

"I know that too; but to-night you played lansquenet at the Sire de
Jarnonville's, and luck smiled upon you; that is why I attacked you."

"Clearly, you add to your other talents that of being a sorcerer. All
Italians smell of the stake!"

"I should regret extremely, signor, to resort to my weapons; surely you
must have been told that that is not my habit! I must always be driven
to it. But if you do not give up your purse with a good grace----"

"No, a thousand times no! Do you expect to frighten me, I wonder?"

Giovanni gave the young count hardly time to finish his sentence; he
drew his broad sword, and, leaping upon his adversary with a rapidity
and address which left him no time to attack, in a few seconds he had
sent Léodgard's gleaming rapier flying through the air; and placing the
point of his weapon against the young nobleman's breast, with his left
hand he swiftly took the purse from his belt, saying, with a slight
movement of the head:

"You see, my young gentleman, it was not worth while to go through so
many forms!"

And in an instant the brigand had vanished.

As for Léodgard, thoroughly ashamed of his discomfiture, he stood as if
stupefied, and could only mutter:

"Beaten! beaten by that Giovanni!--Ah! I will have my revenge!"




III

THE BATH KEEPERS


In the days of royal licenses, when the grocers and apothecaries formed
but a single guild, it was the same with the barbers and surgeons.

In the year 1620, forty-eight patents had been granted to
_barbiers-baigneurs-étuvistes_, who were perruquiers following the
court. Later, their number was largely increased.

The right to keep hot or cold baths was specially attached to the guild
of master perruquiers.

A fashionable bathing establishment, with both hot and cold baths, stood
on Rue Saint-Jacques, near the corner of Rue des Mathurins. From a long
distance one could see its basins, painted a light blue as the ordinance
required; and over the door were these words in huge letters:

  BEARDS PROPERLY SHAVED WITHIN; HOT AND
             COLD BATHS

At this time the price of a bath varied from six to twelve livres
[francs]; and when we consider that a livre then was worth almost three
times as much as to-day, we must agree that there is a vast difference
between that price and the price in our modern bathing establishments,
where one obtains five tickets for three francs. The result is a great
improvement in respect to health and cleanliness, for everybody cannot
go to the river to bathe.

What did the poor people do in those days; for six livres was an
enormous sum to them?

If, in the good old times, a bath was such an expensive luxury, on the
other hand, the houses where they were supplied bore a very bad
reputation; they were, it is said, places of assignation for lewd women,
who, because of their rank or condition, were obliged to try to cloak
their evil conduct.

Many preachers thundered from the pulpit against these places, which had
been adorned with an honest name.

Maillard, in sermons noteworthy for their power and their crudity of
expression, said, as he declaimed against the scandal caused by these
establishments:

"Mesdames, do not go to the baths, and do not do there what I need not
name!"

Sauval tells us that the baths continued their existence for a long
time; people did not cease to frequent them until the end of the
seventeenth century. They had become so common then that a person could
hardly take a step without passing one.

Let us return to our shop on Rue Saint-Jacques. It was kept by a stout
old fellow of some fifty years, as strong and bright and active as a
young man, whose name was Hugonnet. He was a red-faced _compère_, hasty
of speech and of gesture; his round, full, rubicund face exhaled health
and good humor; his little round gray eyes had a slightly mischievous
expression; his chin was beginning to become double, and his hair to
turn gray; but Master Hugonnet worried little about that; so long as his
place was well patronized, whether it was resorted to by cavaliers,
bachelors, esquires, courtiers, people from the city, or even from the
country, mattered little to him, if the customers paid promptly; for
after a profitable day, the bath keeper rarely failed to go to the
nearest wine shop, to regale and enjoy himself, whence he commonly
returned home tipsy; he called it having "a little point."

The peculiar feature of Master Hugonnet's intoxication was that it
totally changed his disposition; and instead of intensifying his
passions and his vices, as wine so generally does, it endowed him with
qualities of which no one would ever have suspected him when he was
sober, and deprived him entirely of those which distinguished him in his
normal condition.--For instance, the bath keeper was far from patient;
he lost his temper easily, was quick to quarrel, would never give way,
and was always ready to fight. To be sure, when blows had once been
exchanged, Hugonnet bore his adversary no malice, and would soon be
laughing and drinking with him. But in his cups the old fellow became as
gentle and timid as a child; disposed to do what anyone desired, he was
easily moved to compassion for the misfortunes of his neighbor; and if
anyone told him some pitiful tale, it was no uncommon thing to see him
weep, and disturb the neighborhood by his groans as he stumbled home.
That always indicated that the libations had been copious, the bumpers
frequent, and that the bath keeper was completely drunk.

Hugonnet was a widower and had but one child, a daughter, who, when our
tale opens, had just reached her eighteenth year. Ambroisine was a fine
girl, tall and strong, well set up and shapely. Her foot was not very
small, but her calf was symmetrical and of good size; her hand might
have been smaller, more tapering, but it was pink and white, and plump.

Her bearing and her gestures were somewhat brusque at times, and gave
her rather too disdainful an air; but her smile was so frank and
pleasant that it excused any possible rudeness in her manner to persons
who did not know her well.

Ambroisine was very good-looking; her hair was as black as jet; her dark
brown eyes were neither too large nor too small, and were amply fringed
by long lashes of the color of her hair; she fastened them with perfect
self-possession upon the person with whom she was speaking; but although
they did not express the ordinary shyness of a girl of her years, they
were so compassionate to the wretched, so amiable in joy, so fiery in
wrath, that they were always fine eyes.

A mouth somewhat large, but well supplied with teeth, lips a little
heavy, but ruddy and smiling, a round chin, a high, white forehead, and
eyebrows clearly marked without being too thick--such was the daughter
of Master Hugonnet, who was usually spoken of in the Quartier
Saint-Jacques as La Belle Baigneuse.

Ambroisine's charms undoubtedly had much to do with the popularity of
her father's establishment.

Master Hugonnet's house was never empty; it was the rendezvous of young
noblemen, of the king's arquebusiers and halberdiers, of lordlings, of
country squires and students, of men of the sword and men of the pen, of
law clerks of the Basoche, and sometimes of a royal princess's pages.

The ladies who came to the baths--and we have already said that there
were many of them--liked to be waited upon, cared for, and dressed by
Ambroisine, who was quick, active, skilful, and acquitted herself of her
task with a charming good humor which made it a pleasure to employ her.

It is probable that among all the young sparks and popinjays who came to
Master Hugonnet's, more than one would have been equally glad to obtain
the services of the daughter of the house; but they were obliged to do
without them, for La Belle Baigneuse naturally was at the orders of the
ladies only. Still, when there was a crowd in the barber's shop
clamoring for the good offices of his razor and his comb, Ambroisine,
who could shave a beard as surely and rapidly as her father, sometimes
consented to lend him a hand, and to attend to the needs of one of the
cavaliers who were waiting to be put in trim. The man for whom she
offered to perform that service always accepted it as a favor, and
strove to impart to his face a most seductive expression; and he never
failed thereafter to proclaim all over the city that he had been shaved
by Master Hugonnet's daughter, while everyone gazed enviously at the
chin which La Belle Baigneuse had lathered.

But such opportunities were rare. Ambroisine was too much occupied with
the baths to be often in her father's shop. And he loved his daughter
too well ever to require her to do anything against her will. In vain
did the young coxcombs, nay, even the great nobles, say to the barber:

"Shall we not see your daughter to-day, Master Hugonnet?" or: "Messire
barbier, I have been awaiting my turn a long while, pray send for the
fair Ambroisine to shave me"; or "By my sword! I would gladly pay double
to be shaved by her!"

To all these and many other like remarks, the good-natured gossip would
reply simply:

"My lords, I am in despair that I am unable to gratify you; but my
daughter is engaged with some ladies who are pleased to patronize my
baths. I have two young men there; but to wait on the fair sex I have
only my daughter, who is sufficient for the task, because she is
fortunately endowed; and because she does in a few moments the work that
would take others an hour. Oh! she is a girl in a thousand, is my
Ambroisine! And as for shaving you, I know that she would do that
perfectly, too; she is my pupil! Such a sure, light, quick hand! Never
has she cut the skin of any man's chin, and yet even I have sometimes
done that! it may happen to the most skilful. But, I tell you again,
Ambroisine is at the orders of none but the ladies of all ranks who
choose to come to my establishment to take baths; and, frankly, that is
more suitable. When I see her shaving a gentleman with the dexterity and
self-possession which distinguish her, I am proud of my pupil! But, on
the other hand, I am humiliated to see her do that work, and I say to
myself: 'By Notre-Dame de Paris! this is no place for my
daughter!'--Moreover, you have little hesitation in making gallant
speeches to her, in saying obscene things.--However, I am not disturbed!
If Ambroisine cares to laugh sometimes,--and in our profession one would
be very foolish to be too surly,--she is well able none the less to keep
in their place those who presume to take too many liberties. My daughter
is a determined wench, I tell you; she has a hand as quick and a fist as
solid as her father's! And woe to those who take the risk of having it
proved to them!"

By such harangues did Master Hugonnet reply to the young men who
displayed a too ardent desire to see his daughter. As a general rule,
the students, the country gentlemen, and the simple esquires listened to
reason; but it was not always so with the young nobles, who considered
themselves at liberty to do anything, because they were received at
court, and because the lieutenant of police closed his eyes too often to
their escapades. When one of them had taken it into his head that he
would see Ambroisine, all that the barber could say to convince him that
that might not be was of no avail, and sometimes was received in bad
part.

But although he was very glad to have noble customers, Master Hugonnet
was not of a humor to endure the impertinences of any man whatsoever;
the marquis, no less than the humble bachelor, felt the effects of his
wrath. And when a young gentleman seemed disposed to take up his abode
in his shop, saying:

"I will not go away until I have seen the fair Ambroisine!"

The barber would shout in stentorian tones:

"Well! you shall not see her, _triple savonnette_! there's no law to
compel her to be at your beck and call!"

But the sonorous voice of Master Hugonnet would reach the ears of
Ambroisine, who, divining from her father's tone that he was in a
passion, would at once leave her work and run to the shop, to put an end
to the dispute.

At sight of the girl, the person who had caused all the uproar would
begin to laugh and would exclaim, with a bantering glance at the barber:

"I told you that I would not go away without a sight of the charming
Ambroisine! I have succeeded, you see!"

Whereupon Master Hugonnet would look sheepish; but a word or two from
his daughter would speedily allay his anger, and more than one among the
witnesses of the scene would resolve to employ the same method when he
wished to see La Belle Baigneuse.

Now that we are acquainted with Master Hugonnet's house and household,
we must pay a visit to the establishment of another bath keeper, on Rue
Dauphine. That street, which had been laid out twenty years earlier, on
the site of the garden of the Augustinians and of the buildings of the
Collège Saint-Denis, was already lined by fine houses, and had an air of
refinement and a class of inhabitants in striking contrast to Quartier
Saint-Jacques.




IV

BATHILDE


The baths on Rue Dauphine were kept by one Landry. He was a man of
sixty, but still vigorous and robust, despite his gray moustache, which
he wore very long. By his soldierly bearing and the way he carried his
head, one could divine that he had seen military service. And Landry
was, in fact, an ex-soldier. He had fought under Henri IV, whose name he
never mentioned without carrying the back of his right hand to his
forehead, or without manifesting his emotion by the change in his voice.

At the great king's death, Landry, then thirty-six years of age, had
left the service. Later, although his face was scarred, his martial
set-up and his military gait had fascinated Dame Ragonde, a widow with a
small hoard. She had married Landry, and they had obtained, by purchase,
a license to keep hot and cold baths.

Landry was a tall, thin, stiff individual. He had an uncommunicative
air, and his long gray moustache tended to make his expression even less
inviting. However, Master Landry was not a bad-tempered man. He had
never been known to seek a quarrel with anyone; and when quarrels arose
among his neighbors, it was usually he who intervened to restore peace.
It is true that his voice was strong and that his moustache produced an
imposing effect on the vulgar.

He performed his duties as bath keeper and barber with the scrupulous
exactness which old soldiers retain in civil life with respect to
everything that they consider a duty. But it was not wise to speak ill
of Henri IV or of his minister Sully in the old soldier's presence. When
such a thing occurred, a sudden change would take place in the whole
aspect of the man; usually calm and cold, he would become as quick to
explode as powder; his blood would boil anew with all the fervor of his
younger days; and the unhappy wight who had presumed to utter a word
derogatory to his idols would be chastised before he had time to
apologize.

But such episodes were likely to be very infrequent, for the memory of
good King Henri was held in too great veneration by Frenchmen for anyone
to venture to impugn it.

Dame Ragonde, the bath keeper's wife, was fifteen years younger than her
husband, but she seemed almost as old as he.

She was a tall, thin, yellow-skinned woman. Had she ever been pretty?
That she had been seemed more than doubtful. Her small, pale-green eyes
were very bright, but they had an arrogant--yes, evil expression; they
were eyes of the sort that seem never to look in any direction with any
other purpose than that of finding something to blame, to reprove, or to
forbid. Her long nose, hooked at the end like a parrot's, made her
resemble in some degree a bird of prey. And her thin, bloodless, tightly
closed lips seemed destined to open only to emit harsh or bitter words.

Since the day of her marriage to Landry, her second husband, nobody
remembered having seen Dame Ragonde smile; indeed, it was not certain
that she smiled on that day.

Her voice was shrill and piercing, her words always short and sharp;
this fact, by the way, was creditable to the lady; she was no gossip and
never said a word more than she had to say.

Who would have guessed that of that union between a man who was not
handsome and a woman who was downright ugly a daughter would be born who
would prove to be a veritable model of beauty, grace, and charm?

Such, nevertheless, was Bathilde, the only child of Landry and Ragonde.

At eighteen, her beauty had reached its perfect development: she was one
of those types which painters delight to find, when they wish to paint a
virgin, an angel, or a demon of temptation.

Bathilde was blond, but the tint was not one of those dull blonds in
which there is a reflection of white; her long, thick, silky hair verged
rather on the chestnut. Her skin had that whiteness in which there is
life, and not that dull tone which imparts an aspect of inanition to a
living person. On the contrary, the lovely girl's cheeks had a rosy
tinge; and at the slightest word of reproof that was addressed to her,
they at once became a most brilliant carmine. Large, deep-blue eyes,
almond shaped, and shaded by long chestnut lashes; a small, fresh,
red-lipped mouth; irreproachable teeth of dazzling whiteness; a chin
slightly oval in shape; fine, but clearly marked eyebrows; a noble,
beautiful brow, over which thick curls seemed proud to be placed.

Such was Bathilde, who possessed, in addition, a slender, lithe, dainty
figure, a remarkably small foot, and a hand worthy to serve as a model.

But a mere enumeration of her advantages affords but a faint idea of the
fascination of that young girl, of the charm with which her whole person
was instinct, of the sweet melody of her voice, and of the pleasure that
one felt in hearing it.

Sometimes one remains unmoved before the most unexceptionable beauty;
for that which attracts and captivates us is not so much the perfection
of the features, the regularity of the outlines of a face, as its
amiable and gracious expression--a second element of beauty which many
times exerts more power than the first; but when the two are combined,
when nature has endowed a single woman with both, then it is that it is
very difficult to avoid losing one's heart and one's reason.

And that lovely, graceful, fascinating girl was the daughter of Landry
and Dame Ragonde!

Nature sometimes indulges in such strange whims. Do we not see flowers
whose perfume intoxicates us and whose gorgeous colors dazzle our eyes,
blooming upon stunted, thorny stalks?

As Bathilde's beauty would have attracted too many gallants, too many
seducers, to Master Landry's shop, the girl never appeared there, nor
did she wait upon the ladies who patronized her father's baths.

Bathilde had been brought up very strictly; almost always confined to
her bedroom, which did not look on the street, the girl never went out
except with her mother; and then a long veil, attached to her hood,
covered almost the whole of her face, leaving nothing in sight save the
end of her nose. If the sweet girl ventured to disarrange the veil and
to expose one of her pink and white cheeks to the air for a moment, Dame
Ragonde would instantly exclaim in her shrill, harsh voice:

"Your veil! your veil! Take care!"

Bathilde knew what that meant, and would hasten to swathe her lovely
face anew.

Certainly, if Master Landry had desired that his establishment should be
besieged by crowds of customers, he could easily have gratified his
wish: nothing more would have been necessary than to allow his daughter
to come to the shop now and then. Bathilde's beauty would have made a
sensation, the court and the city would have been stirred to their
depths, everyone would have desired to know that plebeian
chef-d'œuvre, and, with the inevitable vogue of his place of
business, the bath keeper's fortune would have been assured.

But in this respect Bathilde's parents proved that their own honor and
their child's virtue were to them treasures more precious than gold.

Some neighbors, knowing how strictly Bathilde had been brought up, said,
and with some show of reason, that a mother should be able to watch over
her daughter without converting her house into a prison. That to keep a
child from knowledge of the world was not the way to protect her from
the dangers that are encountered there at every step; and that it was
downright barbarity to deprive a girl of all the pleasures suited to her
years because it had pleased the Creator to endow her with all those
physical qualities which charm and fascinate.

If these or other similar remarks reached Dame Ragonde's ears, it is
probable that she paid little heed to them and that they made little
impression on her. Immovable in her determination, impassible in her
nature, rigorous in her conduct, she made no change whatever in her
methods with her daughter.

And as for Master Landry, although he loved Bathilde dearly and was very
proud of her, he looked upon his wife as the general whose duty it was
to manage the internal economy of his household. As such general, he
obeyed her promptly, reserving to himself only the command of the two
apprentices employed in his baths.

However, Landry's establishment was prosperous, as were almost all the
baths of those days, because they were very few in number.

The neighborhood of Rue Dauphine, which was less thickly populated than
Rue Saint-Jacques, already contained some noble mansions and fine
houses, occupied by magistrates, members of the Parliament, men of the
robe, and rich annuitants. Moreover, the proximity of the
Pré-aux-Clercs, which was still a favorite promenade, although some
buildings were beginning to be erected there, contributed to attract to
Master Landry's baths a more distinguished and more fashionable
clientèle, better society, in a word, than the ordinary patrons of his
confrère, Master Hugonnet.

Furthermore, although the fascinating Bathilde was concealed from prying
eyes, beauty spreads about it a perfume which causes its presence to be
divined, and which attracts connoisseurs, even though they are destined
to have nothing to show for their pains.

Despite all the precautions taken by Dame Ragonde, she could not prevent
her neighbors from talking; they repeated, to whoever chose to listen,
that Master Landry had a daughter more beautiful than the marvellous
princesses of the _Thousand and One Nights_; that her surpassing beauty
was the reason that her father and mother concealed her from all eyes,
because they feared that somebody would take her away from them; and
that they destined her for some wealthy foreign prince.

Others declared, on the contrary, that Master Landry's daughter was a
monster of ugliness and deformity, and that it was to shelter the poor
girl from the ridicule which was certain to be poured out upon her that
they were careful to keep her out of sight.

This last version, however, obtained little credence. As a general rule,
people do not take so many precautions with an ugly girl, or keep such
close watch over one who has no reason to fear the enterprises of
gallants.

Mystery always arouses curiosity, and the veil in which Dame Ragonde
swathed Bathilde's face intensified the general desire to see it.
Extremes are dangerous in everything: the man who puts too many bolts on
his door arouses a suspicion that he possesses a treasure.

Chance had brought Landry and his confrère Hugonnet together. One
evening, when the latter was returning home, as usual, after a merry
evening over the bottle at a wine shop recently opened in the Cité, at
some distance from his house, he lost his way. Alone, late at night, the
barber wandered for a long while through the dark and muddy lanes which
were then called streets, feeling his way along the walls, seeking his
own door, and cursing because he did not find it.

Two men, emerging suddenly from a blind alley, walked toward the drunken
man, who at once asked them to direct him. But he had applied to a pair
of vagabonds, whose only reply was to set about robbing Master Hugonnet
of his purse, his cloak, his great fur cap--in fact, of a large part of
his clothes. At the outset, as a result of his intoxication, which
entirely changed his disposition, Hugonnet placidly allowed himself to
be stripped, thinking that he had to do with unfortunate creatures who
needed all those things for their families. But one of the marauders
having been so imprudent as to strike him on the head, the blow, by
sobering the barber, instantly changed the face of affairs. Restored to
his senses, and realizing with what manner of men he had to do, he
defended himself stoutly; he dealt the two robbers some lusty blows, and
they, irritated at meeting with such stubborn resistance from an
intoxicated man, were already brandishing the daggers which they
proposed to use, when Master Landry appeared upon the stage of this
nocturnal attack.

To draw the rapier which he always carried under his cloak, to rush to
the assistance of the man who was beset, to attack the two robbers with
cut and thrust, to put them to flight, and to restore to Master Hugonnet
his cloak, which had fallen to the ground--all this was the affair of a
moment for the old trooper of Henri IV.

Hugonnet, completely sobered by the combat, offered Landry his hand and
exclaimed:

"Vertudieu! I am inclined to think, comrade, that but for you those
scoundrels would have made me pass a bad quarter of an hour!"

"I thank heaven that I arrived in time to offer you my assistance!"

"Sapristi! you went about it in the right way. You seemed to be at home!
How you handle your sword! I think that my knaves went off with the
marks you made on them."

"It would be a great pity if I did not know how to fight. When one has
had the honor of serving under the great Henri IV; when one has fought
under him at Arques and Ivry----"

"Do you say that you served with the good king who wanted all his
subjects to have a fowl to put in the pot? Shake hands! I am doubly
happy to have met you; and, with your permission, I consider myself from
this moment one of your friends."

"With all my heart, for you too are a brave man; I saw that by the way
you defended yourself against those cutthroats. And yet, you had no
weapons."

"Well! I did my best. Besides--I can afford to confess it, now that it's
all over--those thieves surprised me rather easily, because I was a
little--er--tipsy. I was on my way home from a new wine shop just opened
in the Cité. The wine was good--it always is good in a new place--and we
did not spare it. When I set out to go home, I missed my way--for the
devil take me if I know where I am now!"

"At the Carrefour de Bussy; see, this is the street leading from the
Porte de Bussy to the Pré-aux-Clercs."

"In God's name, what road did I take?--I, who live on Rue Saint-Jacques,
corner of Rue des Mathurins, where I have baths, hot and cold--Master
Hugonnet, at your service; for it is right that you should know whose
life you have saved."

"You are a bath keeper?--Pardieu! this is a strange meeting! I, too, am
one--Master Landry, Rue Dauphine, near Quai Conti."

"Is it possible!--you are the bath keeper on Rue Dauphine? I have heard
of you.--You have a wife, I am a widower. You have a daughter, and so
have I. How old is yours?"

"Twelve years."

"So is mine. Parbleu! confrère, our daughters must be friends, as their
fathers will be; are you willing?"

"Shake hands, ventre-saint-gris! as our good king used to say."

The two bath keepers shook hands once more. Landry started Hugonnet on
the right road, and they returned to their respective homes.

This meeting took place about five years before the time at which our
tale opens. Bathilde and Ambroisine were still children; people took
little notice of them, for we do not pause to consider whether little
girls of twelve are likely to be very beautiful some day. We prefer, and
wisely, to wait until they have become so, before ogling them.

Dame Ragonde's surveillance was naturally less active then; being still
a mere child, Bathilde enjoyed some liberty. So she was allowed to see
her new friend, for Master Hugonnet did not fail to pay a visit to his
confrère.

Landry was not expansive; he was not a frequenter of wine shops, and
never drank too much; but when he had pressed anyone's hand in token of
friendship, that person might be sure that he could rely upon the old
soldier's assistance, upon his arm, under all circumstances.

Dame Ragonde had not looked with great pleasure upon this new intimacy
contracted by her husband; but she knew that it would be useless for her
to try to break it up. Landry was not one of those weathercocks who
change their sentiments and affections according to the advice that is
given them. The husband and wife each had a will of iron. A concession
once made, neither of them attempted to encroach on the other's rights;
it was doubtless to this mutual respect for each other's rights and each
other's will that they were indebted for the peace which reigned in
their household.

The two little girls very soon learned to love each other; there was
between them just that difference in humor, in spirit, in temperament,
which attracts and binds together, and leads to those strong and lasting
attachments which defy time and the blows of fortune.--Observe that we
are speaking of friendship, not of love. As to the last-named sentiment,
we have never known an instance of it which resisted the slightest test
of its strength, when that test was applied with skill!

That which people are pleased to call sympathy cannot be the similitude
between two natures. For, put together two gossips, two testy or
obstinate or irascible, quarrelsome and satirical characters, and see
whether they will love each other, whether they will be able to live
together. There would be a constant state of war.

On the contrary, nature created the strong to support the weak, patience
to allay irascibility, gentleness to appease wrath, gayety to charm away
melancholy.

Bathilde was shy and timid; she trembled at the slightest sharp word,
and her gentle and affectionate nature was more inclined to melancholy
than to gayety.

Ambroisine was of a very different temperament: active, merry,
thoughtless, often angry; she said fearlessly whatever came into her
head; frankness lay at the foundation of her character; her heart was
susceptible, but it did not like to be sad for long. With her the tears
came quickly and disappeared no less quickly.

When Bathilde seemed to be unhappy, when her lovely eyes seemed to
express some hidden grief, her little friend would say to her:

"Somebody has been cross to you, I am sure. I can see that you have been
crying. Tell me who made you cry, and I will go to him and make him come
here and beg your pardon."

But Bathilde would simply look down and murmur:

"It was my mother."

"Did you do anything naughty?" Ambroisine would inquire.

"I asked her if I might go to see you soon."

Ambroisine would not dare to say anything more, but she would turn her
head aside and furtively wipe away the tears that stood in her eyes;
then she would again look at her friend, seize both her hands, and make
her dance around the room, crying:

"You mustn't think about that any more!"

When the girls had reached their fourteenth year, Dame Ragonde began to
think that Ambroisine was too lively, too mischievous, too self-willed,
and that her companionship might be dangerous for her daughter; she
would no longer allow her daughter to go to see her friend under the
escort of a servant; she alleged as an excuse the necessity that
Bathilde should study; and when Ambroisine came to see her, Dame Ragonde
never left them together; she was always by to prevent those
affectionate confidences which she believed to be dangerous. Her
presence, her stern manner, her curt speech, froze Bathilde's heart, and
she forced back those impulsive outbursts of affection which she would
have liked to lavish on Ambroisine. But the latter, although
disappointed at being unable to chat at her ease with little Bathilde,
retained in Dame Ragonde's presence her playful humor, her vivacity, her
frankness, and she often found a way to bring a smile to her young
friend's lips.

And so, as soon as Master Hugonnet's daughter had left the house,
Bathilde's mother never failed to exclaim:

"What an ill-bred child that is! What a bold-faced creature she will be
some day! But, patience: I will put this matter to rights."

And as the girls grew older, they were allowed to see each other less
and less. On Bathilde's side, the surveillance to which she was
subjected became more minute; she seldom went out, and she paid no more
visits. At Master Hugonnet's, on the other hand, Ambroisine, when she
grew tall and strong, was placed by her father at the head of the
establishment; and as a great many people came to the baths, she had
little time left to give to friendship.

But as soon as Ambroisine had a moment to herself, she hastened to Rue
Dauphine, to exchange a clasp of the hand with her friend.

Sometimes Dame Ragonde, who also had to overlook her apprentices and her
servants, was busy at the baths, and Bathilde was alone in her bedroom.
Then, what joy for the two friends! with what ardor they took advantage
of that moment of liberty! for the older they grew, the more interesting
their conversations became. At seventeen, two girls have other things to
say to each other than at twelve or thirteen. It is useless to keep them
sequestered all the time--they will always have something interesting to
tell each other.

Ambroisine especially, who was entirely her own mistress, was certain to
have very many things to tell. And so, when a lucky accident enabled the
two girls to exchange their thoughts, they would hardly take the time
to embrace; questions and answers succeeded one another with astounding
rapidity.

"Your mother isn't here? What luck!"

"What a long time it is since I saw you!"

"We are always so busy at home!"

"I am so bored!"

"I haven't a moment to myself during the day; such a lot of fine ladies
come to bathe!"

"It's the same way here; but I am not allowed to wait on them."

"I wait on them; I dress them when they don't bring their servants, and
that very often happens--they prefer to come alone; I don't know why--or
rather, yes, I think that I can guess why."

"Oh! tell me, Ambroisine!"

"No, no, it isn't worth while! Besides, I am not sure; it is just an
idea of mine."

"Tell me your idea, please, Ambroisine! Mon Dieu! if you don't tell me
anything, if you don't teach me a little, how do you expect me to know
anything, when I am always shut up in this room and only go downstairs
to dinner; when I see nobody but my father and mother, who hardly ever
speak to me? Why do the fine ladies prefer to come to the baths alone?"

"Why, you see, I do not quite know how to tell you.--But, no matter!
what difference does it make, after all? Many cavaliers, young men, come
to the baths also."

"So they do here, but I never see them. Do you see them?"

"Sometimes--when I go down to the shop, and when I help father; for I
know how to shave, I do; I can shave very well when I set about it."

"What! you shave--men?"

"Well! I surely don't shave women, as they have no beards."

"Oh! what a lucky girl you are! what fun that must be!--Do you really
dare to take a man by the chin?"

"Well, why not? I assure you that it doesn't frighten me; indeed, I must
not be frightened, for if my hand shook I should shave badly and cut the
customer.--Don't tell your mother this; for she thinks now that I am too
bold."

"Oh! there is no danger of that!"

"To be sure, it may be that my father tells yours."

"Yes; but my father will never say a word to my mother about it--they
talk so little!--But these cavaliers whom you shave--they speak to you,
I suppose?"

"To be sure--and those whom I don't shave speak to me, too; indeed, I
never know whom to answer, for as soon as I go down to the shop they are
all after me."

"And you are not afraid?"

"Not a bit; what do you suppose I am afraid of?"

"Indeed, I don't know! but my mother tells me that a young girl runs so
much risk when she listens to a man; and you, who listen to more than
one, must run a much greater risk!"

"But nothing happens to me, you see! for when the young gentlemen
presume to do things that are not nice, or make too--too gallant remarks
to me, why, it doesn't take me long to send them about their business!"

"What are the too gallant remarks, and the things that are not nice?"

"Mon Dieu! must I tell you everything? It is strange that you know
nothing!"

"Where, then, do you suppose that I can learn anything?"

"The too gallant remarks--those are when men tell us that we are pretty
or attractive--that they love us, that they adore us."

"Oh! but it must be nice to have that said to you! Is it necessary to be
angry? what a pity!"

"One must be very angry when they add: 'Love me, I implore you;
reciprocate my love, give me your heart; I will be faithful to
you!'--and a lot of oaths, of which they don't mean a word!"

"Ah! do you think that they don't mean a word of them? In that case, why
do they say them?"

"Because it amuses them. But if we listened to them, they would say much
more."

"And the things that are not nice?"

"That is when these fine fellows presume to suit the action to the word.
The ones who do that are the boldest; they take your hand, and, while
pretending to admire it, they don't hesitate to kiss it; or they put an
arm about your waist, and, if they can catch you napping, they try to
kiss you."

"What! are there men so presumptuous as that?"

"Indeed there are! the presumptuous ones are much more numerous than the
respectful ones; that is a great pity, for if it were not so----"

"Well?"

"Why, one might talk with them a little."

"Have they ever tried to kiss you?"

"Yes, indeed, and more than once; but I know how to defend myself. I box
their ears, and I don't do it with any gentle hand, either."

"What! you box your customers' ears?"

"When the customers make too free with me; but no matter how well you
defend yourself, sometimes you cannot escape the kiss."

"Have you ever been kissed, Ambroisine?"

"Mon Dieu! yes! some of those little pages are so quick, and some of the
young nobles so audacious! There is one in particular, Comte Léodgard de
Marvejols--you must have heard of him?"

"I! why, you forget that I hear nothing, see nothing, know
nothing!--What about Comte Léodgard?"

"Oh! he's a terrible scapegrace, I tell you! a rake, a roisterer, a
seducer! There is only one opinion about him, and not a week passes that
he does not set people talking about him. He abducts girls, yes, married
women even; he beats their fathers or husbands; he fights duels,
cudgels the watch, passes whole days and nights in gambling hells,
gambling and drinking; in short, he is worse than the devil!"

"O mon Dieu! how frightened I should be of him! He must be very ugly,
isn't he?"

"Why, no, and that is just what deceives you; unfortunately, he is not
ugly at all; for if he were hideous to look at, he would be much less
dangerous. He is a handsome young man, with a forest of long black hair,
and eyes of the same color, that shine like carbuncles; and when he
looks at you, he has a way of giving them such a benignant expression!
You would think sometimes that he is a little saint; but you very soon
find out your mistake."

"What a pity! A scapegrace is a reprobate, and that ought to appear on
his face. Has that young nobleman ever tried to kiss you?"

"I should say so! there was a time when he came to our place every day;
he laid traps for me, tried to make appointments with me, and brought me
presents."

"Presents?"

"Which I never received.--It did no good for me to lose my temper, to
fly into a passion, to threaten to scratch him--that only made him
laugh; he declared that I was even prettier when I was angry.--As you
can imagine, it is when my father is not at home that they torment me
so; for he would not stand it. But one day I lost my patience: Comte
Léodgard had seized my hands, in spite of my struggles, and he was just
about to kiss me, when I called father. If you had seen how quickly he
took the young nobleman up in his arms and set him down in the street!
The count was frantic; he drew his sword and rushed at father. But you
know Master Hugonnet--it isn't wise to irritate him. In an instant, he
had seized Comte Léodgard's sword and had broken it across his knee. The
count strode away, uttering the most horrible threats, swearing that he
would teach father what it costs to lack respect for a great nobleman.
Father began to laugh, and in a moment he had forgotten all about it.
But, for my part, I confess that the count's threats frightened me, and
for a long time after I trembled whenever father left me, when he came
home later at night than usual; but that was three months ago, and
nothing has happened."

"And the young man has not been to your shop again?"

"Oh, no! not since that time."

"In all this, you have not told me why the fine ladies who come to the
baths prefer not to bring their servants with them?"

"Ah! what a memory you have!--Well, I have noticed very often that there
is a young gentleman below who knows one of the ladies; when she leaves
the bath, the young man is there, waiting for her; they talk together,
they go away together; so, you see, when a lady knows that she will have
a cavalier to escort her home, she does not need to bring a servant."

"If you knew, Ambroisine, how I love to listen to you--you tell me
things that are so entirely new to me! Oh! please tell me some more of
your adventures!"

But when Ambroisine was about to gratify her friend, perhaps they would
hear Dame Ragonde's slow, regular steps approaching. Thereupon, the
subject of conversation would instantly be changed, and they would talk
exclusively of serious or religious matters until Bathilde's mother
said:

"You have talked enough; bid your friend adieu, it is time to separate."

Thereupon Ambroisine would leave her young friend; but all that she had
heard furnished Bathilde with food for thought for many days.




V

AN OLD MANSION.--AN OLD NOBLE


Alone in a large and handsome room, richly furnished, the hangings of
which, however, were very old and seemed to denote, on the part of the
proprietors, a profound respect for whatever had belonged to their
ancestors, an old man sat in an enormous easy-chair, whose carved and
gilded frame seemed as ancient as the hangings, before a desk on which
lay several boxes, books, and papers, which he was apparently engaged in
examining with care.

Sometimes he paused in his labors; his brow was clouded, his expression
stern, and a deep sigh escaped from his breast.

The Marquis de Marvejols was at this time nearly seventy years of age.
He was a tall, spare man, who still carried his head erect, whose gait
was firm and his grasp strong, while his proud and assured bearing would
have held in respect anyone who should attempt to impose upon him.

The old man's face was handsome, although severe. His white hair left
bare a large part of his forehead, on which could be seen a scar caused
by a blow from a lance; his moustaches and his beard, also snow-white,
harmonized well with that martial countenance, which seemed to defy all
dangers; and if the old marquis's keen gray eyes ordinarily wore a
haughty expression that inspired fear rather than confidence, on the
other hand, the extreme urbanity of his manners soon made one forget the
stern and imposing effect of his general appearance.

Knee-breeches and doublet of violet velvet, a leather belt, a very high
ruff, funnel-shaped top-boots, with spurs attached--such was the old
man's costume, which had something military about it. Over all this he
wore a long cloak, trimmed with ermine, which descended almost to his
spurs.

Pushing aside with an angry gesture the papers he had been examining,
Monsieur de Marvejols threw himself back in his chair, and turned his
eyes upon several large portraits which hung on the walls. Two
represented cavaliers with helmets on their heads, and their hands on
their swords; a third was that of a young man wearing the little cap in
vogue in the time of Henri III; and the fourth was the portrait of a
young and lovely woman with a little boy on her knees.

In the immense apartments of olden time, space was not spared; people
were not shut up, as we are to-day, in the foul atmosphere of rooms six
and a half feet in height; the lungs had an opportunity to do their work
freely and the chest must have been in much better case.

In those days, it was easy to find room in a salon for those huge
full-length portraits, which are ordinarily larger than life. Indeed,
one sometimes saw them hung in two rows, and the furniture never reached
to the frames.

To-day, in the apartments which our architects measure out for us so
sparingly, we must renounce all thought of having large canvases, fine
paintings of vast historical subjects, and in many cases even the
full-length portrait of one of our ancestors, unless we choose to take
the risk, when we sit down, of striking our heads against the painting
at the first unpremeditated movement we chance to make.

The Marquis de Marvejol's mansion was on Rue Royale, where one may still
see, in our day, some relics of the magnificent apartments of an earlier
time. But what a difference! Although, on the outside, it still
presents a reasonably well preserved image of what it was under Louis
XIII; although it is still red and white, with its bricks surrounded by
courses of stone, with its slated roof, its light balconies, its tall
windows set in stone frames; although it has retained its low, dark,
heavy galleries, which seem to have been built to defy the ages and the
elements--on the other hand, the interior of its various wings is no
longer the same, and, except in some few instances, the grandeur and
magnificence of the olden time have entirely disappeared.

But at the time of our narrative there were, in the neighborhood of the
Hôtel de Marvejols, the Hôtels de Lesdiguières, de Guémenée, de Sully,
d'Effiat, d'Aumont, de Chevreuse, de Chaulnes, de Saint-Paul, de
Liancourt, etc., etc.

At that time, too, the Place Royale was the scene of all the fêtes and
_carrousels_, which attracted the nobility, the bourgeoisie, and the
people of Paris, who were called in those days _the good people_. When
the marriage of Louis XIII and Anne of Austria was announced, fêtes
lasting three days were given on that square, although it was not
entirely finished.

In later times, on that same spot where noble knights broke lances to
entertain the ladies of their thoughts, who, seated on the balconies of
the neighboring houses, enjoyed the jousting, and encouraged the
champions of their charms by tender glances and by showing them in
advance the knot of ribbon which was to be the guerdon of victory--on
that same spot, we have seen and may still see the peaceable inhabitant
of the Marais, who has nothing in common with the paladins of old,
exercising his faithful dog and selecting a bench whereon to rest a
moment in the sunshine, whose beneficent warmth allays his rheumatic
pains. And the young nursemaid, too, with the children in her care, whom
she often leaves to bump against trees, or to fall as they run hither
and thither, while she is gossiping with other maids on the subject of
their employers, which is much more amusing than to watch children. And
the modest seamstress, on her way to carry home the work intrusted to
her, who crosses the Place Royale, although it is not directly on her
road, because she ordinarily meets there a young man who makes
flattering remarks to her; there is no law against seeking pleasant
meetings.

All this is far removed from the tourneys, the fanfares of trumpets, the
sound of clarion and drum; from the great ladies at the windows, from
the knights in the arena, from the esquires and pages and servants
carrying their masters' weapons and bucklers, and from the charming
troubadours, or _trouvères_, who had seats of honor beside the high and
mighty nobles, because they were destined, later, to sing in laudation
of it all.

Other times, other manners!

The old Marquis de Marvejols gazed gloomily enough at the portraits
which adorned his study--for the enormous room in which he sat was
nothing more than that. Soon he leaned over his desk once more, and
seizing a bell rang it violently.

A valet, almost as old as his master, instantly showed his bald head
beneath a velvet portière which he raised. His face, in respect to the
general effect of the features and their mild expression, might have
served as a model for a painting of Obedience, as personified in a
servant, except that when he raised the corners of his mouth in a smile
there were some slight indications of a tendency to be cunning; but if
that tendency actually existed in the old servant, it never went beyond
the corners of his mouth.

"Did monsieur le marquis ring?" inquired a shrill, cracked voice.

"Has my son gone out this morning, Hector?"

Old Hector pressed his lips together, and the corners of his mouth
assumed their sly expression, as he replied in a drawling tone:

"Monsieur le Comte Léodgard de Marvejols certainly has not left the
house this morning; I am certain of that."

"In that case, go to my son and tell him that I wish to speak with
him--at once, before he goes out."

The old servant looked down at his feet, but did not budge.

"Well! did you not hear me, Hector?" continued the marquis, testily;
"have your ears grown dull, that I have to give you the same order
twice?"

"No, monsieur le marquis, no, thank heaven! my ears are still good. I
have not the least occasion to reproach them. And if I have not obeyed
the command you have done me the honor to give me, it is because----"

"Well! because what? finish, I say!"

"I cannot tell Monsieur le Comte Léodgard to come to speak with you,
because he is not in the house."

"Not in the house? Why, you told me only a moment ago that my son had
not gone out this morning!"

"That is true, monseigneur; he has not gone out this morning, because he
did not come in last night."

The marquis put his hand to his forehead.

"Ah!" he cried; "of course, I understand! You did not wish to tell me
that, my poor Hector; you would like to conceal my son's disorderly
conduct from me! But it is useless for you to try to deceive me. I know
everything; and it is much better that I should know everything; for one
must know where the trouble lies, in order to put a stop to it. All this
has been going on a very long while, and it must come to an end!"

"Monsieur le Comte Léodgard is still very young," murmured Hector, still
draped by the portière.

"Very young--when he has nearly reached his twenty-sixth year! A man is
a man at that age, and he no longer has the first effervescence of youth
for an excuse! Ah! when I was at that age, you were already in my
service--do you remember, Hector?"

"As if it was yesterday, monseigneur; my memory is as sound as my
ears."

"Very well! I served in the army, I fought, I lived in camp. But,
although I was a bachelor,--for I married quite late,--did I ever lead
this life of licentiousness, of debauchery, which makes me blush for my
son?"

"All young men are not as irreproachable as monseigneur has always
been--as bachelor, husband, and widower."

"I do not expect that he shall be faultless! I do not demand the
impossible! But I do not propose that weaknesses shall become vices;
faults, crimes!"

"Oh! monsieur le marquis! be indulgent to monsieur your son!"

"I have been indulgent enough, too much so, perhaps. I must see
Léodgard; he must be made acquainted with my irrevocable
determination!--And that rascally Latournelle, his valet--is he still in
the house?"

"No, monseigneur; I have not seen him for several days."

"I told my son to discharge that knave; a scoundrel, a blackleg, a
gambler, who ought to be hanged."

At that moment, the conversation was interrupted by the sound of a horse
galloping into the courtyard.

Hector let the portière fall, went into a reception room, looked out of
the window, and returned with a radiant face, saying to his master:

"Here is Monsieur le Comte Léodgard, just coming in."

"Go to him, then; tell him that I await him. Go--do not lose an instant,
for he may have gone away again."

Old Hector disappeared to execute his master's command.

In a few moments, Léodgard entered his father's apartment. The young
count was pale, his face was drawn and haggard, his eyes sunken from
loss of sleep; and the disorder of his clothes, the dust with which they
were covered, seemed to indicate that he had recently ridden a long
distance on horseback.

He walked forward with a respectful air, but was evidently out of
temper. He bowed to his father and remained standing in the middle of
the room.

The old marquis pointed to a chair, saying in a stern tone:

"Be seated, monsieur; what I have to say to you will take some moments,
and deserves to be listened to with attention."

"I beg pardon, monsieur, but you see the disordered state of my dress; I
am ashamed to appear before you in such disarray; allow me simply the
necessary time to change, and I will at once return."

"No, monsieur! your dress is a matter of great consequence, in very
truth! By Saint Jacques! what matters it to me whether your doublet is
more or less fresh? It is not the dust with which your clothes are
covered that will mar your escutcheon, but your disgraceful conduct!
That it is which sullies the honor of your name much more than the storm
has injured your cloak! Be seated--I insist!"

Léodgard restrained with difficulty an impatient outburst; but he threw
himself on a chair, and his father continued:

"I have remonstrated with you several times, monsieur, concerning your
dissolute conduct; you have not listened to me, you have despised your
father's judicious counsel. To-day, when your misconduct has gone beyond
all bounds, when your evil deeds--for they are no longer the escapades
of a young man, but evil deeds, of which you are guilty----"

"Father----"

"Do not interrupt me!--To-day, when your evil deeds recognize no
restraint, I no longer advise, I command you; and you will respect my
commands, or this _lettre de cachet_ will deal with you for me.--Look,
monsieur; you know that I do not indulge in empty threats; here is your
passport to the Bastille, sent me by Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu,
who also is aware of all your misconduct and has given me permission to
make use of this whenever I may think best, leaving in my hands the
punishment of him who bears my name."

Léodgard could not help shuddering inwardly when he saw the _lettre de
cachet_ which his father took from his desk, and he faltered in a
tremulous voice:

"What have I done--what more than many young gentlemen of my age, to
deserve to be treated so harshly?"

"Ah! you ask what you have done? That, I presume, is because you hope
that I know only a part of it. Unhappily, monsieur, your conduct is too
notorious, your vices make too much noise in the world; you are cited
too often by all the wellborn debauchees, for the echo not to reach your
father's ears. Stealing wives from their husbands, young girls from
their parents, passing the night in wine shops and gambling hells,
fighting with the king's archers, with the watch, with citizens,
incurring debts and not paying them, breaking shop windows and offering
no other compensation than a sword thrust, binding yourself to Jews and
usurers, thrashing your creditors when they presume to demand what you
owe them, what they have been waiting for so long--such are your noble
exploits, monsieur! a descendant of the Marvejols does not blush to
conduct himself thus!--And yet, cast your eyes about you, look at these
portraits which surround you, your ancestors who have left you a
glorious name--are not you of their blood, you, who debase it? Ah! if
they could come forth from their tombs,--and your excellent mother, who
was so proud to have brought forth a descendant of our line,--it would
be to crush you with their wrath!"

"Monsieur le marquis, allow me to say a word in my own defence.--My
faults have been exaggerated. I have committed some faults, I admit; but
they are not so serious as you seem to think."

"And your debts--will you say that they are a mere trifle? You owe five
thousand pistoles at this moment, monsieur."

"I do not know, monsieur le marquis, whether you have also been told
that I have been stripped clean by that miserable Giovanni, that Italian
brigand, who terrorizes all Paris?"

"Yes, I have heard of that. But how did you allow yourself to be robbed
by that man?"

"I venture to believe that my father has no doubt that if I was overcome
it was not without a vigorous resistance on my part."

"Oh! I do justice to your courage; you would not be my son if you were a
coward!"

"It was late at night, about a fortnight ago. I was returning home alone
and was passing through Rue Couture-Sainte-Catherine. Suddenly this
Giovanni appeared before me, and demanded my purse as courteously as if
he were inquiring for my health. The robber seemed to me such an
original character that I talked with him a few minutes. But when he
repeated his demand, I drew my sword. He had some sort of a short, broad
weapon. Practised as I am in fighting, that devil of a man dealt me a
thrust,--I do not know how to describe it,--and I was beaten. I felt the
point of his sword against my breast; but he was content to take my
purse, and disappeared as he had come, without giving me time to see
which way he went."

"If I were lieutenant of police of this realm, that adroit thief would
have been hanged before this.--However, monsieur, this Giovanni did not
rob you of five thousand pistoles, I imagine?"

"No; but I had a considerable sum upon me----"

"Which you had won in some hell, I doubt not.--But let us have done, for
the subject of this interview is a painful one to both of us. Here,
Léodgard, are papers containing a statement of the amount of your debts;
here are your obligations to the Jews who are ruining you; here are your
receipts for various sums lent you at exorbitant rates, with a view,
doubtless, to my death, which does not come quickly enough to supply you
with another fortune to squander."

"Ah! monsieur le marquis----"

"All these papers cost me fifty thousand livres; but I paid it, to save
once more your honor, so seriously compromised."

A ray of joy lighted up Léodgard's face; he stepped toward the old man,
crying:

"What, father! you have deigned----"

The marquis made a gesture as if to forbid his son to approach, and
continued with unabated austerity:

"Yes, monsieur, I have paid the money; but mark well what I say: long
ago you squandered the last of the property which your mother left you.
I do not choose that you should have debts, but neither do I propose
that the fortune of my ancestors, which enables me to maintain my rank
becomingly, shall be the prey of harlots, gamblers, and rakes; so attend
closely to what I say: if I learn that you have contracted any new debt,
I shall instantly make use of this _lettre de cachet_, and send you to
the Bastille; and when you are once there, it may well be that you will
remain there for some time! This, monsieur, I will do--I swear it before
the portraits of my ancestors! You know now whether I will keep my
oath.--Mend your ways, Léodgard; make yourself worthy once more of the
name you bear. You know that it is my dearest wish to marry you to
Mademoiselle Valentine de Mongarcin. I was her father's comrade in arms;
the idea that our children would be united some day made the baron's
heart beat fast with joy. Mademoiselle de Mongarcin is worthy of you,
her family is on a par with ours; she has a large fortune and is one of
the most beautiful women in France. Six months ago, she left the convent
where she had completed her education, and took up her abode with her
aunt; and she will soon be nineteen years old. What objection have you
to urge against this alliance, Léodgard?"

"None, father. I agree that Mademoiselle de Mongarcin is very lovely,
although I have seen her but rarely."

"What prevents you from paying court to her? Madame de Ravenelle,
Valentine's aunt, is aware of the baron's wishes.--Cease to be a
libertine, a rake, and she will give you the hand of this wealthy and
noble heiress.--Well, monsieur! what have you to say?"

"Pardon me, monsieur le marquis--but--to marry--to put myself in chains
already----"

"Already! A man cannot be happy too soon, monsieur; and you will be
happy with a woman who is worthy of you. You will realize the difference
between family joys and the orgies of debauchery. Furthermore, numerous
suitors for Mademoiselle de Mongarcin's hand have already entered the
lists; if you do not come forward, do you suppose that she will send to
beg for your homage? Hasten to present yourself, to disperse your
rivals! This marriage must take place ere long.--I have often repented,
myself, that I married so late in life! I was forty-three when I married
your excellent mother. What was the result? that I was already old when
you became a man; and that, instead of finding in me a friend, a
companion, my son has seen in me only an old man, to whom he has never
confided his secrets."

"Father----"

"You have heard me, Léodgard. It rests with you now to be happy and to
regain your father's affection. You know how you must conduct yourself
for that.--Go; I will keep you no longer."

Léodgard bent his head respectfully before the old man, who responded
with a slight nod which indicated no great amount of confidence as yet.

When he was out of range of his father's eyes, Léodgard tore his hair,
saying to himself:

"Not incur debts! why, I have no money!--But I must have some! For I
promised Camilla that beautiful pearl necklace that she wants so much!
Now that I no longer owe anything, I can easily borrow.--But that
_lettre de cachet_!--Ah! I know my father; he did not threaten me
heedlessly; he would have me put in the Bastille, and I have no desire
to go to that horrible prison!"




VI

CHAUDOREILLE'S GODSON


Among the numerous habitués of the various bathing establishments might
be noticed a tall, lean man, with a yellow complexion, like the
description of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. This personage had
one of those elongated faces, with prominent cheek bones which call
attention to the hollowness of the cheeks; also a long, pointed nose, a
chin of the same type, an enormous mouth with a full complement of long
teeth, each one of which resembled a tusk, and which terrified beyond
words all the little children in whose presence this gentleman was
pleased to smile; for he then appeared exactly as if he proposed to
swallow the innocent creatures. A low forehead, yellow hair, and
moustaches of the same color, the latter twisted at the ends so that
they nearly joined the corners of the eyes--such was the Chevalier
Passedix, who claimed to be Chaudoreille's godson.

We like to believe, dear reader, whichever your sex, that you have known
a certain _Barber of Paris_, whose adventures made some noise long ago;
in that case, you may not have forgotten entirely his friend the
Chevalier Chaudoreille, that vain, cowardly Gascon, gambler and
shameless liar, who boasted so loudly of his long sword, which he called
Roland, and who came to such a tragic end, falling from a roof, and
running himself through in his fall with his faithful Roland, which he
held in his hand to feel his way along the slippery roof on which he was
walking.

The Chevalier Passedix, then, claimed to be the godson of Chaudoreille,
albeit the latter, in his negotiations with Touquet the barber, had
never mentioned his godson. But there are many people who forget that
they ever held a child over the baptismal font, or who do not choose to
remember that they have been godparents, in order to evade the duties
which that relation imposes on them.

However, Passedix, himself a Gascon, resembled his godfather in many
respects; like him, he was a glutton, a gambler, and a liar; like him,
he sighed for every woman who looked at him, believing himself to be a
very attractive gallant, whereas he might fittingly have served as a
scarecrow in a community of women.

But there was one respect in which the resemblance between him and his
godfather had no existence. Chaudoreille was always a coward, his
battles were mere bluster, and his very death was tragic only because
he was fleeing over the roofs from an imaginary danger.

Passedix, on the contrary, was really brave; he would draw his sword on
the most trivial pretext, would often take up the cudgels for a perfect
stranger, and like Don Quixote, whom he resembled in his great height
and his leanness, he would readily have fought against a windmill. But
his courage was rarely fortunate, and whether because he handled Roland
unskilfully,--for he possessed his godfather's famous rapier,--or
because his excessive ardor made him imprudent, or because he was too
sure of victory, the chevalier was almost always beaten; indeed, he was
very lucky when he came off with a few scratches and was not nailed to
his bed to await the healing of his wounds.

On a certain beautiful warm spring morning, several young nobles were
chatting and laughing in Master Hugonnet's shop. Some were waiting for
their inamoratas to come from the baths, others had come thither in the
hope of seeing Ambroisine, La Belle Baigneuse, and perhaps of being
shaved by her. The majority were there because it was a favorite
rendezvous of idlers, lady killers, and all the young dandies and rakes
who were eager to learn the news, the spicy anecdotes of the court and
city, to inquire concerning the scandalous intrigue of the moment, in
order that they might make merry at the expense of the poor betrayed
husband; for we must not forget that husbands were betrayed in the good
old times no less than they are to-day.

As there were no cafés in those days for the idlers and gossips, the
bathing establishments filled their place. As there were no newspapers
to read, people were accustomed to collect to listen to the man who came
there to tell some anecdote or some new occurrence. The gossips were
welcome and held the floor. Many falsehoods were told, as will always be
the case in such assemblages; the man who lied with the most assurance
was almost always the one who was most eagerly listened to, and most
loudly applauded by those at whom he laughed in his sleeve. To-day, we
find _blagueurs_ who delight to hoodwink their auditors. The words have
changed, but the characters are the same.

Some of the idlers who were assembled at Master Hugonnet's stood in the
doorway of the shop, both wings of the door being thrown open, and
amused themselves by watching the passers-by. Rue Saint-Jacques was
frequented by students, clerks of the Basoche, and a great number of the
lower classes; moreover, the proximity of the Hôtel de Cluny brought to
the quarter many ecclesiastics and doctors of the Sorbonne.

Our young gentlemen did not always confine themselves to ogling the
passers-by. When a woman who was at all attractive, or a clown with a
particularly idiotic face, passed the barber's shop, they addressed a
compliment or an obscene jest to the one, to the other some unflattering
epithet or some insulting question. And woe to the unlucky wight who
should take the jest in bad part! for if he lost his temper and
presumed to reply, all the idlers and all the customers assembled at the
baths instantly ran out to listen to the complainant; and then, instead
of one jest, he had to undergo a perfect hailstorm of witticisms from
all sides.

"Pardieu! messeigneurs," said one young blade, all covered with ribbons
and lace, as he left the door and threw himself carelessly on one of the
hard chairs in the shop, "I have just seen two women of rather
attractive aspect go in at the door leading to the baths."

"How were they dressed, Sénange?" inquired the young man who was at that
moment in the barber's hands.

"Oh! how curious this little Monclair is! He wants to make us believe
that he is waiting here for a fair; that someone is to come here to
fetch him!"

"Yes, sambleu! I am expecting someone; what is there so surprising in
that? Haven't you at least one mistress yourself, Sénange?"

"One mistress! Vertudieu! if I had but one, it seems to me that it would
be almost the same as if I had none."

"Very pretty! but I shouldn't expect it from anyone but Léodgard.--Come,
Sénange, be decent; how were the damsels dressed who have just gone into
the baths?"

"One--and she must have been the dowager--wore a brown pelisse and hood;
her head was all wrapped up in the hood, and there was a thick veil over
all; guess at the face, if you can!"

"And the other?"

"The other was dressed in pink; there was a border of black lace to her
hood, and it fell over her eyes; but her feet were small, her slippers
embroidered with silver thread, and her leg well turned, as one could
easily see, for she raised her skirts very generously!"

"Oh! it is she, I am sure!"

"By Notre-Dame de Paris!" cried Master Hugonnet, holding his razor in
the air; "if you move about like this, my lord, something will happen to
your face; that leap of yours nearly cost you your nose, and I assure
you that it would not have been my fault. Keep quiet, or I will not
answer for the consequences!"

"'Tis well, barber; go on, do your duty; I will try to be calm.--By the
way, messieurs, it seems to me that it is a long while since we last saw
Passedix in this quarter!"

"True; the valiant Passedix no longer shows himself; where can he
be?--Have you seen him lately, Hugonnet?"

"No, messeigneurs; it is several weeks since the Chevalier Passedix has
been here."

"That is the more surprising, because, if I remember aright, he was
deeply in love with your daughter Ambroisine."

"In love with my daughter--he! He is in love with all women; but it
amounts to nothing."

"Did you treat him a little--harshly? You are quite capable of it."

"No, I was not put to that trouble; the chevalier has always been too
respectful for me to be angry with him."

"Then it must be that poor Passedix has had some new affair of honor; he
has probably fought a duel and come out second best, as usual; and
doubtless he is stretched out on his bed of pain at this moment."

"Perhaps he has been attacked by Giovanni, the fashionable robber!"

"Giovanni would not have wounded him; he contents himself with robbing
and never does any harm."

"But if a man doesn't choose to be robbed, and defends himself----"

"Look at Léodgard, messieurs; he defended himself gallantly, and yet
Giovanni robbed him and did not hurt a hair of his head."

At that moment, loud exclamations were heard at the shop door.




VII

A YOUNG WOMAN _EN CROUPE_


"Oh! what a fine head, my friends!" cried a cavalier who was standing in
the doorway.

"What is it, La Valteline?"

"A great clodhopper--some peasant from the South, doubtless, for he
wears the Béarnais costume, I believe. He is coming along on an enormous
horse. Come, look! it's worth the trouble!"

"Do you expect us to put ourselves out for a country lout?"

"But he has something very seductive _en croupe_; a fresh, red-cheeked
little wench, who, in her rustic costume, would carry off the palm from
all the fair who come to visit the baths!"

"Oho! we must see that! we must see that!"

A horse was coming along at a footpace, with two persons on his back.
First, a countryman with straight hair brushed flat, which fell to his
shoulders, and was partly hidden by a sort of woollen cap ending in a
point and surmounted by a small black plume; beneath that original
headgear appeared a broad, round, chubby, red face, a most perfect
specimen of careless health, with big eyes on a level with the face,
which expressed amazement at everything they saw, and at the same time
seemed happy to be amazed. The rest of his costume was that of a
Béarnais peasant. In his right hand he held a long branch of dogwood,
which he used as a crop to accelerate his horse's gait.

Behind this rustic, on his horse's crupper, and clinging tightly to her
cavalier, was a young girl of eighteen years at most, as pretty as the
Italian madonnas to whom the painters make you long to pray, and as
fresh as a rosebud just opening.

Her embarrassment and alarm made her even more beautiful, for she seemed
a little alarmed by her position; and while trying to seat herself more
firmly, she displayed every moment the upper part of a shapely calf, and
sometimes even the red garter that held her coarse woollen stocking in
place.

"Jarnidié! that's a dainty morsel!" exclaimed the young men in chorus.

"See the lovely black hair!"

"And eyes quite as black, on my word!--fine lashes, heavy eyebrows!"

"A straight nose, neither too large nor too small!"

"A perfect chin and a tiny mouth!"

"Oh! did you see, messieurs? She uttered a little cry of fright, and I
saw the prettiest teeth!"

"Then she lacks nothing, for she is as fresh as she is pretty!"

"Where in the devil is that clown taking this seductive morsel?"

"Pardieu! messieurs, we will find out."

"It shall not be said that a charming creature shall pass us like this,
without our taking measures to find her again."

"But this girl, with her square cap and her veil on top of her head,
with her striped waist and skirt of such brilliant colors, certainly is
not a Frenchwoman; she wears an Italian costume."

"Do you think so, La Valteline?"

"I am sure; it's the costume of the peasants in the suburbs of Milan.
Pardieu! I ought to know; I was at Milan last year!"

"You are right; the girl has something Italian or Israelitish in her
face, and her slightly bronzed complexion also tends to confirm your
conjectures."

The horse and his riders had by this time reached the bath keeper's
house, and were about to pass it on their way down Rue Saint-Jacques,
when the young Marquis de Sénange ran out and placed himself in front of
the peaceful beast, which instantly halted.

Thereupon the young noble, doffing his hat, saluted the girl and her
escort with respect, and all the other bystanders made haste to do the
like.

The Béarnais peasant, astounded by all these courtesies, deemed it
advisable none the less to remove his cap and return the salutations of
all those young men who treated him so politely.

As for the girl, she raised her great black eyes and, with an expression
in which there was more surprise than timidity, looked about at the
persons who were gazing at her.

"Par la sambleu! my dear monsieur, how fortunate we are to fall in with
you, and to be the first to present you our respectful homage. But we
have been waiting for you a long while.--Pray put on your hat--we
entreat you! You must surely see by the joy which your arrival causes us
how impatiently you and your charming travelling companion were awaited
in Paris!"

"Eh! damme! what's that? we were expected in Paris?" cried the big
countryman, who had listened with a dazed expression to young Sénange's
harangue.

"Can you doubt it?" said the Chevalier de La Valteline, in his turn,
walking nearer to the horse's hind quarters in order to examine the girl
more closely. "Do you not know that we are notified in advance at Paris
when such interesting travellers as you are to arrive here? Deputations
were sent to all the barriers to welcome you. It is very strange that
you did not meet them--eh, messeigneurs?"

Shouts arose on all sides, accompanied by roars of laughter, which the
clerks of the Basoche and the students could not restrain, and in which
the valets and all the blackguards of the quarter did not hesitate to
join.

"Pray dismount, my master, and come with us to take some refreshment,
you and this lovely child; we will give you a taste of a certain choice
wine which we have put aside for the express purpose of celebrating your
arrival. I will help your companion to dismount first."

As he spoke, the jovial Sénange offered his knee to the girl for use as
a stepping stone, while the peasant, bewildered by what he heard and, it
may be, a little tempted by the offer of wine, seemed to hesitate as to
what he ought to do, and to be inclined to accept the invitation. But
his pretty companion, instead of dismounting as she was invited to do,
seized her escort's arm with little ceremony, and said to him, under her
breath, but in a firm tone:

"Don't get down, Cédrille; don't you see that all these fine gentlemen
are making sport of you and me, for all their courtesies and fine
manners? They say that they expected us, but I will wager that they do
not even know who we are. Just ask that most dandified one, who has such
a smooth tongue, to tell you your name and why we have come to Paris;
and you'll see that he won't be able to answer you."

These words changed the peasant's plans. He sat more firmly in his
saddle, and, addressing the man who had spoken first, said in a tone
wherein it was easy to detect distrust:

"One moment, my fine gentleman; we don't make acquaintances so fast, we
peasants don't, especially as we were told that we must be on the
lookout in Paris; and that there was a lot of fellows, law students and
ne'er-do-wells, yes, and some great nobles, who like to poke fun at
poor folks, especially peasants and people who work in the fields.
That's an entertainment that we don't care about giving, d'ye see!--You
say we were expected in Paris--so you know me and the little one, I
suppose? Well, if you know us--who are we?--tell us who we are? Answer,
if you please, messeigneurs."

The young men looked at one another and winked.

"This clod is not so stupid as he looks," said one.

"That didn't come from him," said a page; "the little one prompted him
to say it."

"He was all ready to dismount, but the girl held him back."

"You ask me who you are," rejoined young Sénange, twirling his
moustache; "why, you know who you are! So what need is there for me to
tell you what you already know?--Nonsense! come with us, my master, and
drink and touch glasses; the wine we will give you is much better than
that you drink in your village."

"Oh, no! oh, no! not till you have answered my questions; but you can't
do that!"

"Your questions! By what right, pray, do you put questions to us, when
we are offering you a civil attention? Do you know, my handsome
traveller, that it is not decent to refuse to drink a glass, to empty a
goblet, to our health?--Are you afraid to drink? In that case, you would
make a dismal companion!--I say, messieurs, what do you think of this
lout who fears to compromise himself by drinking with us?"

"Probably the knave has never tasted wine; he thinks that we intend to
purge him."

"He is sadly in need of having the rust rubbed off--the clown!"

"Ah! but he must drink! We will pour a pint or two down his throat from
the Souris Blanche, which is just across the way."

"We will teach the fool what courtesy is!"

"Ah! so silly talk is taking the place of your civilities now!" said the
peasant, with a frown.

His companion touched him on the shoulder and murmured:

"Go on, Cédrille! whip your horse. Don't stay in the midst of all these
young gentlemen. They look to me like bad fellows; their shouts and the
way they look at me--I am beginning to be frightened."

"Whip Bourriquet! why, they have got hold of his bridle; and how can we
go on in the middle of all this crowd? I wouldn't like to ride over
anyone, for then they would make trouble for me.--Jarny! Miretta, I am
sorry already that you insisted on coming to this Paris!"

"Pray dismount, my pretty Milanese," said the Chevalier de La Valteline,
offering his hand to the girl, whose name, as we now know, was Miretta.

"Milanese!" she retorted, refusing the young nobleman's hand. "Ah! you
guess that from my costume; it is true that I have lived in the
neighborhood of Milan from infancy, but I was not born in Italy; I am
from the same province as Cédrille."

"And Cédrille is a Béarnais?"

"Yes, messieurs; from Pau, by your leave," said the peasant.

"Vive Cédrille!"

"Vive Cédrille of Pau!"

And the young nobles, as they shouted the name, waved their hats and
handkerchiefs, while the bachelors and squires joined hands and began to
dance and caper around the horse and his riders.

The girl's face flushed, her impatience got the better of her; she
struck the horse's flank with her hand, while the peasant did his best
to urge his steed forward, crying:

"Let go of Bourriquet's rein, seigneurs! let go of my horse, ten
thousand devils!"

"Ah! Bourriquet! the horse's name is Bourriquet!"

"His rider should bear that name!"

"Poor _bourrique_,[B] who has to carry another of his kind!"

[B] _Bourrique_, an ass; _bourriquet_, an ass's colt.

"No, no! your horse shall not take a step!"

"Don't worry him with your rein."

"Dismount, Cédrille of Pau; if not, we will forcibly remove you and your
companion from Bourriquet's back!"

Some of Master Hugonnet's customers were already preparing to carry out
this threat; but at that crisis, the Béarnais peasant, whose face had
turned purple and had assumed a menacing expression, quickly raised his
right arm, and brandishing in the air the dogwood staff with which his
right hand was armed, twirled it about in the faces of those who
approached, with such fearless and uncompromising dexterity that in a
moment there was a large space cleared in front of the travellers; and
yet, some of the jokers did not move back quickly enough to avoid a blow
from the redoubtable dogwood staff.

Meanwhile, the pretty girl threw both arms about her companion, and,
raising her head, seemed to defy with her glance those who surrounded
her, and to say to them:

"Come forward now, if you dare!"

All this had taken place in an instant; but the panic was soon over, and
all the young men, who were in the habit of beating the watch, fighting
with citizens, and brawling every night in the streets of Paris, were in
no humor to fly from a peasant's club. Having retired to a safe
distance, they turned about once more and drew their swords; the
bachelors, students, pages, and esquires did the same; for at that
blessed epoch almost every man wore a sword or a rapier of some sort, in
order to be always in a position to fight on the most trivial pretext: a
consequence of the gentle manners and pacific customs of the good old
times.

At sight of the bare swords, Miretta said to her companion:

"Come, push on, Cédrille! beat your horse! Let us get away from here, or
some disaster will happen to us."

The peasant shook Bourriquet's rein with no gentle force; but although
the beast no longer felt a hand on his bit, he stood like a statue in
his tracks, and, in spite of the urging of his rider, refused to advance
a step, terrified doubtless by the noise that he heard and by the crowd
that stood in a circle about him.

Meanwhile, the young men again approached, half threateningly, half
laughingly; they brandished their swords, and some of the points were
already in contact with the dogwood staff which Cédrille continued to
handle with much address, while they shouted in his ears:

"Down! down, rustic!"

"Dismount at once, and ask our pardon on your knees!"

"Yes, let him apologize! or else we will carry off the girl!"

"And Bourriquet too!"

"And we will break the staff over Cédrille's back!"

"Break my staff!--Oh! jarnidieu! there's more than one of you who will
have a few ribs broken first!"

But when she saw all those gleaming blades directed against her
companion, and often, by inadvertence, threatening her own person,
pretty Miretta uttered piercing shrieks; she called imploringly for
help. To her cries, uttered as they were in a plaintive, grief-stricken
tone, the young men replied by a storm of jests and lamentations; they
tried to reassure the girl, to make her understand that they would do
her no harm; but she, too terrified to hear what they said, continued
her outcries.

Thereupon Master Hugonnet, who thus far had continued to shave Monsieur
de Monclair, abandoned his customer and ran into the street to find out
what was happening. At the same time, Ambroisine left the baths to
ascertain the cause of the uproar and the shrieks that she heard.

As the father and the daughter reached the street, two other persons
arrived on the scene, one by Rue des Mathurins, the other from
Saint-Benoît cemetery; and, having quickened their pace in order to
arrive sooner, they made their appearance at almost the same
moment--forcing their way through the crowd without ceremony, and
distributing blows to right and left among those who did not move aside
quickly enough to make way for them.




VIII

A BATTLE


"Ah! here's our friend Passedix, whom we were so anxious about!" cried
several of the reckless youths, when they spied the long, lank,
yellow-faced chevalier, who always wore a helmet, which heightened his
resemblance to Don Quixote, although his helmet was not of the shape of
that worn by the Knight of the Rueful Countenance.

"Ah! here is the Sire de Jarnonville!" exclaimed others of the young
men, at sight of the second of the two new-comers, who, by rough
handling of the crowd, had arrived in front of the barber's shop.

He was a tall, handsome man, dressed in a rich but very sombre costume;
his black doublet, slashed with white satin, had the appearance of a
mourning garment; a black velvet cloak, faced with white, covered his
shoulders; his full, funnel-shaped top-boots also were black, although
most gentlemen wore yellow ones except when they went to war. His
broad-brimmed hat, turned up in front, had no other ornament than a long
plume of the same color as the cloak. So that the Sire de Jarnonville
was sometimes given the sobriquet of the _Black Chevalier_.

He was thirty-eight years of age, but seemed much older, because his
brown hair was beginning to turn gray; because his noble and regular
features were almost always clouded, as if under the burden of painful
thoughts; because his eyes also had ordinarily an expression of profound
sadness; and lastly, because his brow was furrowed with premature
wrinkles, and the clouds which darkened it were rarely dissipated.

And yet this gentleman, whose aspect was so gloomy, and whom one would
have taken to be the enemy of all pleasure, had for several years past
participated in all the amusements and festivities, and especially in
all the brutal tricks which were played on bourgeois, tradesmen, and
even attachés of the court. Whenever one of the most dissolute
frequenters of the bathing establishments proposed some new escapade--to
abduct a woman, to hoodwink a guardian, or to thrash the watch and throw
a whole quarter into dismay, he could be certain beforehand that the
Sire de Jarnonville would join him; he was one of the first volunteers
in all perilous undertakings; he always rushed to the spot where the
danger was greatest, fought like four men, and was the last to leave the
field.

If anyone had a duel on hand and lacked a second, the Black Chevalier
was always ready to render him that service, without even inquiring as
to the subject of the dispute or the name of the adversary; but always
on condition that he should fight with the opposing seconds.--Did anyone
propose to gamble and drink, Jarnonville gambled and drank, and
sometimes drank too much. Amid the companions of his revels, at the
banquet table, in a midnight affray, in a duel, he almost always
retained that melancholy expression which had aged his features before
their time; to one who watched him fight and gamble and drink, it seemed
that he did all those things without inclination or pleasure, but solely
in the hope of diverting his thoughts; and that he could not succeed in
doing it. Such was the personage who had forced his way through the
crowd and taken his stand beside the Marquis de Sénange, while the
Chevalier de Passedix approached Bourriquet's hind quarters and
contemplated with admiration the pretty girl who was seated thereon.

"Ah! here is Jarnonville! Vivat! the victory is ours!"

"Come on our side, O Black Chevalier! you arrive in the nick of time;
there's a girl to be kidnapped, and a clown to be beaten!"

"Vrai Dieu! it seems to me that there are a good many of you for such a
small matter!" rejoined the Sire de Jarnonville, casting his eye over
the crowd assembled before the barber's house.

"Yes; but the task is not so simple as you might think, my master; for
we must obtain possession of this pretty wench without doing her the
slightest harm; and yonder idiot, with his club, is capable of wounding
the little one in trying to defend her."

"Ah! he knows how to handle the staff, does he? So much the better! we
will judge of his talent."

"Sandioux! messeigneurs," cried Passedix, "why do you attack this child?
and this stout youth whom she presses to her heart, rolling her lovely
eyes to beseech our compassion?--I wish, first of all, to know the
subject of the quarrel; and I object beforehand to any sort of force
being put upon such a charming wench!"

"Come, come, valiant Passedix, just move away from that nag's hind
quarters and come over to our side! Do you mean to desert our camp? are
you going over to the Greeks?"

"Beware, second Don Quixote; we shall have no mercy for traitors!"

"Cadédis! if you think to frighten me, my boy, you waste your time and
your words! With my good Roland, this trusty blade which came to me from
my godfather Chaudoreille, I will spit you all like smelts, provided
that this lovely child accepts me for her knight. One word from her
sweet mouth, and I make mincemeat of you all!"

Bursts of laughter greeted the Gascon chevalier's braggadocio; but he,
drawing his long sword, put the point to the ground before Miretta, and
bent his knee as he said to her:

"Answer, O marvellous queen of Paphos and Cythera! Will you accept me
for your champion in the combat which I beg the privilege of undertaking
for you? Give me a pledge--the merest trifle--your glove; you have none?
then your pretty hand, that I may kiss it; and I am victor!"

Miretta stared in utter amazement at that tall man, thin as an asparagus
stalk, who was almost kneeling at her horse's tail; she seemed not at
all inclined to accept him for her knight, for ugliness inspires women
with little confidence, and the Chevalier Passedix was perfectly ugly.

But the Béarnais peasant, still twirling his staff, said to the Gascon:

"Thanks for your offer, seigneur cavalier; it isn't to be refused.--Here
are I don't know how many of them setting on me, and I am all alone to
defend my travelling companion! My opinion is that it's a cowardly
trick! But come and take my side, and I'll warrant that with my club and
your spit we'll prevent these gentry from carrying off Miretta."

Although he considered the term _spit_ in very bad taste as applied to
Roland, the valorous Passedix, whom Miretta's eyes had already taken
captive, instantly took his stand in front of the horse, threatening the
assailants with his sword.

While these things were taking place about the travellers, Master
Hugonnet and his daughter, having learned the subject of the quarrel,
were striving to make the reckless youths drawn up in battle array in
front of the shop listen to reason. But that which at first was a simple
jest had become, in the eyes of those young dandies, a matter of
self-esteem, almost of honor. No one of them was willing to give ground
before Cédrille's staff. In order that the dispute should come to an
end without violence, it would have been necessary for the peasant to
agree to apologize to those who had jeered at him and insulted him, and
he was in no mood to humble himself before them.

"By Notre-Dame! messeigneurs," said Hugonnet, going from one to another
of his customers, with his basin of soapsuds in one hand and his shaving
brush in the other, "what have this peasant and his companion done to
you that you should pick a quarrel with them? What an idea--to throw a
whole quarter into commotion and bring the whole neighborhood to the
windows, for two travellers who have only one horse between them!"

"Leave us in peace, Hugonnet; attend to your own affairs; this doesn't
concern you!"

"Pardieu! yes, it does concern me; for you are blocking the whole
street, you are in battle order in front of my house, so that it would
be impossible for anyone to come near who might happen to want a bath or
a shave! So you see that you injure me with your quarrelling, and that
it does concern me."

"For heaven's sake, messieurs," said Ambroisine, in her turn, "do not
torment this poor traveller like this! What pleasure can you find in
frightening a woman? Let these people go their way. They are not
Parisians--anyone can see that! They do not know that you are only
threatening them in joke."

"In joke!" repeated young La Valteline, with a frown. "But you are not
aware, _belle baigneuse_, that that peasant's staff has soiled my
cloak!--Oh! I must chastise him for that! These knaves must be taught
the respect that they owe us."

"And why do you jeer at them and attack them, if you wish them to
respect you?"

"Enough, fair Ambroisine! sermons are all right for preachers, but they
amount to nothing in a pretty girl's mouth!"

"Come, Jarnonville! forward! have at him! have at him! let us trounce
the peasant!"

"Not without my helping to defend him!" ejaculated Master Hugonnet,
running to take his stand beside the travellers, still carrying his
basin and shaving brush.

"And I will not allow that girl to be insulted, without doing what I can
to help her!" cried Ambroisine, following her father and placing herself
in front of Miretta.

"That is right! good! good for _la baigneuse_!" cried all the women, who
had been drawn to the scene by the noise of the quarrel. "You are on the
girl's side, and we too will defend her!"

"All these ne'er-do-wells are fit for nothing but to insult women!"

"Let us pick up stones and throw them at the villains!"

"No, no! by Notre-Dame!" cried Hugonnet. "No stones, I entreat you! You
will break my windows and my sign, and I shall have to pay for all the
damage! We shall be able to settle this business without you!"

The young gentlemen were embarrassed, for, although eager to fight and
having little fear of their adversaries, they were afraid that in the
scrimmage they might injure the pretty traveller and Ambroisine.

The latter, divining what held them back, took delight in defying all
those fine cavaliers, who were in the habit of making love to her, and
several of whom called out to her:

"Come away from there, _belle baigneuse_; that is no place for you!"

"You are in our way. Besides, you ought not to take sides against your
customers!"

"I don't care a fig for customers! Let these travellers go their way,
and I will agree to shave all of you."

This proposition seemed to make an impression on several of the young
men; but the Sire de Jarnonville, irritated by all this discussion, drew
his sword and strode toward the horse's head. With a few passes he soon
sent the famous Roland flying through the air. Passedix, disarmed,
called loudly for another weapon.

The Black Chevalier thereupon turned his attention to the dogwood staff,
but he had not so simple a task as with the Gascon's sword.

At that moment, a young page, who had stolen forward to unseat Miretta,
was confronted by Master Hugonnet; and he, having no other weapons than
his basin and shaving brush, instantly covered the page with a thick
coating of lather, filling his nose and mouth and even his eyes with it;
whereupon the assailant began to shriek at the top of his voice. All
eyes were turned in that direction. At sight of that face completely
covered with lather, a roar of laughter burst from all who were present,
friends and foes, combatants and lookers-on; it was as if they were
trying to see who could laugh the loudest.

This incident suspended the combat for a moment. But the Sire de
Jarnonville, who alone had taken no part in the general merriment,
immediately renewed his attack on the peasant's staff. Whether because
Cédrille's arm was tired, or because the sight of that gleaming weapon,
whirling through the air and sometimes striking sparks, dazzled his
eyes, he began to defend himself less vigorously. At last, a blow dealt
with more force than usual broke the staff.

The peasant was beaten; the Black Chevalier's weapon was already on the
point of forcing him to dismount, when Ambroisine, who had left her post
a moment before, suddenly reappeared, carrying in her arms a little boy
of three or four years; and darting in front of Jarnonville, she held
the child out to him, crying:

"Take care, seigneur, you will wound this child!"

Those words and the sight of the little boy produced a magical effect on
the Black Chevalier. He paused and dropped his arm, which was raised to
strike; the warlike ardor which enlivened his face gave way to an
expression of sadness, almost of tenderness. He gazed for some seconds
at the little fellow, who, not realizing that he was in the midst of a
battle, was not in the least frightened, but smiled up at the chevalier,
crying:

"I'd like to fight, too!"

Jarnonville stooped to kiss the child's forehead, and replaced his sword
in its sheath. Then, turning to the young noblemen, who were utterly
amazed at the change that had taken place in him, he said to them:

"It's all over, messieurs; the treaty of peace is signed!"

"What! all over? How so, if we are not satisfied?"

"I tell you that it is all over! This peasant has been conquered,
disarmed; what more do you want?"

"We want him to apologize."

"We want most of all to kiss the pretty girl whom he has _en croupe_."

Jarnonville's only reply was to push aside with his arm all those who
stood in front of the horse, thus clearing a passage for him. Then he
made a sign to the peasant, who understood him and dug his heels into
Bourriquet's ribs. This time the poor beast seemed to share his master's
desire, and asked nothing better than to leave the field of battle. He
trotted off at full speed down Rue Saint-Jacques, and Cédrille and his
pretty companion soon disappeared from the eyes of the crowd.

All this had happened so quickly that Miretta hardly had time to grasp
Ambroisine's hand and say:

"Thanks! thanks! you have saved us! I shall come to see you, and to tell
you how grateful I am!"

"Come; you will ask for Ambroisine, the daughter of Master Hugonnet the
bath keeper, on Rue Saint-Jacques."




IX

CAUSES AND EFFECTS


Ambroisine's first care was to take the child back to its mother, a
woman of the people, who was there by the merest chance, having come to
find out why such a crowd had collected in front of the bath keeper's
establishment, little dreaming that her child would be the means of
adjusting that great quarrel.

Hugonnet's daughter kissed the little fellow, put a coin in his hand
with which to buy a cake, and returned to her home, curious to learn how
the gentlemen had taken the conclusion of the affair.

Sénange, La Valteline, Monclair, and their friends, were dazed for a
moment by the sudden departure of Cédrille and his companion. Some of
them were inclined to run after the peasant, others wanted to fight
Jarnonville, whom they accused of betraying them; they were all
displeased, and another battle was imminent perhaps, when general
attention was attracted by shouts and oaths proceeding from the place
recently occupied by Bourriquet.

A battle with fists was in progress between Master Hugonnet and one of
his neighbors, named Lambourdin, a dealer in ribbons, tags, fringes, and
other toilet articles, whose shop was not more than fifty yards from the
baths.

The two neighbors were ordinarily very good friends; they met sometimes
at the wine shop, which both were fond of frequenting; they laughed and
talked and drank together, and no one would ever have supposed that they
would one day entertain the inhabitants of the quarter with a genuine
pugilistic bout.

But who can foretell the future?

The most trivial cause is sometimes sufficient to embroil ambassadors
and to bring about war between two nations that could get along very
well without it; and we too often see old friends suddenly become
declared enemies.

In our day, politics sometimes produces such revolutions by its gentle
and benignant influence. In the good old times, there were sometimes
conspiracies of great personages, nobles, and persons in high station,
but the people paid little heed to their plots. They went to see them
hanged at Montfaucon, but they were not tempted to meddle with matters
that led to such results. In those days, the workman thought of nothing
but working to support his family, to save a marriage portion for his
daughter, and to make sure of a home in his old age. That was the sum
total of his politics; it made him neither ill, nor infuriate, nor
insane, nor sophistical, nor evil-minded! It made him happy!

In that respect we may well regret the good old times.

Let us return to the two neighbors.

Lambourdin, the dealer in small wares, was by inclination, and, above
all, by virtue of his trade, of the faction of the young nobles and the
courtiers. When a noble personage entered his shop and made a purchase,
Lambourdin puffed himself out like the frog in the fable, and never
failed to proclaim from the housetops that he supplied monsieur le
comte, or monsieur le marquis, or messieurs the pages attached to the
court.

And so, when he learned the cause of the gathering, which he could see
from his shop, the dealer in small wares hastened to the scene of the
combat, fully disposed to take up the cudgels for the young nobles, to
whom he was intensely anxious to display his entire devotion.

But the young men did not require the assistance of Master Lambourdin,
and he had had no other opportunity to show his interest in their
victory than by addressing an insulting remark or a threat to Cédrille
from time to time.

But when Master Hugonnet besmeared a page so successfully with his
lather, Lambourdin, far from finding that amusing, flew into a transport
of rage, especially as the page who was so thoroughly lathered had
bought two beautiful bows of ribbon at his shop that morning.

And so, as soon as the Black Chevalier's sword play had ceased, as soon
as Bourriquet had trotted away with his travellers on his back,
Lambourdin elbowed his way through the crowd to Master Hugonnet, and
said, eying him with a furious expression:

"Do you know, Neighbor Hugonnet, that you have behaved very badly
throughout this affair?"

"Ah! do you think so, Neighbor Lambourdin?" rejoined the barber, in a
bantering tone; for the wrathful expression blazing in the other's eyes
gave him a comical appearance, which inspired merriment rather than
alarm.

"Yes, I do think so!--What! you, to whose place the young nobles come by
preference, whether to bathe, or to have their hair and beards arranged,
and bring customers to your establishment and make it fashionable!--you
take sides against them in this quarrel, instead of going to their
assistance, as every self-respecting man should do! You take part with
strangers--a rustic and a strumpet from no one knows where!"

"I do what I please, what suits me, neighbor! I consult my heart before
my pocket. I look to see on which side the right and not the profit
is.--But why do you interfere? Is it any of your business?"

"Yes, monsieur le baigneur; yes, it is my business--And that young page
whom you smeared with soapsuds so shamefully! He even had it in his
eyes! You spoiled a superb bow of ribbon that I sold him this morning!"

"So much the better for you; he'll buy another one of you!"

"No, he will not--I mean, yes, he will buy another one.--But your
conduct is none the less indecent!"

"By Notre-Dame de Paris! you are beginning to make my ears burn,
Neighbor Lambourdin! Not another word, or I strike you!"

"Do you think to frighten me, you low-lived bath keeper, unworthy to
shave noble chins! I am no boy of fifteen; and if you should touch me
with your shaving brush, I'd trample you under foot like an old
blanket!"

"Ah! so! Well, take that! I won't touch you with my shaving brush!"

As he spoke, Hugonnet buried his fist in Lambourdin's side; the latter
had gone too far to retreat; and then, too, there were so many
witnesses! So he answered the blow with a kick, but he measured the
distance so inaccurately that he kicked into space.

Lambourdin was a little fellow, strong enough, but not of the build to
contend with Master Hugonnet. After a struggle that was not of long
duration, the two neighbors fell, still clinging to each other.
Unluckily, poor Lambourdin was underneath, and had to endure
simultaneously the weight of his adversary's body and the numerous blows
which he continued to administer. Then it was that the little man's
cries attracted the attention of the young gentlemen who had remained in
front of the bath keeper's house.

They ran to the scene of conflict; Hugonnet was excited and would not
release his neighbor; but when he heard the voice of his daughter, who
came up to see who the combatants were, the barber grew calmer, rose,
and entered his shop, saying:

"No matter! he got what he deserved! What need had he to meddle in the
affair?"

As for Lambourdin, who was completely done up and could hardly walk, he
required the assistance of two arms to return to his home, but they were
neither pages nor nobles who supplied them, although it was in their
behalf that he had fought!--So much for the gratitude of those whose
quarrels one embraces!

This incident diverted the young dandies, and made them forget Cédrille
and Miretta for a moment; and with a Frenchman, when the first ardor has
passed away, it very rarely returns.

Furthermore, a number of fair dames, who had had time to leave the bath
and to dress, came from the house, with a wink to one, a slight nod to
another; so that in a few moments the whole crowd dispersed, the idlers
sauntered away, the neighbors returned to their homes, and there was no
one left in the barber's shop save the Chevalier Passedix, who was
wiping Roland, which he had picked out of the gutter, and the Sire de
Jarnonville, who had thrown himself into a chair and was apparently lost
in thought and entirely oblivious to what was going on about him.

"Par la sandioux! my _belle baigneuse_," said the Gascon knight to
Ambroisine, who had remained in the shop, and who, as if by accident,
glanced very frequently in Jarnonville's direction, "I am very glad to
tell you that in this affair you comported yourself like a man of heart!
First, it was well done of you to take that stranger's part; what a
lovely face! sandis! what a fascinating profile! and the full face--it
is enough to bring one to one's knees! So that I knelt with ardor!--You
will pardon me, I trust, _belle baigneuse_, for praising another woman
in your presence. You too are superb, after a different type."

"Oh! say on, monsieur le chevalier, do not hesitate. Why should I take
it ill of you that you praise that girl? In the first place, she
deserves it, for she is very pretty. And then, have you not the right to
fall in love with her, if you please? does it concern me?"

"True, true! it could not affect you, since you have refused the homage
of my heart--for I think that I offered it to you----"

"But you are not quite sure, eh?"

"Why, you see, I have disposed of it so often! But let us return to the
stranger, to pretty Miretta--for her name is Miretta, is it not?"

"Yes, that is the name by which her companion, the stout peasant, called
her."

"And she is an Italian?"

"No; she told us that she was from Béarn; but it seems that she has
lived in Italy a long while."

"O mia cara!--I know a few words of Italian--they may be very useful to
me. As I was saying, superb Ambroisine, your conduct was glorious! You
showed a courage--a valor--if you had been of my family, you could have
done no better. That damned Jarnonville---- He does not hear me; I think
that he's asleep."

"Oh, no! he is not asleep; he is thinking, but not of us. Indeed, I
would wager that he doesn't even see that we are here!"

"He may hear me or not, I snap my fingers at him! That damned
Jarnonville, by a bungler's thrust--for it is never used, everybody
scorns to use it--however, he knocked my sword from my hand; and I said
to myself just now: 'How in the deuce could I have let Roland go? There
must have been some deviltry about it, for it is the first time I was
ever disarmed!'--Well, sandioux! I have found the cause, while wiping
the hilt of my weapon.--What do you suppose I found on it, just at the
spot where one grasps it? I will give you ten thousand guesses."

"I prefer that you should tell me at once."

"Well, my beauty, I found a strip of pork twisted around the hilt of
Roland. So you will see that it is not surprising that my sword slipped
from my hand. Ah! cadédis! if I knew who played me that vile trick of
larding my sword like a partridge!--You laugh, I believe----"

"Bless me! monsieur le chevalier, it seems to me so amusing that your
rapier should have been treated like a fowl; it is laughable enough!"

"Do you doubt what I say? Never has a lie soiled my lips!--Look, lovely
girl! yonder is that accursed pork which I found on Roland; I threw it
into that corner; you can see for yourself."

"I do not doubt what you say, monsieur le chevalier; but as the quarrel
attracted many people to this spot, and as there were several housewives
among them, returning from market with well-filled baskets on their
arms, it is probable that one of them dropped that fine strip of pork on
your sword as it lay on the ground; and she is probably looking
everywhere for it now."

This explanation did not seem to the liking of Passedix, for he
compressed his lips angrily and muttered:

"There are some people who distort the simplest things.--But enough of
that. Tell me now, young Hugonnetté, by what miracle you so suddenly
appeased the wrath of that miscreant Jarnonville? How did it happen that
at sight of a little brat of three or four years that madman, who knows
neither God nor the devil, became absolutely calm. I confess that I was
so surprised that I feel it yet."

Ambroisine motioned to Passedix to follow her to the rear of the shop,
where the Sire de Jarnonville could neither see nor hear them.

The Gascon, who was very curious to know what the girl had to tell him,
lost no time in seating himself by her side on a bench; whereupon
Ambroisine resumed the conversation, taking care, however, to speak in
undertones.

"Have you known the Sire de Jarnonville long?"

"No--about a year; and even so, I know him only from having been with
him in several affrays. He fights well, I am bound to admit, but he's a
good-for-nothing fellow. He doesn't believe in anything, and I don't
like atheists. I am a bad man with the fair, a libertine, a rake, a
seducer!--anything you please, I will not say _nay_. But all that does
not prevent my being religious, for without religion there is no true
chivalry; and all those stainless knights who fought in Palestine would
then be mere braggarts.--But why do you ask me that question?"

"Because, if you had known the Sire de Jarnonville long, you would
probably know as much about him as I do, and you would have a very
different opinion of him.--I will tell you what I have heard here. About
five or six months ago, the Black Chevalier, for he is sometimes so
called, had just left our house, where he had been telling the story of
one of his exploits--he had broken everything in a tavern, I believe.
When he had gone, a gentleman quite advanced in years, but with a face
that inspired respect, said to another gentleman who was with him: 'Poor
Jarnonville! how he has changed! who would believe, to look at him now,
that he was once the mildest, most obliging, most virtuous of men! the
man who was held up as a model to young gentlemen who were just entering
the world!'--'What can have changed him so?' the other
inquired.--'Jarnonville was married, and he lost his wife, whom he loved
very dearly; but she had left him a child, a little girl, who was, they
say, an angel of beauty, sweetness, and docility. Jarnonville adored
little Blanche--that was his daughter's name; she had become his only
love, his sole joy, his whole hope for the future; constantly intent
upon providing some pleasure, some delight for his darling child, his
grief for his wife's death gradually faded away. Happy and proud to be
all in all to his daughter, who became every day more charming in body
and mind, Jarnonville hardly ever left little Blanche. At four years of
age--and that is very, very young!--at four years of age, the child
understood all that she owed to her father, all the sacrifices to which
he submitted for her sake; but she repaid them all by her love. Never
did a child of that age manifest such affection for its father! If he
left her for an instant, her eyes filled with tears; but as soon as she
saw him, an enchanting smile lighted up her lovely face.--Poor child!
You will understand how he must have loved her!--Well! that child,
already so far beyond her years in her feelings and her intelligence,
that pretty Blanche--he lost her after an illness of a few days only!
One of those cruel diseases which feed upon childhood, and which the
doctors are as yet unable to cure, carried off the poor little
darling!--I will not try to describe her father's grief; it would be
impossible. But the frightful calamity that had befallen him changed his
character absolutely. Jarnonville accused heaven, Providence. Having
never been guilty in his whole life of any evil deed, he rebelled
against the fate that dealt him such a cruel blow, which snatched away
that little creature to whom life seemed to offer such a beautiful and
peaceful prospect--in short, that man, who had always been so religious,
ceased utterly to be so, and blasphemed God. Deaf to all consolation, he
lived a long while in retirement. When, by dint of constant
solicitation, his friends succeeded in luring him back into society, he
was no longer the Jarnonville of other days. To divert his thoughts from
his grief, he joins all the parties conceived by the worst scapegraces
in the city; not a duel, not a nocturnal affray, in which he does not
take part. He drinks, drinks to excess, gambles, passes whole nights in
debauchery, serves as second to all the young scatterbrains who sow
discord in families. He has become the bugbear of the petits bourgeois,
the terror of cabaretiers, tavern keepers, of all decent folk; in a
word, he is just the opposite of all that he used to be.--But, for my
part, I cannot help pitying him; it is his head which is at fault, not
his heart; it is despair that has changed his nature. Nor do I believe
that he is altogether lost! He still wears mourning for his daughter. In
the midst of his debauchery, he has not chosen to lay aside his sombre
garments; and when he seems most excited by gambling, wine, or passion,
show him a child of about the age of his little Blanche when she died,
and you will see a magical change take place in him instantly; his eyes
will fill with tears, and that man, whose glance made you tremble a
moment before, will become silent and as gentle as a child.'

"That is what the gentleman told his friend. I listened, at first from
curiosity, then with deep interest; and since then, whenever I see the
Sire de Jarnonville, despite his harsh or brusque manner, he does not
seem to me such a bad man as he used.--To-day, when I saw him interfere
in that battle and take sides against us with his long sword, which he
uses so skilfully, I said to myself: 'Those poor travellers are lost!'
And, in fact, your Roland was already on the ground and the peasant's
staff was beginning to give way, when I remembered what I had heard. A
little boy was close by, in his mother's arms; I ran and seized him--and
you saw how successful my idea was; for the Black Chevalier instantly
ceased to fight, and himself looked to the safe departure of the
travellers."

Passedix had listened to Ambroisine, making from time to time one of
those little grimaces which indicate that one places little credence in
what one hears. When she had finished her narrative, he said, shaking
his head:

"Between ourselves, _belle baigneuse_, what you have told me seems most
extraordinary, and in my opinion this story of the Sire de Jarnonville
is a trifle chimerical!"

"Why so, seigneur?" replied Ambroisine, leaving the bench. "It seems to
me no more extraordinary than your story of the pork twisted round your
sword hilt; and I should say that the event has proved that the
gentleman's story was true."

Passedix did not think it best to reply. He walked toward Jarnonville,
who had risen and was standing in the doorway.

"Sire de Jarnonville," said the Gascon, offering him his hand, "we both
fought like brave men; you were victorious, but I bear you no ill will!
especially as I am able to explain why Roland slipped from my hand. We
were not on the same side, but, since peace has been concluded, shake
hands, and let bygones be bygones!"

Instead of putting his hand in the hand that was offered him,
Jarnonville, who had seemed not to listen to the Gascon, suddenly
hurried away, without a word in reply.

"Sandioux! what does that mean?" cried Passedix, still standing with
outstretched hand, while Ambroisine turned her face away to laugh.
"Damme! is this the way that discourteous _sombrinos_ responds to my
civility! Evidently, this Jarnonville is nothing more than a felon, a
boor, whom I will chastise handsomely at our first meeting. And let no
one presume to thrust a child in between us, sandis! or I will give him
a good kick somewhere!"

At that moment, a young bachelor, who had been in front of Master
Hugonnet's house when Cédrille and his companion were blockaded there,
and who had disappeared simultaneously with Bourriquet, returned to the
shop, shouting:

"Ah! I know where the pretty girl has gone! I know what that charming
Milanese came to Paris for!"

"You know that, boy!" cried the Chevalier Passedix, running up to the
young man. "Oh! tell me quickly what you know, and I swear to you, by
Roland and my godfather Chaudoreille, that I will treat you to a jar of
wine at the next _fête carillonnée_."

"I had just as lief tell you for nothing!"

"Well, tell me for nothing; I agree, I will consent to whatever you
wish; but speak, I am dying with impatience!"

"While everybody else stood here in open-mouthed amazement at the sudden
departure of the travellers, I followed the horse at a distance. He went
at a fast trot, but I have good legs, and I am not broken-winded."

"Arrive at the point, accursed chatterbox!"

"It was the travellers who arrived; that is to say, they stopped first
to inquire the way of a dealer in pottery; then they trotted off again
to Rue Saint-Honoré and stopped in front of a fine house."

"On Rue Saint-Honoré! Are you sure of that? Why, sandis! that is my
quarter; it could not happen better! But to whom does the house belong?"

"It was the Hôtel de Mongarcin, where Mademoiselle Valentine de
Mongarcin is now living with her aunt, Madame de Ravenelle."

"Very good! this boy is no fool; go on."

"All three of the travellers entered the courtyard--I say all three,
counting the horse."

"Go on, I say, sandioux!"

"As I was curious to know what they were going to do there, I strolled
back and forth in front of the house."

"That was very ingenious."

"And, sure enough, before long came out an old servant who knows my
father. I ran up to him and questioned him, and he said: 'That young
girl has come here to enter the service of Mademoiselle Valentine de
Mongarcin. She has been recommended to her, it seems; so it's all
settled. As for the peasant who brought her here, he is going to rest a
day or two and then go back to his province, unless he also prefers to
find a place in Paris; but it seems that that is not to his
taste.'--That is what I have learned."

"Thanks! a thousand thanks, my boy! Hôtel de Mongarcin, Rue
Saint-Honoré. I shall be seen frequently in that vicinity.--Sandis! I am
sorry that she is only a lady's-maid. But, after all, Dulcinea del
Toboso was not a princess; and whatever anyone may say, Don Quixote was
a hearty blade, and as good a man as another.--Au revoir, my boy! I will
treat you whenever you choose, you know."

And Chevalier Passedix walked away by Rue des Mathurins, and the young
bachelor by Place Cambray.

After a day so well employed, it was natural enough that Master Hugonnet
should visit his usual wine shop in the evening; and he did not fail to
do so. Doubtless there was a large assemblage of patrons, and the events
of the morning, as they gave rise to much talk, naturally resulted in a
proportionate amount of drinking.

The consequence was that Master Hugonnet returned home very late,
completely drunk, and exceedingly susceptible to emotion, as he always
was when in that condition.

Ambroisine, who was sitting up for her father, was not at all surprised
by his state, and she urged him to go up to bed.

But Hugonnet had tears in his eyes, and he groaned mournfully as he
stammered:

"Poor Lambourdin--it breaks my heart! Just imagine, daughter--he was
shamefully beaten this morning!"

"I know it, father, and so do you, as it was you who beat him."

"I! do you think so?--Oh! what a calamity!--my dear friend Lambourdin!
Just imagine--he was beaten so--it's an outrage! Poor Lambourdin! my
heart is heavy!--How could anyone beat such an honorable man?"

"Why, it was you who beat him."

"I! impossible!--When I heard of it, I wept with grief.--Poor
Lambourdin! I will avenge him!"

And Master Hugonnet would not consent to go to bed until he had wept
freely over the fate of his friend Lambourdin, and had sworn again to
avenge him.




X

THE PLACE AUX CHATS


The Chevalier Passedix lived on Place aux Chats.

You will not be sorry, reader, to know where that square was situated,
for you would seek in vain for the slightest trace of it to-day. We will
proceed to enlighten you upon that subject.

In the year 1634, Place aux Chats was near Rue de la Ferronnerie, close
by the Impasse des Bourdonnais, where Rue de la Limace had recently been
cut through.

The Cemetery of the Innocents was on one side, and had one entrance on
the square, another on Rue de la Ferronnerie, and a third on Rue aux
Fers. Before it was christened Place aux Chats, it was called Place aux
Pourceaux; and in 1575 Rue de la Limace bore the name of Vieille Place
aux Pourceaux.

Do not imagine one of those spacious, airy squares, such as you are
familiar with in our day. What was called a square [_place_] in those
days was often nothing more than the junction of two streets.

The houses which surrounded Place aux Chats bore no resemblance to one
another. One had four stories, its next neighbor only two; but in all
alike the heavy framework, the enormous beams, were visible, as it was
not then thought worth while to cover them with plaster.

The roof of each of the houses hung over far beyond the gable end, thus
diminishing the air and light; the windows were small, irregular, and
loosely set, the panes of glass were tiny and dirty; the doors were low
and narrow; the halls dark and begrimed with dirt; the staircases, which
were gloomy, dirty, and slippery, had huge posts of stone or wood for
rails; and there were absolutely no lights.

Let us not regret the disappearance of Place aux Chats.

Over the door of one of the tallest houses on this square, which stood
opposite the Cemetery of the Innocents, there was a long, wide board,
painted yellow, bearing these words written in red on the yellow
background:

  HÔTEL DU SANGLIER. FURNISHED LODGINGS FOR MAN,
             BUT NOT FOR BEAST

The Hôtel du Sanglier had three windows on the square; that was almost
luxurious; and it boasted five stories, counting the attics nestled in
the roof.

It was one of the largest houses on Place aux Chats; and although the
sign stated that horses would not be entertained, it was no infrequent
occurrence for a mounted man to stop and take up his quarters there; in
such cases, his nag was taken to an ass keeper's, on the same square,
who did not entertain horsemen, but was glad to take care of their
beasts, and he almost always had tenants.

The Hôtel du Sanglier was kept by a widow, already past middle age,
named Dame Cadichard. She was a short, fat woman, who had been rather
piquant and alluring in her springtime and even during her summer; her
great fault was that she was determined to be piquant and alluring
still, and to forget that her hair was no longer black, her waist no
longer slender, and her complexion no longer fresh. She still had the
flashing glance, the merry laugh, and the sly jest; and from time to
time she talked of remarrying, of giving the late Cadichard a successor.
But at such times the neighbors of the Hôtel du Sanglier asked one
another where the future spouse could be, for, among the guests of the
house or the strangers who frequented it, no one ever had been observed
to pay court to the Widow Cadichard.

Chaudoreille's godson had lived at the Hôtel du Sanglier for more than a
year; he occupied a very modest little chamber under the eaves, above
the fourth floor. His room was lighted only by a little round window
looking on the square, which, however, he could not see on account of
the overhanging roof; the window, moreover, was so small that only one
person could possibly have looked out at one time.

The furniture of the apartment was extremely modest; it consisted of a
white wooden bedstead, of the simplest construction, the headboard and
footboard being so insecure that when, in a moment of forgetfulness, the
long, lank chevalier tried to stretch his legs, he instantly started
all the screws from their holes, the bed fell apart and vanished, and
the man who was lying upon it found himself stretched on the floor.

Two straw beds, a mattress as flat as a pancake, and a bolster of hay
composed the bed furnishings. Beside that far from luxurious couch were
a small oak table, two stools, and an enormous chest without a cover, in
which the tenant was entitled to keep his effects; it was probably
intended to serve as a commode.

A few boards nailed to the wall served the purpose of a wardrobe, and
were embellished by those articles which the tenant found indispensable.
This was called a furnished lodging.

It is probable, however, that all the rooms in the Hôtel du Sanglier
were not furnished so shabbily; and the Chevalier Passedix knew
something about it; for when he first became a tenant of Dame Cadichard,
he occupied a room on the first floor; at the next quarter day, the
Gascon had gone up to the second floor; three months later, he had been
consigned to the third; the following term, he had occupied the fourth;
and the fifth term, which was now running, he had been relegated to the
eaves. In case the chevalier should prolong his residence at Madame
Cadichard's, he could be sure, at all events, that they would send him
no higher.

Why these peregrinations of the gallant Passedix on each succeeding
quarter day? That we shall probably learn in the sequel.

On leaving Master Hugonnet's house, the Gascon returned with long
strides to Place aux Chats, his mind engrossed by the pretty foreigner
with whom he had fallen in love so suddenly. He was already meditating
the means to which he might resort in order to see her; and from time to
time he put his hand to his belt, in which he usually carried his purse;
but the little leather bag in which he kept his money contained at that
moment only a few copper coins.

"Sandioux! my family is very dilatory about sending me money!" muttered
Passedix, shaking his head angrily. "And without money it is very
difficult to corrupt servants, to procure the delivery of a billet-doux.
I know that my genius will supply the lack, but it would go more quickly
with the help of funds.--But, no matter! first of all, I must put on an
entirely clean ruff. I must also have those two buttons sewn on my
doublet; then I will take my stand as a sentinel in front of the Hôtel
de Mongarcin, and I will observe what goes on there, and what persons
come from and go to the citadel."

Passedix, arrived at his hotel, entered by the low door, then, turning
to the right, passed into a room where the mistress of the house was
usually to be found, and where each tenant's keys hung on the wall, with
the numbers attached.

Widow Cadichard was seated in a capacious armchair, before a table; she
was in the act of eating a vegetable soup so thick that one could eat it
with a fork; beside the soup tureen, which exhaled a vapor by no means
disagreeable to a keen appetite, four very fine eggs lay on a napkin in
a plate. An egg glass and a bountiful supply of small squares of toast,
which were beside the plate, indicated in what manner the eggs were to
be eaten.

When her tenant entered the room, the short, stout dame flashed a glance
at him in which there was vexation and anger; but in an instant she
resumed her sprightly manner and went on eating her soup.

The chevalier bowed to the widow and walked toward the place where the
keys were hanging.

"Well, well!" he cried; "what does this mean, cadédis! my key is not on
its nail! Have you it in your possession, Madame Cadichard?"

"I! On my word! Why should I have the key to your room, I should like to
know? Do I go to your room? Do I have any occasion to go there?"

"Then it must be Popelinette, the servant, who has it?"

"Apparently!"

"So she is doing my housework, is she? That happens very conveniently,
for I will ask her to sew two buttons on my doublet. I suppose that she
is supplied with needles and thread, as every good servant should be."

"I don't know whether Popelinette has needles and thread with her; but
what I can tell you is this--that she isn't in your room now."

"Then she must be here; do me the favor to call her, Dame Cadichard; I
am in haste to go up and make a bit of a toilet."

"I am distressed to be unable to gratify you, monsieur le chevalier, but
Popelinette is not in the house; she has gone out; she has gone to do an
errand for the new tenant who came a week ago, and who occupies my fine
apartment on the first floor."

"Ah! your first floor is let, is it? I am very glad for you, my
respected hostess, although I might be justified in complaining of the
rather harsh manner in which you have behaved toward me! Capédébious!
every quarter day, you make me move--go up one flight--on the pretext
that my last lodging is let; whereas only the mice take my place. Do you
know, Widow Cadichard, that I should be fully justified in complaining
of such treatment?"

"You would be justified also in paying me your rent each quarter, and
that is what you haven't done, monsieur le chevalier; for I don't know
the color of your money, and you have been living in my house more than
a year!"

"It is true, my family is very dilatory; I haven't received my allowance
for a long time; but they will send it all to me in a lump!--After all,
how have I injured you? You never have a cat in your Hôtel du Sanglier!
You ought to thank me for brightening up this old house a bit!"

"Thank you! yes, if you had been agreeable, gallant, attentive to me, I
might not have made you go up so high, perhaps; but you never passed an
evening here chatting with me! Monsieur always has to go running about
the city! Monsieur has so many intrigues!"

Passedix turned his face away, biting his lips, and hastened to change
the subject.

"Sandioux! how good that soup smells!" he cried. "I don't know what it's
made of, but, judging from the odor, it must be a most delicious
compound!"

The stout hostess refused to be melted by this exclamation; she
continued to eat and talk:

"But luckily all my tenants do not resemble Monsieur de Passedix! There
are some who pay, and who are very amiable with me besides. For
instance, this new-comer, this foreigner who has been here a week--he
paid a fortnight in advance, he didn't haggle at all over the price, and
yet he pays me forty crowns a month for my first floor!"

"Bigre! that's rather good!"

"But I am sure that that man is a grand seigneur--but that doesn't
prevent him from often talking with me; he isn't a bit proud!--Yesterday
I dined alone--well! he sat down here and kept me company. He's a very
good-looking fellow, and quite young still--thirty at most!"

"What do you call this fascinating cavalier?"

"The Comte de Carvajal; he's a Spaniard."

"The deuce! the Comte de Carvajal!--Yes, I believe that is a great
Spanish family.--Sandis! but I must confess, lovely hostess, that it
seems to me rather strange that this grand seigneur, instead of
occupying a handsome mansion in the neighborhood of the Palais-Cardinal
or the Arsenal, comes to Place aux Chats to nest--with the Cemetery of
the Innocents opposite! It is not absolutely cheerful--and a hotel where
his horses and carriages cannot be accommodated!"

"What does this mean, Monsieur Passedix? you are crying down my hotel
now! You call this a bad quarter--then why did you come here to lodge?
And why have you lodged more than a year on this Place aux Chats, which
you despise?"

"I, despise Place aux Chats! God forbid, dear Madame Cadichard! On the
contrary, I consider it most romantic; and then I, being afraid of
nothing, not even of ghosts and phantoms, am not at all sorry to live
just opposite a cemetery; for if it should happen to occur to some dead
man to come to say a word to me at night, I swear to you that I should
be overjoyed to have news from the other world."

"Hush--impious man!--He makes me shudder over my soup!--You know
perfectly well that the dead don't return!"

"I know that there are a great many things that don't return, unhappily;
and you know it, too, plump Cadichard!"

"What do you mean by that, monsieur le chevalier?"

"Mon Dieu! how time flies with us all!--But let us return to your
Spanish grandee, who has chosen the Hôtel du Sanglier for his abode; he
must have a numerous suite of servants and horses and carriages?"

"Not at all; he has none of those things. He is alone; it seems that he
is at Paris incognito!"

"What! not an esquire, not a valet, not even a single little mule to
prance along the Fossés Jaunes?"

"Nothing, I tell you; for he doesn't go to court, so that the grands
seigneurs of his acquaintance need not know that he is in Paris."

Passedix shook his head and muttered:

"Hum! a Spanish grandee who hasn't one poor lackey in his service--that
seems suspicious to me! Where does this noble cavalier pass his time,
pray, if he doesn't frequent good society, the agreeable rakes of the
court, and dandies like myself."

"Monsieur de Carvajal doesn't often go out during the day. In the first
place, he rises very late; but, to tell the truth, he comes home very
late, too. As he doesn't want to disturb anyone, he has told Popelinette
not to sit up for him; he asked me to give him a duplicate key to the
street door, so that he can come in at whatever hour of the night he
pleases; and he takes pains not to make any noise, for we never hear him
coming and going; it seems that in Spain people are in the habit of
walking about at night."

"In Spain, perhaps, because it's warm there and the nights are fine; but
here, where it still freezes in the morning--for our spring is
devilishly behindhand! I believe that your gallant stranger is a blade
who does his work under the rose. There must be some love intrigue on
the carpet--some husband to be deceived.--Sandioux! I don't blame your
Spaniard for that. Love is such a delicious thing--and when it attacks
us--ah!"

Here Passedix heaved a sigh which lasted so long that his hostess
dropped her spoon and stared at him, as if trying to make out whether
she had anything to do with that prolonged groan. But the Gascon,
instead of responding to the Widow Cadichard's alluring glance, turned
away abruptly and began to pace the floor, crying:

"Cadédis! Popelinette does not return! it is insufferable! I want to
dress!"

"Dress? I didn't know that you had any other doublet than that."

"Possibly not; but there are different ways of wearing it; besides, I
want to put on a clean ruff, and I need to have two buttons sewn on."

"Mon Dieu! have you an assignation for this afternoon?"

"If that were so, it seems to me, Widow Cadichard, that it is my
business!--Will you sew on my buttons?"

"I! I should think not! Go to your mistress!"

Passedix stamped the floor in vexation. At that moment the door of the
room was suddenly thrown open, and the Gascon uttered an exclamation of
satisfaction, for he expected to see the maid-servant of the hotel; but
he was speedily undeceived. Instead of Popelinette, it was the foreigner
who appeared in the doorway.




XI

THE FOREIGNER


The new tenant of the Hôtel du Sanglier paused on the threshold when he
saw that there was someone with his hostess; he even took a step
backward, as if he did not intend to enter. But in a moment, changing
his mind, he walked into the room with a certain gravity of demeanor
which was not without distinction.

The Gascon chevalier scrutinized the new arrival with interest, for he
suspected that it was the foreigner whom Dame Cadichard was so proud to
have under her roof, and he was curious to see whether he deserved the
high-flown praise which his hostess had lavished on him.

A single glance was sufficient to satisfy Passedix that the sprightly
widow had not exaggerated at all. The gentleman who had just entered the
room was still young, tall and well built; his features were handsome
and refined, his eyes slightly veiled, but full of fire and expression;
he wore no beard on his chin, but only small moustaches curled a little
upward at the ends.

He wore with easy grace a rich velvet cloak, over an elegant pale-blue
doublet; a beautiful white plume lay along the broad brim of his hat,
and the sword at his side was suspended from a belt trimmed with rich
lace.

The stranger bowed most courteously as he walked into the room. Passedix
made haste to return his salutation, saying to himself:

"He is a good-looking fellow, sandioux! I am too just to deny it. Almost
as handsome a man as myself, and that is no small thing to say!"

Widow Cadichard had risen hastily on the entrance of her tenant, to whom
she made a low reverence.

"Monsieur de Carvajal, your servant," she exclaimed; "I have the honor
to salute you! Pray be kind enough to take a seat, monsieur le comte; do
you wish for anything? Perhaps you are looking for Popelinette? She
hasn't returned yet, and that annoys you. She is not very quick when she
has an errand to do. Would you like me to go to meet her, monseigneur?"

The stranger waited till this torrent of words had ceased, then replied,
with a smile:

"What I wish first of all, my dear hostess, is that you will not put
yourself out and that you will continue your repast."

"Oh! indeed I will do nothing of the sort, monsieur le comte; I know too
well what I owe to you."

"In that case, madame, you will compel me to withdraw, for I do not like
ceremony."

"Oh! monsieur le comte, since you insist, since you command me, I will
do it to obey you. But allow me first to offer you a chair."

While Madame Cadichard bustled about the room, looking for her best
easy-chair and the best place in the room to put it, Passedix approached
the new-comer and addressed him, trying all the while to hide with his
cloak that part of his doublet from which the buttons were missing.

"I presume that I have the honor to salute one of my neighbors? I say
_neighbors_, because we both live in the same hotel; only I am at the
top and monsieur le comte is at the bottom. But men of honor are always
on the same level."

"Ah! does monsieur live in this hotel?" rejoined the stranger, bowing to
the Gascon.

"With your kind permission."

"What, monsieur! why, I can only be flattered to have monsieur for my
neighbor."

"Castor Pyrrhus de Passedix, godson of the most honorable Chaudoreille,
who left me only this sword, his trusty Roland, a finely tempered blade,
which I dare to say that I use in an honorable way! My reputation in
that regard is made!--And monsieur is the Comte de Carvajal, the noble
Spaniard whom Dame Cadichard is so fortunate as to have as her tenant in
the Hôtel du Sanglier?"

"Madame Cadichard would do well, then, to be a little more discreet, and
to respect the incognito which her guests desire to maintain."

The stout landlady blushed when she heard that; she realized that she
deserved the rebuke, and in her despair dropped the spoon which she was
about to raise to her mouth, and which remained standing upright in the
soup.

But the stranger, as he lay back in the easy-chair she had offered him,
continued, with something very like a smile:

"However, I do not feel that I have the courage to bear any ill will to
our excellent hostess, since I owe to her the acquaintance of so
illustrious a knight as Monsieur de Passedix, who, I am convinced, will
not betray the incognito which important considerations compel me to
adopt at this moment, in Paris."

The Gascon bowed again, taking care not to relax his hold of the corners
of his cloak, and replied:

"You may rely on my discretion, monsieur le comte; the secrets that are
intrusted to me will go down with me into the darkness of the grave,
unless I am released from my oath."

Thereupon the chevalier seized a chair and placed it at the table,
opposite Madame Cadichard, who had taken one of the eggs from the plate
and was trying to devise some refined method of breaking the shell and
dipping her pieces of toast into the egg, in her illustrious tenant's
presence.

"I will not presume to ask monsieur le comte how he passes his time in
Paris; that is his business, and I never meddle in other people's
affairs! But I venture to say that I should be an invaluable guide for a
stranger who wished to become acquainted with the pleasures, the merry
gatherings, of the capital. I go about a great deal in the best society.
I am a jovial companion, a sturdy toper; all the dandies, all the young
noblemen who love to fight and drink and make love to the fair, are my
friends. Does anyone need a second for a duel, a fourth for a party of
four, Passedix is always there! I do not like to boast, but I could
mention exploits of my own which the Amadises and Renauds would not have
disavowed!"

"One needs only to see you, chevalier, to entertain no manner of doubt
that you would be successful in whatever you might undertake!"

"Monsieur le comte is too kind! But it is quite true that I count only
victories, sandioux!"

"If I remember aright," murmured the little widow, carefully placing a
bit of toast in her egg, "you were on your back a fortnight as a result
of the blows you received the last time that you tried to rob several
bourgeois on Rue Mauconseil of their sleep!"

Passedix cast a savage glance at his landlady, as he cried:

"No, no! you are wrong, Dame Cadichard. I covered myself with glory in
that affair; and if I did keep my bed for some time after, it was only
because, in the heat of the affray, I gave myself a strain which kept me
from going to my usual resorts for a few days. Your eggs are too hard,
_belle dame_, you will never be able to dip your toast in them. I advise
you to eat them as a salad."

"They are all right, monsieur le chevalier; I like them this way.--Mon
Dieu! how sorry I am, monsieur le comte, that my servant keeps you
waiting like this!"

"There is no harm done, madame, I am in no hurry."

"If only I had something to offer monsieur le comte; but this breakfast
is not worthy of him."

"I should think it very nice, if I had not already eaten mine."

"In any case," observed Passedix, "you wouldn't offer your tenants
boiled eggs, I trust; for these are as hard as rocks--like Easter eggs."

"Oh! what a tease you are, monsieur le chevalier! But I think that you
know very little about cooking!"

"Sandioux! Dame Cadichard--on the contrary, I know a great deal about
it. My godfather Chaudoreille used to give his friends banquets that
lasted a whole week; I remember that he used to have delicacies from the
four quarters of the globe, and he was not satisfied unless his guests
had indigestion.--If Monsieur de Carvajal has no restaurant to which he
is attached, I could take him to a cabaret where they serve the most
delicious calves' heads, and stewed rabbits _en crapaudine_--you would
swear they were hares."

"I thank you, chevalier; but I do not take my meals at wine shops."

"I understand--I understand. You prefer darkness and mystery, with some
fair lady who awaits you in her _petite maison_; for we have ladies who
have them, as well as men; I know something about it, for I have supped
in more than one of those enchanting retreats--near Porte Saint-Antoine,
on the other side of the Fossés Jaunes. I am not inquisitive, I do not
mean to ask you indiscreet questions; but, between us, monsieur le
comte, I will take the liberty to give you a piece of advice; it is
this: it is not very safe in certain quarters of Paris at night; people
are attacked, robbed, and sometimes murdered, without anyone interfering
to prevent it. I warn you of this, because our landlady told me that you
went out very late, and returned at very advanced hours of the night.
That is imprudent! extremely imprudent!"

"Ah! madame told you that, did she?" rejoined the stranger, with a
glance at Widow Cadichard that arrested one of the pieces of toast on
its way to her mouth.

"I," murmured the little woman--"I said--that is--no, I said nothing. I
don't know why monsieur le chevalier brings me into all the fables he
invents. He would do better to pay the rent he owes me!"

"What is that, Widow Cadichard? I believe that you dared to say that I
invent!--Cadédis! that is too much! I, invent anything!--I suppose that
you didn't tell me also just now that monsieur had asked you for a
duplicate key to the street door, so that he could go in and out at
night without disturbing anyone; and that he had forbidden Popelinette
to sit up for him; and that it was the fashion in Spain to walk the
streets at night? To which I replied that it was not so warm in France
as in the beautiful land of the Andalusians.--Ah! I invented all
that--sandioux! If all that I have just said was not told me by you, I
hope that this egg will choke me while I speak!--Look! didn't I tell you
that they were all hard? But I am an ignoramus, I don't know anything
about cooking. And this one is just the same; as they all are!"

As he spoke, the Gascon took up an egg and dexterously stripped it of
its shell; after which, he made but one mouthful of it, and was about to
do as much with a second one, when the landlady angrily pounced on the
plate in which the others were and put it in her lap, saying:

"Well, monsieur, have you nearly finished swallowing my eggs as if they
were little tarts? Really, you don't stand on ceremony! If it wasn't for
my respect for monsieur le comte, I would tell you what I think of your
conduct."

"What would you tell me, alluring Cadichard?--that I am a libertine, a
scatterbrain, and that I owe you for four quarters? Cadédis! that is no
crime; every day, gentlemen of good family find themselves short of
money; and a few days later they roll in gold and doubloons.--Isn't that
so, Monsieur de Carvajal?"

"It is, in truth, a common occurrence, monsieur le chevalier."

"At this moment, I know several noble lords who are in my plight. Among
others, the young Comte Léodgard de Marvejols, of whom you have heard,
doubtless?"

"Yes, the name is not unknown to me."

"It is one of the oldest families of Languedoc. The old Marquis de
Marvejols is very rich, but he is a little strict with his son, although
he has no other child. To be sure, Léodgard did run through the fortune
he got from his mother rather rapidly. He's a young buck who travels
fast--a gallant of my stamp; he loves cards and wine and the
ladies.--Yes, sweet Cadichard, we love the ladies; but they must not fly
into a passion when we condescend to taste a little egg in their
honor.--To return to Léodgard, he has had hard luck of late! He had won
a very neat little sum at cards, contrary to his custom, and was
returning to his house at night, when he was attacked by Giovanni, that
famous brigand, you know, who is at this moment the terror of the
capital. You must have heard of him, monsieur le comte?"

"No; this is the first time that I have heard that name."

"You surprise me! Sandioux! Giovanni already has a tremendous reputation
in this country. He must be very skilful with the sword to have beaten
young Marvejols, who fights--almost as well as I do.--The result is that
everybody is afraid of the man. But so far as I am concerned, the
contrary is true; indeed, I would like very much to meet this famous
robber!"

"Oh! that's because you are not afraid of being robbed!" said the little
landlady, pressing her lips together spitefully.

"Always some piquant little remark, sweet Cadichard!--I overlook them, I
overlook anything in the fair sex!"

"And why would you like to meet this--this Giovanni, monsieur le
chevalier?" asked the stranger, playing with his sword hilt.

"Why, monsieur le comte, because I flatter myself that I should be more
fortunate than poor Léodgard! And that infernal knave would receive at
my hand the reward of his brigandage! I would give myself the pleasure
of burying six inches of Roland in his throat. Ah! sandioux! I can see
from here the wry face he would make!--Does that make you laugh,
Monsieur de Carvajal?"

"Why, yes, because it occurs to me, too, that in such a battle as you
suggest one of the two would, in fact, be likely to cause the other to
make a strange grimace."

"One of the two! Do you doubt that I should triumph?"

"I in no wise doubt your valor, monsieur le chevalier; but as for your
triumph, permit me to think that it is better not to make any assertions
beforehand--the most valiant are conquered sometimes; fortune is
capricious to fighting men as well as to lovers."

Passedix bit his lips and drew his eyebrows together. The hostess, who
had decided to remove the shells from her eggs, said to the tenant of
her first floor:

"In any case, monsieur le comte, it is always prudent not to go out at
night unless you are well armed; for my part, I don't dare to go to the
theatre at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, because it ends too late! It's
half-past eight sometimes when they finish the beautiful tragedy of
_Sophonisbé_, by Monsieur Mairet, which I would have liked to see, all
the same!"

"_Sophonisbé!_ Faith! I prefer his last tragedy, the _Duc d'Ossone_--the
verses are more sonorous, the subject more warlike.--What say you,
monsieur le comte?"

"I do not go to the play."

"Where in the devil does the Spaniard go?" thought Passedix, draping
himself in his cloak; "never to the court, never to a wine shop, never
to the play! He wants to make us think that he's always shut up with
some petticoat!"

And the Gascon swayed to and fro on his chair and caressed his chin, as
he continued:

"For my part, I am a great frequenter of the theatre."

"You go to Brioché's theatre on Pont Neuf!" laughed Madame Cadichard;
"there's a show outside; that doesn't cost anything!"

"I go where I choose, madame! It seems to me that I am entitled to.
Brioché's marionettes are not to be despised, and the proof is that
great crowds go there--leaders of society and idlers, _belles dames_ and
_bourgeoises_. But that does not interfere with my being one of the most
assiduous spectators at the Hôtel de Bourgogne; I know all Alexandre
Hardy's plays, and I believe he has written over six hundred; he is my
favorite author, and I prefer him to this Jean Mairet, who is laden
with favors by the Cardinal de Richelieu, the Duc de Longueville, and
the Comte de Soissons, because he has written a dozen or so of
tragedies! A fine showing, forsooth, beside Hardy's six hundred
plays!--Ah! cadédis! if I had ever undertaken to write, it would have
been a different story!--But I prefer the sword to the pen; one must not
derogate from his rank!"

At that moment, an old servant of more than sixty years, whose skin had
such a dark-yellow tinge that she might at need have been passed off as
a Moor, entered the room and approached the stranger. It was
Popelinette, just returned from performing her commission.

"Here are all the things you told me to get, monsieur le comte--gloves,
perfumery--the nicest and daintiest I could find; and _mouches_ and
paint; and here is the money that is left."

"Very good; keep that for your trouble."

"Oh! you are very kind, monseigneur! I thank you very humbly!"

"Does the fellow mean to disguise himself as a woman?" Passedix thought,
glancing furtively at Popelinette's purchases, which she had placed on a
table. "Paint! _mouches!_ perfumery! Fie, fie! all those things do very
well for shepherds in Arcady. I begin to conceive a very singular
opinion of this Spaniard!"

"It took you a very long time to do the errand monsieur le comte gave
you to do!" said the plump Cadichard to her servant. "You must try to
make your legs work a little livelier when you go out."

"But, madame, I went to the best perfumer on Rue Saint-Honoré, near the
Couvent des Capucines; that's a long way."

"Monsieur le Chevalier Passedix has been waiting impatiently for you; he
needs your help--some buttons to sew on his doublet."

"Again!" muttered Popelinette, with a most disrespectful gesture.

"What do you mean by that?" cried the Gascon, raising his head; "I
should like to know if you are not here to wait upon the tenants? I
consider your reply a little impertinent, my girl!"

"Mon Dieu! don't be angry, monsieur le chevalier; I don't refuse to do
what you want; but I meant that your doublet has been patched and mended
so often that the buttons I sew on are likely not to hold, for lack of
material to sew them to."

"It is easy to see, old Popelinette, that you no longer have your eyes
of twenty years! otherwise, you would not abuse thus a garment which is
almost new, and which owes the numerous patches that cover it solely to
the sword thrusts I have received in single combats and others. But they
are titles to renown, and that is why I am fond of this doublet; if I
should buy a new one, within a week it would be riddled by sword thrusts
as this one is; one doesn't go to the water without getting wet.--Well!
my girl, take a needle and thread and let us have done with it, for the
day is advancing, and I should already be somewhere else!"

The old servant grumblingly took what she needed to repair the Gascon's
doublet. For some moments, the stranger had been examining what
Popelinette had brought him; at last he carefully replaced all the
articles in paper and put them in his pocket one after another, as if he
were preparing to take his leave.

"Yes, sandioux!" cried Passedix, partly unbuttoning his doublet so that
the servant could work more conveniently; "yes, I long to pursue a
certain adventure, the heroine of which surpasses the Venus of Medici!"

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier makes Venuses out of every retroussé nose he
meets!" said Dame Cadichard, shrugging her shoulders.

"Do you think so, charming hostess? I should say that I have never given
you reason to think that my taste was bad!"

The landlady turned her little eyes on the Gascon, like a person who
does not know whether she ought to take in good or ill part what is said
to her. Passedix continued:

"By the way, I made her acquaintance in such singular fashion!--Ah! be
careful, Popelinette, you are pricking me as if I were a pincushion!"

"Goodness! it isn't my fault, monsieur; you keep moving all the time!"

"That is my nature; I could not keep still for a moment; that is due to
the heat of my blood--to the smoking lava that flows in my veins! I am a
volcano! and then, the image of that Italian was well adapted to make my
legs twitch!"

"Ah! your conquest is an Italian, is she, monsieur le chevalier?" said
the stranger, who had taken a step or two toward the door, but who
turned at that and looked at Passedix.

"Yes, monsieur le comte; that is to say, she isn't exactly an Italian,
although she wears the costume of a Milanese; she was born in Béarn, but
it seems that she has lived in Milan many years. I give you my word that
she is a dainty morsel, that little Miretta!"

When he heard the name Miretta, the foreigner could not restrain a
gesture of surprise; but he recovered himself instantly, walked back to
the easy-chair he had just left, and resumed his seat, saying:

"Really, monsieur le chevalier, you make me very curious; and if I were
not afraid of being indiscreet in asking you how you made the
acquaintance of this girl, who, you say, is so pretty, I should take
great pleasure in hearing of it."

"There is no indiscretion in your request, count; indeed, the affair
took place in the presence of numerous witnesses and made quite a
sensation this morning. I will stake my head that it will be the talk of
the court and the whole city this evening. I will tell you all about
it.--Go on, Popelinette; it needn't prevent you from sewing on my
buttons."

Thereupon the Gascon chevalier described what had taken place that
morning in front of Master Hugonnet's house; and in his narrative,
carried away doubtless by his interest in the pretty Milanese, Passedix
embellished the truth with a number of episodes which he deemed likely
to heighten the effect. For instance, he did not fail to say that on
several occasions he had saved Cédrille from certain death by throwing
himself in front of the swords that threatened him; in a word, it was
due to his courage that the two travellers succeeded in escaping from
the fury of those who surrounded them.

The foreigner listened to the Gascon with the closest attention. When
the latter had finished, the other looked fixedly at him and said:

"Now, what do you expect to do, chevalier?"

"What! By Venus! follow up the adventure, watch for the little one to
come out, join her, declare my passion, soften her heart--a mere trifle!
The rest will go of itself."

"No doubt!" muttered Dame Cadichard; "if the girl is a good-for-nothing
who listens to the first comer!"

"Whom do you call a first comer, madame? do you dare to apply those
words to Castor Pyrrhus de Passedix?--Sandioux! you are pricking me,
Popelinette! do be careful!"

"I mean to say, monsieur, that this girl does not know you; and if she
is virtuous----"

"Cadédis! all women are virtuous before they have sinned; and since the
days of Eve, who allowed herself to be tempted by a serpent, how many
women have stumbled---- Oh! this old woman is determined to spit me like
a roasted hare!"

"But in order to watch for this Italian," observed the Spaniard, "it is
necessary first of all that you should know where she lives in Paris."

"Oh! I know that; I know where Miretta is at this moment; I even know
why she has come to Paris. I am perfectly informed--but upon this matter
you will allow me to keep silent. The little one is too dainty a morsel
for me to show her nest to other men, and I am sure that you will
consider that I am right to act thus."

The foreigner rose and bowed to the Gascon.

"Good luck in your love affairs, Chevalier Passedix!"

"Infinitely obliged! Much pleasure in your nocturnal walks, monsieur le
comte!"

The foreigner took his leave. The landlady renewed her humble
reverences, and Passedix muttered:

"A singular man, this Monsieur de Carvajal!"

"You are all sewed up, monsieur," said Popelinette; "but, bless me! I
won't swear it will hold long, the stuff is so rotten!"

"Very good! all right! I didn't ask you about that!--He buys paint,
_mouches_, perfumes!--he's an effeminate creature!"

"I don't think," said the little hostess, "that it is so unpleasant to
perfume one's self, and to leave an agreeable odor behind one as one
passes!"

"I have never needed that to please the fair! And when I eat wild duck,
I don't like to have it smell of musk!"

The Gascon hurried from the room and went up to his fifth floor, while
Dame Cadichard exclaimed:

"Ah! if I only had a loft over his room!"

Popelinette put away her needle and thread, muttering:

"Oh, no! he doesn't smell of musk, that fellow! he doesn't need to deny
it!"




XII

VALENTINE DE MONGARCIN


Let us transport ourselves to Rue Saint-Honoré, to the interior of a
magnificent mansion, where everything is eloquent of wealth, splendor,
and refinement, where the furniture and hangings represent all that is
most beautiful and dainty in the products of that age. There we shall
find Madame de Ravenelle and her niece, Valentine de Mongarcin.

Madame de Ravenelle was seventy-two years of age; she had once been
pretty, she was still fresh and plump; for the anxieties, the cares,
the griefs, which often make one old much more rapidly than time, had
never darkened her life, which had flowed on as placidly and gently as
the waters of a stream hidden by tall grasses and never disturbed by the
traveller's oar.

The old lady, blessed with a cheerful, heedless, and, above all, selfish
disposition, had known how to submit philosophically to those petty
disagreements from which no one is wholly exempt throughout the course
of a long life. Having an excellent stomach, and very little
susceptibility, she always sat down at the table with a good appetite,
and never had recourse to the doctors. Incapable of doing anything
unkind or spiteful, which would have disturbed the harmony of her
temperament, she listened without emotion to the tale of another
person's woes; and yet, she was quite ready to be humane, and often did
a kind deed, when it was not likely to cause her either fatigue or
trouble.

Valentine de Mongarcin had been brought up at a convent; but there, no
less than in society, she had been fully aware that she was the sole
inheritress of a great name and a great fortune; flattery, which
insinuates itself everywhere, makes its way into convents; pretty,
clever, but proud of her name and her rank, Valentine had discovered too
early in life that people were eager to gratify all her desires; she had
grown up with the idea that her will was never to be thwarted; and,
although possessed of a sensitive heart, and of a noble soul capable of
noble deeds, she had contracted a haughty, disdainful manner, which had
made her but few friends.

At the age of eighteen, her figure had developed, her bearing had become
noble and dignified, her features were regular, and the outlines of her
face exquisitely pure; her hair was as black as ebony, and her great
gray eyes, with their long black lashes, had a most seductive expression
when they did not choose to express arrogance or scorn.

On leaving the convent to occupy her father's mansion, Valentine had not
presented herself to her aunt in the guise of a timid girl who claims
the support and protection of her only remaining relation; she had
appeared like a conqueror making his triumphal entry into a city which
he has compelled to capitulate; but she had to deal with a person who
worried her head very little over the airs and tone which other people
adopted toward her.

Madame de Ravenelle received her niece with the smile which had become
stereotyped on her face; she considered her beautiful and well made, and
was gratified that that was the case; but if Valentine had been ugly or
deformed, the old lady would speedily have consoled herself. Between two
persons of such temperaments, there was no danger that there would ever
be any lack of harmony; for to every question that Valentine asked on
her arrival, Madame de Ravenelle replied:

"Do whatever you please in the house; command and you will be obeyed,
provided that you disturb nothing in my apartment and my personal
service. I have my women, you will have yours; I shall not thwart you in
anything, for my brother's daughter would be incapable of doing anything
unworthy of her rank. And if the company I receive should bore you, you
will be at liberty not to appear in the salon."

Mademoiselle de Mongarcin could not ask for more liberty or greater
power; the confidence that her aunt manifested in her pleased her; she
would have rebelled against a stern affection that would have tried to
guide her, but she was amiable and affectionate with one who was simply
indifferent to her.

Young Valentine considered the old hangings of the Hôtel de Mongarcin
gloomy and repellent; she had them all changed or renewed, and the
furniture as well. But nothing was disturbed in the apartment occupied
by Madame de Ravenelle. Some of the servants having failed to carry out
the girl's orders quickly enough, she dismissed them and engaged others;
but her aunt's maid and her old male attendant were outside of her
authority.

The Hôtel de Mongarcin became more fashionable; it assumed a more
youthful, a gayer aspect; frequent entertainments were given there by
musicians, jugglers, and gypsies; it amused Valentine, and it was all a
matter of indifference to Madame de Ravenelle.

One day, however, the old lady said to her niece:

"By the way, Valentine, have you ever heard of the young Comte Léodgard
de Marvejols?"

"The name is familiar to me, and I have an idea that my father often
mentioned it.--Why do you ask me that question, aunt?"

"Because my brother was very desirous that young Léodgard should some
day become your husband."

"Ah! my father desired it?"

"Yes; he told me so again just before he died. He was very closely
attached to young Léodgard's father, who had the same wish."

"Well, aunt?"

"Well, niece, you shall marry the young count, if that meets your
views!"

"Oh! there's time for that! for my father surely would not desire to
force my inclination, if he were alive."

"I cannot say what your father would have done if he had lived; but I
know very well that I have no desire to torment you."

"You are so good, aunt!"

"Why, yes, I am tolerably good!"

"And do you know this young Comte de Marvejols?"

"I have seen him two or three times in company."

"What is he like, aunt?"

"A very good-looking young man; very well built, and with a decidedly
rakish air. But young men sometimes assume those airs in society, in
order to give themselves an appearance of aplomb and self-assurance;
very often they mean nothing at all!"

"Well, if this Monsieur Léodgard desires to become my husband, I suppose
that he will come to pay court to me first."

"Why, that is to be presumed. However, you will see his father, Monsieur
le Marquis de Marvejols, at my receptions before long; he is a man very
highly considered, in very good odor at court, but of a rather severe
humor."

"What does that matter to me? it is not the father who wishes to marry
me!"

"That is true."

"And if this Monsieur Léodgard shared his father's wishes, it seems to
me, aunt, that he would manifest more eagerness to see me; for it is
nearly two months since I left the convent, and he has not called here
as yet."

"That is true, niece; but perhaps the young man is travelling."

Madame de Ravenelle's invariably placid and equable temperament
sometimes irritated Valentine, whose blood was ardent and boiling; but
she dissembled her impatience, for she could not be angry with her aunt,
who always agreed with her.

About a month after this conversation, Valentine had attended a large
party given by the Duchesse de Longueville, and had met Léodgard there.
The young count had presented his respects to Madame de Ravenelle and
her niece, but with the cold and formal manner of a man who had the
greatest disinclination to marriage and did not desire to gratify his
parents' wishes.

On her side, Valentine de Mongarcin, piqued by the young man's lack of
zeal in cultivating her acquaintance, had received his compliments with
an air of indifference, almost of disdain, which deprived her face of
all the fascination it sometimes had.

We have seen that the result of the meeting had been to confirm Léodgard
in his repugnance to that alliance.

As for Valentine, she had not said a single word on the subject of
Léodgard, and Madame de Ravenelle had thought it advisable to imitate
her silence.

One evening, after receiving a visit from one of her friends, or rather
acquaintances, at the convent, Valentine said to her aunt:

"Mademoiselle de Vertmonteil spoke to me this morning of a girl whom her
sister has seen at Milan. This girl wishes to find a place in Paris. She
is said to be clever at millinery work and dressmaking; in fact,
Mademoiselle de Vertmonteil recommended her to me. My maid is a fool,
who does not know how to dress my hair, and I am tempted to discharge
her and take this Italian in her place. What do you think about it,
aunt?"

Madame de Ravenelle, who had listened as to something that was utterly
indifferent to her, replied:

"You will do well to do whatever is most agreeable to you, my dear."

It was a fortnight after this conversation that Miretta appeared at the
Hôtel de Mongarcin, escorted by Cédrille, and still greatly excited by
the risks she had run in front of Master Hugonnet's house.

Valentine was impatiently awaiting the arrival of the girl of whom she
had heard such marvellous things. She was in an immense salon, where her
aunt persisted in having a fire, although the weather was no longer
cold, when the young traveller was announced. Valentine uttered a joyful
exclamation and said:

"Bring her to speak to me; I wish to see her at once!--Will you allow
her to come to this salon, aunt?"

"It is entirely indifferent to me, niece. However, if any visitor should
come, I presume that this girl will know that it is her duty to
withdraw."

Miretta soon made her appearance before the two ladies; she walked into
the salon with an assured step; there was embarrassment, but neither
awkwardness nor stupidity in her bearing. The reverence that she made
was not without a certain charm. Add to this the beauty of her face, her
fresh complexion, her youth, and her piquant costume, and you will
understand Valentine's exclamation:

"Ah! why, the child is very pretty!--Come nearer, come nearer! Your name
is Miretta?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, Miretta Dartaize. Here is the letter of
recommendation with which I have been favored, for mademoiselle."

"Very well; but it is unnecessary--I have seen the sister of the person
who gave you the letter.--You are a Milanese?"

"No, mademoiselle; I was born at Pau, in Béarn; but I have lived at
Milan, or in the suburbs, ever since I was a child."

"And your relations?"

"I lost them when I was very young, all except an old female cousin, who
still lives at Pau, and whose son, who is very fond of me, was kind
enough to undertake to bring me to Paris."

"Where is this youth?"

"In the courtyard, mademoiselle."

"How did you make the journey?"

"On Bourriquet's back, both of us. Bourriquet is Cédrille's horse; he's
a good beast and carried us finely; but we made short days, so as not to
tire him."

"And your travelling companion--does he too hope to find a place in
Paris?"

"Oh! no, mademoiselle; Cédrille came with me only as a favor to me; and
he is going right back to his province, after he has rested a little in
Paris."

"This Cédrille, who is your cousin, is your betrothed too, perhaps?"
said Madame de Ravenelle, carelessly turning her head toward the girl.
But she replied:

"Oh, no! Cédrille is not my betrothed, madame; he loves me very dearly
though, and he has asked me if I would be his wife; but I refused him,
refused him flatly, telling him that I should never have anything but a
sisterly affection for him. Cédrille made the best of it and is content
with that."

"Why did you refuse to marry your cousin? Was it because he has nothing,
and can't do anything?"

"I beg pardon, madame, Cédrille has quite enough to live comfortably;
he's a worthy, honest man--a hard worker, who knows more about
agriculture and plowing than anybody in our neighborhood."

"And in spite of all that, you would not consent to be his wife?"
continued the old lady, fixing her eyes on Miretta, who looked down and
blushed as she faltered:

"No, madame."

"You had some reason for refusing him, doubtless?"

"Mon Dieu! a single one, madame; but it seems to me that it should be
sufficient in such a matter: I have no love for him, and I do not care
to marry without love."

"Ah! very well answered!" cried Valentine, smiling at the girl;
"certainly that reason is quite sufficient! As if a woman ought to marry
a man she does not love! that would be equivalent to deliberately
choosing to be unhappy all her life!"

"Such things have been seen, however, niece! And a woman is not always
unhappy on that account; it often turns out just the other way."

"Well, aunt, I consider that Miretta has done well not to marry her
cousin, as she has no love for him."

"Perhaps you will not always talk so, my dear!"

"Miretta," continued Valentine, turning to the girl, "I take you into my
service, that is settled; and I will give you---- How much should I
give her, aunt?"

"Whatever you please, niece."

"Very well! two hundred livres a year.--Is that enough, Miretta? does
that satisfy you?"

"Oh! that is a great deal, mademoiselle! I probably am not worth so much
as that, and I shall always be satisfied with whatever you give me; I do
not care for money!"

"You don't care for money, you don't care to marry," murmured Madame de
Ravenelle, shaking her head; "nor do you care for your province, since
you leave it--Pray, little one, to what do you aspire?"

Miretta was silent a moment, then replied:

"I aspire to be in the service of honorable persons, a

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