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Paul and His Dog, v.1 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XIII)

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Title: Paul and His Dog, v.1 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XIII)

Author: Paul de Kock


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAUL AND HIS DOG, V.1 (NOVELS OF PAUL DE KOCK VOLUME XIII) ***

[Illustration: _Copyright 1904 by G. Barrie & Sons_]

_AMI FRIGHTENS THE DOCTOR_

_"But the groaning seemed to come nearer; suddenly it changed into a
loud barking, and an enormous dog rushed from the room I was about to
enter, planted his front paws on my chest, and glared at me with eyes
that were far from gentle!"_




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME XIII

PAUL AND HIS DOG

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
[Illustration]
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

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




PAUL AND HIS DOG




I

A MASQUERADE AT THE OPÉRA


What a crowd! how eager all these people are to make their way into the
ball-room! they begin to push and elbow one another even in the street,
in front of the entrance to the theatre; the carriages move too slowly
to suit the persons inside or the police officers whose duty it is to
keep all vehicles in motion.

See those maskers; those dominos have hardly time to alight from their
coupé, for the coachman must move on instantly to make room for the
confrère behind him; many persons even alight before they are in front
of the theatre, hoping to reach their destination more quickly.

It is evident therefore that they must be afraid of not finding room, of
not being able to crowd their way into that sanctuary of pleasure, of
folly, rather; and yet one can always get in, at any hour. Though the
hall be overflowing with people, though the foyer be full to
suffocation, though it be impossible to move in the corridor,--it makes
no difference: one can always find a way to slip into the vast throng.

People push you, bump against you, tread on your feet, force you to go
to the right when you want to go to the left. You do not find the person
you are seeking, you are separated from your companion; if you have
arranged yourself with great care and elegance, in a few minutes your
clothes are rumpled, torn, stained.--But what does it matter! you are at
the Opéra masquerade.

You are speedily bewildered by the noise made by the multitude that
surrounds you; the heat becomes stifling; add to this the odor of the
bouquets and of the perfumery used by the ladies, and lastly the strains
of the enormous orchestra playing galops, waltzes, polkas, mazurkas,
with a swing, a precision, a vigor which makes your legs twitch; and do
not be surprised if you begin to feel like a different man, if your
brain whirls, if your heart beats more rapidly, if you suddenly become
inclined to play pranks, to enjoy yourself--no matter how.

But you do not intend to have come to the Opéra ball for nothing. You
aspire to an intrigue, a conquest, an unexpected meeting. You seek
pleasure, no matter under what form it presents itself, and you often
pass several hours in the quest, or rather, in quest of the unknown.

Ah! it is so provoking when a domino with a graceful figure, a tiny hand
and a well-arched foot takes your arm, saying:

"I know you!"

_I know you!_ those three words, uttered by an unfamiliar voice, but by
a woman who takes your arm, clings to it familiarly, leans toward you
and looks into your eyes in a very alluring way--those three words
disturb you, excite you, toss you at once into the field of conjecture.
No matter how many times you may hear them during the night, they always
produce their effect, and especially, as I said just now, if the masker
who says them to you has a pretty figure, a pretty hand, pretty
eyes--all of which make one desire or hope for a charming face.

First of all, you try to identify the person who speaks to you; you
examine her eyes, the lower part of her chin, which the mask imperfectly
conceals; you pass in review the feet, the arms, the figure, the hair.
You listen attentively to the tone of the voice, which is never
perfectly disguised to a very sharp ear.

But when all these have failed to give you any information; when you
abandon the idea of recognizing your companion, then you proceed to
imagine a woman to match your ideal. Behind the mask that covers her
face, you place lovely, intellectual features of the sort that you most
affect; your imagination takes fire--you have met the woman of your
dreams, you are beginning to fall in love; a few seconds more, and you
will have a full-fledged passion on your hands. But no; it will not go
so far as that. You will restrain yourself, for there is always a
reverse side to the medallion; and that reverse side the sirens
themselves are blundering enough to show to you. You have not had your
lady on your arm ten minutes, when she says to you:

"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"

Ah! what a tumble your imagination takes at that! how suddenly your
dreams of a woman of fashion, distinguished, mysterious, passionate, are
transformed into humble flower-makers, corset-makers, waistcoat-makers,
and sometimes something even humbler!

"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"--can it be that a woman
of breeding, a woman of the _beau_ _monde_, or even of the _beau
demi-monde_, would ask that question?

No, that has the savor of a grisette, or a _fillette_, a league away! I
am aware that Carnival has its license, and that, with the face masked,
one may venture to say things that one would not say with the face
exposed. But it is none the less certain that that unlucky phrase is
almost equivalent to the unmasking of your conquest, and brings you down
at once from the fertile land of illusions to the much more arid regions
of reality. And then, as if they instantly divined the wishes of your
fair companion, the dealers in bonbons and oranges always arrive at the
moment the question is asked. You are too gallant to refuse, moreover,
you probably know that, if you should refuse, your conquest would at
once drop your arm, saying:

"Bah! what a skinflint! Thanks! I've had enough of your acquaintance; it
ain't worth the cost of a stick of sugar candy!"

Plume yourself then, if you can, upon having been that damsel's escort,
upon having felt her arm lean upon yours and her hand respond to the
pressure of your hand; alas! there is no excuse for pride.

But, you will tell me, there are exceptions; ladies of the best society,
pretty bourgeoises, even women of honorable name, indulge in the
pleasure of the masquerade; there is no danger of their unmasking, you
may be sure! on the contrary, they disguise themselves with the greatest
care, in such wise as to turn aside all suspicions and to deceive
everybody who knows them. But those things which they never succeed in
concealing are their elegant manners, their distinguished bearing, their
refined language.

Yes, there are, doubtless, some of those ladies at the Opéra; they have
longed to satisfy their curiosity by a glimpse of one of these orgies.

Sometimes a more powerful motive leads them thither; they desire to
surprise a disloyal lover, to confound him, to unmask his treachery;
or,--and this is much more agreeable--they have consented to come
secretly into this crowd, because they know that they will meet here
someone whom it is impossible for them to see elsewhere; and perhaps,
under cover of the mask, they will consent to let fall from their lips a
sweet confession which you would never have obtained otherwise.

It is true that there are these exceptions, and that you have a chance
of falling in with one of these ladies. Indeed, it would distress me to
rob you of the many illusions in which the charm of a masquerade
consists; but I must remind you that these _comme il faut_ ladies are
not at the ball to enter into an intrigue; it is always an intrigue
already begun that brings them there. And then, what probability is
there that one of them will come to you, take your arm, and say: "I know
you!" when she does not know you and has not come to the ball on your
account? Are you not convinced now that you will not intrigue with one
of these ladies?

No, you are not, because in your heart you consider yourself a
sufficiently attractive youth to take the eye of a nobly-born dame, who
may not have come on your account, but who would be very glad to make
your acquaintance. That is your idea; it is very pleasant to you to
believe that! Very well, believe it! If it makes you happy, you are
wise. Cradle yourself in the sweetest illusions, let your imagination
run riot, though you have nothing to show for your stick of candy.

On a certain night, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-six--it was
Mi-Carême, and consequently the last day of license permitted after the
Carnival. It was therefore the last Opéra masquerade, and so it was
magnificent in respect to numbers, uproar and eccentric costumes. There
were, as always, numbers of pretty little women dressed as
_débardeurs_,[A] that is to say, in high-necked shirts, velvet or satin
breeches with broad bands of brilliant colors, sash tied behind, and on
their heads a sort of foraging-cap covered with flowers and worn over
the ear in the true swaggering style.

There were Pierrots of all colors and sizes, a few ladies dressed à la
Pompadour, many gypsies, and some of those young men who are determined
to attract notice at any cost, and for that purpose adopt a costume to
which it is difficult to give a name. One, dressed in knee-breeches of
spangled satin, wore high postilion's boots and a Turkish jacket; on his
back he had a quiver, on his head a saucepan by way of helmet, and
fastened to the saucepan, a plume of enormous size. This plume, which
waved in the air three feet above the crowd, could be seen from one end
of the hall to the other. It must have been fatiguing to have that
immense thing on one's head; but what do not people do at a masquerade,
to attract attention?

Another represented a savage or a bear, it was hard to tell which. He
had made himself a sort of crown with those little brooms which are sold
for three sous. He carried an umbrella in one hand and a fan in the
other. The more extravagant one's costume, the more trouble one takes to
be seen by the multitude.

But the orchestra gave the signal for a quadrille. As a general rule,
all those maskers who are costumed in character dance, for they aim to
display as much extravagance in their dancing as in their costumes.
Unluckily for them, there are officials whose duty it is to moderate
their enthusiasm and to call them to order when they put too much
_laissez-aller_ into their steps. In heaven's name, what would they do
if they were not watched!

The quadrille almost always ends in a general galop. Thereupon everyone
joins in and is whirled away in the vortex. The innumerable sets are
confounded in a resistless torrent of gallopers which roars around the
ball-room, in five, six, sometimes seven rows at once; all galloping and
jumping and running! Woe to the unlucky wight who stumbles! the torrent
stops only with the music, and he would inevitably be trampled under the
feet of the dancers.

But do not be alarmed, nobody falls; they all are sure-footed and agile
performers; and those pretty little female _débardeurs_, who seemed to
you but now so slender and delicate, are often the most intrepid of all
in that mad galop in which one must not pause.

Toward the end, the orchestra quickens the time; then it ceases to be a
dance; it is a genuine delirium, a frenzy; shouts and singing blend with
the music, and the whirling mass passes before you like a railroad
train. At that moment, the sight is truly miraculous, truly interesting
to watch; and we know many people who go to the Opéra ball solely to sit
in a box and watch the galop at their ease. In truth, I doubt whether
anything similar can be seen elsewhere.

Two dominos had just entered one of the proscenium boxes. The first,
pearl-gray, trimmed with rich lace, was worn by a tall, slender woman
whose well-developed figure it outlined sharply. Despite her disguise,
one could divine that the costume covered a person well accustomed to
the noisy demonstrations of the maskers and to the eccentricities of the
dancers. There was something bold and determined in her manner, and, as
she watched the galop which was then at its height, the gray domino
seemed neither surprised nor fascinated; she gazed at that rushing
torrent, not like a person enjoying an entertaining spectacle, but like
a person at the theatre who pays no attention to the play that is in
progress, but is solely occupied in looking for someone among the
audience.

The second domino was black; it was worn by a person of medium height
and decent demeanor, in whose appearance there was nothing to attract
attention. She, however, seemed to take much pleasure in watching the
galop, and from time to time uttered exclamations eloquent of the
surprise which that frenzied dance caused her.

The two ladies had seated themselves at the front of the box, where, in
all probability, their seats had been engaged. The gray domino, whose
eyes were fastened on the dancing throng, was certainly looking for
someone; the black domino, who was looking for no one, cried from time
to time:

"Oh! look there, my dear! how they push one another! See! that tall
Pierrot has taken his partner in his arms and away he dances with her!
Mon Dieu! suppose he should fall! And see that Marquise Pompadour with
her wig half off; she's going to lose her wig! look, Thélénie!"

"Yes, yes, I see; but I beg you, my dear Héloïse, not to make so many
exclamations; anyone would think you had never seen anything."

"But I haven't ever seen the Opéra ball. I've been to Valentino,
Sainte-Cécile, and the Salle Barthélemy."

"Enough, enough! for heaven's sake, keep quiet, and above all things,
remember not to call me by name when you speak to me. You must see that
it isn't worth while for me to disguise myself carefully if you are
going to shout my name in the ears of everybody who passes."

"I only mentioned your given name."

"And that's just the one that people know best; and as it isn't so
common as yours, anybody would know it was I."

"That's so; your name's a very pretty one--like a name in a novel; did
your parents give it to you, or did you take it?"

The gray domino did not think it best to answer this question except by
a slight shrug, which clearly signified: "Mon Dieu! how stupid you are!"

But the black domino, who perhaps did not understand pantomime, went on
talking none the less.

"For my part, I'd rather be named Thélénie than Héloïse: Héloïse is very
common, and then it seems there's some story about a Héloïse and her
lover, a Monsieur Abelard. I don't know it myself, it must be an old
story, for I've never read it in the papers. But it seems that it's
laughable, for the men who make love to me say: 'O lovely Héloïse, I'd
like to be your lover, but not your Abelard!'--I always pretend to
understand, for I don't want to seem ignorant; I wouldn't dare ask them
to tell me about the adventures of those two, so I just laugh and say:
'Tell me, why don't you want to be my Abelard? you're very hard to
suit!' Then they laugh harder than ever.--I say, Thélénie, you know such
a lot of things, you've had an education--tell me that story, won't
you?"

Tall Thélénie, for we know now the pearl-gray domino's name, thanks to
her companion's prattle, suddenly placed her hand on the black domino's
and said:

"Hush! I think I see him--that young man dressed as a postilion, at the
left, with a dairymaid on his arm; look, I say!"

"That postilion--Monsieur Edmond! oh, no! his nose is much longer."

"No, no, you are right; it isn't he!"

"Is Monsieur Edmond to be disguised as a postilion?"

"How do you suppose I know how he's disguised, or if he is disguised? I
am not even certain that he's at the ball; and yet I have a shrewd idea
that he'll come; it's the last masquerade, and he's so fond of sport."

"Bless me! it's natural at his age! how old is he?"

"Oh! how you pester me with your continued questioning, Héloïse!"

"Mon Dieu! how touchy you are to-night! Is it my fault, I should like to
know, that you've quarrelled with your lover, that he plays tricks on
you! When that happens to me, I console myself very quickly; I take
another, and very often that brings back the old one, who is angry
because I do as he does, and becomes much more in love than before! But
you must know that method--all women employ it and it invariably
succeeds."

"Yes, I know it, and I used to make use of it; but now--I can't act like
that with Edmond."

"It seems that you are really caught, my dear! An experienced woman like
you! I'm amazed!"

"You're amazed at everything to-night!"

"That proves that I am not blasé, and that's something."

"Do you say that to insult me?"

"Hoity-toity! now I'm insulting her! On my word, you're in a murderous
mood! If I had known, I wouldn't have come to the ball with you. To be
sure, you paid for my domino; but I could have found someone else to pay
me that attention. I came to the ball for fun, not to quarrel."

"Come, come, Héloïse, don't lose your temper. I am in an ugly mood
to-night, that's true; my nerves are all on edge, for I don't know where
he is, the traitor, and I want to know. I still love him; I love him;
and remember, he is the first man who ever introduced me to that
sentiment."

"Indeed? If you said that to him, I should believe it was humbug, as we
always say to our last lover: 'Ah! my dear! you are the first man who
ever taught me what love is!' but you've no reason for lying to me; I
don't dare to say again that you astonish me; you might tell me again
that I am astonished too much."

"My dear Héloïse, my life has been decidedly agitated, I admit; I don't
set myself up to you as a pattern of virtue!"

"You are quite right, for I shouldn't believe you."

"I will even tell you honestly how old I am,--a thing that women do not
often admit to each other. I am thirty-two; as you see, I should have
had some experience."

"Thirty-two! Well, without flattery, you may lie fearlessly on that
subject, for no one would think you more than twenty-eight at most."

"At thirty-two, with my face and figure, I thought that I might still
fascinate a young man of twenty-six."

"That you might! I should say so! Why not, I should like to know? Is a
woman old at thirty-two? For my part, I hope to make conquests at
forty-five; but I have plenty of time before me, thank God! I am in my
twenty-third year."

"I have had more than one liaison, it is true, but I tell you again,
Edmond is the first man I ever loved--with love; and when a woman feels
that sentiment so late in life--why, it's very violent, so violent that
it makes her capable of anything!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! you frighten me, my dear! But don't get excited; it will
pass away."

"I wish it might, but I have no hope of it."

"If he loved you, and you were sure of it, in a little while you would
cease to love him; it has always worked that way with me."

"Hush! hush! here comes someone I know; above all, don't turn."

The door of the box was open, and a gentleman had entered. He was a man
of about forty, but still very handsome; tall, with a fine figure,
regular features, a distinguished face, and a piercing, ironical glance;
in his brown eyes, which were rather too heavily shadowed by his lashes,
there was almost always a mocking look, which, however, was quite in
accord with his always mocking speech.

An extremely yellow and bilious complexion detracted somewhat from the
advantages which this gentleman would naturally have owed to his
physique; but there are ladies who prefer yellow skins to white ones,
and whose preference does not stop short of the mulatto.

This personage, as he entered the box, toyed with a beautiful
gold-rimmed eyeglass, which was suspended about his neck by a light hair
chain. He remained on his feet for some time, closely watching the
pearl-gray domino. But, since his arrival, the two ladies at the front
of the box pretended to be gazing with interest at the ball, where the
galop had just come to an end; and neither of them turned.

Annoyed by the persistence with which the two dominos showed him only
their backs, the newcomer stepped over a bench and seated himself behind
them. Then he tapped the gray domino's shoulder lightly and said to her
in an undertone:

"My fair friend, it's of no use for you to persist in not turning, and
to force your companion to follow suit, which seems to be very
distasteful to her; it doesn't prevent my recognizing you. I watched you
just now from below; your black eyes shone like carbuncles; those eyes
betray you, my love; when you don't wish to be recognized, assume the
costume of Fortune, and wear a bandage over them."

"I don't know what you want with me," said Mademoiselle Héloïse's
companion, carefully disguising her voice; "my eyes shine, you say? so
much the better; I am delighted. I have no reason to hide them. If I
don't turn round, you may be sure that it's not on account of you, whom
I don't know, and whom I have no desire to know!"

"Ah! my dear Thélénie! If I hadn't recognized you already, your last
words would have left me in no doubt as to your identity! A person may
disguise her face and figure, or change her voice,--that's all very
well; but she must remember also to change her mental habit and her mode
of speech. You have always had a considerable leaning toward
impertinence; and you yielded to it again just now when you said that
you had no desire to know me. Tell me, am I not right? Take my word for
it, and profit by this advice--if you want to puzzle anybody and to
avoid being identified, be good-natured, indulgent, and don't speak
unkindly of anyone; then I promise you that people won't recognize you."

The tall Thélénie with difficulty repressed an angry exclamation;
however, she forced herself to laugh as she replied:

"Ha! ha! ha! that is all very pretty! Well, why aren't you disguised as
a magician, since you pretend to be able to tell everyone so exactly
what sort of person she is?"

"Oh! I don't disguise myself any more; my time for that has passed."

"True; you are too old for that."

"There are many older than I who continue to disguise themselves. It is
not age that prevents a man from making a fool of himself, it's the
degree of pleasure he finds in doing it. See, look at that tall
Polichinelle just passing you, with two Swiss women on his arms; that is
old Simoulin, the lorettes' banker. He is more than fifty years old, but
that doesn't prevent him from disguising himself still; he must have
intrigues, love-affairs, mistresses; he imagines that he still makes
conquests--an old idiot who doesn't understand yet that his money is the
only thing that attracts the women. He has done many foolish things for
them; he has already consumed three-fourths of his fortune, and the rest
will probably go the same way. Then all these beauties, for whom he will
have ruined himself, will turn their backs on him and order their maids
to shut the door in his face if he has the audacity to call on his
former mistresses.--Isn't that true? But I am telling you nothing new.
You know it all better than I do, for you have been intimately
acquainted with that beggarly Polichinelle.--And that tall young man
yonder, dressed to represent Gille.[B] His costume is well chosen, at
all events. Poor fellow! what a haggard face, what hollow cheeks, what a
dull, brutish expression! Ah! he was once a good-looking fellow. He's a
Hungarian; why in the deuce did he leave his country with such a
well-filled wallet? He wanted to know Paris, to enjoy himself here! I
don't know if he has enjoyed himself very much--I trust so. But to run
through a hundred and fifty thousand francs in six months--that is
rather a rapid pace; nothing less than a princely fortune will stand
that sort of thing. Now this young Hungarian is obliged to borrow until
his worthy father chooses to send him some money. But the father keeps
his pockets buttoned; he thinks that his son has been rather too
magnificent. You know this young foreigner also, my dear--know him very
well, in fact. But it isn't he whom you are looking for in this throng;
it's little Edmond Didier--your latest passion! I say your latest--I
think so, but I wouldn't swear to it. You have had so many! Have you
made a memorandum of them all, with a view to writing your memoirs some
day? If you have not, you are making a mistake, for I assure you they
would have a good sale. I will engage a copy in advance."

The gray domino made no reply, but one could see from her nervous
movements that she could hardly restrain her wrath. The black domino,
who was tired of keeping silent, thought that she was doing an excellent
thing in suddenly observing to the gentleman who was talking to her
friend:

"Mon Dieu! my dear man, you must see that you bore us to death. For
heaven's sake, leave us in peace! We didn't come to the Opéra to listen
to your _ragots_--silly backbiting."

The gentleman laughed heartily.

"Ha! ha! _ragots!_ not a very refined expression! My little Héloïse,
your friend ought to give you lessons in refined speech, otherwise you
might compromise her; and she didn't bring you here for that."

"I say! do you know me, too?"

"Bah! you little bungler! you give yourself away at once; really you are
not shrewd enough to accompany Thélénie; but you are not pretty, that is
why she gives you the preference!"

"I am not pretty! well, upon my word! this long yellow-face is very
polite!"

"Ha! ha! ha! I see, mesdames, that you are really going to be angry; I
will leave you."

"That will give us great pleasure."

"I forgive Héloïse her ill-humor; she simply obeys the orders that are
given her. But I am very sorry that Madame de Sainte-Suzanne does not
act differently. When one has been on very intimate terms with a person,
and when one is aware that that person knows exactly what one's worth
is, one should always be affable with that person; it is not clever to
adopt a different course. Good-evening, mesdames. My dear Thélénie, if I
see young Edmond, I shall not fail to tell him that you are looking for
him, and to describe your costume, so that he may recognize you."

Thélénie turned suddenly, and seizing the gentleman's arm as he was
about to leave the box, said to him, no longer seeking to disguise her
voice:

"Oh! don't do that, Beauregard; I beg you not to do that; for I don't
want Edmond to know that I am here."

"Well, well! so you know me now! Ha! ha! this is amusing; I was
beginning to think I had made a mistake myself."

"Come, Beauregard, don't be so spiteful! don't betray me! What motive
can you have for injuring me? Have I ever done anything to you?"

"You? oh! you certainly have done no more to me than to other men. And
yet--there is a certain matter--But let us not talk of that here; this
place would be ill chosen for a serious conversation. I will see you
again, and then, I hope, you will answer my questions frankly. I will
leave you now, and if I see young Edmond, I will tell him nothing."

"Do you promise?"

"Do you want me to swear?"

"No, that is not necessary."

"You are right; between ourselves, you and I know what to think of
oaths."

And the gentleman, with a very slight inclination of the head, left the
box in which the two dominos were.




II

EDMOND AND FRELUCHON


In a pleasant little bachelor apartment, on the fourth floor, but in a
house occupied by most excellent tenants, on Rue de Provence, a young
man hardly twenty-six years of age was impatiently pacing the floor of a
bedroom which was used also as a salon. He glanced constantly at a small
clock on the mantel, and muttered:

"Almost ten o'clock, and Freluchon doesn't come! Does he expect me to
pass my whole evening waiting for him? Oh! these people who are never on
time ought to be fined! I'll give him five minutes more, and then, if he
hasn't come, so much the worse for him--I shall go! After all, he won't
have any difficulty in finding me."

The young man who said all this to himself was named Edmond Didier. I
have told you his age; I will add that he was a very comely fellow,
well-built, above middle height; that he had blue eyes shaped a little
like those of the Chinese, but with a sweet and tender expression to
which the young man owed many conquests. His nose was well-shaped,
although it was not aquiline--there are some very pretty noses which are
not aquiline; his mouth was intellectual, his teeth suited to the mouth,
his forehead broad and open, his chestnut hair very fine and silky, and
always arranged simply and without that horrible parting which imparts
to the heads of the most dandified men the aspect of those wax models
which you see in hair-dressers' windows.

Young Edmond, as you will see, was a very good-looking fellow,
especially if we add that all these features combined to form a whole in
which there was much character; for you might bring together a pair of
large eyes, a pretty mouth, a Greek nose, and handsome hair, and
therewith form a whole which would have no expression at all. We often
observe this in women, and say as we look at them: "There's a beautiful
statue!"

Do not you consider that that which has animation is to be preferred,
even though it be less beautiful?

Young Edmond, whose parents had retired to the provinces with a moderate
fortune, had received from his uncle some sixty thousand francs, which
he had invested in a business house where he was supposed to work, but
where he did not work, because he had none too much time to amuse
himself, and because he hoped that the thirty-six hundred francs which
he received as interest on his investment would suffice for his
amusements.

Edmond was good-natured and clever; nature had endowed him with a
delightful voice, because of which he was very popular in salons. He
sang ballads with almost as much soul and taste as poor Achard, who sang
so beautifully and who required so little urging; and who died so
prematurely, when he was still in the heyday of his talent, leaving
behind him so much love, so many friendships, and such deep and lasting
regret!

Edmond Didier had a warm heart and rather an unreliable head; he was
easily moved and generous, but forgetful, changeable and careless. He
lost his temper quickly and recovered it as quickly; he was naturally
light-hearted, but had fits of melancholy when he dreamed of a _Sleeping
Beauty in the Wood_, whom he would have liked to awaken.

Every day he resolved to turn his mind to something, to work, to try to
become a capable man, a man qualified to fill an important post or to
manage a business house; but the current of pleasure whirled him along;
he always had some new song which an attractive woman had begged him to
sing at her next reception; and how can one refuse a woman who tells you
that it is her greatest joy to hear you sing? So that he had to study
the song instead of going to the merchant who had his funds, to study
bookkeeping.

Ah! if the ladies knew how seriously they interfere with a young man's
duties! especially with those of a young man who asks nothing better
than to have them interfered with!

Now you know young Edmond Didier, who, after trying to be content with
the income of his sixty thousand francs, had begun to encroach upon his
principal.

At last the bell rang and Edmond hastened to open his door. Another
young man, very short and very slender, with a long, peaked face, a
long, pointed nose, shrewd eyes, something of the marten in his face and
much abandon in his bearing, entered the room, with his hands in his
pockets, crying:

"Sapristi! how cold it is!"

The newcomer's name was Freluchon; he had inherited money from his
mother and from his uncle, and his pockets were always full. He spent it
freely, but he did not throw it out of the window; he devoted much time
to pleasure, but he occasionally took a turn in business or speculated a
little on the Bourse. He was generally very fortunate in what he
undertook, and often succeeded in making more than he spent. He was
three years older than Didier, whose intimate friend he was.

He was a good fellow, that is to say, he was always ready to do what
anyone wanted him to do, so long as it was not a bore to him. Beneath a
frail and sickly appearance, he was blessed with the strength of a
Hercules, and could kill an ox with a blow of his fist. Men of that type
as a general rule never seek a quarrel with anybody.

"Here you are at last!" cried Edmond as his friend entered. "It's very
lucky. I was just going away. You're a full half-hour behindhand."

"First of all, have you a fire? On my word of honor, I am frozen!"

"Oh! we can warm ourselves at the young ladies' room, as they're waiting
for us; it's not worth while to settle down here."

"But I say it is; the order of the day and the line of march are
changed.--Ah! good! there is a fire; with a little blowing and another
stick, it will go all right."

"What is there new? Why aren't we going to Henriette's, where Amélia was
to join us? That was all arranged this morning."

"Yes, but since this morning, many things have happened.--Where in the
devil do you keep your bellows?"

"There, in that corner.--Come, Freluchon, I should be very glad to know
what all this means."

"Just a moment,--when the fire's well kindled; good! now it's blazing
up. A fine invention is fire; it must have been the sun that suggested
the idea. The Peruvians worship the sun, and I believe I am descended
from them. I too worship the sun--especially in winter; in summer I
would gladly do without it."

"When you've finished, perhaps you'll answer me."

"How impatient he is! Let us go softly--_piano_, as the Italians
say.--My dear fellow, this is what has happened: we went much too fast
with those young women--so-called flower-makers! We made love to them,
they listened to us; they are very pretty. Now, that is all very well,
but we undertook to dazzle them by our generosity--there's the foolish
blunder! Not content with treating them to superfine dinners, set off
with iced wines which they poured down like Prussians, we began at once
to give them presents. You gave your Amélia a beautiful opera glass
which you used at the theatre, and I handed over a dainty gold-rimmed
eyeglass which I had lent to Henriette, who assured me that it was
perfectly adapted to her sight. When those damsels saw that they had
only to wish in order to obtain, they said to themselves: 'We must wish
for something else.'--They took us for great nobles or for
gulls--perhaps for both--and determined to hold us to ransom."

"You always think that somebody is trying to cheat you. Why think that
of those young flower-makers, who seem to be fond of work and to lead
orderly lives? I have been to Amélia's only three times, but I have
always found them at work making flowers."

"So have I; but I have noticed that it was always the same flower that
was under way. It seems that it's a difficult one to make!"

"They don't seem to be hard up; they have some very pretty mahogany
furniture, which they pay for by pleasure."

"Yes; as for that, I have never doubted it. Indeed, Henriette told me,
in the beginning of our intimacy, when I complimented her on her
lodgings, that she had paid for it all by her work and by the way she
passed her nights; but as they lie constantly, they forget one day what
they told you the day before. Here's a proof of it--look."

"What is this letter?"

"A billet-doux that I received from Henriette this morning; she doesn't
write badly, I must do her that justice; and not a mistake in spelling!
That's very nice for a flower-maker, but it's all the more dangerous.
Take it and read it."

Edmond took the letter that his friend handed him and read as follows:

     "My dear Freluchon:

     "A terrible catastrophe has befallen me; my furniture, which I
     thought was paid for, is not. The upholsterer is going to compel me
     to leave my apartment instantly, if I do not pay four hundred
     francs on account. Be kind enough to lend me that amount, which I
     will pay you very soon. Otherwise you will not find me at my rooms,
     as I shall be turned out, and I have no idea where Amélia and I
     will go. You may hand the money to the woman who brings this
     letter; but be sure to seal it.

     "Your loving and faithful friend,

     "HENRIETTE."

"Well! what do you say to that?"

"Why! I say--but what reply did you make? did you send the money?"

"I'm not so foolish, I tell you! In the first place, this letter is
altogether too much! What does she mean by 'her furniture, that she
thought was paid for, but is not?' And this upholsterer who will have
her turned out of her apartments if she doesn't pay him? An upholsterer
may take back his furniture, but he doesn't turn you into the street by
that. The trick was too plain; and in order to write such stuff to a
man, one must take him for a goose. As I don't care to be likened to
that bird, I instantly informed the messenger that I was terribly
distressed, that I was in despair, but that I was unable to hand her
anything for Mademoiselle Henriette, and she went away with that
answer.--_Bigre_! four hundred francs at one slap, for a
flower-maker--that's too magnificent! You aim too high, my love!"

"Well! what next?"

"Why, there is no next."

"Didn't Henriette send to you again?"

"Not at all! she made the best of it, like a brave heart. She said to
herself: 'There's a young buck who isn't such an ass as I thought.'--And
I am sure that I have gained greatly in her esteem; that pleases me."

"I can see nothing in all this to interfere with our going now to call
for the young ladies and taking them to the Opéra ball, as we agreed."

"Ah! you can't, eh? Well, when I went out for a stroll before dinner, I
thought I would find out if the catastrophe had had any results, and I
walked as far as Rue de Saintonge, where our turtle-doves had their
perch. I asked the concierge: 'Is Mademoiselle Henriette in?'--Thereupon
that counterfeit Swiss looked at me with rather a bantering expression,
and replied:

"'No, monsieur, those young women have gone away.'

"'Will they return soon?'

"'Return! oh! I fancy they won't return here; they carried off their
belongings very cunningly in little bundles, and then they skipped. The
landlord came and made a row with me about it, and said that I didn't
ought to let anything go out of the house. But what can you expect? the
women nowadays wear skirts puffed out like balloons, so, you see, those
girls could have stuffed their whole wardrobe underneath. Ah! those
skirts are very deceitful; they'll be the cause of many _poufs_.'[C]

"'But,' I said to the man, 'what is the landlord afraid of? Those young
women had some very nice furniture, and I don't suppose they put their
mattresses and their wardrobes with glass doors under their skirts, did
they? And this isn't a furnished lodging-house; they had their own
furniture, didn't they?'

"'That is to say, they had their own furniture to pay for; the
upholsterer wanted to carry it away this morning; but not much--the
landlord must be paid first and they owed him for three quarters. For
all that, it's mighty unpleasant; it always ends in a row! When the
upholsterer found that he couldn't carry away his furniture, he was
crazy. "You ought not to have let those women go!" he said; "I'd have
had them put in prison." And so on and so forth. Have I any right to
keep tenants from going out, I'd like to know?'

"'No, certainly you haven't any such right; a concierge's authority
doesn't go so far as that; perhaps it may come, though, I shouldn't be
surprised! They do some pretty rough things already, but they haven't
got to the point of imprisoning tenants.'

"'Never mind; when we let rooms to two girls together again, it will be
hotter than it is now!'

"'Do you think there's less danger when they are alone?'

"'Certainly, one can keep a closer watch on them then; but when there's
two of 'em, why, they do nothing else besides going back and forth
before one's eyes, and it's impossible to know who goes in and out--so
one gets totally bewildered.'

"That, my dear fellow, is the conversation I had with the concierge of
those damsels, who strike me as being decidedly a bad lot. You see that
it's no use for us to go to their last lodgings to look for them."

"I see that the letter wasn't so far from the truth, when it said that
they would be turned out if they did not pay."

"They succeeded in escaping unaided. I asked how much the upholsterer
claimed: it was eight or nine hundred francs, I believe; but if I had
turned in four hundred francs, do you imagine for a moment that they
would have given it to their creditor? Ah! how little you know of that
breed! They would have vanished with my money, that's all!"

"Do you think so?"

"In other words, I am sure of it. 'Brought up in the harem, I know all
its devious ways.' These girls pass their lives making _poufs_; then
they make a trip to England, to try to make the conquest of some _lord_;
and when they don't succeed in that, they are obliged to sell
everything, even to their chemises, to pay for their return trip to
Paris. I tell you that I know the whole business, step by step."

"It's a pity! I regret Amélia, for she was very pretty!"

"There are others! Paris swarms with pretty women. Henriette was very
attractive, too; pink and white, Watteau style."

"I am terribly annoyed."

"But you're not unprovided for; you must fall back on your beautiful
brunette, whom I christened the Andalusian--your Madame de
Sainte-Suzanne, a woman almost comme il faut; at all events, she is
pleased now to affect the manners of one."

"I told you that I had broken with that lady; she insisted on having me
always at her side, and questioned me about every step I took; I had to
render her an account of my most trivial acts, and it was downright
slavery! A little more and she would have confined me to my room. You
can understand that that sort of thing didn't suit me!"

"Bless me! not unless you're an absolute idiot. Still, there are men
stupid enough to allow their mistresses to lead them by the nose.
There's Dutaillis, for example; he can't take a step for fear of a row!
When he goes out, it's: 'Where are you going?' When he comes in: 'Where
have you been? what makes you so red? why are you so pale? why is your
collar so rumpled? where did you pick up all that mud?'--There's no end
to it. And the jackass takes a world of pains to prove that he's no
redder than usual, and that his collar rumpled of itself because it
wasn't well starched! And the prettiest part of it all is that he'll end
by marrying his Virginette! What a grovelling future I foresee for the
poor wretch!--Your chimney is in bad order, it doesn't draw."

"I don't know whether Madame de Sainte-Suzanne flattered herself that I
would marry her; I don't think she went so far as that; but she was
atrociously jealous."

"Did she carry a dagger in her garter?"

"No, but she had several in her room, and very beautiful ones, encrusted
with jewels."

"They were gifts."

"However, I must do her justice: people told me she was a very covetous
woman and had ruined several of her adorers; but when I attempted to
give her rather a handsome present, she refused it; she would accept, or
rather take, nothing from me except a big lock of hair."

"The devil! that's much more dangerous; she'll probably make some kind
of a spell with your hair, some charm that will force you to love her.
For my part, I never give away any hair; I sell it, especially as I
shall be bald very early in life. Ah! then I'll make them pay dear for
it."

"Thélénie has beautiful black hair, very long and thick."

"Ah! that makes a lovely ornament for a woman! When I have a mistress
with handsome hair, I lose no time in removing her comb and arranging
her hair like a Bacchante's. But you must be careful; several times,
when I have supposed that I was dealing with real hair, upon removing
the comb suddenly--without asking permission--I have seen the whole
business fall: bands, curls and chignon! And then they flew into a rage
with me.--I am more prudent now and always ask if I may touch."

"Thélénie has jet-black eyes, too; you rarely see eyes of such a pure
black."

"Why, it seems to me you're still in love with her!"

"Oh, no! not at all. I made her acquaintance, as one makes many
acquaintances, by chance. She is a beautiful woman, always dressed with
no less taste than style. Such a conquest is always flattering to a
young man; but I soon saw that there was not the slightest sympathy
between that woman's temperament and mine; she is imperious and
exacting, and, as I said, very jealous."

"And you have broken with her?"

"I haven't set foot inside her door for a week."

"That's not very long. Hasn't she written to you?"

"Indeed she has, letter after letter; but I don't answer them."

"Very good! but take my advice and wear a coat of mail when you are out
late at night."

"Bah! what nonsense! Tell me, what motive for revenge can that woman
have? I didn't take her away from anybody else, I made her no promise of
marriage; I never swore that I would pass my life at her feet."

"It would have made your knees ache."

"I am sure that it's simply her self-esteem that makes her anxious to
renew our intimacy; she is vexed because I was unfaithful first."

"She isn't used to that."

"Never mind--I regret Amélia; I have only known her a week."

"And you haven't had time to tire of her yet, eh? Well, console
yourself; I'll bet you something that we shall find those two young
women at the Opéra ball."

"You think so? It isn't probable, they've no money."

"A grisette may have no money to pay her rent, but she always has enough
to go to the ball. I thought that you were farther advanced in such
matters, Edmond; you still have much to learn, my son."

"Very well! if they're at the ball, so much the better; no matter how
much they may be disguised, I am very sure that I can recognize Amélia;
she has a funny little accent that she can't lay aside."

"And what about me! how shall I recognize Henriette? She has a very
distinct mark, a raspberry; to be sure, I doubt if she'll let me look at
the place where it is, in the ball-room."

"Let us start; we'll go into the Café du Passage for a little while."

"One moment! Chamoureau is coming. We can't go without him."

"What's that! Chamoureau coming? What on earth induced you to ask that
donkey? If he were amusing, or unpretentious, I wouldn't say a word; a
man may be stupid and a good fellow; but he isn't that sort. And then,
since he lost his wife, he pulls out his handkerchief as soon as she's
mentioned! He is forever lamenting and weeping for his Eléonore!--Great
God! let him weep for his wife, let him regret her--I wouldn't prevent
him; but I have no inclination to share his grief. That you should sigh
with him--that's all right, I can understand that; for his wife was very
nice. You were always at their house; you took madame to the theatre and
to drive."

"It was Chamoureau's wish."

"And that suited you very well. I am not blaming anybody. Indeed,
Chamoureau has the head of a fellow to whom that sort of thing is sure
to happen. But frankly, why do you want him to come and groan in our
ears? Surely he won't go to the masquerade with us."

"You think so, my dear fellow, but you don't know Chamoureau at all; he
is infinitely more amusing than you think. He's a man to be studied; I
propose this evening to put you in a position to judge him. But hush! I
hear someone blowing his nose on the stairs; it must be he."




III

A WIDOWER


The doorknob did, in fact, turn at that moment, and the person of whom
they were speaking entered Edmond's room.

Monsieur Chamoureau was a man of about thirty-five years of age, who
appeared fully forty; not that his face was lined or his features
altered; on the contrary, his ears were red and his complexion ruddy.
But he was already blessed with a protruding paunch and had only a bunch
of light hair on the top of his head, quite separate from that which
still adorned his ears and the base of his skull. The good man's
features were not repellent: his eyes were of the blue seen in faïence;
his nose, which was a little too long, was very straight; his mouth was
small and delicate, his teeth were very handsome, his chin was
well-rounded and embellished by a little dimple that would have made a
chubby-cheeked angel envious, and his light whiskers were very unkempt.
He was of medium height, but not well-built; his calves were conspicuous
by their absence, and his knees often met when he walked. All this,
however, did not prevent Monsieur Chamoureau from considering himself a
very handsome man.

"Well! here's Chamoureau at last!" said Freluchon, offering the newcomer
his hand. "I knew he would come, for he promised."

"Good-evening, messieurs. Monsieur Edmond, it is very presumptuous of me
to come to your apartment like this, but Monsieur Freluchon asked me to;
I don't quite know why, for you two are going to enjoy yourselves, you
think of nothing but ending your Carnival in good style, while I--Ah!
God!----"

Here Monsieur Chamoureau drew his handkerchief and blew his nose at
great length.

"You did very well to come, Monsieur Chamoureau. Come to the fire and
warm yourself."

"Sapristi! how fine you are, Chamoureau! You have a brand-new coat, I do
believe, and trousers too, eh?"

"Yes; one must dress decently."

"We think of amusing ourselves, Monsieur Chamoureau, that is true; but
it's not a crime. And you yourself, if you could divert your thoughts in
our company, where would be the harm?"

"I, divert my thoughts! Ah! Monsieur Edmond, when a man has met with
such a loss as mine, there is no possible distraction. It is all over; I
must bid pleasure adieu forever."

"Forever! that's a terribly long time. It's two months already since you
lost your wife."

"Two months and four days, monsieur; and it seems to me as if it were
yesterday. Ask Freluchon if I didn't tell him so when I dined with him
to-day."

"You did; you said it while we were eating that lobster with Marengo
sauce, that was so good."

"A little too much garlic, my friend, a little too much garlic; it was
pretty well seasoned, but you can get it even better at Javault's on Rue
de Rivoli, opposite the Hôtel de Ville."

"You think that it's better there?"

"Oh! I am sure of it, my dear fellow! that's an excellent restaurant.
And when you happen to want a truffled snipe _à la provençale_, just
order it in the morning when you go out to walk; it will be all ready
for you at six o'clock, and you can tell me what you think of it."

"You seem to know the good places, Monsieur Chamoureau."

"What would you have? my knowledge goes back to the time of my marriage;
Eléonore liked good things to eat and we often dined at
restaurants--with Freluchon. He always went with us; my wife liked to
have him because he knew all about wines and I knew very little. My wife
would say: 'If Freluchon doesn't come with us, we shall have some
wretched madeira.'--But he never refused to come, the dear fellow."

"It was a pleasure to me."

"To be sure, where my wife was, one could never be bored; she had so
much wit!"

"Ah! she was agreeable, was she?"

"Agreeable! Eléonore! Why, monsieur, she was a very superior woman--a
regular bluestocking! She could have written her own memoirs if she had
wanted to; but she wouldn't do it, she was too bright for that. She
just sparkled with fun, with imagination. I shall never find another
woman like her, never! never! What a loss I have sustained! I can never
be consoled; when I lost her, I lost all!"

Monsieur Chamoureau drew his handkerchief again and began to weep.

"Come, come, Monsieur Chamoureau," said Edmond, "you must be
reasonable!"

"It's too much for me, my dear friend. I feel that I am no longer of any
account on earth, bereft of my Eléonore!"

Freluchon seized the tongs and began to stir the fire, saying:

"Chamoureau, do you remember the trick she played on an old lady one
day?"

"Ah, yes! at Saint-Cloud!"

"At Saint-Cloud, just so; it was at a restaurant, one very hot day in
summer."

"Yes, yes; there was only one small salon with two tables vacant."

"That's right. Eléonore--I mean your wife----"

"Mon Dieu! that makes no difference, it wasn't worth while to correct
yourself. You were intimate enough with us to call her Eléonore.--Go
on."

"When we entered the small salon, your wife noticed the grimace and the
disdainful expression which our appearance called forth from an old lady
covered with jewels and laces, who occupied the other table."

"Yes, yes, she noticed everything, Eléonore did! What an eye!--Go on."

"Your wife asked the waiter in an undertone who that person was who put
on so many airs, and the waiter replied:

"'She's a very rich lady, who has a carriage below. Sometimes she comes
here to dine all alone, and she usually has a private room; but as they
were all taken to-day, they put her in here, where she wanted to be
alone just the same. She's very angry because we put somebody in with
her; although we assured her that they were very nice people. She said
to me: "Serve them as quickly as you can, so that they won't stay
long."--But you mustn't disturb yourselves; stay as long as you choose.'

"'Never you fear,' said Eléonore--your wife; 'I'll wager that we will
stay longer than she will. Oho! indeed! so we offend that lady, do we?
that's a great pity! In that case, I propose to make myself at home.'

"With that, she took off her hat and shawl, and, at a sign from her, we
removed our coats. The old lady muttered between her teeth. After the
soup, Eléonore said to us: 'You are still too warm; pray take off your
waistcoats and cravats; we don't come into the country to be
uncomfortable.'"

"Yes, yes, I remember; we took off all those things. The old woman with
the jewels rapped angrily on the table with her fork. Ah! how amusing it
was!"

"Finally, at a sign from your wife, I put my hand to my belt, saying:
'Faith, my trousers are too tight! With your permission?'

"At that the old woman jumped from her chair as if she were moved by a
spring, upsetting her plate and glass and smashing everything on the
table, and rushed from the room, crying: 'What an outrage! they're going
to make savages of themselves! It is shocking! it is frightful!'"

"And meanwhile, we three--Ha! ha! ha! we nearly died laughing."

"Your wife was almost helpless!"

"With good reason. When I think of it--Ha! ha! what a joke! Ha! ha! ha!
I can still see that old woman when she thought Freluchon was going to
appear in his shirt! Ha! ha! ha!"

When he saw Chamoureau laughing with all his might, Edmond began to
believe that the widower's grief was less incurable than he had hitherto
supposed.

But Eléonore's husband soon ceased to laugh and began to sigh once more,
saying:

"You can understand, Monsieur Edmond, that one couldn't be bored in the
company of so clever a woman."

"Yes, I can understand it."

"The fact is, that with her there was a constant fire of bons mots,
sallies and repartees, eh, Freluchon?"

"That's so; in conversation she had the knack of forcing one to be
agreeable; she imparted her own wit to others."

"Exactly! So that now there's a void in my life, which I shall never
succeed in filling, alas!"

"I beg your pardon, but with time, the greatest griefs are allayed."

"Time won't have any effect on mine. Oh, no! I can feel it in the depths
of my soul. Dear Eléonore! O God! O God! hi! hi! hi!"

And Monsieur Chamoureau produced his handkerchief again and put it to
his eyes.

"Your wife had many agreeable social accomplishments, also," said
Freluchon.

"I should say so! she had them all!"

"She sang very well."

"That is to say, she had a ravishing voice, a voice which would not have
been out of place at the Opéra-Comique."

"There was one song in particular that she used to sing so sweetly. It
was----"

"Oh! I know what you mean! it was the song from La Fanchonnette."

And Monsieur Chamoureau began to sing:

    "La! la! la Fanchonnette
     Vous chantera landerirette;
     La! la! la Fanchonnette
     Vous chantera landerira!
     Ah! ah! ah! ah!"

"Oh! she used to sing that roulade differently from that," said
Freluchon; "she marked her notes. Listen! like this:

    "Ah!--ah!--éh!--éh!
     Oh!--oh! oh!--éh! éh!--ah! ah!"

"That's so. But that last roulade--Listen! I will sing it as she did:

    "Oh!------ oh!--"

"Exactly! it was just like that."

"And then her air from _Les Fraises_--how she could sing that! Listen,
Freluchon:

    "Ah! qu'il fait donc bon,
     Qu'il fait donc bon
     Cueillir la fraise
     Au bois de Bagneux,
     Quand on est deux,
     Quand on est deux!"

"Excellent! I imagine I am listening to your wife!"

Chamoureau continued:

    "Mais quand on est trois,
     Quand on est trois,
     Mamzelle Thérèse!
     C'est bien ennuyeux,
     On est bien mieux
     Quand on est deux!"

"Perhaps I haven't the words just right, but I'll swear to the tune."

    "Ah! qu'il fait donc bon,
     Qu'il fait donc bon
     Cueillir la fraise--"

"Yes, yes, we know that," said Edmond, who was beginning to have enough
of Chamoureau's singing; but he immediately resumed:

"And the air from _Galathée_, which Madame Ugalde sang so
beautifully--how well Eléonore sang it!

    "Déjà dans la coupe profonde
     Tout s'éclaire d'un nouveau jour
     J'y vois les caprices du monde--"

"Sapristi! is he never going to stop singing?" said Edmond in an
undertone to his friend, who had turned his head away to laugh. "For
heaven's sake, make him keep quiet a moment!"

"Ah! that will be hard, my boy. When a man who has lost his wife begins
to sing, there's no reason why he should stop--I say, Chamoureau, we
know that tune, too!"

But Chamoureau did not hear; he was shouting at the top of his voice:

    "Verse encore!
     Verse encore!"

The two young men were compelled to listen to the whole of the
selection, to which Monsieur Chamoureau added some impossible roulades.
When he finally ceased, Freluchon said to him:

"Do you know, Chamoureau, you have a most surprising voice for a
widower!"

"Oh! I sang much better when my wife was alive. We often sang duets
together; there was one she was especially fond of."

"Great heaven!" muttered Edmond, "does he propose now to sing duets all
by himself?" And to change the subject, he said: "Monsieur Chamoureau,
have you been to any of the balls during this Carnival?"

"To balls! I!" exclaimed the widower, resuming his grief-stricken
expression. "Oh! my dear friend, you forget my sad plight, my
misfortune! Is it possible for me to think of amusing myself when my
heart is still full of my grief? when my eyes are always looking for
Eléonore--for I do look for her all the time, and there are moments when
I forget that I have lost her; then, when I hear a woman cry, or speak
rather loud--Eléonore always spoke loud--I turn round, thinking that
it's she; and then I realize that it was only a delusion and I have to
go back to the ghastly reality!--Ah! then, you see, I fall into such
utter prostration--the suffering is terrible! You do not suspect how I
suffer!"

Chamoureau took out his handkerchief and put it to his eyes.

"Yes, yes," said Edmond, "I see that you are quite inconsolable."

"Yes, monsieur, inconsolable is just the word; you could not express it
better!--O Eléonore! you may flatter yourself that you were dearly
loved--may she not, Freluchon?"

"Parbleu! of whom do you ask the question?"

"Ah! I do you justice, my dear friend; you regret her almost as keenly
as I do! But we will weep for her together--that affords some relief."

"I say, Chamoureau, how lovely your wife was at a ball! How well she
danced!"

"Why, my dear fellow, she was Terpsichore in person! she was so
light----"

"Yes, your wife was extremely light."[D]

"And so graceful! She didn't dance like other people; she had her own
peculiar way of dancing; many women tried to imitate her and failed."

"That is so; she had a way of doing the _avant deux_. I don't know what
the steps were, but it was fascinating."

"I know, I remember perfectly; look, Freluchon, I'll show you."

And Monsieur Chamoureau rose, assumed the third position, hummed a dance
tune and began to take steps and go through evolutions, saying:

"Wasn't it like this, eh? How's this for her little swagger, her
free-and-easy way?"

"Yes, yes, that's it."

"And the _poule_--I'll just show you. Come and be my vis-à-vis,
Freluchon--I can do it better. Forward, give the right hand. Tra la la
la--tra la la la--la la la. Cross over! balancez! salute your
partners!--Monsieur Edmond, come, be the lady--in the pastourelle
figure.--Tra la la--tra la la."

But Edmond was unable to comply; he was laughing too heartily at
Chamoureau's dancing.

The latter stopped at last, after a pirouette which he came very near
ending on his nose, and, seeing that Edmond was roaring with laughter,
he said:

"What on earth makes you laugh like that? Do you think I dance badly?"

"No, no! on the contrary, you leap like a chamois! But it occurred to me
as I watched you going through your steps, that you might imitate your
wife much better by going to the Opéra ball with us."

"Oh! upon my word!--you surely don't mean it, Monsieur Edmond! I, go to
the Opéra ball--with the burden of grief that I have on my heart!"

"Why, that is an additional reason: it will dissipate your grief."

"Oh! never! on the contrary, nothing can dissipate it, and----"

Freluchon planted himself in front of Chamoureau and said, assuming a
very solemn expression:

"Look you, my dear fellow, do you expect to fool us much longer with
your inconsolable grief?"

The widower stood thunderstruck and stammered:

"What's that! fool you! What does this mean? For what reason do you ask
me that, Freluchon?"

"For the reason that, when a man really has a great sorrow in his heart,
he doesn't laugh and sing and dance as you have just been doing; nor
does he know where one should go to eat snipe _à la provençale_."

"All that was in memory of Eléonore, and----"

"You regret your wife, I don't doubt that, and she was well worth the
trouble. But I tell you again that you ask nothing better now than to be
consoled, and above all to make new conquests."

"Little devil of a Freluchon! What an astonishing creature!--Do you
really think that I might make conquests?"

"I will go so far as to promise you some to-night, if you come to the
Opéra with us."

"To the Opéra ball with you, my boys! Far be it from me to say that it
would be distasteful to me, because, after all, one might as well listen
to reason; a man always ends by being consoled, a little sooner or
later; but the world is what I dread! What will the world say if I am
seen at the masquerade, so short a time after--my calamity? The world is
so unkind!"

"Parbleu! if you're afraid to be seen at the ball, there's one very
simple means of avoiding it--disguise yourself."

"True, that is an idea. But men don't wear masks, I believe."

"No, but with a fancy costume, a wig, a little rouge and a false nose,
I'll undertake to make you unrecognizable."

"Oh! if you'll answer for that, it's all right, I'll run the risk and go
with you. By the way, do you disguise yourselves?"

"Oh, no! it isn't worth while; we are not afraid to be recognized!"

"And where shall I find a costume?"

"I know a costumer where you will find a lot to choose from."

"You see, Freluchon, from the moment that I make up my mind to disguise
myself, I insist upon being well costumed; I want something that will
favor me, something--er--original."

"Let us go softly, Chamoureau, softly! Just now, you were afraid of
being recognized, and now you want to attract attention!"

"One may attract attention without being recognized. Suppose I should
dress as a woman?"

"The devil fly away with you! As a woman? Why, a man can't make
conquests in a woman's clothes; the fair sex dislikes us when we assume
its skirts, and it is quite right; when a man rigs himself up in that
way he is good for nothing but to arouse laughter or contempt."

"Yes, that's true; I won't dress as a woman; but how shall I dress,
then?"

"You can decide at the costumer's and dress there; it's within a few
steps of the Opéra."

"All right. But my clothes?"

"The costumer will send them to your concierge."

"Deuce take it! no; I can't have that; I have no desire to go home in a
Carnival costume, so that every one may know that I've been to the ball
in disguise. A business agent--and sometimes clients call very early in
the morning!--A Carnival costume would not inspire confidence."

"Well then, as I live very near the costumer's, let him send your
clothes to my apartment; then you can go there and put them on when you
please."

"Bravo! in that way, all the proprieties will be observed!"

"Come, messieurs, I trust that we may start now. It is nearly twelve
o'clock, and before Chamoureau is dressed----"

"Yes, yes! let us start. Forward, and _vive la gaieté_!"

"Faith, yes! one must divert one's thoughts; it's an excellent thing."

And the widower went dancing after the two young men.




IV

SCENES AT THE MASQUERADE


A few moments after the tall gentleman named Beauregard had left the box
where the pearl-gray domino and her friend were seated, a Spaniard
entered the ball-room, arm-in-arm with a short young man with a long,
thin nose. The reader will at once recognize Chamoureau and Freluchon.
The widower wore a costume resplendent with spangles and gold braid. His
cherry-colored doublet was heavily trimmed with very rich embroidery,
his white satin shortclothes, slashed with red, were decorated with
spangles and bows; a gold-fringed sash confined his waist; the flaps of
his huge yellow top-boots fell a little too near his ankles, his leg
being too deficient in calf to hold them in place. A large ruff about
his neck did duty as a cravat; over his shoulder was thrown a small
light-blue cloak, lined with white satin; and lastly, he wore on his
head a little velvet cap, also blue, covered with false jewels, and
surmounted by two enormous white plumes which drooped over the
cavalier's left shoulder. To complete his disguise, Chamoureau had
donned a brown wig with long curls falling over his neck. He had covered
his face with rouge, and, in addition, he wore a false nose to which a
pair of moustaches was attached, reaching from ear to ear.

All this formed such a unique whole that everyone in the room turned or
stopped short, in order to have a longer look at the Spaniard; and
Chamoureau, overjoyed by the effect he produced, and convinced that
everybody considered him magnificent, said in Freluchon's ear:

"How they stare at me! eh? I am very glad I chose this costume. I must
be superb; I read admiration in every eye! Say, Freluchon, am I not
superb?"

"It is a fact that you are well worth looking at; if you should make
them pay ten sous each, it would be none too much."

"Oh! you are always joking! But I don't see so rich a costume as mine in
the whole place; I am covered with spangles."

"It's enough to make one's eyes ache to look at you; you produce the
same effect as the sun!"

"Do my plumes float gracefully?"

"Like a swan on a lake."

"Is my cap well placed?"

"Like a vane on a steeple."

"There's nothing wrong but these infernal boots, which keep falling;
they are too big."

"It may be that your legs are too much like spindles."

"What a pity to be obliged to wear a false nose with all this!"

"Why is it a pity?"

"Dear me! it's easy to see that. As I am the possessor of rather an
attractive face, if I hadn't this false nose, I should be even more
fascinating in this costume, and I am sure that I should make conquests
in swarms."

"By Jove! that's true; I entirely forgot that you were a handsome man!"

"Still, my wife used to repeat it often enough: 'Ah! how handsome he is,
my Chamoureau!'"

"Yes, to the tune of the _Postilion de Longjumeau_.--But after all, you
know, you're under no compulsion to keep your false nose on, if you want
to take it off."

"Oh, no! the deuce! someone might recognize me then, and I should be
compromised!"

"Try to make a conquest with your nose."

"That's quite possible--Damn these boots!"

And Chamoureau halted to raise the flaps.

"So you are inclined to make a little acquaintance, my inconsolable
widower?" asked Edmond, who was walking beside Freluchon and had
overheard the Spaniard's last words.

"Oh! my dear Monsieur Edmond," he replied, after adjusting his boots,
"you will understand that my heart, my poor heart, will have no part in
it! Henceforth nothing will ever touch that; it is dead to love.
Eléonore has carried with her all the sentiment it could possibly
contain--dear Eléonore!"

"Are you going to shed tears, Chamoureau? they will spoil your rouge."

"No, no, I said that just as I would have said anything else."

At that moment a man dressed as a Swiss woman, with long locks hanging
down his back and a number of little brooms in his hand, halted in front
of Chamoureau, crying:

"Ah! my hearties! what do I see? A sunbeam disguised as a Spaniard! How
brilliant it is! how it gleams! Are you just from Peru, my ducky? It is
at the very least _Le Cidre_ or Gusman with a sheep's foot, who knows no
obstacle! Isn't he fine, the _coco_! But while you had the cash,
Gringalet, you should have bought some calves, for you lack 'em
altogether! and your parapetted boots will fall on the floor!"

The crowd had stopped and formed a circle to listen to the Swiss woman
who had attacked the Spaniard.

Chamoureau, being rather disconcerted, began by making sure that his
false nose was secure, then muttered:

"If I have no calves, it's fair to presume that I don't care for them."

"How now! is that all you've got to say for yourself, you poor thing?
Did you spend all your wit to buy your costume? What a simple air the
great clown has! He must be some keeper of turkeys who's been
dismissed, and is entirely out of his element when he's no longer
surrounded by his flock."

Chamoureau, sorely vexed to be called a keeper of turkeys, retorted
sourly:

"Since when have the Swiss been fishwomen, and presumed to insult people
like this?"

"Bravo, Chamoureau!" said Freluchon, "that's not bad; go on; drive the
nail home!"

"Since they have sold little brooms for flies. Ah! so you're getting
angry, Rodrique!--Come, Rodrique, have you any pluck? We'll fight a
duel, I with my broom and you with your nose; is it a bargain? You'll
have the advantage, as your nose is longer than my broom."

The roars of laughter from the crowd increased Chamoureau's vexation; he
hastily dropped Freluchon's arm, for he was laughing louder than the
rest, and gliding into a throng of masks, tried to overtake Edmond, who
was hurrying after a little _débardeur_ in whom he fancied that he
recognized his grisette Amélia. As he was not at all desirous to have
Chamoureau always hanging on his arm, he said to him:

"Why did you leave Freluchon?"

"Because he laughed like a fool at the absurd nonsense that a man
dressed as a Swiss woman has been spouting at me for the last few
minutes; he is a low creature and said the coarsest things to me. The
blood was beginning to go to my head, and I left the place, because I
might have allowed my anger to carry me beyond bounds."

"For heaven's sake, my dear Monsieur Chamoureau, do you think it
necessary to take offence at all the nonsense maskers say to you? If you
do, you ought not to come to the ball, and above all things you
shouldn't disguise yourself."

"That's so, of course; you are quite right. I was wrong to attach any
importance to that foolish talk, it's a Carnival scene and nothing more.
Still, I have an idea that Freluchon knew that Swiss woman.--My nose
makes me terribly warm, especially because of the moustaches."

"Take them off."

"No, I'm afraid of being recognized.--Drat these boots!--there are some
very pretty women here--they're too large, they'll fall down over my
heels, and I shall end by walking on them."

"Take them off."

"What's that? you want me to take off my boots, and walk about in my
stockings?"

"Why, yes, rather than be discommoded."

"I am not discommoded, for I dance in them."

"What are you complaining about, then?"

"My dear Monsieur Edmond, it seems to me that you don't listen very
closely to what I say; you're not interested in our conversation; are
you looking for someone here?"

"Parbleu! at a masked ball one should always be looking for someone."

"Ah! indeed! well, that is an idea; but who in the devil is there for me
to look for?"

"I thought that I recognized Amélia in a pretty little _débardeur_ who
ran away from me. Yes, it must have been she."

"Who's Amélia?"

"A very pretty flower-maker; an animated, saucy face, eyes full of fire,
a charming figure, and nineteen years at most."

"Fichtre! how exactly that would meet my views--longing to love, as I
do; for at my age, you understand, it makes no difference how much a man
may suffer from grief and regret, nature, powerful, fruitful nature
always cries out within us and makes us understand that we are not on
earth to give all our thoughts to the dead.--Ah! there goes a domino who
looked into the very whites of my eyes. What a look! there were a great
many things in that look.--We were saying that your Amélia is very
attractive, and only nineteen; is she free?"

"Yes, since she left me."

"How long since you parted?"

"This morning."

"That's not long; so it's to be hoped that she hasn't replaced you yet."

"I wouldn't swear to it."

"If she is still free, and we find her, will you permit me to apply for
the vacancy?"

"I permit you to do whatever you choose, absolutely."

"Ah! you're very good, on my word! you're not like Freluchon, who will
never turn his ex-mistresses over to me; and yet it seems to me that he
owes me that much.--A little _débardeur_, you say? what color? what
sort of head-dress?"

Edmond, who was tired of Chamoureau's company and had been trying for
several minutes to devise some way of getting rid of him, suddenly
exclaimed:

"Did you hear that pink domino who just passed us?"

"No; what did she say?"

"She said to the shepherdess on her arm: 'That Spaniard yonder has
turned my head. I tell you, my dear, I'd like to catch him!'"

"Really! you heard that?"

"And the shepherdess replied: 'Very well! speak to him, puzzle him.'

"'Oh! I don't dare, my dear.'"

"She said she didn't dare, eh? Well, I will dare. Where is this pink
domino?"

"Look--over yonder, near the Polichinelle. Go quickly, or you'll lose
her."

Chamoureau voluntarily dropped Edmond's arm, to run after the person in
a pink domino whom he had pointed out.

Having thus rid himself of the widower, young Edmond thought of nothing
but finding his last mistress, with whom he was still in love, probably
because she had ceased to run after him. Only that morning he had seen
Amélia, and they had been on the best possible terms; so that if she
avoided him now, it could only be because Freluchon had refused her
friend Henriette the money she asked him to lend her.

Why should she espouse Henriette's quarrel? Still, as she lived with her
friend, when the latter was obliged to quit her domicile, Mademoiselle
Amélia also was turned into the street.

Edmond said all this to himself as he glided through the crowd, running
after every woman he saw in a _débardeur's_ costume. He caught one by
the arm, but saw that she was not the person he sought, just as she said
to him:

"If you'll treat me to supper, I'll stay with you--if not--no, thanks!"

"I would gladly invite you to supper, if I were not looking for someone,
whom I took you for at first; but as I hope to find her, I shall sup
with her."

"Bah! let her go! She'll sup with three other men perhaps; don't run
after her. You're good-looking, I like you; come, dance with me."

"I am sorry to refuse you, but I don't want to dance now; later, I don't
say that----"

"Oh, yes! with the other; good-night, little donkey!"

The little _débardeur_ ran away from Edmond, to join the dance; and
almost at the same moment the young man's arm was taken by a little blue
domino, who said to him:

"She's not the one you are looking for; whom are you looking for, Edmond
Didier?"

"Ah! you know me, do you?"

"Yes, I know you very well; also your friend Freluchon with whom you
came to the ball. But I don't know the tall greenhorn disguised as a
Spaniard, who came with you two, and who was on your arm just now. Mon
Dieu! what a stupid-looking creature! and how wretchedly he carries his
costume! Such a figure too! Who on earth is that scarecrow?"

"Do you know that you are very inquisitive? you ask such a lot of
questions one on top of another!"

"It's because I like to know about things. Won't you answer me?"

"Oh, yes: the Spaniard is a friend of Freluchon, very well-to-do, a
business agent, who has just lost his wife and is now trying to find a
place for his heart."

"For life?"

"Oh, no! just for a term of years. If you desire to form an agreeable
connection, I commend him to you."

"Thanks; he's too clumsy; he does nothing but pull up his boot-flaps,
and I am tempted to offer him a pair of garters to keep them in place."

"You would do him a great service."

"Is he better looking without his nose?"

"He's not at all bad-looking."

"What is the idiot's name?"

"It is perfectly evident that you aspire to make a victim of him."

"Oh, no! you are mistaken; but perhaps I might like to have a little fun
with him. What's his name?"

"What I am going to do is rather indiscreet perhaps, but as he will be
delighted to be mystified, I will tell you his name: Chamoureau."

"Cha----"

"Moureau."

"Oh! how well the name suits the man! Chalumeau would be even better,
for he looks like a stick; but never mind, Chamoureau is not bad. Ha!
ha!"

"And now tell me how you happen to know me?"

"Well; try to guess."

"Faith! I confess that I haven't the faintest idea."

"You have answered only one of my questions. Won't you tell me now what
woman you are looking for?"

"Oh, no; such things aren't to be mentioned! As to the Spaniard's name,
that's all right! but I won't tell you the name of the person I would
like to meet; guess it, if you can."

"It should be the fair Thélénie--Madame de Sainte-Suzanne, if you
prefer."

"Ah! you also know----"

"That you have been her lover. Who doesn't know that? But are you so no
longer? have you ceased to love her?"

"You are becoming too inquisitive again; I shall not answer that."

"You are unfaithful to her, I see; who in the world has succeeded in
captivating you? Come, my little Edmond, take me for your confidante;
that's a very modest rôle for me to assume."

At that moment Freluchon rushed up to them, seized Edmond's arm and led
him away, saying:

"They're right over there, both of them--dancing. I recognized their
Andalusian steps. Henriette is dressed as a Folly; come at once; they
don't propose to be recognized, but we'll bring them to it."

Edmond instantly threw off the little blue domino's arm and hurried away
with Freluchon.

Two women, each wearing a small mask of velvet, without a barb, and
dressed, one as a sort of _débardeur_, that is to say, in a high shirt,
velvet trousers with broad satin bands, a fringed sash and a round hat
covered with flowers; the other as Folly, with a fool's bauble in her
hand, bells on her arm and legs and cap, around her waist, everywhere,
in short,--were dancing with two men whose costumes were eccentric to
the last degree.

One, in a Greek tunic, with deerskin breeches and riding-boots, wore a
Roman helmet. The other, dressed as a Cupid, with quiver and arrows, had
on his head the sort of head-covering usually assigned to Don Quixote,
that is to say, a dish turned upside down.

The dancing of these gentlemen was in keeping with their costumes; it
was very daring. The man in the helmet whirled his arms about like the
wings of a windmill, with terrifying rapidity. The Cupid kicked up his
heels almost in the face of his vis-à-vis, and from time to time, when
he was doing the _cavalier seul_, threw himself flat on his stomach and
executed the evolution known as the _spider_. As yet, the two little
women had ventured upon nothing more than permissible cancan steps.

"The devil!" said Freluchon, planting himself behind the Folly; "those
bucks have a style of dancing that's rather risky for their partners.
Look out, Henriette; that Cupid will land his foot in your eye, and
that's more dangerous, I assure you, than a kick somewhere else!"

The Folly pretended not to hear and went on dancing.

Edmond meanwhile, standing behind the little _débardeur_, said to her:

"My dear Amélia, I am very much afraid that your Roman will carry away
your nose while he imitates a windmill with his arms; that would be a
pity!"

The _débardeur_, like the Folly, made no reply; but a slight movement of
the shoulders betrayed her, and seemed to say:

"Oh! let me alone; you bore me!"

A moment later Freluchon called loudly to his friend:

"I say, Edmond, they turned me out of my lodgings this morning, because
I hadn't paid my rent or for my furniture! Did you ever hear such
nonsense? Just imagine that my furniture, which I thought was paid for,
wasn't!--Well! it didn't take away my spirits; on the contrary, it put
me just in the mood to dance and enjoy myself!"

"But I, who lived with you--where am I to sleep?" rejoined Edmond with a
laugh; "here am I too without a home!"

"Never fear! we'll find some Roman or some Cupid to give us
shelter!--And to think that for lack of four hundred francs I missed the
finest match!"

"Nonsense! really?"

"Yes, my dear fellow, a superb match! a flower-maker, thoroughbred, who
would have brought me as her dowry, in addition to her virtue, of which
I will say nothing, the most agreeable disposition to have me shut up at
Clichy,--with or without an eye-glass--in a very short time."

The little woman disguised as a Folly suddenly walked up to Freluchon
and said to him under her breath, but in a voice that trembled with
anger:

"Monsieur Freluchon, if you don't stop your spiteful remarks, I'll see
that you're punished by my partner."

"Ha! ha! ha! so you recognize me now, O fickle Henriette!"

"Yes, I recognize you, but I no longer know you; when a man treats a
woman as you treated me this morning, and leaves her in a horrible
plight without coming to her assistance, he's a rat! yes, he's worse
than a _rat_, he's a _toad_![E] and I don't have anything to do with
toads!"

"Ha! ha! very pretty! that word, in your mouth, has a wide
meaning--inasmuch as your mouth is not small. Is it because you are
covered with bells that you put on so many airs to-night? Bless my soul!
if you had asked me for nothing more than bells, I'd have given them to
you. I didn't know that you were so fond of them as all this! But
really, seeing how enthusiastically you dance, and especially these
innumerable bells with which you are loaded down, I confess that I can
hardly mourn over your terrible plight of this morning.--Come, leave
your Don Quixote, who looks to me amazingly like a vender of theatre
tickets, and come to supper with us. I'll give you as many kisses as you
have bells; isn't that a seductive prospect?"

Meanwhile Edmond was saying to the _débardeur_:

"Look you, my dear Amélia, after the quadrille, leave your Roman, who
looks to me too much like a _claquer_, and take my arm. We were not at
odds this morning, why should we be now? You are wrong to espouse your
friend's quarrel. Henriette will make you do all sorts of foolish
things; you are too nice a girl to dance with such fellows!"

The young grisette seemed to hesitate; but every time that her friend
passed her, she said earnestly:

"Don't speak to these fellows! You know what I told you; it's all over
between us if you go back to Edmond. My dear girl, women must stand by
each other, or else these men will make fools of us."

"Ah! the pretty bells! Mon Dieu! what a lot of bells!" cried Freluchon,
still laughing as he watched Mademoiselle Henriette. "I have seen many
Follies, but none that approached this one in the matter of bells! I
say, Edmond, if a poodle wore as many bells as this, he'd be mistaken
for a mule. Oh! how tickled I should be to have bells on all my clothes
instead of buttons!"

The Folly was beside herself with rage; she whispered in her Cupid's
ear. The Cupid--Don Quixote was a tall, solidly-built fellow, who had
every appearance of being a formidable athlete. He walked up to
Freluchon, planted himself directly in front of him, and said in a voice
that seemed to issue from a cavern:

"I say, counter-jumper, ain't you about through bothering my partner?
Understand that if you don't leave her in peace, her and her bells, I'll
knock off your hat with the top of my boot and send it up to the
gallery."

"Oho! my handsome Cupid, that's a trick I should be delighted to see,"
retorted Freluchon in a mocking tone. "Really, it would please me
immensely if you should succeed."

"Ah! you want to see it, do you? well, look!"

As he spoke, the Cupid suddenly threw up his leg, expecting to kick
Freluchon in the face. But he, by a gesture as quick as thought, seized
the leg in its passage, and grasping the ankle in his right hand,
squeezed it so hard that the Cupid made a horrible grimace and cried:

"Ten thousand million milliards! Let me go, you hurt me, you squeeze too
hard! Let me go, I say!"

"If you had struck my face with your foot, wouldn't you have hurt me,
you second-hand Cupid?"

"Look here! just let him go this minute, will you!" observed the
gentleman dressed as a Roman, approaching Freluchon with uplifted arm,
while the latter still held the Cupid by the leg.

But the little fellow, with his left hand, struck his new adversary a
blow that sent him reeling backward; there the Roman fell in with
Edmond, who gave him an additional push, while Freluchon suddenly
released the Cupid's leg with a violent jerk, so that he fell on his
back among the dancers.

Thereupon there was a great outcry on all sides, and, as usually
happens, the police appeared on the scene and ordered the combatants to
leave the ball-room with them, to explain their conduct elsewhere.

Mesdemoiselles Henriette and Amélia took advantage of the moment when
the young men were surrounded to glide among the dancers and disappear.

This scene had taken place almost in front of the box in which the
pearl-gray domino and her friend Mademoiselle Héloïse were seated.

A few moments earlier, a little blue domino, the same who had questioned
and mystified Edmond, had come to report to the fair Thélénie the result
of her conversation with the young man. But when she saw the man she was
looking for talking with the little _débardeur_, and observed the
quarrel that followed their conversation, Thélénie at once divined that
the woman disguised as a _débardeur_ was the woman for whose sake the
man she loved had come to the ball.

Having watched with some anxiety the brief scrimmage which took place
during the quadrille, she rose hurriedly and left the box, muttering:

"I will find that woman, and I will see to whom he sacrifices me!"

A few moments later, Edmond and Freluchon returned in triumph to the
ball-room. Their adversaries, whose too delirious style of dancing had
already been remarked, had been turned out, and when Freluchon offered
them his card, they had declined it, saying:

"Thanks! it isn't worth while; we've had enough."

"And now," said Edmond to his friend, as they returned to the ball-room,
"let us try to find those girls again."

"Thanks," said Freluchon; "you can look for your Amélia, if it amuses
you, but from this moment I no longer know Henriette! I can forgive a
woman her infidelities, her lies, her tricks, her humbug! But when a
woman tries to make two men fight, I see nothing more in her than an
evil-minded wretch whom I despise, and I never speak to her again."




V

CHAMOUREAU'S STICKS OF CANDY


Chamoureau had hastily left Edmond, to run after a pink domino whom
Edmond had pointed out to him as having expressed a desire, as she
passed them, to make a conquest of the Spaniard.

Our widower pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd, jostled by
this one and tossed aside by that one; but at last he succeeded in
overtaking the domino who had been pointed out to him, and who had on
her arm a poorly dressed shepherdess, without a mask, whose common face
suggested a fruit woman enjoying the Carnival.

Chamoureau took his stand in front of the domino and gazed amorously at
her. She seemed to pay no heed to him, but pushed him aside so that she
could pass. The two women left the dancing enclosure and walked toward
the foyer.

But our Spaniard followed them, and they were no sooner in the foyer
than he once more placed himself in front of them.

"Well, well! are we bound to find this tall Spaniard in front of us all
the time?" said the pink domino to the shepherdess. "Is he chasing us?
What on earth does he want of us?"

"My dear, you or me must have made a conquest!"

"Do you think so? Then it must be you, as you are not masked."

"But he seems to be looking at you."

"He looks to me like a big simpleton."

"We might as well have some fun with him while we're waiting for our men
to join us."

"We must make him treat us to something."

Notice that this is the constant refrain of the ladies whom one meets at
public balls.

While the two women whispered to each other, Chamoureau, with one hand
on his hip, assumed a seductive smile and kept his eyes fixed on the
pink domino, who finally said to him in a voice that seemed in the habit
of crying fish for sale:

"What makes you look in my eyes like that, my handsome Spaniard? Do you
know me? If you do, say something to prove it, instead of standing there
staring at me like a porcelain dog!"

"I do not know whether I know you, fascinating domino," replied
Chamoureau, still smiling, "but I certainly should be most happy to make
your acquaintance; and if you have no objection, why then--it seems to
me--you understand----"

"Pardi! it isn't hard to understand. You want to make a conquest; you're
a seducer--anyone can see that at once!"

"And what about me, do you mean to seduce me too, Spaniard?" inquired
the shepherdess, showing an assortment of teeth of different sizes;
"you'd find it hard work, for d'ye see, I've vowed an everlasting hatred
to men!"

Chamoureau made a faint grimace at the shepherdess's language; but he
assumed that she was the pink domino's maid, and he said to her:

"No, I have never cared for shepherdesses; they're too pastoral for me!
My homage is addressed solely to your companion--this fascinating
domino."

"But suppose I am ugly, my dear man? for you don't know me!"

"Ugly! you can't be that, with such a shapely head, such brilliant eyes!
I am sure that you are adorable."

"You might well be cheated, my boy! there's nothing so deceptive as a
mask!"

"For my part," interposed the shepherdess, "I don't try to cheat anyone.
You can see at once what I look like; then, if I make a conquest, people
know what to expect anyway!"

"_Fichtre!_ yes," said Chamoureau to himself, "one can be certain that
he hasn't to do with a bluestocking! This shepherdess would do well to
leave the pretty domino for a while; but perhaps, when they know me
better, they'll consent to separate."

"Tell me, my handsome Spaniard, why do you wear a false nose and
moustaches? Are you flat-nosed, that you disguise yourself so?"

"No, I can assure you that I am not flat-nosed."

"Then does your real nose make you so very ugly?"

"I have never been told that I was ill-looking."

"People may have thought so!"

"It is not probable!"

"What a conceited creature!--Well, take off your nose, if you want us to
believe you."

"Ah! my pretty domino, you ask me to do something of great importance to
me. I have many reasons for not wanting to be recognized!"

"Bosh! you say that to put on airs. Maybe you're some great personage?
Are you a State official?"

"No, not exactly; but I have a very good position in society, and I have
to be careful."[F]

"Do you move people?" said the shepherdess; "so does my uncle!"

"No, no, I didn't say that. You misunderstood me, little shepherdess."

"Take off your nose, or I shall think you haven't got one underneath."

"Oh! what a shocking supposition! It may be that later, pretty domino,
when we are tête-à-tête----"

"Nay, nay, Lisette! My dear man, when you make love to a woman, you must
begin by showing her your nose. Isn't that so, Laïde?"

The shepherdess, who answered to the name of Laïde, replied simply:

"How hot it is here! God! how hot it is! And I'm eating dust! My chemise
is just sticking to me. I'd like to take something, just the least bit
_refreshening_. Ain't you thirsty?"

"Why, yes, I wouldn't mind a sip! My throat's all parched."

Chamoureau realized that that was the moment to show his gallantry; he
offered the domino his arm, saying:

"Accept my arm and some refreshments, lovely masker; I will escort you
to the buffet."

"I will accept everything! for this invitation proves to me that you are
a noble Spaniard.--Come along with us, Laïde!"

They made their way to one of the buffets which were at each end of the
foyer.

"What will the ladies take?" inquired Chamoureau. "Gooseberry
wine--lemonade--that's the best thing there is to cool you off."

"I prefer punch," said the pink domino.

"So do I," said the shepherdess; "it's much healthier than all those
other things, and I can drink two bowls of it without getting tight."

This naïve admission of the shepherdess made Chamoureau shudder. Luckily
for him, punch is ordinarily served in glasses in the foyer. Three
glasses were placed before the Spaniard and his guests. The domino and
the shepherdess tossed off the punch as if it were champagne, although
it was scalding hot. The widower had hardly wet his lips when the ladies
had emptied their glasses.

"It's hot! terribly hot! I can't swallow it as you do," said Chamoureau;
"it would burn my throat!"

"Ah! the poor boy is afraid of burning himself. I say, ain't you a man?
But we ain't going to stay on one leg, I suppose, are we?" said the
shepherdess.

"What do you mean by that, girl of the fields?"

"Ah! he don't understand! Where are you from, old no nose? Did they
bring you up in a closet?"

"It means, my dear, that we will take another glass of punch; that will
make the second leg," said the pink domino, squeezing the Spaniard's arm
with great force; and he, delighted to be squeezed, called at once:

"Waiter, more punch for these ladies!"

"And yourself?"

"Oh! if I should take any more, it would make me dizzy!"

"What an oyster!" whispered the pink domino in the shepherdess's ear.

"We need that kind," was the reply; "they're the attraction of the ball;
I have always liked oysters myself."

More glasses of punch were brought, which the two women put out of sight
as quickly as the first. Then Chamoureau lost no time in paying the bill
and leading his companions away from the buffet, for fear they would
express a wish to go on three legs.

Meanwhile, our Spaniard, thinking that the punch with which he had
regaled the ladies entitled him to become enterprising, ventured, in the
crowd, to place one hand on a spot where the pink domino might have worn
hoops. She turned upon him instantly, saying:

"Have done with such pranks, false nose! What sort of behavior is that?
what do you take me for?"

"Lovely masker, my hand went astray involuntarily."

"Look out that it don't go astray again in that direction."

"I only did it to find out----"

"Whether I wore steel skirts, eh?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I don't need such things; I'm plump enough not to wear
substitutes.--What in the world's the matter with your boots?"

"Nothing. They're too big; they keep falling."

"Why didn't you wear hoop-skirts on your legs? they wouldn't be out of
the way."

"Are you free, pretty domino, or under the control of a husband?"

"What makes you ask me that? Do you want to marry me?"

"Why, when one desires to form a loving intimacy, isn't it natural to
find out, first of all, the situation of the person one desires?"

"Aha! so you desire me, my tall hidalgo! in that case, you are going to
treat me and my friend to a stick of candy; if you don't, I won't allow
you to desire me."

"Oh, yes! candy!" cried the shepherdess. "Besides, I promised to take
some home to my little brother. And then, all the women have a stick in
their hands. It takes the place of a fan; it looks very nice."

Chamoureau considered that the ladies who go to the Opéra ball are
decidedly gluttonous, but it was impossible to draw back.

They were near the other buffet at that moment; the pink domino and the
shepherdess selected a stick of candy each, and they did not take the
smallest.

"How much?" asked the Spaniard.

"Ten francs."

"What! ten francs for candy?"

"A hundred sous each for the sticks the ladies took; two make ten
francs."

"Come, my noble friend, pay up!" laughed the pink domino. "You certainly
don't mean to haggle, do you? You'll make one believe you're not a
noble Castilian at all, and that you learned all you know of Spain in
Vaugirard!"

"No, no, I am not haggling!" said Chamoureau, making a horrible grimace
under his false nose. "But I'm afraid I haven't the change."

"We'll change a note for you, monsieur."

While our widower took his purse from under his belt and inspected the
contents, the shepherdess said to the pink domino in an undertone:

"My dear, there's our men over yonder, by the door, where we agreed.
They're looking for us, no doubt."

"In that case, let's be off, while that tall donkey has his false nose
in his purse."

Chamoureau changed a forty-franc piece to pay for his candy, and, when
he had received his change, turned to where the two women had stood,
flattering himself that his gallantry entitled him to the most delicious
reward. But instead of the pink domino, his false nose almost came in
contact with the eye of a mustachioed individual, who said to him very
sharply:

"For heaven's sake, be careful! Sapristi! do you take my face for a full
moon, that you try to bury your nose in it?"

Chamoureau made no reply; he was busily engaged in looking for his
conquest; but in vain did he gaze in every direction: his two ladies had
vanished.

In his amazement, our Spaniard applied to the woman at the desk.

"Do you know which way they went?"

"Who, monsieur?"

"The two ladies who were with me just now and whom I treated to candy at
a hundred sous a stick."

"No, monsieur."

"But they were right here, by my side, only a moment ago. I don't
understand it at all!"

A crowd of young men and dominos rushed up to the buffet, pushing
Chamoureau aside and shouting:

"Come, off you go, Spaniard! You've had enough to drink; make room for
others!"

"I beg your pardon, messieurs, I am looking for a lady."

"Go to the deuce! You won't find your lady! Ohé! what a phiz! Ah! now
he's losing his boots! Look out, or you'll lose your nose next! Ha! ha!
what a ridiculous figure! Oh! that nose!"

At a masked ball, as soon as a few people begin to jeer at a person in
disguise, the crowd collects and swells the chorus; and as the widower
was a decidedly laughable figure in his ornate costume, and with his
false nose and moustaches, bursts of laughter arose on all sides as he
passed, and he was followed by people who shouted in his ears:

"Oh! that nose! Look at that Spaniard's nose!"

"That man has been deceived by women."

"He must have made a fool of himself for them."

"Don't you see that monsieur is a foreigner who has come to France to
study refined manners?"

"No, no; he's a joker, who made a bet that he would look more like an
ass than anybody else at the ball."

"Well, he has won! he has won!"

All these remarks were accompanied by loud laughter which made
Chamoureau frantic.

To escape the ovation with which he was honored in the foyer, he rushed
through one of the doors, sought the place where the crowd was most
dense, and succeeded in reaching the corridor. He went up one flight,
and as he neared the top, tore off his false nose.

"I'll take it off," he thought; "if I don't they'll recognize me by it
and never stop following me. There--now that I no longer have that nose,
I like to think that I shall not be noticed. But it's a very singular
thing: I come here masked, or practically so, so that no one may know
who I am, and I have to take off my mask to avoid being
recognized!--After all, I was suffocating with that nose and those
moustaches. I am much more comfortable this way.--But I can't understand
the conduct of my two ladies. I treat them to punch and enormous sticks
of candy, and they leave me! they disappear without saying a word to me!
Perhaps they saw their husbands, or lovers whose jealousy they fear.
They dreaded a scene if they were discovered with me. That must have
been the reason for their disappearance. I fancy they didn't belong to
the first society. Their language was a little free, and the
shepherdess's especially wasn't the purest French; but the pink domino
had a very neat figure--and no hoop-skirts! I shall find her again, I
hope.--With all this I have lost Freluchon and Monsieur Edmond.--But
they adore the monster galop, and I am sure of finding them when the
time comes for that.--But five glasses of punch at a franc a glass, five
francs, and ten for candy,--fifteen francs in all! that's rather high
for an intrigue that is hardly begun! If she had even given me an
assignation for to-morrow! I should have exacted that before handing
over the candy."

As he pursued these reflections, Chamoureau walked along the corridor on
the second floor, looking into every box in search of his pink domino.

He had his face against one of the little panes of glass, when he felt a
hand on his arm; he turned; a Norman peasant, masked, was hanging on his
arm, and she said to him in a wheedling voice:

"Here you are, Chamoureau, my sweet Chamoureau! Ah! what a good idea to
take off your false nose, and how much better-looking you are now! When
one has a face like yours, one shouldn't conceal it; do you hear, my
friend?"

Our widower felt a thrill of pleasure at hearing such compliments
addressed to himself. He would gladly have kissed the mask worn by the
Norman, to show his satisfaction, but he contented himself with pressing
her hand and arm most tenderly, saying:

"What, my charming peasant--do you know me?"

"Do I know you! Why bless my soul! who doesn't know you, O Chamoureau of
my heart? It was wholly on your account, to meet you, that I came
here."

"Really? But I had no idea myself that I should come. Our party wasn't
made up till very late in the evening."

"But I was certain that you would come; my little finger told me."[G]

"Is your little finger such a magician as that?"

"Yes, for it told me that you would be disguised as a Spaniard; that you
would have top boots which would cause you much annoyance----"

"By Jove! this is marvelous!"

"That you would make love to a pink domino and a shepherdess; I saw you
with them just now."

"It's the truth; I don't deny it."

"You even offered them candy."

"Offered! you mean that they asked me for it."

"It's the same thing. You gave them each a stick; so I hope you'll give
me one too, as I came to the ball solely to see you."

"If you came to the ball solely to see me, you ought not to care for
candy."

"I care to have you as generous to me as to others--as gallant--as
attentive--as amorous; will you be? Tell me, O my Chamoureau! for I love
you, I am on fire for you, as you see!"

"Really, lovely Norman, you manifest sentiments which flatter me; but
how do you know me?"

"If I should tell you, you would be greatly surprised; but I won't tell
you--not here, at all events; later, when you come to my house, we shall
see."

"You have a house?"

"Yes, my boy, one of the very swellest in the Chaussée d'Antin."

"Then you are rich?"

"Who isn't rich to-day? unless he's as stupid as a pot!"

"True; your reflection is very clever. And you are free?"

"As free as air!"

"And you will receive me?"

"You shall have the entrée every day. Come this way; there's another
buffet, where they sell candy."

Chamoureau submitted to be led to the buffet in the corridor on the
second floor; he could refuse nothing to a woman who declared that she
had come to the Opéra on his account.

The Norman selected a stick of the same size as those selected by the
pink domino and the shepherdess; she drank a glass of gooseberry wine,
then took the Spaniard's arm again, saying:

"Mon Dieu! how wise you were to take off your nose! you are a hundred
per cent. better looking!"

"But you, charming peasant, won't you take off your mask? You must
divine my longing to gaze upon your features."

"It's not necessary, you know me already."

"Really! I know you?"

"Yes, and you like me very much."

"As for that, I can readily believe it; however, I would be glad to see
you, so that I may recall where I have seen you before."

"You shall see me at my house on Rue de la Pépinière, opposite the
barracks."

"What number, and whom shall I ask for?"

"The number's of no consequence, you'll see me at my window."

"But where shall I look for your window? This is rather vague."

"I'll toss you a bouquet."

"Very good; but still I----"

At that moment, a young man who wore no mask walked along the corridor,
arm-in-arm with a little woman dressed as a dairymaid, to whom he was
talking very earnestly. Instantly Chamoureau's companion stopped,
crying:

"It's he! it's Adolphe! Ah! the traitor! the monster! I am sure he's
with Malvina!"

And dropping the arm that she held, the Norman peasant ran after the
couple and halted in front of the young man.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "so I've caught you, you villain! you infamous
traitor! You couldn't come to the ball with me! Monsieur was sick; he
had the colic! And you refused to bring me, to come here with this
little minx! But I'm not such a fool, my boy; you don't make me swallow
such rubbish; I had an idea that I should catch you here."

"Come, come, Clorinde, don't make a scene; you know how I dislike them!
Don't shout so loud!"

"I'll shout as loud as I please, and you can't make me keep quiet, you
wicked rascal, for whom I sold my gold chain not a fortnight ago, and
who throws my money away on other women!"

"You talk like a fool, Clorinde; if I have spent the money for your
chain, I've spent plenty more with you!"

"You greenhorn! you, who had boots with holes in 'em and paper collars!
Ah! this is too much, on my word! And you think that I'll let you strut
about with your Malvina--for that's Malvina on your arm."

"Not at all, you are mistaken; it's a masker whom I met by chance, and
whom I tell you to treat with respect."

"_Ouiche!_ I'll treat her with respect; your charmer doesn't seem to
have any tongue; she doesn't open her mouth! If it isn't Malvina, why
doesn't she speak? But we'll soon see."

During this dialogue, the little dairymaid, who seemed to be all of a
tremble, clung to her escort's arm; but the Norman suddenly snatched
away her mask and cried:

"Ah! it wasn't Malvina! Ah! I was mistaken, was I? You are caught,
traitor! As for you, little one, you know what I promised you if you
ever went with Adolphe. I don't go back on my word--take that!"

As she spoke, the peasant dealt the dairymaid a powerful blow on the
cheek; the latter attempted to take her revenge and to return the blow
she had received from her jealous rival; but as Monsieur Adolphe had
taken advantage of the battle to make his escape, the Norman ran after
him, crying:

"It's no use for you to run away--I'll find you. Come, Adolphe, don't
run; I am not angry any more. Malvina has what she deserves, that's all
I wanted."

And the peasant disappeared in the crowd, while the little dairymaid
replaced her mask and tried to readjust her disordered costume.

"Oh! the fishwoman!" she exclaimed; "is it possible that there can be
such ill-bred women! But she shall pay me. I'll go to see her man--the
fat hosier who is ruining himself for her; I'll tell him about all the
games she plays on him. Bless my soul! there's enough of 'em to cover
the city wall."

One gentleman had been a silent spectator of this scene, which, however,
seemed exceedingly distasteful to him. The reader will guess that it was
Chamoureau, who saw his second conquest escape him with the stick of
candy which he had presented to her.

"How is this?" he said to himself at last; "she assured me that she came
to the Opéra this evening solely to see me, and she was on the watch for
one Adolphe! She told me that she loved me, that she was on fire for me,
and she leaves me to go and kick up a jealous row with that young
man--and she beats the girl he has on his arm!--The deuce! what a wench!
it's a bad move to deceive her. She told me that she was very rich, that
she had a fine house on Rue de la Pépinière. The little dairymaid
declares that she is kept by a hosier. What am I to believe out of all
that? The one thing that is certain is that she has run after her
Adolphe. I am very sorry that I bought the candy for her! but she said
such pleasant things to me and pressed my arm so affectionately! O these
women! I'll not trust them again; and yet it would be very cruel to have
come to the Opéra ball without making a single acquaintance! What would
those fellows think of me?"

In his disappointment, Chamoureau decided to go up another flight. There
were fewer people in the corridor on the third floor, but the couples
were more amorous in proportion to their scarcity; they talked into each
other's faces, gazed into each other's eyes, held each other's arms or
waists; and sometimes in the ardor of conversation, the hand strayed
over a shapely figure.

Our widower observed all this, and his regret that he was alone became
all the keener.

"All these people are very fortunate!" he said to himself; "they have
love-affairs, intrigues under way. I am well aware that I too have been
_intrigué_--mystified,--but nothing has come of it; for frankly I
believe that I should have been very foolish to walk on Rue de la
Pépinière, in the hope that a bouquet would be thrown to me from a
window! That Norman must have been lying to me. My wisest course now is
to join Freluchon and Edmond, so that I may go to supper with them.
Still, it is annoying not to take someone with me to the supper; for
I'll wager that each of them will have a little woman! Their luck is
beyond my comprehension! I suppose that it's the same as in gambling:
some people always win and others never do!"

As he communed thus with himself, Chamoureau noticed a black domino,
also walking alone, who had passed very close to him again and again
within a few minutes, glancing constantly in his direction. It was a
woman above middle height, very slender--too slender, in fact, because
she was so everywhere; a few wisps of fair hair escaped from beneath her
hood which came well over her forehead. The black mask was provided with
a very ample barb; it was impossible to obtain a glimpse of any feature.
The domino was simple and shabby, and the shoes were not elegant. But
she was a lone woman, who had every appearance of being in quest of an
adventure, and Chamoureau also pined for one.

"I will venture once more," he said to himself; "perhaps I shall have
better luck this time!" and he approached the thin domino.

"It's very hot, is it not, lovely masker?"

"Yes, it's extremely warm here."

"Still, there are fewer people here than downstairs."

"True; it's much less crowded; it's more comfortable here."

"But I believe the heat ascends."

"Do you think so? it's quite possible; no doubt it does ascend."

"Otherwise it would be cooler here than downstairs."

"Oh! yes, of course; if it were cooler here----"

"They would feel the heat more downstairs."

"She converses very agreeably," said our widower to himself. "She
doesn't try to be bright, to make fun of me, as the others did. I like
this way better; I feel more at ease with this stranger, and something
tells me that I have at last found what I sought. She doesn't try to
mystify me; but after all, I prefer that she shouldn't know me; then, if
I choose, I can retain my incognito with her."

The black domino stood beside the Spaniard, apparently waiting for him
to renew the conversation. He, after pulling up his boots, decided to
offer her his arm, murmuring in honeyed tones:

"Will you take a turn or two in the corridor with me?"

"With pleasure."

"You are not expecting anybody?"

"No, I am not expecting anybody."

"You are quite sure? Pardon me for asking the question, but, you see, I
have been walking with several ladies, and they all left me abruptly, to
run after other men! Frankly, I don't care to take the risk of having
that happen again."

"Oh! don't be afraid, monsieur; I am not capable of such conduct. I see
clearly that I have to do with a _comme il faut_ gentleman, and if you
knew me better you would understand that you can place entire confidence
in me. I have never known what it was to make sport of a man--I can
safely take my oath to that; and I flatter myself that I enjoy an
excellent reputation in the house where I lodge."

All this was said in the tone of a servant applying for a position and
announcing her readiness to refer to her former employers.

But Chamoureau was delighted; he was sure that he had found what he
wanted, and he pressed the arm that lay in his as he rejoined:

"What you tell me gives me great pleasure. I believe you; there is an
accent of truth in your words."

"Besides, you can ask my employers if they are not satisfied with me."

"Your employers?"

"To be sure--the people I work for."

"Ah! you work--in a shop?"

"Yes, monsieur; oh! I don't set up for a princess myself! I told you
that I had no desire to deceive anyone."

"That is very nice of you, and I can only praise your frankness. Might I
inquire what branch of trade you are in?"

"I work for a shoemaker, monsieur; I sew ladies' shoes."

Chamoureau was not so well pleased with this admission; he would have
preferred a milliner or a flower-maker; however, he said to himself:

"After all, there are some very pretty shoe-stitchers; if she is
virtuous enough to have only one lover, I shall have made a lucky find
all the same; she's a little thin, but she must be pretty. I'll tell
Freluchon that she's in the ballet at the Cirque. She's a blonde, and I
don't dislike blondes.--Tell me, lovely domino," he said aloud, "did
you come to the ball alone?"

"No, monsieur, I came with a friend of mine; but she was looking for
someone, and when she met him, I left them; I was afraid of being in
their way."

"That was most thoughtful! So then you are free?"

"Yes, monsieur, entirely free!"

"And no previous entanglement--no liaison?"

"Oh! none at all! absolutely none! I can safely swear that it's two
years since I have walked alone with a gentleman."

Chamoureau was in raptures at the thought that he was walking with a
woman to whom such a thing had not happened for two years. In his
enthusiasm he said to himself:

"With this one I can safely try a stick of candy; she deserves it more
than the others did; her frankness and innocence are worthy of the prize
of virtue!"

And he escorted his domino to the buffet, saying:

"Pray, take something."

"Oh! you are very kind, monsieur, but I am not thirsty."

"She isn't thirsty!" said Chamoureau to himself; "I doubt if I could
find another like her in the whole ball!"

And he became the more urgent:

"But do at least take a bonbon."

"You are very polite, monsieur; I don't like to keep refusing."

"I trust you will not."

"I will take a stick of candy."

And the black domino selected one of the smallest, which cost only three
francs, thereby putting the finishing touch to Chamoureau's delight. He
offered his arm to his conquest once more, saying:

"In that case, if you are free, charming stitcher, will you do me the
honor to sup with me and a few of my friends, who will also have ladies
with them--that is to say, I assume that they will."

"Yes, monsieur, certainly, and with pleasure."

"You are fascinating! I feel that I love you dearly already."

"And I, too; I shall be very glad to make your acquaintance."

"Do you mean it? Then my appearance is not disagreeable to you?"

"Ah! I should be very hard to suit, if I did not think you a very
handsome man! Monsieur must be accustomed to attracting women!"

Chamoureau turned redder than his rouge; the corridor had become too
narrow for him; he placed his cap more on one side, pulled up his
boot-flaps, and seemed to be walking on a spring-board, ready to jump.

"I don't know whom those fellows will bring to the supper," he said to
himself, "but I'll wager that their conquests won't hold a candle to
mine! I have an idea that this slender creature resembles the Madonnas
we see in the pictures of our greatest masters. However, I'll find out
about that; she's a good-natured body, and I am sure that she'll unmask
as soon as I ask her to.--Let's go down to the ball-room," said our
widower, taking his domino's hand; "we shall find my friends there; they
are great jokers; they like the galop and are quite capable of dancing
it.--Are you fond of dancing, my dear?"

"I am willing to do whatever anyone wishes, monsieur."

"That's very pleasant in company. In that case, if I ask you to remove
this mask--that conceals your features, you will not refuse, will you?"

"Take off my mask! oh, no! I won't take off my mask here; I will at
home."

"I presume that you don't keep it on at home; but what is there to
prevent your taking it off a moment here, while we are walking in this
corridor? You may put it right on again, if you please."

"But why do you want me to take it off?"

"I have just told you: because I long to look upon your features. That
is a very natural desire--and since you have admitted that my face was
not displeasing to you----"

"Oh! no, monsieur! far from it!"

"I am persuaded yours will be most pleasing to me."

"Oh! I am not very beautiful!"

"I will wager that you say that from modesty; at all events, it is not
necessary to be very beautiful in order to please; there are some
bright, saucy little faces that are far preferable to regular
beauties."

"I have an odd face."

"Well! odd faces are included in what I have just said. Do take off that
horrible mask!"

"Oh, no! I don't want to; I won't take it off till after supper, because
I am a little less bashful when I have drunk a little pure wine."

"What! do you intend to eat supper with your mask on?"

"Why not?"

"It would bother you a good deal while eating."

"Oh, no! I can turn up the barb."

"Take off your mask, pretty stitcher! I am sure that you're lovely
enough to paint, and you postpone it only to make your triumph all the
greater."

"I won't take off my mask now; no, monsieur, I'm determined on that!"

"She's very obstinate about it!" said Chamoureau to himself, as he
escorted his conquest to the ball-room; "it's simply to increase my
desire, to inflame my imagination! Female cunning! I know what that is!"

At the moment that the Spaniard and the domino stepped into the space
between the ball-room and the stage, a general galop began--one of those
monster galops in which the torrent of dancers rushes and leaps and
roars to the strains of music which would make mummies dance. Freluchon
and Edmond soon whirled by Chamoureau, the first with his arm about a
Marquise Pompadour, the second with his little _débardeur_. The sight
electrified our widower, who said to his domino:

"Suppose we venture? what do you say?"

"I ask nothing better."

With that, the lady threw her arm about her escort and they plunged into
the infernal galop. Then they had no choice but to go with the crowd,
the torrent; for woe betide the man who stops! He is instantly thrown
down by those who come behind.

But the Spaniard's bosom swelled with a noble ardor; he was pushed and
jostled, but he went on and on. The heat was extreme, however; and from
time to time his domino murmured:

"I am stifling! suppose we stop a minute?"

"No, no; we must keep on!" Chamoureau replied; "don't be afraid; I'm
holding you tight; you shan't fall."

But after they had danced for some time, the lady's hood fell back,
disclosing a tight fitting black cap on top of which the tower of fair
hair was mingled with locks of gray hair combed up from behind. A moment
later the tower fell to pieces; then it was the mask's turn to fall--and
our widower discovered that he held in his arms a woman of fifty, ugly
as the mortal sin, with a thin, sallow, vulgar face that would have been
disgusting even in a concierge.

Dumfounded, furious at what he saw, Chamoureau did not hesitate an
instant; he dropped his partner, who rolled on the floor among the feet
of the dancers; and he lost himself among the spectators.

"I am not surprised now that she proposed to sup in her mask!" he said
to himself.




VI

A GENUINE INTRIGUE


The pearl-gray domino had entered the enclosure reserved for the
dancers, walking boldly through the crowd, well able to repay in kind
those who pushed and jostled her, and paying no attention to the men who
spoke to her and tried to detain her by the usual phrases, which such
gentlemen do not vary enough.

"Where are you going, lovely domino?"

"Listen to me, my deserted beauty!"

"You are running after him--better come with me."

"If your face resembles your figure, you are the phoenix of dominos."

To all these pretty speeches, tall Thélénie replied only by a very
expressive shake of the head. When a man attempted to detain her by
taking her arm, she had no difficulty in releasing herself by a sudden
movement, saying in a far from encouraging tone:

"I advise you to let me alone, for I assure you that you are wasting
your time with me; and that would be a great pity, if you came to the
ball with the purpose of making good use of it."

Thélénie's black eyes, full of fire, looked about on all sides for the
little _débardeur_ with whom she had seen Edmond Didier talking. She
was certain of recognizing her, although there were many similar
costumes at the ball; a woman guided by jealousy takes in at a glance
the figure, the carriage, the foot, the hand and the slightest movements
of the person she believes to be her rival.

In a corner of the ball-room, near the orchestra, the pearl-gray domino,
convinced that she was not mistaken, halted in front of a little masked
_débardeur_ and said:

"I was looking for you."

"You were looking for me!"

"Yes, you."

"What for?"

"To speak to you, naturally."

"What can you have to say to me? I don't know you--at least, I don't
think I know you. But perhaps you're that big Julie who goes to the Café
du Cirque so often, near the Folies-Dramatiques, and who always wins at
dominoes."

"I am not big Julie; I never go to the Café du Cirque, and I don't play
dominoes. But you evidently go there, and I am not sorry to know it."

"I go where I please--what business is it of yours? What are you talking
about? If you were looking for me just to say that, it wasn't worth
putting yourself out, charming domino."

"I have something much more interesting to say to you; but first tell me
this: what do you do? who are you? Not of much importance! I can see
that by your manners and your language. No matter--I want to know; are
you a milliner, flower-maker, seamstress--or something much lower down?
Come--answer me."

"Ha! ha! ha! this is too good, on my word! Madame questions me, and with
a tone of authority!--one would think she was talking to a slave! By
what right do you ask me all this?"

"By what right? Oh! I'll show you that I have a right. Listen: you are
Monsieur Edmond Didier's mistress."

"Oho! so you know that, my tall beauty! Very good! I understand it all
now; you're one of Edmond's old ones; a poor creature whom he abandoned
for me! Ha! ha! and you've come here to make a jealous row!"

"Well, yes, I was Edmond's mistress, I still am; for, if he has had a
caprice for you, it's not what can be called love!"

"Really! you believe that? you think that a man may not love me? Well!
you are mistaken, my dear; on the contrary, he loves me dearly, he
adores me; he told me so just now."

"Listen, girl, remember what I am going to say."

"If it's a song you are going to teach me, I'll remember it if I know
the tune."

"Don't jest, for my words are most serious."

"I don't care if they are; I am never serious myself."

"I forbid you--do you understand?--I forbid you to go to Edmond's rooms
again; and if you disobey me, beware! you have no idea to what length
jealousy may drive me."

"If it could drive you home to bed now, what an excellent thing it would
be!"

"You have heard me--and you will obey."

"Not much! This was a foolish step of yours, my dear; for I have
quarrelled with Edmond and I didn't intend to see him again; just a
minute ago he begged me to go to supper with him, and I refused; but now
that you forbid me to--oh! that puts a different face on the matter; I
will accept. I'll make it up with him, and we'll be like turtle-doves
again."

"Beware! don't drive me to extremities, you little strumpet!"

"Oh! if I'm a little strumpet, you're a big one! Let me tell you that I
snap my finger at you and your threats; and to prove it, there's Edmond
now, looking everywhere for me, and I'm going with him."

Edmond Didier was, in fact, coming toward them; he was still looking for
his little _débardeur_. Mademoiselle Amélia ran to him and seized his
arm, saying:

"I'm not angry any more, dear boy; I love you more than ever, and I'll
go to supper with you. You're glad of that, aren't you?"

The young man, thunderstruck by the sudden change that had taken place
in the grisette's humor, stared at her and tried to read in her eyes
whether she really meant what she said.

But she continued:

"You're surprised that I am not sulky any longer? Well! who do you
suppose you owe it to? I'll tell you; it's that tall mouse-gray domino
who's looking at us over there, and glaring at me as if she'd shoot me!
She forbade me to go with you! That instantly made me want to do it."

Edmond looked at the masker the girl pointed out; it was a fact that in
the eyes which were fixed upon his companion and himself there was a
gleam which had in it something fascinating. Those eyes were easily
recognizable, for, as Monsieur Beauregard had said, there were no others
at the ball which could be compared with them.

Edmond divined therefore who the person was who glared at him so, and,
in spite of himself, he was disturbed and embarrassed for a moment
beneath Thélénie's burning glance.

"Oh!" he stammered, "that domino told you--forbade you to speak to me,
did she?"

"Yes, she's one of your old ones, you must recognize her. Madame is
jealous, but I don't care a fig! You're through with her, I hope. At all
events, I'm not jealous--I'm no such fool! I prefer to dance. You are
going to galop with me."

The pearl-gray domino, whose eyes were still fixed on the young couple,
suddenly walked toward them, stopped beside Edmond and said in an
undertone:

"So this is the creature for whom you abandon me! She doesn't do you
credit!"

"Eh? what's she saying to you?" demanded Mademoiselle Amélia; "some
nasty thing about me, I'll bet."

"No, no! nothing at all!" Edmond replied, as he watched Thélénie
disappear in the crowd.

"I say yes; that tall giraffe spoke to you!"

"She called me a--monster!"

"Ah! how new that is!"

"Let us galop."

It was toward the end of this galop that Chamoureau had dropped his
partner, who lost her mask, her hair and her cap, and had fled as far as
possible, leaving the ball-room and rushing aimlessly into the foyer, so
great was his fear of being pursued and overtaken by his new conquest.

When he reached the foyer, the unlucky Spaniard dropped upon a bench,
saying to himself:

"I have too hard luck! I am pursued by cruel fate! What a face! great
God! what a horrible face! I wouldn't have her for charwoman! Why, if I,
a business agent, had such a woman in my house, she'd frighten all my
clients! And such an old thing! all skin and bone! and a profile like an
embroidery frame! When a woman has no more flesh than that, she must be
very bold, to go to the Opéra ball, and try to make an acquaintance! I
am not surprised that it hasn't happened to her for two years--she must
have meant ten!--And I treated her to candy! It's very lucky that her
mask fell off when it did! if it hadn't been for that, she'd have come
to supper, she'd have unmasked afterward, the wretch! and God knows all
the jokes the others would have made at my expense, especially
Freluchon, who's a connoisseur in pretty women; for he often used to
say to me: 'Chamoureau, your wife's too handsome for one man, it's
downright murder!'--He was dancing the galop just now with a handsome
wench dressed _à la Pompadour_, and Edmond with a _débardeur_; they both
have what they want, I'm the only one who has nothing, after paying for
so many sticks of candy. But I am done; I have had my fill of intrigues,
and if I weren't waiting for those fellows I'd go home. But I can't go
without Freluchon, as my clothes are at his room. We are to meet here in
the foyer, under the clock. It must be very late. I have had very little
sport here, and I've lost my false nose."

And Chamoureau watched the promenaders with a woe-begone expression. He
did not notice that a blue domino pointed him out to one of pearl-gray,
whispering:

"That's the man; he came with them."

The pearl-gray domino, with whom we are well acquainted, but whom our
widower did not know as yet, immediately seated herself beside him and
motioned to the blue domino to go.

At first Chamoureau simply moved away a little, to make room for the
person who had taken a seat by his side; then, allured by the perfume
that emanated from his neighbor, he glanced furtively at her, saying to
himself:

"Sapristi! this domino smells good; it's as if a bouquet had sat down
here. I ought to have guessed that that other woman didn't amount to
anything; she smelt of garlic, and when she got warm dancing--then it
was much worse!"

Chamoureau's examination of the pearl-gray domino was wholly to her
advantage; in addition to the perfume she exhaled, everything about her
was refined, stylish and in good taste. But when Thélénie fastened her
great black eyes on him, our widower was speechless with admiration, and
in his confusion he could think of nothing better to do than to pull up
his boots.

Thus far, Chamoureau had not addressed a word to his neighbor, although
he was dying to do so; she, however, saved him the trouble by opening
the conversation herself.

"Well, Monsieur Chamoureau, are you enjoying the ball?"

"What! how! madame knows me? I have the honor of being known to madame?"
murmured our widower, utterly bewildered to hear the stylish domino call
him by name.

"Yes, monsieur, I know you--not very well, I must admit; but well enough
to tempt me to seat myself here so that I might talk with you."

"Oh! how flattered I am, madame! What! it was to talk with me that you
came here to sit? that is extremely amiable on your part!"

"Oh, no! it is quite natural! Sometimes one passes the whole night here
without meeting a person with whom one can talk freely; for, to speak
frankly, the company is very much mixed at a masquerade."

"You don't know how fully I realize it, madame! for I myself, a moment
ago, was misled by a--a--less than nobody! But you understand--when
people are masked!"

"In spite of the mask, monsieur, there are always a thousand things
which enable one to recognize the well-bred woman, and which betray all
these grisettes, all these prostitutes who come here masked, to try to
make dupes."

"That is perfectly true, madame; there are a thousand things that betray
one's identity; and, as I sit beside you, madame, those things lead me
to believe that I am talking with an extremely _comme il faut_ person."

"Take care, Monsieur Chamoureau, you may be deceived again."

"Oh, no! this time I am sure of my ground!"

"You did not come to the ball alone, did you, monsieur?"

"No, madame, I came with two young men, friends of mine."

"Yes, Messieurs Freluchon and Edmond Didier."

"Ah! madame knows them also?"

"Very little; but I have a friend, a lady, who is very intimately
acquainted with one of them."

"Yes, I understand; and it's with Freluchon, I suppose?"

"No, with Monsieur Edmond; and between ourselves, I think that my poor
friend has bestowed her affections very ill."

"Yes, indeed, I should say so! If she relies on that young man's
fidelity, she is completely taken in."

"He has to my mind every appearance of a ne'er-do-well, hasn't he,
monsieur?"

"He's the worst ne'er-do-well in the world! one of those blades who make
love to the first woman they see; who have three, four, five mistresses
at the same time--I don't know how they manage it! I love the fair sex,
there's no doubt of that, and I cultivate it assiduously, but I don't
scatter myself about like that. _Ne quid nimis!_ That Latin axiom is my
motto. Forgive me for using a dead language, madame; it slipped from my
tongue."

"I congratulate you, monsieur, for not behaving as Edmond does."

"Freluchon's no better! Indeed, I think perhaps he's worse! He's a
thorough scapegrace, and, as he's rich, he can do more than others; but
he's an intimate friend of mine, and I don't propose to speak ill of
him, especially as my late wife had much esteem for him."

"Are you a widower, monsieur?"

"Alas! yes, madame; I have lost my Eléonore, my sweet better half! my
faithful companion!"

Chamoureau was on the point of blowing his nose, but he checked himself,
reflecting that it would be unwise to appear grief-stricken in that
lady's company; and, laying aside his melancholy, he assumed a sprightly
air.

"Does not madame dance?"

"Oh, no! monsieur, never at a masquerade. But what have you done with
your two friends?"

"They are dancing, madame; they must be on the floor."

"Between ourselves, Monsieur Chamoureau, it isn't good form to dance
here, unless one is disguised as you are; then anything is allowable;
but those gentlemen are not."

"True; but they are not exactly dancing; the galop is the only thing
they dance--the infernal galop."

"Oh, yes! I remember: I saw Monsieur Edmond pass just now with a woman
dressed as a _débardeur_--his mistress, I suppose?"

"Yes, that's one of his mistresses; it must be little Amélia; he was
looking for her."

"Who is this Amélia?"

"A young flower-maker: nineteen years old, with a piquant, roguish face,
eyes full of fire and a lovely figure!"

"You seem to know her very well!"

"I! oh! I don't know her at all; I am simply repeating what Edmond told
me about her a little while ago."

"Then you haven't seen this woman?"

"Not yet; but I shall see her before long, as we are all to sup
together; Freluchon arranged it all at the costumer's."

"Ah! you are to sup together!"

Thélénie was silent for some moments, apparently lost in reflection.
Meanwhile Chamoureau cudgelled his brain to think of something clever to
say to her; having had no success, he confined himself to adjusting his
cap and pulling up his boot-tops.

"Monsieur Chamoureau," said Thélénie at last, in her sweetest voice,
"will you give me your arm for a little promenade--not here in the
foyer, for there are too many people here."

"Will I, madame! why, I am only too happy that you should deign to take
me for your escort."

And the Spaniard, springing to his feet, offered his arm to the
pearl-gray domino, who took it with that lack of formality which a mask
sanctions.

Before leaving the foyer, Chamoureau, as proud as Lucifer to have on his
arm a stylish woman who left an odor of violets and patchouli as she
passed, said to himself:

"Faith, I don't care what happens! I propose to risk another stick of
candy!"

Whereupon he led the lady toward a buffet and urged her to take
something; but Thélénie dragged him away, saying:

"I am obliged to you, monsieur, but I never take anything here; besides,
I think that carrying about sticks of candy is very bad form.--Come, I
long to be out of this foyer."

Thélénie had just noticed the tall Beauregard, who was gazing at her
with an air of surprise, and with a mocking smile which seemed to say:

"What! you, elegance personified, on the arm of this Spaniard who looks
like a genuine buffoon!"

Chamoureau, who had a most exalted opinion of his new acquaintance since
she had told him that she never took anything at a ball, walked with her
into the corridor, where the domino guided him toward the staircase,
saying:

"Let us go up, there are too many people here."

"With pleasure; let us go up."

When they reached the second floor the domino continued to ascend,
saying:

"Let us go up farther."

Nor did she stop at the third, but said to her escort:

"Let us keep on."

And Chamoureau made no objection.

"Does she mean to take me up to the small boxes in the dome?" he said to
himself. "Have I inspired her with a frenzied passion? But I believe the
small boxes aren't open on ball nights. No matter, let her take me where
she will; she's a beautiful woman, her figure is enchanting, her hand
small, her language distinguished. God grant that I may not find behind
her mask any resemblance to that horrible shoe-stitcher! Gad! I am
distrustful now!"

The gray domino stopped in the passage leading to the amphitheatre and
said to her escort:

"Excuse me, monsieur, for making you come up so high, but I was anxious
that we should be alone for what I have to say to you."

"I would have followed you up in a balloon, madame, if you had asked
me."

"Oh! you go much too fast perhaps, monsieur, for, after all, you do not
know me."

"But I desire most ardently to make your acquaintance."

"Well, monsieur, I shall surprise you, no doubt, but I will not deny
that I too should be very glad to know you better, and that it was with
that end in view that I took my place by your side just now in the
foyer."

"Is it possible that I am so fortunate as to be distinguished by you--so
fortunate that a fond hope may be permitted to take root in my heart?"

"Oh! don't go so fast, monsieur; do you think that none but sensual
liaisons may exist between two persons of different sexes?"

"I don't say just that; but I have reached the age when love is as
necessary to men as the bottle to a child; I say the bottle as I might
say the nurse! Madame, should I be too presumptuous if I asked to see
your face?"

"It was for the express purpose of showing you my features that I
brought you here, monsieur. I am very glad to have you know what sort of
person you have to do with."

As she spoke, Thélénie removed her mask and Chamoureau uttered an
exclamation, this time of admiration.

Indeed, the first sight of her face might well arouse that sentiment.
All her features were beautiful and clean cut; her teeth were beyond
reproach, her hair as black as the crow's wing, and her eyes, whose
brilliancy we have already noted, were unusually large, fringed by long
black lashes, and surmounted by perfectly arched eyebrows. Perhaps that
face would have lost a little of its brilliancy in the daylight; there
were circles round the eyes and the complexion was a little sallow; but
in the gaslight these slight blemishes vanished and left only lovely
features and a countenance instinct with animation.

Chamoureau was fairly dazzled.

"Oh! madame!" he stammered; "on my word--I did not expect--I mean--yes,
I did expect to see a pretty face--but yours passes all
understanding--you are a goddess! I am compelled to admit that Eléonore
was only small beer beside you."

This unique compliment brought a faint smile to the lovely brunette's
lips.

"Now that you have seen me, monsieur," she rejoined, "do you still
desire to make my acquaintance?"

"Do I desire it, entrancing creature! Ah! it is more than a desire now,
it is a craving! it is more than a craving, it is----"

"Well, monsieur, I give you permission to call on me, I will receive
your visits--but only on one condition."

"I agree beforehand to all conceivable conditions."

"There is only one, monsieur; but you must swear to abide by it; if you
should fail, my door would be closed to you instantly."

"That fact should assure you of my obedience, madame; pray tell me what
the condition is."

"First of all, monsieur, I must tell you my name: I am Madame de
Sainte-Suzanne."

"De Sainte-Suzanne--what a charming name! You must be descended from
that Suzanne whom two rakes tried to catch a glimpse of as she left her
bath."

"My condition is, monsieur, that you will tell nobody--_nobody_, you
understand--that you know me and that you call on me."

"Agreed, _belle dame_; although certainly one may well be proud to know
you, although one is entitled to be vain of your acquaintance, from the
instant that you forbid me to speak, I will not lisp a word."

"Do not forget that promise, monsieur, especially when you are with your
friends Messieurs Edmond Didier and Freluchon."

"Oh! I'll be very careful, I know that they are terribly garrulous,
especially Freluchon."

"And if my name should happen to be mentioned in your presence, if I
should be the subject of conversation, you will listen and keep silent."

"If you wish, I will not even listen."

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, you will listen and remember everything
that is said; for I am inquisitive and am anxious to know what people
think of me."

"In that case, never fear; I'll open both my ears so wide that I won't
lose a word."

"Now, monsieur, I must leave you. See, this is my address;--you may
return to your friends and sup with them."

As she spoke, Thélénie handed Chamoureau a card, then hurriedly replaced
her mask.

"What is this, fascinating woman! are you going to leave me?" said the
Spaniard, tucking the card under his doublet. "I hoped--I dared to think
that you would allow me to escort you to your home."

"No, monsieur, it's impossible; I have friends here, and I must join
them again. The day after to-morrow, between two o'clock and five, I
give you permission to call. Now, adieu; I forbid you to follow me."

And Thélénie ran rapidly downstairs.

"All the same," said Chamoureau, pulling up his boot-tops, "I have made
a fine conquest!"




VII

THE DANGER OF FALLING ASLEEP IN COMPANY


Thélénie found Mademoiselle Héloïse in the balcony box; she motioned to
her to come with her.

"Do you mean to say we are going already?" asked the little black
domino.

"Already! why, it's very late. See, the dancers have plenty of room now,
which means that the ball is nearing its end."

"Have you spoken to Monsieur Edmond?"

"No, no, it's of no use; I leave him with his mistress--a flower-maker,
my dear; really, it makes me blush to think that I was jealous of such a
creature."

"But there are some very pretty flower-makers!"

"What of that? she's a grisette, all the same, and that sort of an
affair won't keep Edmond in chains for long. I say again that I regret
having lowered myself by speaking to that girl. However, I have just
made the acquaintance of a person who will keep me advised concerning my
faithless lover's intrigues."

"It's that tall man dressed as a Spaniard, I suppose, that that woman
came to tell you about?"

"Exactly; an idiot who thinks he's made a conquest of me.--Come this
way, we'll get down more quickly."

As the two women started downstairs, the tall man who had talked with
Thélénie in her box, happened to be directly in front of her. He stopped
her, saying:

"How is this? you have left your hidalgo? Oh! my dear, you were very
foolish to leave him, for you won't find his like at this ball."

"And I am not looking for him, you see, as I am going away."

"Without Edmond Didier?"

"Without Edmond Didier!"

"Whom you leave behind in the company of an extremely pretty little
_débardeur_."

"I am absolutely indifferent to that, as you see!"

"Oh! you conceal your thoughts; it certainly was for some purpose that
you consented to pass your arm through that fellow's,--that man had the
appearance of a mustard sign."

"That doesn't concern you; adieu!"

"You are in a great hurry."

"I don't see that we have anything more to say to each other."

"Nothing more to say to each other! You always forget that we have, on
the contrary, a very serious subject to discuss. But I will come to see
you."

"Very well, I am horribly tired. Adieu!"

"You run away as if you had seen Paul Duronceray here."

The name of Duronceray caused the fair Thélénie a painful shock; despite
the mask that covered her face it was easy to detect the perturbation
which that name aroused in her mind.

She soon succeeded in recovering herself, however, and rejoined in a
harsh voice:

"You are mistaken, Beauregard, I run away from nobody; and if Monsieur
Duronceray were here, I should not be the one to run away--but you!"

"I! oh, no! for now he ought to thank me, instead of bearing me a
grudge."

"Very well! hunt him up then!"

And the pearl-gray domino disappeared with her companion.

Monsieur Beauregard stood for some moments lost in thought; then he
shrugged his shoulders and returned to the foyer, saying to himself:

"The fact remains that I have no one to sup with; it is time to be
thinking about that."

Chamoureau, having discreetly allowed a few minutes to elapse, that he
might not appear to be following the pearl-gray domino, who had
forbidden him to do so, decided at last to descend from the amphitheatre
passage. Now that he had an intrigue fairly started with a lady as
elegant as she was lovely, the widower had none but contemptuous glances
for all the women who passed him. He puffed himself out in his ruff,
held his head erect with much dignity, squared his shoulders under his
cloak, and no longer took the trouble to pull up his boot-tops. He was a
man who had _arrived_; in other words, a man who had what he wanted and
who no longer needed to put himself out in order to gain his ends.

Meanwhile he desired to find his intimate friend Freluchon and young
Edmond, because he began to feel an inclination to sup.

In the corridor on the first floor a domino stopped him, and Chamoureau
shuddered as he recognized the shoe-stitcher's false light hair.

"Ah! I have found you again at last, my dear monsieur!" cried the
scrawny creature. "I am so glad! I have been looking for you ever since
that unlucky galop, when I fell; you let go with your left arm, I was a
little dizzy, and--_patatras_! And I lost my cap, too, and had hard work
finding it; I bruised myself somewhere when I fell, but it won't amount
to anything."

"But why were you looking for me, madame?" rejoined the Spaniard,
wrapping himself in his cloak, with a savage glare. "I was not looking
for you."

"Why, as it's pretty late, I was thinking about supper, as you asked me
to take supper with your friends."

"I think I see myself taking you to supper! You had a stick of candy
from me, and that's all you will get; for it's not decent to deceive
everybody as you do. At your age, and with a face like yours--to try to
make a conquest! Go and hide yourself!"

"Let me tell you that you're an impudent wretch, monsieur, and that a
man don't talk like that to a woman. When a man has such spindleshanks
as yours, he shouldn't put on so many airs. Did anyone ever hear of such
a thing! This blockhead flinging a miserable stick of candy in my face!
You might stuff it into your nose, your sweetmeat; it would go in. I'll
show you what I think of it!"

And the domino hurled her stick of candy at Chamoureau's legs and
angrily turned her back on him.

While the widower gazed in stupefaction at the shattered fragments of
the bonbon, Freluchon took his arm.

"What the deuce are you doing here," he said, "in rapt contemplation
before these broken bits of candy?"

"Faith! I was thinking, as I looked at them, what a pity it is to waste
good stuff like that."

"Pshaw! let's go to supper; that will be better fun than staying here.
We are just going; we are all downstairs, and I left my Marquise
Pompadour to come in search of you; I should say that that was rather
kind on my part, eh?"

"Parbleu! you couldn't leave me here and go off without me, when my
clothes are at your rooms."

"Come, come; we are going to have supper at Vachette's."

"Why not at the Maison d'Or? it's nearer. You see I never thought to
bring a cloak or an overcoat to wear over my disguise. You have a
carriage, I trust?"

"A carriage, when there are eight of us! We will run; the weather's fine
and that will warm us up."

Edmond was in the vestibule with his little _débardeur_ on his arm; two
young men, friends of Freluchon and himself, each accompanied by an
unmasked domino, and the little woman dressed as a Louis XV marchioness
completed the party. The merry band walked away, shouting _oh!_ and
_éh!_ as the custom is during the Carnival, each with his chosen
companion on his arm; our widower alone had no one, which fact did not
prevent his shouting louder than the others, for he said to himself:

"If I haven't a woman on my arm at this moment, I flatter myself that
the one I have captivated is worth more alone than all four of their
supper companions."

They arrived at Vachette's, where Freluchon, being a man of forethought,
had engaged a private room beforehand. The table was laid; the ladies
removed their hoods, caps, gloves, everything that would interfere with
their eating; and they all whispered and laughed as they glanced at the
Spaniard.

"Who on earth is this tall scarecrow without a lady?" they asked
Freluchon; "is he a provincial on his first visit to Paris?"

"No, mesdames," Freluchon replied, "he's a widower who has sworn to
remain faithful to his defunct spouse; he's a male Artemis; he is
Orpheus, who has lost his Eurydice and is constantly looking for her. If
you wish, I will make him weep in a moment."

"No, no, thanks! we prefer to laugh. But why does he wear a disguise if
he's so grief-stricken?"

"To disguise his grief; he is persuaded that he has no right to divert
himself except in that costume."

"Mesdames, don't you think Freluchon is stuffing us?"

"To table! to table!"

"See, there are ten places, and only nine of us," observed one of the
young men.

"True," replied Freluchon, "I ordered supper for ten because I thought
that Chamoureau would bring a lady."

"That's so!" cried Edmond; "I hadn't noticed. How's this, my dear
Chamoureau, didn't you make a little acquaintance at the ball? What does
this mean? how, then, did you pass the time?"

Chamoureau drank a glass of chablis and replied with a triumphant smile:

"I beg pardon, messieurs, I beg pardon! if I haven't brought a lady to
supper, that doesn't prove by any means that I am not so highly favored
as you are by--by Cupid!"

"The deuce! do you mean it, Chamoureau?" cried Freluchon; "you've been
favored by Cupid! Come, tell us about it! When I found you in the foyer,
looking, as if stupefied, at the remains of a stick of candy, I supposed
that your presents had been repulsed with loss."

"Oh! not by any means! on the contrary my candy was not once repulsed;
in fact, I have given away a great deal of it during the night!"

"Really! then you have had a number of intrigues."

"I have had nothing else all night long; I left one woman to take
another, and vice versa!"

"What a Lovelace!"

"How is it, monsieur," said the little Pompadour, "that after making so
many conquests at the ball, you haven't brought a single one to supper?
That is not very gallant for a hidalgo!"

"Pardon me, pretty marchioness," rejoined Chamoureau, after tossing off
another glass of chablis, with which he constantly watered his oysters,
"my first conquests were worth little more than a stick of candy.
Frankly, I found that they were not what I was looking for, so I dropped
them, as Henri Monnier says in his _Famille Improvisée_. But the
last--oh! the last----"

"She dropped you, I suppose," said Freluchon.

"No indeed! _Diantre!_ let us not joke about her! it's a very serious
affair with her. Ah! Dieu!"

"Ha! ha! what a touching sigh!"

"Well, monsieur, why didn't you bring that one to supper--the one who is
responsible for that groan?"

"I promise you that I would have asked nothing better; indeed, I invited
her, but she refused--she couldn't come."

"Perhaps she was afraid of compromising herself?"

"I don't say that; and yet I can understand that in her position----"

"Ah! she's a woman with a position! Is she on the stage?"

"Well, hardly! no, no! she's a very great lady."

"About five feet six?"

"I am not joking; she's a lady of the very best society."

"Ha! ha! you rascal of a Chamoureau! I believe you are laughing at us."

"Or that she laughed at him!"

"I assure you that she did not laugh at me! In the first place, she
unmasked, and I saw the most captivating face. These ladies are very
pretty most assuredly, but my superb brunette would throw them all into
the shade!"

"I say, Spaniard, do you know that you make us tired with your
brunette!"

"If she wouldn't come to supper with you," said little Amélia, "that
proves right away that she was intending to take supper with someone
else, doesn't it, mesdames?"

"Yes, yes; Amélia is right."

"Oh! you are mistaken, mesdames; it isn't at all as you imagine."

"Well, Chamoureau, where do you expect to see your wonderful conquest
again? has she given you an assignation?"

"She has done more, my dear fellow: she has given me her address, with
permission to call on her--at her hôtel!"

"So she has a hôtel--furnished probably."

"And when he goes to ask for his charmer, the concierge will say: 'It's
on such a floor, monsieur, such a number; the numbers are on the
doors'--Ha! ha!"

"Laugh away! laugh all you please! 'He laughs best who laughs last!'"

"The moment you begin on proverbs, I haul down my flag. But where does
your conquest live? Perhaps I know her house."

"Freluchon, ask me for my fortune, ask me for my life----"

"You wouldn't give 'em to me, I know; go on."

"I would give them to you rather than tell you the name and abode of my
fascinating brunette!"

"Oho! is it as bad as that?"

"I have sworn to be discreet, and I shall keep my oath! If I hadn't
promised, it would be a different matter."

"Inasmuch as you have sworn--you will tell us the whole thing at
dessert!"

"Never!--better a thousand times to be a widower!"

"Bravo! that's not bad! I'll remember it!"

"You are making me talk nonsense, Freluchon; but in Carnival time----"

"Join me, mesdames and messieurs; I drink to Chamoureau's mysterious
conquest!"

"Good! here's her health!"

"For my part, I won't drink it," said the marchioness; "don't you do it,
mesdames; he had the face to say that she was prettier than we are!"

"Forgive him, mesdames; passion makes him blind."

"I am rather inclined to think that he's drunk."

Chamoureau did not stint himself while the young men were talking and
laughing with their companions, but addressed himself constantly to the
decanters within his reach, saying to himself:

"Ah! these strumpets won't drink to my conquest! All right! I'll drink
to her myself, in madeira and champagne! To your health, seductive,
enrapturing Sainte-Suzanne! You are as far above these lights-o'-love as
the oak is above the weed! You could crush them by a single glance; your
eyes shine like real diamonds, whereas all these creatures are simply
white topazes--To your health again, divine woman! I drain my glass to
you."

By dint of drinking of healths and draining his glass, Chamoureau
fuddled himself completely; then his head grew heavy, his eyes closed,
and he fell asleep.

Our sleeper was awakened by a succession of light taps on his shoulder.
He opened his eyes and looked about him. He was still in the small room
where he had supped, surrounded by the remains of the feast; but all his
table companions had disappeared, and he saw nobody but the waiter who
had roused him.

"Hallo! what's the meaning of this?" murmured Chamoureau, rubbing his
eyes. "Where are my friends--those gentlemen--and their ladies?"

"They all went away just a minute ago, monsieur."

"What! they went away without me, without waking me!"

"Yes, monsieur, they did it on purpose. I was going to wake you, but
Monsieur Freluchon said: 'No, don't wake him till we're gone; that will
teach him to go to sleep in our company!'"

"Oh! how stupid! some silly nonsense, some wretched joke all the time!
Why, bless my soul! it's broad daylight!"

"Parbleu! long ago, monsieur! it's nearly eight o'clock."

"Sapristi! and I have to go to Freluchon's to change my clothes!
However, there are plenty of cabs, luckily. Is there anything for me to
pay, waiter?"

"No, monsieur, it's all paid."

"Good!--To think that I haven't an overcoat to hide this costume!
Freluchon is to blame for that; 'you won't be cold,' he said.--It isn't
the cold I'm afraid of, but the street urchins.--Call a cab, waiter;
have it come as near the door as possible."

"Bless me! monsieur, they ain't allowed to come on the sidewalk."

"Well, then, right in front of the door."

Chamoureau covered himself with his cloak as well as he could; he pulled
his cap over his eyes, drew his chin inside his ruff, pulled up his
boot-tops, and when the waiter announced that the cab was waiting below,
rushed down the stairway and across the sidewalk so recklessly that he
nearly overturned a woman carrying a tray of bread.

The woman shouted after Chamoureau, who had knocked off three loaves,
calling him: "Beast, brute, dirty scum!" But he let her shout, for he
was already out of sight inside the cab; he gave Freluchon's address and
the cab drove away followed by the hoots of the urchins who had gathered
to see a masker, and by the shrieks of the woman with the tray on her
head, who was obliged to pick up her loaves.

They soon reached the house on Rue Saint-Georges in which Freluchon
lived. Chamoureau leaped out of his cab under the porte cochère, and
hastily paid the cabman and dismissed him; because, in his everyday
clothes, he could easily walk home.

That transaction completed, the widower said to the concierge:

"I am going up to Freluchon's room."

"What for?" demanded the concierge, eyeing the Spaniard from head to
foot.

"What for? why, don't you know me? I am Chamoureau, Freluchon's best
friend."

"Yes, I recognize monsieur now, in spite of his masquerade."

"I am going up to my friend's room to get my clothes--unless Freluchon
left them with you."

"Monsieur Freluchon left nothing with me, and it ain't worth while for
you to go up, as there's no one there. Monsieur Freluchon didn't come
home to sleep."

"What's that you say, concierge? it's impossible."

"It's the truth, monsieur."

"Then you have my clothes here?"

"No, monsieur. Last night, if you remember, Monsieur Freluchon came in
with a boy who had a bundle--your clothes, no doubt."

"Well, yes; what then?"

"The boy was going to leave the bundle here, but Monsieur Freluchon had
to go upstairs to get some money, so he took the bundle up, saying:
'Chamoureau would rather dress in my room than in yours.'"

"Very good; then my clothes are upstairs. Let's go and look for them; if
Freluchon isn't there, you must have his key."

"That's just what I haven't got; sometimes he leaves it with me, but he
generally takes it with him; and he didn't leave it last night."

"By Jove! this is too much! my clothes are in his room, he knows it, he
has his key in his pocket, and he doesn't come home to sleep! What is
going to become of me in my Spanish costume? It's an outrage to have to
go home dressed like this!"

"Monsieur can take a cab."

"I know that well enough; it wasn't worth while to send the other one
away. But I've got to get out of the cab; and I live on Carré
Saint-Martin, where there are always lots of people passing. If my
house had a porte cochère, I would have the cab drive under it; but
no--it's a house-door; and my concierge and all the neighbors will see
me come home in this state! Sapristi! this is an infernal trick for
Freluchon to play on me.--But I have an idea. Concierge, suppose you
lend me some of your clothes?"

"Oh! they wouldn't fit, monsieur; I am short and thin, and monsieur is
tall and stout."

"That's so; I'm a fine man, and you are not. Well, I must swallow the
absinthe. Concierge, be kind enough to step out and find me a cab."

"But I am all alone, you see, monsieur; my wife has gone out to work and
I can't leave my post."

"I will look out for your post--never fear."

"But that isn't the same thing; you don't know the tenants."

"That's of no consequence. Go; my reputation is at stake. Here's forty
sous for your trouble; I pay well, you see."

"All right, I'll go; I hope I'll find one on the stand."

"A cab I must have, dead or alive! do you hear?"

The concierge decided, albeit regretfully, to desert his post, and
Chamoureau stepped inside.

"Luckily the porte cochère is open," he said, "I shall not have to pull
the string!"




VIII

A FALSE CONCIERGE


Chamoureau concealed himself in the farthest corner of the concierge's
room, in an old armchair that might have served the purpose of a couch.
He placed himself with his back to the window through which visitors
addressed the functionary whom he represented, and, in order that he
might be observed less easily, he removed his plumed cap and replaced it
with an old cap that he found on a table.

So long as people simply passed and repassed the lodge, the false
concierge did not put himself out; he did not turn his head, but
contented himself with cursing Freluchon, who had put him in that
embarrassing position.

But soon someone opened the window, a man's head appeared, and a loud
voice inquired:

"Is Monsieur Delaroche in?"

Chamoureau did not stir and did not say a word. The voice repeated,
louder than before:

"Is Monsieur Delaroche in?"

The same immobility and the same silence on Chamoureau's part. Whereupon
the voice assumed a formidable intonation, capable of breaking all the
panes of the window.

"Sacrebleu! are you deaf? are you still asleep? This is the third time
I've asked if Monsieur Delaroche was in, and you don't answer! What kind
of a damned concierge is this!--Wait a bit, till I come into your lodge;
I'll shake you and teach you to sleep at this time of day!"

Chamoureau, who was not at all anxious that that gentleman should enter
the lodge and shake him, decided to answer without turning:

"He's in! yes, yes, he's in!"

"Why didn't you say so then, you old fool?"

"He's in! he's in!"

The loud-voiced individual went upstairs, and our widower hurled himself
in his chair once more, muttering:

"After all, I was a great fool not to answer. Probably no one has gone
out so early as this, and I don't risk anything by saying they're in;
and then, even if they should be out, what do I care?"

Soon various other persons appeared at the window.

"Is Madame Duponceau visible?"

"Yes, yes, she's there."

"Is Monsieur Bretonneau in?"

"He's there, he's there."

"Is there anybody at Mademoiselle Crémailly's?"

"She's there, she's there."

"Then she's back from the country?"

"She's there!"

"In the country, or here?"

"She's there, she's there!"

"Sapristi! tell me what you mean, concierge: is Mademoiselle Crémailly
still in the country, or has she come back to Paris?"

"She's there, she's there!"

"Very well, then I'll go up. Still on the fourth?"

"She's there!"

"Heavens! what a donkey that concierge is! one would say he was a
parrot--repeating the same thing over and over again."

"I'm beginning to get infernally tired of this!" said Chamoureau to
himself; "altogether too many people come to this house. The deuce! now
it's raining great guns! and my cab doesn't come! Can it be that there
wasn't one on the square? that's usually the way when it rains hard. O
Freluchon! you shall pay me for this! The rascal probably went home with
his Pompadour!"

Soon a lady's maid appeared at the window.

"Madame's paper, please, Monsieur Mignon," she said. "I am a little
late--not that madame's hair is dressed yet, but I must have time to
read the paper before she does, as usual; especially as there's a most
intensely exciting _feuilleton_ just now. It's too splendid for
anything, I tell you: four killed already, and one that they're getting
ready to poison! and a woman who always has a dagger hidden in her belt!
and a château where there are subterranean vaults with instruments of
torture, and the author describes the way of using them! There's an
interesting executioner and there's corpses and tortured people on every
page! Oh! such a lovely novel! Now that's what I call literature, and I
know what I'm talking about; I don't read all this mawkish stuff, not
me! I want a crime, a murder, in every chapter; then I say: 'there's an
author who has a wonderful talent and who has studied murders to some
purpose.'--But look here! I believe you're not listening to me! And
where's my paper? God bless my soul! he's still asleep! Well, I'll come
in and get it myself."

The young servant entered the room, looked over several papers that lay
on the table, and took her own, saying:

"You must have been kept up late last night, old Mignon? I'll bet it was
because Madame Duponceau went to the ball. There's a woman who's up to
snuff; she tells her old beau that she has a sick headache or one of her
nervous attacks, and means to go to bed at nine o'clock; so she
dismisses him with an: 'I'm going to dream of you, my loulou!' and he's
no sooner out of sight than she skips off to the ball with another man.
But still it's the custom, it's done everywhere, as the song says:

    "Trompe-moi, trompons-nous,
     C'est un plaisir assez doux!"

Bless my soul! he's really asleep.--Au revoir, Père Mignon. Take this,
to wake you up, as you haven't anything to say to me."

And the girl brought her fist down hard on the old cap that Chamoureau
had put on his head; then she ran laughing from the room, while the
unlucky widower, who dared not stir and had taken the blow without a
word, with difficulty extricated himself from the cap which was jammed
down on his nose.

"That servant is very familiar with the concierge," he muttered; "if I
were Madame Mignon, I would keep an eye on her.--And that cab doesn't
come! It seems as if everything was against me!--But what's all this
noise in the house? One would think there was a row on every floor. Gad!
I wish I were a long way from here!"

There was, in fact, a great shouting on the second floor, a quarrel on
the third, and a lively exchange of insulting epithets on the fourth.
One would have thought that the house was given over to pillage; all the
tenants were in the halls, the uproar increased momentarily and seemed
to approach the concierge's lodge. Soon the voices became distinct;
everybody seemed to be coming downstairs. Some persons went out; but the
tenants collected in front of the concierge's window and began to abuse
him.

"So this is the way you carry out my orders, is it, you blockhead of a
concierge?" cried a young man wrapped in a handsome dressing-gown. "It
seems to me that I pay you well enough for you to give some attention to
what I say to you. I told you last night that if anyone should ask for
me this morning, I was not at home, not at home to anybody! it was
impossible to misunderstand me. I added simply: 'You will not let
anything come up but my breakfast, my chocolate, which they make for me
in the restaurant close by.'--A child always brings it, so that you
couldn't make any mistake about that. But lo and behold! someone rings;
I say to myself: 'there's my chocolate.' I open the door, and what do I
see? my tailor! A creature whom I left because he dressed me wretchedly,
and now he insists on my paying him a regular apothecary's bill--a bill
in which he charges sixty francs for a waistcoat! And that fellow
shrieks and threatens me! I was tempted to pitch him over the
stair-rail.--And it's you, you idiot, who are responsible for this
scene! Pay a tailor! In God's name, what do you take me for?"

Next came a lady's maid in a frenzy.

"Why did you let anybody go up to Madame Duponceau's? You know very well
that madame is never visible before one o'clock at the earliest. You
have been told enough times! I had gone out to buy some rolls; the bell
rang; madame thought I had forgotten my key and opened the door, and
there was a strange gentleman who's paying court to madame and has never
seen her except by candle-light. You can judge of my mistress's despair,
for her face wasn't made up; every morning she puts on white and pink
and red and black--paints herself all colors--to say nothing of the
false hair and artificial teeth and substitutes of all sorts.--And to
show herself to monsieur in that state! she was furious; she slammed the
door in his face, saying: 'I'm not in!' But the trick was turned all the
same; the stranger stood like a statue on the landing, and when I came
back my mistress paid me and discharged me; I've lost my place--and all
because this old goose of a concierge said that Madame Duponceau was
visible at this time of the morning! But this ain't the last of it; I
must have another place or else I'll complain to the landlord and have
you sent about your business."

"I," said a man, "asked him ten times if Mademoiselle Crémailly had come
back from the country; he finally said yes, so I went up to the fourth
floor--and when one's lame, it isn't pleasant to go up four flights of
stairs--and I found nobody but the cook, breakfasting with a soldier.
Very pretty, on my word! I'll let Mademoiselle Crémailly know about it."

"I was breakfasting with my cousin, monsieur; that ain't a crime. He was
on duty last night at the Opéra, and he looked in this morning to say
good-day; where's the harm? I asked him to breakfast with me--just a
boiled egg--there's no need of making a long story out of that. You can
tell Mademoiselle Crémailly if you want to. I'm not afraid of her
discharging me for such a little thing as that. This concierge hasn't
got two sous' worth of common sense, to tell you mademoiselle had come
back from the country, when she's going to be there at least two weeks
longer! He must have had too much white wine this morning."

A lady enveloped in a simple _peignoir_ cried even louder than the
others:

"You are a miserable villain, concierge! You will be the cause of a
duel. Moncornu found Hippolyte in my room. To be sure, Hippolyte was
doing nothing wrong there; he had taken off his overcoat, it is true,
but only so that he could light my fire better. Every day a man takes
off his overcoat to kindle a lady's fire. That's the way the most
harmless actions are twisted into crimes in a jealous rival's eyes.
Moncornu rushed upon Hippolyte, using language which I will not repeat.
Hippolyte is not the man to allow himself to be insulted without
replying. I tried in vain to pacify them. From words they came to
threats, and finally they went out to fight. O God! if Hippolyte is
killed, I shall not survive him! If Moncornu is the one, I shall never
be consoled; still I would rather it should be Moncornu than
Hippolyte.--You horrid brute of a concierge, you are the cause of all
this! Your orders were to say: 'Madame is at the bath,' as usual, and
you said: 'She's there, she's there!' You're a blockhead, a donkey! you
never were fit to keep a door!"

All these clamors and upbraidings assailed Chamoureau's ears without
inducing him to turn his head; on the contrary, he slunk down still
deeper into his chair and tried to show nothing but his cap. But the
obstinate silence of the person whom they all supposed to be the
concierge simply intensified the general indignation. They shouted at
him:

"What have you to say to all this?"

"Come, speak!"

"Tell us why you did it."

"You see, he won't say a word!"

"Monsieur doesn't even condescend to answer us."

"Don't you hear us, concierge? have you suddenly gone deaf?"

"Can it be that he's still asleep?"

"That isn't possible; we've made noise enough to wake the dead."

"This silence isn't natural!"

"He doesn't move; can he have had a stroke of apoplexy?"

"We must find out what the matter is. The poor fellow! here we are
abusing him, and perhaps he is dead!"

Meanwhile someone had opened the door, and several persons rushed in at
the same moment. They ran to the easy-chair and began by turning it
round so that they could see the person seated in it; whereupon there
were exclamations of surprise on every side.

"It isn't Père Mignon!"

"It isn't the concierge!"

"It's a false concierge!"

"Just look at the costume; it's a Spaniard of the time of Louis XIII."

"It's a masker."

"He isn't masked."

"It's a masker, all the same; that's what they call people disguised."

"It's a thief who broke into the lodge while the concierge was away."

"He's taken his cap already."

"Answer; what are you doing here, merry-andrew?"

Chamoureau decided to rise; he tossed the concierge's cap aside, resumed
his own cap with the plumes, and replied, affecting a dignified air:

"In the first place, messieurs and mesdames, I am not a thief and you
will soon have proof that I am not. I am waiting for the concierge to
return; he has gone to get me a cab, for you will understand that I
could not go home on foot in this disguise."

"But you don't belong in the house. Why did you come here?"

"I came here, intending to go to the apartment of my intimate friend
Freluchon, on the fourth floor, opposite Mademoiselle Crémailly, because
my clothes are there and I expected to put them on. But Freluchon did
not come home, which was very wrong on his part, as he has my clothes."

"Oh! it very often happens that he doesn't come home at night," murmured
the young servant who came for the newspaper, smiling as she said it.

"You understand now, messieurs and mesdames, why I let everybody go up;
Père Mignon did not tell me his orders, he didn't have time; besides,
even if he had, I should probably have made mistakes, for I am beginning
to realize that the trade of concierge demands strict attention as well
as memory."

Chamoureau's explanation seemed plausible, but no one was willing to go
away until the concierge came. His wife arrived first, however, and when
she saw the gentleman in fancy costume in her room, she exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! my husband has been changed! Who in the world is this
Spaniard? What's happened to Mignon? I want my husband! He's never been
to Spain!"

They strove to pacify the concierge's wife by repeating what Chamoureau
had just told them, but she refused to credit the Spaniard's story and
continued to cry:

"That ain't true, I say. Mignon wouldn't have left his post for this
disguised man that nobody knows. He took Mignon's place; what's he done
with him? If my husband don't return soon, I'll have this carnivalizer
arrested!"

But the concierge's return put an end to his wife's shrieks and to the
tenants' suspicions.

"Faith, monsieur," he said, going up to Chamoureau, "I had lots of
trouble finding a cab for you; I went to at least four stands, and not a
cab to be seen! I met an empty one at last, on Rue de Provence a minute
ago, and brought it here. But if I'd known I should be away so long, I
certainly wouldn't have done your errand for you!"

"Especially as your substitute does such nice things!" cried Madame
Duponceau's maid.

"Let me hear no more of all that nonsense!" said Chamoureau, leaving the
room.--"Your husband isn't lost, you see, Madame Mignon.--Messieurs and
mesdames, you must be convinced now that I am not a thief. I have the
honor to salute you."

With that, Chamoureau hurried to the sidewalk and was stupefied to find
there an open _milord_.

"Why, concierge," he cried, in dire distress, "I asked you to get a
closed cab, so that I couldn't be seen."

"Go and get one for yourself and leave us in peace!" exclaimed Madame
Mignon, who was still in a bad humor.

Chamoureau made the best of it, jumped into the _milord_, gave the
driver his address, and throughout the journey held his cap in front of
his face, like a fan.




IX

A BUSINESS AGENT'S OFFICE


Chamoureau occupied a very comfortable apartment on what is called the
Carré Saint-Martin, that is to say, the junction of Rue Saint-Martin and
the boulevard. There he carried on the profession of business agent; he
undertook the purchase or sale of houses, the investment of funds, the
recovery of old debts, in short, everything which business
agents--_hommes d'affaires_--generally undertake; most of them having
passed the examination for admission to the roll of advocates, and some
having even assumed that title, they are generally familiar with the
laws and with all the tricks of the profession.

Chamoureau did not lack clients, for he had the reputation of being an
honorable man, and was one in fact; in his case that quality was an
advantageous substitute for cleverness, which unfortunately is not
always a guaranty of uprightness. By which we do not mean that a man may
not be both a fool and a knave. Nature is sometimes as lavish of evil as
of good qualities.

Several persons had already called to confer with the business agent on
the morning following the Opéra ball. They had found no one but the
woman employed to do his housework, who always found the key at the
concierge's lodge. Not finding Chamoureau, she assumed that he had gone
out very early on business.

At eight o'clock, a man from the country made his appearance. He seemed
to be half-bourgeois, half-peasant; he was about fifty years of age,
short and thickset; his head was set low between his shoulders; his
features were ugly and without distinction, their only expression being
that distrust so customary among country people, who are always
suspicious of those who live in cities and believe that they are always
trying to cheat them; probably because when they themselves are at home
they have no scruples about cheating city folk.

This man asked the concierge if Monsieur Chamoureau, business agent, was
at home, and the concierge replied:

"He must be; I haven't seen him go out;" the fact being that he had not
seen him come in; but concierges do not always notice the goings and
comings of their tenants.

The little stout man started upstairs, but thought better of it and
returned to the concierge.

"I say--between you and me--this Monsieur Chamoureau who keeps a real
estate office--can I trust him? is he a good business man? You see how
it is--I'm from the country, but I don't want to get cheated here in
Paris! And, you see, I've heard as how your business agents was as
likely as not to be thieves who did their business at the expense of the
poor devils who put theirs in their hands."

"Oh! monsieur, you needn't have any fear about Monsieur Chamoureau; he's
a very square man! nobody's ever said a word against his honesty. He
pays everybody cash--even his baker; he don't owe the least bit of a
debt in the quarter!"

"Well, well! that's good enough! and he ain't a woman's man--a rake--a
spendthrift?"

"Not at all; he leads a very quiet life and don't put on any airs; he
don't stay out too late--always comes home when the theatre's out, when
he goes there. To be sure, the theatres keep it up nowadays till an hour
that makes it unpleasant for concierges--but still, that ain't Monsieur
Chamoureau's fault."

"That's good too! and is he married? has he got a wife and children?"

"No; he was married, but he's been a widower a short time; and he keeps
up his regret for his wife, which is very noble on his part; he can't
talk about her without crying."

"Oh, well! if he cries for his wife, I see that I can trust him. So I'll
just go up and hand over my papers to him. You see, it's about
collecting some money for me at some of the departments and from
notaries. They told me like this: 'You just give some business agent a
power of attorney and he'll attend to it all for you.'--So I had the
power of attorney made out with the name left blank; and you think I can
safely turn it over to your Monsieur Cha--Chamouilleau?"

"You can, monsieur; you needn't have any fear."

"In that case, I'll go up. Good-day, monsieur le concierge."

The little man arrived at Chamoureau's door on the second floor.

"Monsieur went out early," said the charwoman, "but he'll certainly be
back soon; if you'd like to wait, please take a seat."

"I'll wait as long as I've come; I'd rather wait than go back."

The countryman sat down in a sort of reception room lined with shelves
which were filled with boxes, all of which gave the room a sort of
resemblance to a solicitor's office; only the clerks were lacking. But
the sight of boxes and of docketed files of papers always produces a
great effect on clients of the type of the little thickset man. He
looked around, evidently impressed, and said to himself:

"Yes, yes! this must be a famous business agent; there's lots of papers
in them boxes!"

The countryman had been awaiting Chamoureau's return about fifteen
minutes, when another person arrived. This was a man of middle age,
with a bald head, long face and bumptious manner, who at once reminded
one of the Joseph Prudhomme so well delineated by Henri Monnier.

This gentleman, who was dressed all in black, with a white cravat, which
did not prevent his having a decidedly dirty look, entered the room with
his head in the air, saying:

"I wish to speak at once with Monsieur Chamoureau, business agent;
announce me, servant; I am Aimé-Désiré-Jules Beaubichon, professor of
bookkeeping; however, your master knows me; I have seen him twice--in
this domicile,--concerning the delicate affair, the purport of which I
have succinctly laid before him. It relates to the subject of marriage;
he has told me of a young woman whose virtue and morals he will answer
for; and I am most particular touching those qualifications, provided
that a suitable dowry be added to them, the face and form being in my
eyes mere superfluities of little importance to a housewife in watching
her soup-kettle!--I am disposed to take upon myself the bonds of
matrimony once more if all the conditions are in accord with my social
position, which, I venture to say, is as honorable as it is lucrative;
fifteen hundred francs a year, without counting gifts from pupils--when
they make any!"

The servant continued to dust the furniture as she listened to this
harangue; when it was at an end, she replied:

"Monsieur Chamoureau went out early; he's sure to be back soon; if you'd
like to wait--monsieur here has been waiting a quarter of an hour."

Monsieur Beaubichon cast a sidelong glance at the man from the country,
who put his hand to his hat; whereupon the professor concluded to touch
his own slightly and to address his companion.

"Is monsieur also awaiting Monsieur Chamoureau?"

"Yes, monsieur, with your permission."

"I have no intention of objecting. Would monsieur care to learn
bookkeeping, double or single entry?"

"Me! learn bookkeeping! God bless me! what for?"

"What for? why, in order to know it."

"And what use would it be to me?"

"Why, to keep your books; to have everything down in black and white!"

"In the first place, I haven't got any books--oh, yes! except the
_Country Cook_ for the women, and fairy stories for the young ones, and
their catechism for 'em to learn their lesson out of; but all of them
keep themselves in a closet; there ain't no need for us to learn to keep
'em."

"Dense ignorance!" muttered Monsieur Beaubichon, shrugging his
shoulders.--"Then you are not in business, monsieur?" he continued,
aloud.

"Oh, yes! I sell wine from my own vines, and fruit from the orchard when
there's a good crop!"

"Well, then you must have books to write in--'sold Monsieur So-and-So so
much; received from Monsieur Thingumbob so much.'"

"It ain't worth while, for I almost always sell for cash, and then, if
anyone does owe me money, why, there ain't no danger of my forgetting it
before he pays me."

The professor gave another shrug and began to pace the floor.

"And people say that we are going forward, they declare that our
progress is constant! But where is this boasted progress, I pray to
know, when this countryman has no ledger wherein to keep a running
account with his apricots and his pears!--Servant, your master does not
return; a pupil awaits me; I go to place my learning at his service, to
instil my knowledge into him. I will return. Beg Monsieur Chamoureau to
wait for me, and may he be pregnant with information concerning the
marriageable young lady!"

The gentleman in black having retired, the countryman said to the
charwoman:

"Who in the devil is that fellow who puffs himself out when he talks,
just exactly like a bladder when you blow it up? He looks like a
schoolmaster--with his books he wants to learn me to keep. And then I
saw how he hoisted up his shoulders and called me 'dirty'[H] under his
breath! But just let him come down our way, and I'll bet he don't so
much as know how to plant beans or hoe potatoes! All these fellows that
put on so many airs in the city ain't good for nothing in the country;
they don't know how to use a spade nor yet a pickaxe! But it's my
opinion that the man what makes the vegetables grow that you eat
deserves to be thought just as much of as that critter what makes
scrawls on books."

The servant continued to dust the furniture, nodding her head
approvingly.

"I'd like to know if your master, Monsieur Cha--Chabouleau puts on airs
and eyes country folks like that crow that just went out; because if he
does, why, I wouldn't give him any business of mine, d'ye see."

"No, monsieur, no; never fear. Monsieur Chamoureau is too well-bred not
to be polite to everybody, especially his clients. He'd take off his hat
to a child two years old, if the child should give him his business."

"All right! but seemin' to me your bourgeois is staying out a long
while."

"In Paris, monsieur, one can never be sure how long it will take to do
an errand."

"That's so; because there's so many carriages passing--that delays you.
Well, here it is raining now!"

"And monsieur didn't bring his umbrella."

"They told me nobody used umbrellas in Paris now, as there's so many
busses that folks never walk."

"That's an exaggeration, monsieur; people still go on foot when they
prefer to walk."

"They told me that there's going to be a railroad underneath Paris, so's
you can take the underground and go quicker when there's too many people
on top. That ain't a bad idea.--But, sapristi! the bourgeois don't seem
to come back."

Twenty minutes more had passed, when there was a great uproar in the
street; hoots and shouts of laughter, and yells from the street urchins.
The servant opened a window on that side to ascertain the cause of the
tumult.

The _milord_ containing our widower had stopped in front of the house,
and before he had had time to alight, a crowd had collected round the
cab, because its occupant was in plain sight.

Shouts of _"à la chienlit!"_ went up on all sides. The concierge stood
in his doorway, looking on with the rest. Chamoureau, having paid his
driver, could hardly force his way through the crowd, which yelled at
him:

"Oh! you Spaniard!"

"Just look at him! ain't he dazzling with his spangles!"

"He's a Spaniard--he's a regular sun!"

"But he'll lose his boots; he's treading on 'em!"

At last, by dint of pushing this way and that, Chamoureau reached the
door; he tried to enter in a hurry, but the concierge barred the way,
saying with an air of importance:

"What do you want? where are you going?"

"What's that? where am I going? Why, to my rooms, parbleu!"

"You have evidently made a mistake; we don't let rooms to buffoons!"

"On my word! this is too much!--How is this, concierge? don't you
recognize me--Chamoureau?"

The concierge was stupefied; he could not believe his eyes and his ears;
he could not conceive that that sedate and orderly tenant, who always
wept when his wife was mentioned, could come home at ten o'clock in the
morning, dressed as a Spaniard.

But Chamoureau left him to digest his amazement and hurried upstairs.
The servant, who had not recognized her master, had just left the
window, saying:

"It's a masker coming home from the ball! The deuce! he has made a night
of it and no mistake! this is none too early to come home!"

"Do you mean to say that balls last till the next forenoon?" asked the
countryman.

"No, monsieur, they end at daybreak, but after that the maskers go to
supper and raise the deuce at wine-shops; three-quarters of 'em get
tight and don't go home till they haven't got another sou to spend, like
this fellow who's just come into the house, I suppose. I'd like to know
who he is. He must be a regular loose fish, to come home from the ball
after ten o'clock in the morning. I'll ask the concierge who he is."

The bell rang and the woman ran to open the door.

"This time it's monsieur, sure!" she said.

But seeing before her a man in fancy costume, she was about to prevent
his entrance, as the concierge had done. But Chamoureau pushed her aside
with some force.

"Are you going to make a fool of yourself like the concierge?" he cried,
"Sapristi! here I am at home at last! thank God for that!"

He fell into a chair, snatched off his cap, unbuckled his cloak, and
shook his feet to rid himself of his top-boots, and as they were far too
large, he sent one in the face of the countryman who had been waiting so
long for him, and whom, in his hurried home-coming, he had not noticed.

The little thickset man, who was staring at Chamoureau with wide-open
eyes, like a fisherman who thinks that he sees something at the end of
his line, seemed far from pleased at receiving the Louis XIII boot in
his face, and cried out:

"Well, look here, you--Carnival--do you take my face for a boot-jack?
What sort of an animal is this, anyway?"

Thereupon the business agent, perceiving that there was a man seated in
one corner of the room, made him a low bow.

"I beg pardon, monsieur, a thousand pardons; I didn't see you.--Madame
Monin, my slippers, at once. What does monsieur wish?"

"What I wish is to speak to the master of the house, the business
man--because I have business--and it ain't a small matter either--to put
in his hands."

"I, monsieur, am the master of the house, Chamoureau,--at your service.
We will step into my office, when I have my slippers and dressing
gown.--Come, Madame Monin."

"I'm looking for 'em, monsieur, but I don't know where you've hid 'em; I
can't put my hand on 'em."

"What's that! is that the truth? you're the business agent?" said the
countryman, scrutinizing Chamoureau from head to foot.

"To be sure, monsieur, I am the man."

"Are you always dressed like this--with spangles all over you, and such
a funny-looking cravat?"

"No, monsieur, this is a disguise which I assumed, contrary to my
custom; it must not be regarded as establishing a precedent."

"Ah! so you spent the night at the masquerade, and then you went round
drinking at wine-shops--raising the devil, as your servant said just
now!"

"You are mistaken, monsieur; a man may go to the ball by chance--there's
no law against it--but that is no reason why he should visit wine-shops
and raise the devil afterward."

"Well then, as your fandangoes end at daylight, what have you been doing
since then that makes you come home so late, if you haven't been the
rounds of the wine-shops?"

"It seems to me that these are rather unusual questions, monsieur."

"Damnation! monsieur, let me tell you that what I've seen sets one to
thinking. Do you suppose I'm going to put my business in your hands, and
give a power of attorney to collect a plump little sum of money to a man
what dresses like this and shows himself in the streets in such a dress
at this time of day--goes on sprees in short, at an age when he ought to
behave himself! _Nenni_, nenni! this sort of thing don't give me
confidence in you. I'll go and look for a business agent who ain't up to
such tricks!"

And the countryman rose and prepared to leave the room.

Chamoureau, who was very uncomfortable because he had taken off his
boots and had not received his slippers, none the less ran after the
client who was about to escape him, and seized his arm, saying:

"For heaven's sake, monsieur, don't judge by appearances; I am not a
frequenter of balls. Besides, here in Paris a man may amuse himself a
little and still attend to his business; indeed, it often happens that
you meet at a ball or at the theatre the very persons you want to
see.--Madame Monin! sapristi! my slippers!"

"Tell me, then, where you hid them, monsieur."

"Look under my bed.--Entrust your business to me, monsieur, and rest
assured that I will look after it with all the zeal that I always
display in behalf of my clients, who, I venture to say, have never had
occasion thus far to do anything but congratulate themselves on having
placed their interests in my hands."

"_Ouiche!_ that's all very fine talk! but I believe what I see.--They
told me that Monsieur Chamoureau was a widower, but that he still cried
for his wife."

"That's the truth, monsieur, the exact truth.--O Eléonore! why are you
not here to defend your husband!"

"They ain't under the bed, I just looked there."

"Look in my somno.--Yes, monsieur, I mourn for my wife! If she were
alive, she'd have found my slippers before this!"

"When a man mourns for his dead wife, he don't go masquerading round the
streets in broad daylight! No, no! I don't trust you!"

At that moment they heard loud talking on the stairs. The door, which
was not locked, was thrown open with violence, and the professor of
bookkeeping rushed into the room, shouting at the top of his voice:

"What have I learned? Great God! He has worn a disguise, attended public
balls, and carried disregard of propriety so far as to appear in broad
daylight and in his own neighborhood, dressed in a costume to which it
is impossible to give a name.--Yes! it is not a falsehood, a fable, a
false rumor; here he is, still in that absurd costume! and he, a man who
keeps a business office, abandons himself to such libertinage--and
without his shoes!--What a shocking disguise!"

"Ah! good-morning, Monsieur Beaubichon, I am at your service in one
moment.--Come, Madame Monin, will you give me my slippers or not?"

"They ain't in your somno either, monsieur."

"You are at my service, monsieur!" rejoined the professor, puffing like
an ox; "but I, monsieur, I am not at your service! I no longer propose
that you shall dispose of my destiny and my future.--Upon my word!--I
have come to tell you, monsieur, that I withdraw my confidence from you
and that you shall find no wife for me--for me, Aimé-Désiré-Jules
Beaubichon; the idea of my taking a wife on the guaranty of a pseudo
Spaniard! of a man who so far forgets his manhood as to deck himself in
tinsel that gives him the aspect of a mountebank!"

"I do the same, monsieur," said the countryman; "I withdraw my
confidence from him; to be sure, I hadn't given it to him, but I
withdraw it all the same. I was going to give him my power of attorney.
But nay, nay, Lisette! he won't have a chance to throw my money away at
balls!"

"He was employed to find me a spouse, monsieur; but where would he go to
find one? to _Valentino_, or the _Salle-Barthélemy?_ For me, who desire
good morals and virginity before all things! He would arrange a marriage
for me with one of those little women whom all Paris knows, a _girl of
marble_, monsieur; when I say _marble_, I use a theatrical form of
expression--do you understand?"

"Faith, no!"

"I am not surprised."

While these two gentlemen indulged in their recriminations and
reflections, far from flattering to the business agent, the latter,
finding that his slippers did not come, and being averse to standing on
the floor in his stockings, decided to get down on his hands so that he
might more easily look under the furniture and find that indispensable
portion of his costume. His position, as he crawled around his room on
all fours, was ill adapted to restore the confidence of the persons whom
the sight of his disguise had so exasperated. Monsieur Beaubichon
therefore wrathfully jammed his hat over his eyes, crying:

"Observe, monsieur, observe the results of dissipation! A man who should
be as serious as the law itself, is obliged to crawl around his room on
all fours, in search of objects which should be at his hand!--I go, and
never in my life will I set foot inside this office! Keep your
marriageable women, monsieur, or marry them to your clients--this
professor of bookkeeping will not endorse them. Good-day!"

"I follow your lead, monsieur; I'll keep my power of attorney and try to
find a business agent who won't fling yellow boots in my face.
Good-day!"

"Go to the devil! and leave me in peace! for I'm sick of you both!"
retorted Chamoureau; and, weary of his unsuccessful search, he sat on
the floor in the middle of the room. But at that moment the servant
returned with a victorious air, holding the slippers in her hand.

"They were in the sideboard, monsieur," she cried; "you must have been
very absent-minded to put 'em there."




X

AGATHE AND HONORINE


Chamoureau thrust his feet into his slippers, then ran to his office,
which was also his bedroom, and made haste to divest himself of his
Spanish costume, saying to himself:

"That infernal disguise has cost me dear! it has already caused me to
lose two clients, and I shall have to grease my concierge's paw to keep
from telling all over the neighborhood that I came home this morning in
Carnival costume after passing the night away from the house!--And then
he'll promise not to talk, and he'll tell everybody! Anyway, all the
neighbors saw me--the fruitwoman and the grocer.--Ah! this will be a
very bad thing for my business.--That was a vile trick for you to play
on me, Freluchon! Still, it is possible that he didn't do it purposely.
In his Pompadour's company, he probably forgot that he had his key in
his pocket. Now I have got to send all this stuff back to the costumer;
another messenger to pay! Gad! I spent a lot of money last night!"

Our widower heaved a deep sigh; but in a moment his face lighted up, and
the clouds that darkened his brow vanished. The memory of the pearl-gray
domino had changed the color of Chamoureau's thoughts from black to
rose; he rubbed his hands and reflected:

"I am an ungrateful wretch to curse this costume. Even if it has caused
me the loss of Monsieur Beaubichon's confidence--a trivial loss, for the
fellow would give me only twenty-five francs to arrange a good marriage
for him!--to make up for that, do I not owe to it the conquest of that
magnificent brunette--a fascinating woman! fine figure, fine waist--a

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