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Le Cocu (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XVIII)

by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #40959 · 688,372 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Le Cocu (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XVIII)

Author: Paul de Kock


        
Release date: October 6, 2012 [eBook #40959]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LE COCU (NOVELS OF PAUL DE KOCK VOLUME XVIII) ***




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







[Illustration]

A RECONCILIATION

_We had drawn near to each other, having both left the table to go to
the window. I do not know how it happened, but I soon found Eugénie in
my arms; then we kissed, we walked away from the window, and----_




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME XVIII

LE COCU

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

[Illustration]

GEORGE BARRIE’S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

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




PREFACE

BECAUSE OF THE TITLE


I have never written prefaces to my novels; I have always considered
what an author says in a preface, what he therein explains beforehand to
the reader, as utterly useless. The reader would be entitled to reply,
as Alceste replies to Orontes: “We shall see.”

Nor have I ever supposed that the public read a novel in order to talk
with its author. It matters little to my readers, I presume, whether I
am young or old, short or tall, whether I write in the morning or at
night; what they want is a work that pleases them, in which there is
enough of truth to enable them to identify themselves with the
characters; and if the author constantly talks of himself and stations
himself between his heroes and his reader, it seems to me that he
destroys the illusion and injures his own work.

My reason for placing a preface at the head of this book has to do with
the title--that title which has caused persons to recoil in dismay who
do not balk at _executioners_, _damned_, _tortured_, _guillotined_, and
other pleasant conceits in which authors indulge without objection. I
propose, not to justify myself, for I do not think myself guilty, but to
reassure some of my readers of the gentler sex, whom my title might
alarm beyond measure.

_Le Cocu!_ What is there so indecent in the word, pray? In the first
place, what does it mean? A married man who is deceived by his wife, a
husband whose wife is unfaithful. Would you like me to give my book such
a title as _The Husband whose Wife was False to Her Vows_? That would
resemble a Pontoise poster. Was it not clearer and simpler to take the
one word which, alone, means all that?

You might have called it the _Predestined_, someone may say. My answer
to that is that that title would have been excellent for those who
understood it, but that very many people would never have guessed that
it meant cuckold; that everybody is not familiar with such conventional
language, and that I write to be understood by everybody.

But, after all, why enter upon such a crusade against a word so often
and so happily employed on the stage? Who does not know that the
immortal Molière called one of his plays _The Imaginary Cuckold_? I have
seen that play acted, and consequently advertised in the streets of
Paris, less than three years ago--at a time, however, when we permitted
ourselves many fewer liberties than at present; and yet I saw no one
draw back with horror or disgust, or indulge in any of these indignant,
nervous outbursts on reading the poster of the Théâtre-Français on which
the announcement of _The Imaginary Cuckold_ was printed. I think,
however, that we should be more strict with respect to what is said on
the stage, than with respect to what is put in a novel; for, if I take
my daughter to the play, and if the characters make unseemly remarks, I
cannot prevent my daughter from hearing them; whereas it is a very easy
matter for me to prevent her reading a novel in which such things are
expressed.

But I repeat, the word cuckold should raise a laugh, and that is all. Is
not that the effect which it produces at the theatre?

        “Aye, this is very fine; my children will be gentlemen,
    but I shall be a cuckold unless I look to it.”

          (_George Dandin_, Act I.)

    “Truly a useful lesson for our neighbor;
     And if all husbands who live in this town
     Would thus receive their wives’ adorers,
     The roll of cuckolds would not be so long.”

         (_L’École des Femmes_, Act IV.)

    “This popinjay, speaking with all respect,
     Makes me a cuckold, madame, at his own sweet will.”

         (_Sganarelle_, Sc. XVI.)

    You shall learn, knave, to laugh at our expense,
    And, lacking due respect, to make men cuckolds.

         (_Sganarelle_, Sc. XVII.)

    “His heart was seen to burn,
     Despite us and our teeth, with an illicit flame;
     And so at last, striving to be convinced,
     I learned, nor boasted, he had made me cuckold.”

        (MONTFLEURY, _La Femme Juge et Partie_.)

    “What! I myself cast blame and obloquy upon myself!
     Myself proclaim the shame of my own wife!
     And, although at last I am too well persuaded,
     Seek witnesses to prove that she has made me cuckold.”

        (Ibid.)

I know that someone will say: “What was all right long ago may not be
right now; other times, other morals.”

I will answer: Other times, other customs, other styles of clothes,
other hours for meals,--that is all very true; but as to other morals, I
refuse to believe it. We have the same passions, the same failings, the
same absurdities as our fathers. I am fully convinced that we are no
better than they; those passions and vices may be concealed under more
polished forms, but the substance is always the same. Civilization makes
men more amiable, more clever in concealing their faults; the progress
of knowledge makes them better informed and less credulous. But whereby
will you prove to me that it makes them less selfish, less ambitious,
less envious, less dissipated? No; the men of to-day are no better than
those of an earlier day, or than those who will live a thousand years
hence, if men still exist at that time, which I will not assert, but
which may be presumed. Let us not be scandalized to-day by what made our
ancestors laugh; let us not make a show of being so strict, so
fastidious--for that proves nothing in favor of our virtue. At the
theatre respectable mothers of families laugh heartily at a somewhat
broad jest, but kept women make wry faces, or hold their fans before
their eyes.

Secondly, when authors go so far in what is called the romantic style,
why should people be any more rigorous with respect to the jovial style,
in regard to pictures of society? Because I describe a contemporaneous
scene, must I be on my guard against allowing my pen too free a swing?
Is that privilege reserved exclusively for those who carry us back to
past ages, and who array their characters in vast top boots and short
cloaks?

While I am addressing my readers, especially those of the fair sex, I
cannot resist the temptation to reply to the criticism that has
sometimes been made to the effect that I write immoral books.

Books that are merry, that tend to arouse laughter only, may be a little
free, without being licentious for that reason. _Although sensuality is
dangerous, jests never arouse it._ A work which makes the reader sigh,
which excites the imagination, is far more dangerous than one which
causes laughter. Those persons who have failed to see the moral purpose
of my novels have not chosen to see it. I do not consider it necessary
to be morose, in order to offer a lesson or two to one’s readers.
Molière did not chastise the faults and follies of men, and turn their
vices into ridicule, with a scowl on his face.

In _Georgette_, I have sketched the life of a kept woman; she ends in a
way not likely to attract imitators. In _Brother Jacques_, I have
depicted a gambler, and shown to what lengths that horrible passion may
carry us. In the _Barber of Paris_ two men yield to their respective
passions, avarice and libertinage. Both are punished wherein they have
sinned. _Jean_ proves that a worthily placed passion may make us blush
for our manners, for our ignorance, and may arouse our disgust of bad
company and low resorts. In the _Milkmaid of Montfermeil_, I have tried
to prove that money expended in benefactions reaps a better harvest than
that squandered in follies. _André the Savoyard_ is the story of a poor
child of the mountains; by behaving becomingly, by assisting his mother
and brother, by giving all that he owns to his benefactress, he succeeds
in being happy and in conquering a hopeless love. _Sister Anne_ is a
girl seduced and abandoned. Her seducer, confronted by his mistress and
his wife at once, is given a rough lesson. _The Wife, the Husband and
the Lover_ presents only too true a picture of the conduct of many
married people. _The Natural Man and the Civilized Man_ must demonstrate
the advantages of education. If these works have not a moral, it is
probably because I was unable to write them with sufficient skill to
bring it home to my readers.

But I have said enough, yes, too much, of my novels; and all apropos of
this poor _Cocu_! In heaven’s name, mesdames, do not let the title
alarm you. The epigraph of the book must have reassured you to some
slight extent: read on therefore without fear, do not condemn without a
hearing. Perhaps you will find this novel less hilarious than you
imagine; perhaps indeed you will think that I might have, that I should
have presented my hero in quite a different guise. But if this novel,
such as it is, does not please you, forgive me, mesdames; I will try to
do better in another work; for _Le Cocu_, which I offer you to-day, will
not, I trust, be the last that I shall write.

CH. PAUL DE KOCK.




LE COCU




I

A READING ROOM


“Madame, give me the _Constitutionnel_.”

“They are all in use at the moment, monsieur.”

“Well, then give me the _Courrier Français_.”

“Here’s the first sheet of it, monsieur. You shall have the rest in a
moment.”

“When I read a newspaper, madame, I like to have it whole; with this new
fashion of yours, of cutting the paper in two, you sometimes make us
wait at the most interesting places, and that is very unpleasant.”

“But, monsieur, we can’t take ten copies of the same paper! The expenses
are big enough already! By cutting the paper, it is easier to
accommodate a number of people, and the second sheet of the _Courrier
Français_ will certainly be returned before you have read the first.”

“That is not certain. I am not one of those people who spend an hour
reading a column. I want a whole paper.”

“Will you have the _Débats_?”

“Very well, give me the _Débats_.”

The gentleman who insisted upon having a whole newspaper, like the
children who insist upon having a dish to themselves at a restaurant,
although they often cannot eat half of it, had entered the reading room
grumbling; he took his seat upon a bench between two readers, one of
whom, a young and courteous man, moved along to make room for him, while
the other, who was old and wrinkled, with his hair brushed _à la_
pigeon’s wing, glanced crossly at the newcomer and turned his back on
him after muttering in a sour tone:

“Be careful, monsieur, you are sitting on my coat.”

I was standing at the door of the room, where I rarely remain long; I
easily obtained a whole newspaper, because I selected a humble literary
sheet; and in these days when politics engrosses everybody, mere
literature is cruelly neglected. I can readily understand that people
are interested in and absorbed by the interests of our country. There
are times when I myself read the great newspapers eagerly; but even then
I could not pass hours poring over them. What would you have? One cannot
make oneself over, and politics has never been in my line. Indeed, I may
be wrong, but it seems to me that that would be a most blessed country
where the people were never called upon to busy themselves with
politics.

I wanted to know what the papers said about the play that was produced
the day before at the Variétés. One paper declared that is was
detestable, another pronounced it delightful; is it possible to form an
opinion upon such judgments?

“Madame, give me the _Quotidienne_, please, and the Gazette de France,
if nobody has them.”

“No, monsieur, nobody has them; here they are.”

I turned to look. One often turns to look when one is not reading
anything serious; I wanted to see the gentleman who had taken the
_Gazette_ and the _Quotidienne_. I saw a very tall, straight individual,
with smooth, plastered hair, curly behind the ears; with a furtive eye
and a honeyed voice; I was on the point of saying, with red ears and a
flushed complexion; in truth, he had both these, and if I had looked at
him before he spoke, I could have guessed what papers he would have
asked for. Some people claim that the face is deceitful; but no, it is
not so deceitful as it is said to be, especially to those who take the
trouble to examine it carefully.

I still held my paper in my hand but I was no longer reading it. I
amused myself by scrutinizing all those faces leaning over the printed
pages. It would have made a pretty picture for a _genre_ painter. That
stout man, with his elbows resting on the table covered with the
conventional green cloth, had the air of a potentate called upon to
arbitrate between neighboring kings. Sometimes he protruded his lower
lip, dissatisfied doubtless with what was being done; but soon his
expression softened, his mouth resumed its usual expression, and a
slight nod of the head indicated that he was better pleased with what he
was reading.

At his right, a short, gray-haired man was reading with an avidity which
was depicted upon every feature. It mattered little to him that people
came in and went out, coughed, blew their noses, or sat down beside him;
his eyes did not leave for one second the sheet that he held before
them, and they gleamed like a young man’s. There was patriotism, glory,
liberty in that expression.

Beyond him, a man of uncertain age, a man with a mania; that could be
seen at a glance. The lamp must be exactly in front of him, his feet
must have a chair to rest upon, and his snuff-box must be placed beside
his paper. If all these conditions were not exactly fulfilled, then he
was perfectly wretched and had no idea what he was reading. I soon had a
proof of it: his neighbor moved his snuff-box with his elbow, whereupon
he raised his eyes angrily and glared at the offender, muttering:

“It seems to me that you have room enough, and that it isn’t in your
way!”

It was several minutes before he could resume his reading in peace, and
he did not do so until he had replaced his box at the same distance from
his hand as before. But soon a more serious accident happened: as there
were many people in the room, a newcomer ventured to take the chair upon
which his feet were resting. Thereupon the man with the mania was
completely upset; after glancing askance at the person who had presumed
to take such a liberty, he rose, walked to the desk, angrily threw down
the newspaper and a sou, and left the room, saying:

“It’s outrageous! it is impossible to read the news when one is
interrupted and disturbed every moment.”

The man with the smooth hair had taken a seat in the corner at the end
of the room. From time to time he cast a furtive glance about him; then
he resumed his reading, but very quietly, without moving, without the
slightest change of expression.

Just beyond him, a stupid faced man had been leaning over the same sheet
for an interminable time; but he was not asleep, as I thought at first.
That man was, so I was told, the terror of all reading rooms. He
regularly took four hours to read an ordinary newspaper, and six to read
the _Moniteur_. If those who let newspapers had many customers like him,
they would have to charge by the hour, as at billiards.

I was about to return to my literary review, but my attention was
distracted by a female voice which rang in my ears; anything of the
feminine gender always distracts my attention. I instantly abandoned the
regular customers of the reading room, and looked into the next room at
the right, which was filled with tables covered with books; for at that
establishment books as well as papers were let; and in truth it was
wisely done, for in these days, in order to earn one’s living, it is
none too much, in fact sometimes it is not enough, to do two things at
once.

As I was standing between the two rooms, it was easy for me to look into
the one devoted to books: I saw a woman of some twenty years, with a
bright, wide-awake face. Her dress indicated that she lived near by; her
head was uncovered; a black silk apron _à corsage_ fitted her snugly;
but her feet were in list slippers which were much too large for her,
and she also had a thimble on one of her hands, which were covered with
old gloves of which the fingers were cut off. She tripped in, smiling,
and placed a package of books on the desk, saying:

“Here! we have _devoured_ all these already!”

“What! why, you only got them yesterday!”

“Oh! we read fast at our house; my aunt doesn’t do anything else, and my
sister has a sore thumb and couldn’t work; she often has a sore thumb,
my sister has; and my brother much prefers reading novels to practising
on the violin. I confess that I like it much better too, when he is not
practising; it’s so tiresome to have a violin forever scraping in your
ears; oh! it sets my teeth on edge just to think of it. I have a horror
of a violin--What are you going to give me? We want something nice.”

“I don’t just know, you read so fast; before long you will have read all
the books I have got.”

“We want something new.”

“New! that’s what all the subscribers say; they think that nothing is
good except what is new; and yet we have some old novels which are far
ahead of the modern ones.”

“Bah! you say that to get me to take your _Cleveland_, your _Tom Jones_
and your old _Doyen de Killerine_ again.”

“The _Doyen de Killerine_ is a very good book, mademoiselle, and----”

“Madame, I don’t take any interest in a hunchback hero with crooked legs
and patches over his eyes. No! no! what I like is a handsome young man,
very dark and well-built, with a noble carriage; he is all right,--you
can imagine him and fancy that you are looking at him. When he makes
love, you say to yourself: ‘I’d like to have a lover like him;’ and
there’s some pleasure in that.”

The proprietress smiled; I did the same, while pretending to be
engrossed in my paper. The young woman fluttered from one table to
another; she would take up a book, open it, then put it back on its
shelf, saying:

“We have read this; we have read this. Bless my soul! have we read
everything?”

“Here, mademoiselle,” said the woman who kept the room, “here’s
something interesting and well written.”

“What is it?”

“_La Femme de Bon Sens, ou La Prisonnière de Bohême._”

“Let’s see whom it is by: translated from the English by Ducos. Why,
this was published in 1798! Are you making fun of me, to give me such an
old novel as this?”

“What difference does it make how old it is, when I tell you that it is
good?”

“I tell you that its age makes a great deal of difference; we like
pictures of contemporary manners. A novel more than twenty years old
cannot depict the manners of to-day.”

“But it may depict the passions and absurdities of society; those things
are of all times, mademoiselle. That is why people still enjoy seeing
_Tartufe_, the _Misanthrope_, the _Etourdi_, although those works are
certainly not new.”

“Oh! it all depends on the taste. But I don’t want the _Femme de Bon
Sens_. Besides, I don’t like the title; it seems to be an epigram.”

“Well, here is something new--the _Bourreau de_----”

“Enough! enough! thank the Lord we have never cared for
executioners--_bourreaux_--! we don’t like the literature of the burying
ground, the manners of the Morgue. It is possible that such pictures may
be true to life, but we have no desire to go to those places to find
out; we would shun with horror a street or square where preparations
were being made to execute a criminal; and you expect us to enjoy
reading books where the author persists in describing such horrors in
detail, in presenting ghastly pictures! Oh! it seems to me, madame, that
a man must have a very bad opinion of women to think that they will
enjoy such reading, that such tableaux can possibly have any attraction
for them. It is equivalent to coupling us with the wretches who rush in
crowds to look on at an execution; and I did not suppose that there
could be any glory in writing for those women!”

I could not resist the desire to look up from my paper; we like to meet
people who think as we do, and as I agreed absolutely with that young
woman in her views regarding literature, I looked at her with
satisfaction. Chance willed that she should look at me at the same
moment. I smiled, no doubt, for she made a funny little face and skipped
away to another part of the room.

She soon returned with four volumes, and said:

“At last, I believe I have found one that we haven’t read: _Eugène et
Guillaume_. I will take this. It’s by Picard; it ought to be good.”

“You should not always trust to the author’s name, mademoiselle;
however, when it is by a writer who knows how to write, one is sure at
all events to have something which will not offend in style, even if the
plot or the incidents are not well done. You say that you will take
_Eugène et Guillaume_?”

“Yes, but I must have something else with it. Four volumes! why, they
will hardly last one evening. By the way, have you anything new by the
author of _Sœur Anne_? He is my favorite, you know.”

I could not help looking at the young woman with still greater
satisfaction, for I am very intimate with the author whom she named.

“No, mademoiselle, I have nothing by that author that you have not read.
But here is something that came out yesterday.”

“Ah! give it to me, give it to me.”

“I don’t know just what it is, but so far as newness goes, I will
warrant it.”

“Let me have it.”

“Will you promise not to keep it long?”

“Yes, yes; you know that it is only a matter of one evening with us.”

“You will be very careful about cutting it?”

“Yes, yes! I must run now, or my aunt will say that I have been
gossiping.”

The young woman took all the volumes under her arm and went out, after
casting another rapid glance in my direction.

She was succeeded by a woman with a round cap and calico wrapper. She
brought back only a single book, which she laid on the desk, saying:

“Great heaven! we had hard work to finish it! I thought that we would
never see the end!”

“It is true that you have had the book nearly a month.”

“Oh, dear me! we don’t read fast at our house; you see, as a general
thing, my man reads to me while I am working; and as he still has the
catarrh, he stops at every comma to cough. Never mind, it’s mighty
interesting. I cried hard with that poor girl who spends fifteen years
in the underground dungeon, with nothing but bread and water to eat. She
must have had a good stomach, I tell you, not to be sick.”

“Do you want something else?”

“Yes, to be sure. Something about robbers, if you please, and about
ghosts, if you have anything, because a novel with robbers and ghosts in
it can’t help being interesting. Oh! and then I want something with
pictures, some of those lovely pictures of crimes. I am very fond of
pictures, I am; and then you see, I say to myself: ‘a novel that they
don’t spend the money to put pictures in, why it can’t have Peru behind
it.’ Don’t I hit the mark?”

“Here is something, madame, that will interest you greatly.”

“What is it?”

“_The Ghosts of the Nameless Château_, or _The Brigands of the Abandoned
Quarry_.”

“Ah! what a splendid title! what a ring there is to it! Let’s look at
the pictures. A man eating a skeleton. Bless my soul! that must be good.
I don’t want to see any more; I’ll take the _Ghosts_, and I’ll go and
buy some jujube paste for my husband, so that he won’t cough quite so
much when he’s reading.”

The worthy woman who loved pictures was succeeded by an elderly man who
also wanted a novel. He was asked what sort of story he wanted; but it
mattered little to him: he wanted it to read in bed at night, something
that would put him to sleep right away. What he wanted was found at
once.

After him came a lady on the decline. She brought back a volume of
memoirs, and she wanted more memoirs; according to her, memoirs were the
only proper thing to read. When a lady has passed the age for making
conquests, I can understand that memoirs seem instructive to her and
also pleasant reading; to her the past has more charm than the present.
Being no longer able to tell us of what she does, she desires that we
should be interested in what she has done; that is one way to keep
people talking about her. After a life of adventures, she considers that
to cease to occupy the public attention is a living death. Poor
creature! I am sorry for her; she dies twice over. But see how mistaken
she is! she falls into oblivion while seeking immortality; and there are
some excellent mothers of families, simple, virtuous women, who
nevertheless do not die altogether, for all who have known them treasure
their images and their memories in the depths of their hearts.

The lady of the memoirs went away with eight octavo volumes under her
arm. Next came an old gentleman powdered and musked as in the days of
the Regency. He wore a little three-cornered hat which did not approach
his ears, and a silk muffler over his coat, although it was only the
first of October. This gentleman nodded patronizingly to the
proprietress and placed two volumes on her desk.

“What the devil did you give me this for?” he said; “it’s a wretched,
detestable book.”

“What! didn’t you like it, monsieur? Why, it has been generally
praised.”

“I promise you that it will not be praised by me!”

“Then monsieur does not want the sequel? There are two more volumes.”

“No, indeed, I don’t want the sequel. It was as much as I could do to
read three pages.”

“Was that enough to enable you to judge?”

“Yes, madame; I always judge by the first few lines. I want something
good, something useful--a romance of the times of chivalry, for
example.”

“I have _Amadis de Gaule_.”

“I have read that.”

“_Geneviève de Cornouailles._”

“I’ve read it.”

“The _Chevaliers du Cygne_.”

“I’ve read it. I’ve read all the old books of that sort. Give me a new
one.”

“Why, romances of chivalry are seldom written nowadays.”

“What’s that! seldom written? Why aren’t they written, pray? You must
have some written, madame; you must order some from your novel writers.”

“They say that they are no longer in vogue, monsieur.”

“They don’t know what they are talking about; there is nothing else so
good; that is the true type of novel. But these modern authors do not
understand the taste of their readers. They write books in which they
aim to be bright and realistic. They draw pictures of society, as if
such things could be compared with a description of a tournament! In the
old days they used to write much better novels. Those of the younger
Crébillon were not without merit; those of Mademoiselle de Scudéry were
a little too long, I admit; but _Le Sopha_, _Le Bijoux Indiscrets_, and
_Angola_--those are fine stories, sparkling with delectable details!”

“If monsieur would like _L’Enfant du Carnaval_, by Pigault-Lebrun, that
too is full of very amusing incidents.”

“No, madame, no; I don’t read such books as that. What do you take me
for? That is so broad! why, there’s a certain dish of spinach,
which----”

“Which makes one laugh, monsieur, whereas your Angola makes one blush,
or even worse.”

“Madame, give me a romance of chivalry. I want to teach my grandson, and
certainly that is the only sort of reading that can be at once useful
and agreeable to him.”

“Would monsieur like _Don Quixote_?”

“_Don Quixote_! fie, madame! your Cervantes is an impertinent fellow, a
knave, a sneak, who presumes to ridicule the noblest, most gallant, most
revered things in the world! If that Cervantes had lived in my time,
madame, I would have made him retract his _Don Quixote_, or else, by the
shades of my ancestors, I swear that he would have passed an
uncomfortable quarter of an hour!”

The proprietress pretended to have a paroxysm of coughing in order to
conceal her desire to laugh. As for myself, I could not contain myself,
I burst out laughing and the paper fell from my hands. The man with the
muffler turned in my direction; he eyed me indignantly and put his right
hand to his left side, whether in search of a sword, in order to treat
me as he would have treated Miguel Cervantes, I do not know. But,
instead of a weapon, his hand came into contact with nothing more than a
bonbon box; he opened that, and took out two or three pastilles which he
put in his mouth with a dignified air, and said to the woman:

“Come, let us have done with this. What are you going to give me,
madame?”

“Perhaps monsieur is not familiar with the story of the _Quatre Fils
Aymon_?”

“I have read it three times, but I shall be glad to read it again. Give
me the story of the _Fils Aymon_, and I will let my grandson meditate
upon it; it will not be my fault if I do not make a Richardet of him.”

The gentleman put the book under his muffler; then he flashed an angry
glance at me, and probably proposed to make a very dignified exit;
unfortunately, as he glanced at me, he failed to see a lady who was
coming in; and when he turned, he collided with her; the lady’s hat
knocked off his three-cornered one, which was carefully balanced on his
head. The little old man picked up his hat and pulled it over his eyes,
muttering: “What are we coming to?” and went out, slamming the door so
viciously that he nearly broke all the glass, which action I considered
by no means worthy of an old chevalier.

The lady who had knocked off the little hat was young and rather pretty;
a half veil thrown back over her hood did not conceal her features;
indeed, her eyes did not indicate a person who shrank from being
noticed; far from it. But there was in her dress a mixture of coquetry
and slovenliness, of pretension and poverty; she had in her hand a
pamphlet which she tossed upon the desk, saying:

“I have brought back the _Chevilles de Maître Adam_; how much do I owe
you?”

“Six sous, mademoiselle.”

“What! six sous for a farce which I have kept only three days,--just
long enough to copy my part?”

“That is the price, mademoiselle. You gave me thirty sous as security;
here’s twenty-four.”

“Why, it’s an exorbitant price, madame--six sous! I hire very often, but
I have never paid so much as that. It would be as cheap to buy the
thing. How much does it cost?”

“Thirty sous, mademoiselle.”

“Great heavens! how they are putting up the price of plays nowadays!
It’s an awful shame! But I must have the _Mariage de Figaro_, to learn
the part of Chérubin, which I am going to play on Sunday on Rue de
Chantereine. I can’t learn my parts unless I copy them; writing seems to
engrave them on my brain. I copied Nanine in one night and I knew it the
next day. But six sous! that’s rather hard. People think that it doesn’t
cost anything to act in society. I should think not! there’s no end to
the expenses. Costumes, rouge, bundles to be carried! Never mind, give
me Figaro. I have never played in a burlesque yet, but my teacher told
me that I ought to be very good in it, because I am not knock-kneed.
Keep what I paid you; that will pay for this.”

The _Mariage de Figaro_ was handed to her. She turned over the leaves of
the pamphlet, muttering:

“Oh! how short it is! almost no long speeches, and I am so fond of
lengthy dialogues! I am sorry now that I don’t play Suzanne. But I will
copy both parts; then I can play the man or the woman as they want. I am
not particular.”

The actress-apprentice stuffed the pamphlet into her bag and went out,
winding about her body an old shawl which looked as if it had often done
duty as a turban for Zaïre or Mohammed.

It must be very amusing to let books; you see a great many people and
hear amusing things; there are people who instantly lay bare their
folly, their absurdity, their wretched taste; but the business requires
patience, especially when one has to do with such customers as the
chevalier in the muffler.

I was about to return my newspaper and pay for it, when I heard a very
familiar voice even before the person to whom it belonged had entered
the door. I turned and saw my friend Bélan, who, in accordance with his
custom, shouted as if he were talking to a deaf person, and found a way
to occupy the space of four people, although he was very slim and his
height exempted him from the conscription. But Bélan kept his arms in
motion all the time, stood on tiptoe to increase his height, threw his
head back, and went through the antics of a bear in a cage.

As he opened the door, Bélan spied me; he came toward me, exclaiming:

“Ah! I was looking for you, Blémont, my friend; I have just come from
your rooms; they told me that you might be here, and here you are.”

“Hush! hush! don’t talk so loud,” I said to Bélan, whose shrill tones
caused a revolution in the reading room. “Wait a moment; I am at your
service.”

“My dear fellow, I have come about a very serious matter. I will tell
you about it, and you will see whether----”

“Hush, I say; these people reading the newspapers, whom you are
interrupting, don’t care anything about your affairs; that isn’t what
they came here for.”

“That is true, but----”

“Come on;” and taking Monsieur Bélan’s arm, I dragged him away from the
reading room.




II

OF THINGS THAT OFTEN HAPPEN


“Now, my dear Bélan, say on; we are on the boulevard, and you will not
disturb anybody; but I advise you to lower your voice a little, for I
don’t see the necessity of taking all the passers-by into your
confidence.”

“Lower my voice, my friend! it is very easy for you to say that. But
when one is as excited, as agitated as I am, it is perfectly justifiable
to shout; it relieves one. Oh! mon Dieu! how will all this end?”

“You begin to alarm me, Bélan. What is it all about, pray?”

“Parbleu! love, intrigue, a woman--always women! as you know, I care for
nothing else.”

I could not forbear a glance at the little man. I knew that he was very
well-built in his little way, and that many taller men had not calves as
plump and shapely as his. But his face was so ridiculous--his turned-up
nose, eyebrows absurdly high, heart-shaped mouth and big eyes formed
such a comical whole, that I could not understand how he could ever
inspire love; I could imagine it much more easily of an ugly face which
was pleasant or intellectual; but I suppose that I am not a good judge,
for Bélan was generally supposed to be a favorite with the ladies, and,
as he had just said himself, he was constantly mixed up in intrigue. To
be sure, Bélan was rich, and money is a potent auxiliary; many
self-styled seducers owe their success to it alone.

Bélan saw that I was scrutinizing him. He stood on tiptoe again, and
said to me in an offended tone, for the little man is easily hurt and
irritated:

“You look as if you were surprised that it is about a love intrigue.
Does it astonish you that I turn the heads of the ladies?”

“No, my dear fellow; but I am astonished that you are so excited, as it
is nothing more than a thing to which you must be accustomed.”

“Ah! but it is not always so serious as it is to-day.--You must know
that I am on the best of terms with Madame de Montdidier?”

“Faith, no, I didn’t know it.”

“What! you didn’t know that? A rake like you--a man after my own heart!”

“You do me too much honor.”

“To be sure, I haven’t mentioned it to anybody, for I am discretion
itself; but such things are always noticed; ordinarily the husband is
the only person who does not detect them.”

“Has he detected something this time?”

“Listen: Montdidier is a quick-tempered man, brutal even, so his wife
says; and more than that, horribly jealous.”

“All this does not prevent him from being----”

“No, such things never do prevent it; on the contrary, they make one
want--However, you will see that it necessitated extra precaution and
prudence. He is not one of the husbands who go half-way to meet you, who
constantly ask you to act as their wife’s escort, to go with her to the
play or to walk; one of those husbands, in short, who seem to say to
you: ‘Make me a cuckold; I should like it.’”

“It is true that there are some like that.”

“What I had to do was to deceive an Argus, an Othello; I had to invent
some stratagem day after day. Luckily I am never at a loss.”

“You are very fortunate.”

“To-day Montdidier dined out; a ceremonious dinner which he could not
avoid attending. Thereupon we laid our plans. His wife pretended to dine
early, and then she said that she was going to see her aunt; she did
leave the house, in fact, but she joined me at a little restaurant on
Boulevard du Temple. Everything passed off as we had agreed; we had an
excellent dinner, et cætera, et cætera!”

“Yes, many _et cæteras_, no doubt.”

“I beg you to believe that there were a great many. In the evening,
Hélène--that is the name of my inamorata----”

“The name suits her very well.”

“That is so, on my word! I hadn’t thought of that. Well, Hélène had to
go to join her Menelaus. Ha! ha! that is very amusing--Menelaus----”

“And you are Paris!”

“Just so, I am Paris. What a pity that I cannot laugh now!--Well, Hélène
was to join her husband at Giraud’s, who gives a reception to-night. You
know Giraud, a loquacious fellow, who thinks that he’s a business agent
because he has three boxes standing on his desk, and who has a mania for
trying to marry everybody, and that merely that he and his wife may be
present at the wedding?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“I was to go to Giraud’s too, but not until later; we did not want to
arrive together. People are talking enough already, and I have such a
terrible reputation.”

“Well?”

“Well, just now we sent out for a cab, and Hélène and I got into it. I
ought to have let her go alone; but what can you expect? It is always so
hard to part! That woman is exceedingly passionate.--Well, we were in
the cab. You know that Giraud lives on Rue Poissonnière; I had told the
driver to put me down at the corner of the boulevard. We were going
along quietly enough, when suddenly we felt that we were thrown against
the side of the cab; Hélène fell against the door, and I fell upon her;
it was all because of an accident to the cab--one of the hind wheels had
broken. We shouted like madmen. Hélène pushed me away with her hand,
which she thrust into my eye, saying that I was stifling her; and I said
to her: ‘Take your hand away; you are putting out my eye!’--Can’t you
imagine the picture?”

“I observe that you had ceased to say sweet things to each other.”

“Faith! that we had; I believe that we were on the point of insulting
each other. Just see how a broken wheel changes the nature of one’s
feelings. Luckily we were more frightened than hurt. A crowd gathered
about our cab. I succeeded in opening the door and jumped out first. But
imagine my stupefaction when I saw her husband before me--yes,
Montdidier himself, craning his neck to see what had happened.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“I haven’t an idea; when I saw him, I didn’t give him time to speak to
me; I turned so suddenly that I nearly upset a peddler who was behind
me. I pushed everybody out of my way, and ran to your room without
stopping.”

“And your unfortunate companion,--did you leave her there?”

“Would you have had me offer her my hand, and play the gallant with her
before her husband? It seems to me that I followed the wisest course.
But still, if Montdidier recognized me, and I am afraid he did; if his
wife called my name; if--for he must have seen his wife get out of the
cab--O heaven! such a hot-tempered, jealous man!”

“He is capable of doing his wife some violence.”

“His wife, yes, no doubt, and me too. She was forever saying to me when
we were together: ‘Ah! if my husband knew, he would kill me! he would
kill me!’”

“In that case he might very well try to kill you too.”

“It is terrible, it is most distressing. It isn’t that I am afraid to
fight--you know that it isn’t that, because I have proved my courage;
but the sensation, the scandal the thing will cause. And then, in
reality, I’ve nothing against Montdidier. He always received me
cordially, and invited me to dinner. I bear him no grudge at all.”

“You bore nobody a grudge but his wife.”

“No joking, my dear fellow; it is too serious a matter. This infernal
mania for intrigues! But it is all over now; I don’t propose to deceive
any more husbands. It is most absurd and it is immoral too; I am angry
with myself for ever having done it.--What! are you laughing at me
again?”

“Yes, I can’t help laughing; you remind me of the sailors who pray to
God during the storm and laugh at Him when the weather is fine.”

“I don’t know if I resemble a sailor, but I do know that I feel very
uncomfortable. This adventure so soon after dinner--the charlotte russe
lies heavy on my stomach. Come, my dear Blémont, let’s not laugh; help
me to get out of this fix; I will do as much for you, and you may need
me soon, for you are a terrible fellow too,--the terror of husbands.
Great God! how you have maltreated the poor devils!”

“If I can be of any service to you I shall be glad to, but I don’t quite
see how, unless I make Montdidier think that it was I who was in the cab
with his wife; but that would not rehabilitate the reputation of his
Hélène, and that is what we must think of first of all.”

“That is so, that is what we must think of; although, since she put her
finger in my eye, I am not in love with her at all. It is amazing how
ugly she looked to me at that moment!”

“She has not always looked ugly to you. She has been kind to you, and
you must try to acknowledge it by saving her good name.”

“Yes, she has been kind to me, but I don’t want any more of her favors.
Oh, even if it can all be straightened out, I say again, no more
flirtations with married women, no more illicit love-affairs. Unmarried
girls or widows, women without entanglements,--they’re all right; with
them one doesn’t have to hide all the time, to make long détours and
hire cabs.”

“All such dangers are what give piquancy to that sort of intrigue.”

“Thanks; that same piquancy is very pleasant. Oh! just let me get out of
this scrape, and I will turn over a new leaf, I will become
incorruptible so far as the ladies are concerned. But if I am to have
time to turn virtuous, Montdidier must not blow my brains out.--Come, my
friend, let us think what it is best to do.”

“Go to Giraud’s; you can see whether Montdidier is there with his wife;
and according to the way he behaves to you, you can easily judge whether
he recognized you, and how he has taken the thing.”

“Go there and expose myself to his fury, to his wrath, before everybody?
surely you don’t mean it, my friend?”

“A man of breeding doesn’t take society into his confidence in such
matters.”

“I told you that Montdidier was a brutal fellow.”

“If he thinks that he has been wronged, he won’t go to a party with his
wife.”

“That is true; but there is another way to make sure, and that is for
you to go to Giraud’s. If our husband and wife are there, you can watch
them, and you will be able to tell at once on what terms they are;
furthermore, you might slyly give the lady to understand that you have
just left me. What do you say? Oh! my dear Blémont, do me this favor; go
to Giraud’s.”

“I will do it solely to oblige you, for the business agent’s receptions
are not very interesting; and this evening I intended to go to see some
very agreeable ladies.”

“You can see your ladies to-morrow, they will be in the same place.
Besides, perhaps they are married ladies, and who knows that I am not
saving you from some unpleasant scrape?”

“To listen to you, one would think that no one ever called upon a lady
except with the design of making a conquest.”

“Oh! you see I know you. Come, Blémont, sacrifice your ladies to me;
consider that I am between life and death so long as I do not know what
to expect.”

“To oblige you, I will go to Giraud’s.”

“You are a friend indeed. It is almost nine o’clock, and the reception
is just at its height. To-night there is to be singing and playing. Be
prudent, and if our couple are there, watch them closely.”

“I’m like the confidential friend in a melodrama.”

“I will wait for you at the café on the corner of the boulevard; I will
drink a glass of sugar and water. If everything goes well, if I can
safely show myself, you will have the kindness to tell me so.”

“Very good.”

We quickened our pace, and when we reached the corner of Rue
Poissonnière, Bélan grasped my hand and shook it violently.

“My friend,” he said, “I will wait for you at the café opposite. Don’t
say that I am there, don’t mention my name.”

“Never fear.”

I had taken a few steps when I felt someone grasp me from behind; it was
Bélan again; he had run after me, and he said most earnestly:

“My dear Blémont, I trust that this adventure will cause you to reflect
seriously, that it will reform you as it will me. We must mend our ways,
my friend. For my own part, I swear on the faith of Ferdinand Bélan,
that the loveliest woman in Paris, if she is not free----”

I did not wait for the end of the little man’s sermon; I smiled and left
him, and walked up the street toward Monsieur Giraud’s.




III

THE GIRAUD FAMILY


Monsieur Giraud’s was a most amusing household; there was nothing
extraordinary about it, however, for the absurdities that one met with
there are common in society; but in order to be comical, things never
need to be extraordinary.

Monsieur Giraud was a man of forty years of age; he had been a
government clerk, a notary’s clerk, a lottery collector; he had done
many things, and I fancy that he had done nothing well; but he was as
prying and inquisitive as a concierge, and he even pretended to be a
ladies’ man, although he was very ugly and his breath made his coming
perceptible three yards away; which did not prevent him from speaking
right into your face, the ordinary mania of people who have that
infirmity.

Madame Giraud was about her husband’s age. She was neither ugly nor
beautiful; but unfortunately she was as pretentious as he, she always
dressed like a provincial actress, and above all was determined to
appear slender, at the risk of being unable to breathe.

Then there was a son of eleven, who was the very picture of his father
and who still played with a Noah’s ark; another son of four, who was
allowed to do exactly as he pleased, and who abused the license to such
an extent that there was not a whole piece of furniture in the house;
and lastly, there was a little girl of eight, who assumed to play the
mistress and to whip her two brothers, to show that she had already
reached the age of reason. Add to these an ill-tempered dog which barked
for five minutes at every new arrival, and a stout cat which always wore
a collar of corks and had a plaster on its head, and you will know the
whole Giraud family. I say nothing of the servant, because they changed
servants every fortnight.

I do not know whether those people were rich--I am not in the habit of
prying into things which do not concern me--but I do not think that they
were in such comfortable circumstances as they chose to make it appear.
I have an idea that Monsieur Giraud, who tried to marry all the
bachelors whom he met, exacted a commission--_droit_--for such marriages
as he arranged; and it surely was not the _droit du seigneur_.[A]

[A] The _droit du seigneur_ was the privilege enjoyed by the feudal lord
of first sharing the bed of every newly-married woman among his
feudatories.

I reached the house. I went up to the third floor. I heard children
crying and recognized the voices of Mademoiselle Joséphine Giraud and
her older brother. Blended with them were the strains of a piano and a
flute, from which I concluded that the party was at its height.

I entered the dining room. A maid whom I did not know was filling
glasses with sugar and water; I thought that she tasted it to make sure
that it was good. The brother and sister were quarrelling over a piece
of cake. At that moment Monsieur Giraud came from the salon, carrying in
his hand a lamp with a globe; he came toward me with his lamp.

“Is it you, my dear Monsieur Blémont? Delighted to see you. Ah! why
didn’t you come a little earlier? Céran just sang, and he was in fine
voice; it was wonderful! And we have just had a concerted piece for the
flute and piano. Two amateurs; and they played it with extraordinary
fire. This infernal lamp won’t burn; I don’t know what’s the matter with
it. Come in, come in. We have a lot of people. There will be more
singing. And there are some very pretty women; there are several
marriageable ones, my dear fellow, and with good dowries. If you should
happen to want--you know, you will have to come to it at last.--The
devil take this lamp; the wick is new, too.”

I entered the salon, but it was very difficult to move there; in the
first place, the room was not large, and the ladies were all seated in
a circle which no man was permitted to break as yet; so that one must
needs be content to walk behind the ladies’ chairs, at the risk of
disturbing some of them, or of treading on the feet of the men who were
standing in the narrow passage. I know no greater bore than a party
where the ladies are drawn up in that way, like borders in a garden, not
talking with the men, and intent solely upon staring at one another from
the top of the head to the soles of the feet, in order to see what they
may criticise. To add to the discomfort which always prevails in such an
assemblage, the salon was very dimly lighted: a large lamp, the mate of
the one I had seen in Giraud’s hands, diffused only a vague light; and a
few candles, placed at considerable distances apart on the furniture,
were not sufficient to supplement the light furnished by the lamps. All
this, added to the silence of the ladies and to the low whisperings in
which the gentlemen ventured to indulge, imparted a touch of gloom and
mystery to the function; one might have imagined oneself at Robertson’s
theatre during the phantasmagoria.

I spied Madame Giraud in the passageway. She saw me too, and tried to
come to me by pushing aside several gentlemen, and smiling at those who
moved only half enough, so that they might have the pleasure of rubbing
against her. At last we met. As I could not understand the behavior of
those gentlemen, who talked in low tones as if they were at church, I
ventured to inquire for the hostess’s health in my ordinary voice, which
drew all eyes toward me for a moment; it did not produce an ill effect
however, for several young men, who probably had not dared to break the
ice, at once began to talk more freely, and the mysterious whisperings
became less frequent.

“If you had come sooner,” said Madame Giraud, “you would have heard a
fine performance. Ah! we had something very fine just now.”

I was tempted to reply that it was not at all fine at present, but I did
not do it; in society it is not safe to say all that one thinks; one who
did so would be very unwelcome. In a moment, Madame Giraud exclaimed:

“Where on earth is Monsieur Giraud? What is he doing with his lamp? This
one won’t go now! How unpleasant it is!--What do you think of that young
woman by the fireplace? Forty-five thousand francs in cash, and
expectations. That is not to be despised. You will hear her in a moment:
she is going to sing something Italian. Ah! how angry Monsieur Giraud
makes me!”

At last Monsieur Giraud reappeared, proudly carrying the lamp, which
diffused a brilliant light. He placed it on a table, saying:

“It will go now. There was only a little thing to fix.”

“You must do the same with the other one now,” said Madame Giraud, “for,
as you see, that won’t burn.”

“Ah! that’s so. Well! I’ll take it out and do the same thing to it.”

Madame Giraud detained her husband as he was going to take the other
lamp, and said to him in an undertone, but not so low that I could not
hear her:

“Just fancy that Dufloc refusing to sing!”

“The deuce! really?”

“He says that he has a cold.”

“It’s just spitefulness. It’s because we haven’t invited him to dinner.”

“We must start something, however. There’s no life at all in the thing.”

“We had better begin the dancing right away.”

“No, monsieur, it’s too early.”

“Then try to get Montausol and his wife to sing, or Mademoiselle Dupuis.
Arrange that, while I attend to the lamp.”

The husband and wife separated, and I, taking advantage of the renewed
light, thought about fulfilling my mission, and I passed the company in
review, to see if Montdidier and his chaste spouse were present.

There were in truth some very pretty women in that salon, and they would
have been still more so if, instead of the yawns which they strove to
dissemble, their faces had been enlivened by pleasure. There was one
especially, near the piano; she was evidently unmarried. She was
charming; her face betokened sweet temper and intelligence, and those
are two qualities which one rarely sees in the same face. Lovely fair
hair, not too light, blue eyes not too staring, a pretty mouth, a very
white skin, pink cheeks, and refined taste in her dress and the
arrangement of her hair; it seemed to me that there was refinement in
every curl. She did not seem to be bored, which fact indicated that she
was accustomed to society.

That young woman’s lovely eyes caused me to lose sight of Bélan and his
errand. But I suddenly spied Madame Montdidier. She was talking and
laughing with the lady beside her. That seemed to me a good sign: if she
had had a scene with her husband, it seemed to me that she would not be
in such good spirits. To be sure, in society, people are very skilful in
concealing their sentiments. I determined to look for the husband; a man
is less adroit in concealing what he feels. Even he who is not in love
with his wife feels that his self-esteem is wounded when he is certain
that he is betrayed. That feeling should be visible on the face when it
is so recent. Poor husbands! how we laugh at them so long as we are
bachelors! For my part, I hoped to laugh as heartily when I should be
married. In the first place, I flattered myself that I should have a
virtuous wife; a man should always flatter himself to that extent; and
then--if--Bless my soul! is it such a terrible thing? I remembered La
Fontaine’s two lines:

    “When one knows it, ‘tis a very trifle;
     When one knows it not, ‘tis nothing at all.”

I did not discover Montdidier in that salon. I thought that he might
perhaps be in the bedroom, where they were playing écarté. I tried to go
there; but it was not an easy matter. I wondered if no one would make
bold to break the circle formed by those ladies, and I determined to
seize the first opportunity.

The dog barked; that announced new arrivals. That dog played to
perfection the part of a servant. The newcomers were ladies. So much the
better; it would be necessary to break the circle in order to enlarge
it. And that is what actually happened. As soon as I saw an opening, I
stepped in. A young man, who was not sorry for an opportunity to
approach a certain lady, followed my example; then another, and another;
the old story of Panurge’s sheep. The circle was definitely broken. The
men mingled with the ladies; it became possible to move about, and it
was to me that they owed it! I had caused a revolution in Giraud’s
salon; a revolution, however, that did not cause anybody’s death.

I had instinctively drawn near to the attractive young woman whom I had
admired at a distance. She seemed to me still more attractive at closer
quarters. I forgot that Bélan was waiting before a glass of sugar and
water, for me to bring him life or death. It was hard for me to leave
the place where I was.

But the piano began again--someone was going to sing. It seemed to me
that I might remain long enough to hear the performance. It proved to be
the Montausols, who were about to give us a duet. They must have been a
very united couple; one of them never sang without the other. Imagine a
short but enormously stout man, whose violet cheeks seemed on the point
of bursting when he drew a breath, and who consequently was a frightful
object when he sang in a stentorian voice that vibrated like a
bass-viol. His wife was very short too, and at least as stout as her
husband; she seemed to suffer terribly in her efforts to produce from
her chest shrill tones that pierced the drum of the ear. The couple had
a passion for difficult pieces; they proposed to regale us with grand
opera. A lady was seated at the piano. The husband glanced at his wife,
puffing like a bull during the prelude; the wife looked at her husband,
raising one of her hands to mark the time. Each seemed to say to the
other:

“Now, stand to your guns! Let us carry this by storm! Let us deafen
them!”

The recitative began; at the third measure the audience no longer knew
where they were. The husband and wife hurled their notes at each other
as two tennis players drive the ball with all their strength. When one
of them made a mistake or lagged behind, the other’s eyes flashed fire,
and he or she moved his whole body in order to restore the time.

As I had not sufficient self-control to watch the two singers with a
sober face, I turned my eyes toward that young woman who was close
beside me; that was the best way to forget the music. She was not
laughing, but I fancied that I could see that she was biting her lips.
It is a fact that one is sometimes sorely embarrassed to keep a sober
face in a salon. She had raised her eyes toward me; she seemed more
embarrassed than before, and turned her head away. Perhaps my persistent
scrutiny had offended her; perhaps it was ill-bred to gaze at her so
fixedly. I did not think of that. I did it, not so that she should
notice me, but because I took pleasure in looking at her. I made haste
to turn my eyes in another direction, to give attention to the music.
That wretched duet went on and on. The husband and wife perspired
profusely. It occurred to me that they should be treated like those
gymnasts to whom the spectators shout to stop when their performances
become too terrifying.

I was amusing myself by watching our melomaniacs, when the lights
suddenly went down; Montausol leaned over the music, and during the
pauses in his part exclaimed impatiently:

“Snuff the candles, snuff the candles, I say! We can’t see at all.”

But the darkness was not due to the candles; it was the lamp which
Giraud had fixed, which had suddenly lost all its brilliancy. Madame
Giraud hastily summoned her husband, who was still busy over the other
lamp. Giraud appeared with a huge pair of scissors in his hand and
exclaimed:

“I don’t understand it at all; it can’t be the oil, for that is new.”

“Papa,” said the little girl, “I saw my brother Alexandre putting little
lead men in the lamp yesterday.”

“Parbleu! if that little rascal has been playing with the lamps, I don’t
wonder they won’t burn. My wife lets him play with everything! Some day
he’ll upset my desk.”

“It is impossible for me to scold my children,” said Madame Giraud to
the people nearest her. “As soon as they seem to be unhappy, I am ready
to be ill. And then little Alexandre is so cunning, so sweet!”

The mother was interrupted by a loud noise in the reception room; the
dog barked and the little girl appeared at the door of the salon,
crying:

“My little brother just upset the waiter with the glasses on it.”

This incident turned the whole household topsy-turvy: the mother ran to
her broken glasses; the father left his lamps to try to catch his son;
and little Alexandre ran between everybody’s legs and finally crawled
under a sofa, sticking his tongue out at his father.

The duet came to an end amid this uproar; indeed the singers had
continued to sing after the other guests had ceased to pay any heed to
them. So the Montausols left the piano, in evident ill humor. They took
seats behind me, saying to each other:

“They won’t catch me singing at their house again!”

“I should think not. These people don’t know what good music is.”

“No, they must always have something new! We will go away after the
punch.”

“Yes, if there is any.”

I left the salon and walked into the bedroom. I saw Montdidier talking
with several men. I could detect nothing unusual in his face, but he was
talking earnestly. I drew near with apparent indifference. Indeed, I was
at liberty to listen with the rest; there was no secrecy about it.

“Yes, messieurs,” said Montdidier, “I arrived just as the cab tipped
over. My wife was coming from her aunt’s and was on her way here. But
the one who had the worst fright of all was poor Bélan. He was passing
the cab, so it seems, when the hind wheel came off; when he saw the cab
toppling over in his direction, he thought that he was a dead man; and
as the window in the door was open, he jumped through into the cab in
order not to be crushed. He is very small, you know. My wife told me
that he came in as nimbly as a monkey. Then, finding that the cab didn’t
move, he opened the door and escaped. My wife is convinced that, in his
excitement, he did not recognize her; and that is probably true, or else
he would at least have offered his hand to help her out of the cab. Ha!
ha! ha! ha! Poor Bélan! I will have a good laugh at him when I see him!”

And Monsieur Montdidier began to laugh again, as did his auditors; I
followed their example with all my heart; in fact, I was the one to
laugh the most heartily. And so Montdidier, seeing how greatly amused I
was, came to me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying:

“Did you hear about my wife’s adventure?”

“Yes.”

“And her meeting with Bélan? Wasn’t it most amusing?”

“Exceedingly amusing!”

“I would give a napoleon if Bélan would come here this evening, so that
I could have a little fun at his expense.”

I made no reply, but I disappeared in the crowd in order to obtain for
that unfortunate husband the pleasure that he desired. It seemed to me
no more than fair that he should have a little pleasure.

I left the house unnoticed. I hastened to the café where the anxious
lover awaited me; I found him before his third glass of sugar and water,
pale and disturbed, drawing no good augury from my long absence. I made
haste to reassure him, and told him laughingly what I had learned.

While I was speaking, Bélan’s features recovered all their serenity.
Before I had finished he was leaning over the table and holding his
sides with laughter.

“This is charming! It is delicious! That will do, Blémont, that will do.
I shall die with laughter.--So I jumped in through the window! Oh! these
women! They have ideas, inventions for every emergency! I was a fool to
be worried.”

“That is what I told you a little while ago, but then you were not in a
condition to listen to me.”

“Yes, I admit, I was in torment--not for myself, but for her. But it is
all right; let’s not think any more about it, except to laugh at it.
Waiter, take out the price of three glasses of water. I can’t be at
Giraud’s soon enough. Is it a brilliant affair? Are there many people
there?”

“It is not exactly brilliant, but there are a great many people, and I
noticed some very pretty women.”

“Pretty women!--Wait till I arrange my cravat.”

“But you know, Bélan, that this adventure was to have reformed you; that
you swore never again to have anything to say to the ladies.”

“I did not include all ladies; those who are free are not included in my
oath. And then, deuce take it! a man may say that in the first
excitement. Let us go to Giraud’s; I will sing; I know a new song. You
will suggest to them to ask me to sing, won’t you?”

“You evidently are determined that I shall be your confederate.”

Bélan replied only by making a pirouette; he was in a state of frantic
gayety. We walked to Giraud’s, and I advised him not to come in until a
few moments after me; I did not wish to have the appearance of having
gone to fetch him, and I tried to return unseen, as I had left.

I found Giraud in the reception room, staring in dismay at his two
lamps, which were on the point of going out. He did not see that I came
in from outside, for he was entirely engrossed by his wicks; and he said
as he handed one of them to me:

“This is incomprehensible. You will bear witness that I am putting in
new wicks; we will see if they char like the others.”

“Yes, I see that you take a great deal of trouble to entertain us.”

“Oh! when they once begin to burn well!--Théodore, Monsieur Théodore,
will you be kind enough not to touch the cakes! For shame! A great boy
of your age!--He is more of a glutton than his little brother.”

“Let me take one, papa; I want it to play at having dinner.”

“Play at having dinner, at eleven years! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t touch
the cake.--But it’s very slow inside! My wife don’t know how to keep
things going. We ought to begin to dance. Monsieur Blémont, it would be
very kind of you to start the dancing.”

“You know very well that I don’t play the piano.”

“No, but you might tell my wife to ask somebody to play a contradance.
We don’t lack players.”

“Before I do your errand, pray tell me who that pretty young woman in
pink is who was sitting near the piano?”

“In pink, near the piano--with gold ornaments in her hair?”

“No, she hasn’t any gold in her hair; she is a blonde, rather pale, and
exceedingly pretty.”

“A blonde, pretty--you see there are several here in pink. Look you,
when I have fixed my lamps, you must point her out to me.”

I saw that there was nothing to be obtained from Monsieur Giraud at that
moment, so I returned to the salon. A gentleman had seated himself at
the piano, but not to play for dancing; it was to sing, to play preludes
and detached passages, as he happened to remember them. Beside him was a
friend, who, when he had finished one fragment of a tune, instantly
asked for another, saying:

“And that air from _Tancrède_. And the romanza from _Othello_. And that
pretty bit from the overture to _Semiramide_.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Try to remember that.”

And the gentleman played on, began, stopped, branched off to something
else; in short, acted as if he were at home; you will understand how
entertaining that was to the company. It had been going on for a long
while, and the gentleman seemed to have no idea of stopping; it was as
if the piano had been placed there for him, and we were too fortunate to
have the privilege of listening to the preludes, the flourishes, and
whatever he happened to remember. I have met in society many original
creatures like that gentleman.

Bélan had been in the salon for some time; he had gone in before me. I
saw him talking and laughing with Montdidier, and I guessed the subject
of their conversation. Madame Montdidier looked uneasily at Bélan, for
she did not know that he was forewarned of what he should say; but she
was reassured when she saw that they seemed to be on the best of terms.
Poor Montdidier did not seem to me to be so ill-tempered and so jealous
as his wife represented. The ladies like to say that a man is very
jealous of them; it flatters their self-esteem; and then too there would
be no pleasure in deceiving men who did not care.

In vain did Madame Giraud bustle about to find a singer of either sex;
every virtuoso had some reason for refusing. That annoyed the hostess,
who was anxious to be able to say that she had had a concert before the
ball, and who saw that everyone was doing his utmost to avoid listening
to the essays of the gentleman at the piano. She made up her mind at
last to say to him that the company desired a contradance; and the
gentleman left the piano with a nonchalant air, running his hands
through his hair and humming a fragment of Rossini.

I determined to invite the young woman whom I found so attractive; not
that I intended to make a declaration during the contradance; such
things are done only at a public ball, or possibly at a wedding party at
a restaurant; but I proposed to try to talk a little, if she seemed to
be in a talkative mood. There are many young women with whom it is
impossible to obtain more than three words in succession when they are
dancing. I arrived just in time and my invitation was accepted; we
danced. I tried to say something besides: “It is very hot,” or: “This is
a very pretty dance.” It is really very hard to think instantly of
something to say to a person whom one does not know, especially when one
would like to depart from the usual commonplaces.

But Giraud returned with his two lamps resplendent with light. There was
a subject of conversation.

“We needed them; there is nothing so dismal as a badly-lighted ballroom;
is there, mademoiselle?”

“That is true, monsieur.”

“There are some ladies here, however, who might prefer a half light.”

She contented herself with smiling.

“You have not sung, mademoiselle?”

“I beg pardon, monsieur, I sang one song.”

“Then it must have been before I came. That makes me deeply regret that
I came so late.”

“You didn’t lose much, monsieur.”

“I cannot believe you as to that; but if--Ah! it’s your turn.”

The figure interrupted our conversation; it was most annoying, for
perhaps we had made a real start.

After the figure I tried to renew the conversation.

“Will you not sing again, mademoiselle?”

“I sincerely hope not; I have paid my debt and that is enough.”

“Are you not fond of music?”

“Yes, very fond of it,--with people whom I know. I do not see the
necessity of entertaining people whom one has never seen, and who often
listen only from politeness.”

“You judge society already with----”

The deuce! another figure. At last the final figure came and the dance
was at an end. No matter, I had had an opportunity to decide that the
young woman was not a fool. Perhaps she would not have said as much of
me.

I seized Giraud as he was about to turn up his lamps, which were already
beginning to go out.

“You saw me dancing with that young lady opposite us?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was my partner whom I was asking you about just now.”

“Oho! that is Mademoiselle Eugénie Dumeillan.”

“Who is Mademoiselle Dumeillan?”

“She is the daughter of Madame Dumeillan, who is sitting beside her.”

“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I have no doubt that that young lady is the
daughter of her father and her mother; but when I ask you who she is, I
mean, what sort of people are they? What do they do? In short, I ask in
order to learn something about them. How is it that you, who are a mine
of information, do not understand that?”

“I do, I do. But, you see, she isn’t on my list of marriageable women.
However, she is of marriageable age, but they haven’t begun to think
about it yet; whereas that tall brunette yonder, in a turban--my dear
fellow, she has a hundred thousand francs in cash. That’s not bad, is
it? Ah! if I were not married!--Wife, look after your son Alexandre; he
will upset the tea-things, and all the cups will meet the fate of the
glasses!”

“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I care very little about the amount of that
tall brunette’s dowry. Can you tell me anything more about the ladies
opposite?”

“I beg your pardon. The mother is a widow; Monsieur Dumeillan was deputy
chief in some department or other, I don’t know what one; however, he
was a deputy chief and he left his widow four or five thousand francs a
year, I believe. Mademoiselle Eugénie has had an excellent education;
she is an accomplished musician and she will also have something that an
aunt has left her; I don’t know just how much, but I can find out. She
will not be a bad match; she’s an only daughter. Would you like me to
speak in your name?”

“Don’t play any such trick as that on me! Who in the devil said that I
proposed to marry? Can’t a man open his mouth about a woman without
thinking of marrying her?”

“I don’t say no; but as one must come to that at last----”

“Papa, my brother Théodore is stuffing pieces of sugared orange into his
pocket.”

It was Mademoiselle Giraud who made this announcement. Giraud left me to
whip his older son. Thereupon Bélan approached me.

“Haven’t you told Giraud to ask me to sing, that he doesn’t mention it?”

“Mon Dieu, Bélan, let us alone with your singing! We’ve had quite enough
of it! We prefer to dance.”

“That is because you have not heard me; I know very well that I should
have given pleasure; I learned a tune on purpose. By the way, you don’t
know--Hélène treats me coldly, yes, very coldly; she doesn’t like it
because I ran away so suddenly when I saw her husband. Can you imagine
such a thing? As if I could guess that she would invent a story on the
instant! However, she can be mad if she chooses, it’s all one to me; I
no longer care for her in the least; I still see her putting her hand in
my eye when we tipped over. She wasn’t pretty then. I have views on that
little woman in black yonder--do you see, a stout party, with an ardent
glance; that is promising.”

“But she is married; her husband is playing écarté; he is a receiver in
the Registration Office.”

“Good! so much the better, we will play some fine tricks on the
receiver.”

More dancing; this time Mademoiselle Eugénie was at the piano. She
played with much ease and taste. I regretted that I was not a musician;
I had given painting the preference. Painting is a delightful art, but
it does not afford the same advantages in society as music. In a salon,
people will neglect the painter to pet and coddle the musician: in
truth, one does not always think of dancing and singing.

The quadrille was only half through when the two lamps went out once
more. The last two figures were danced in a half light, or rather in
semi-darkness. Everybody laughed while Madame Giraud scolded her
husband, and he exclaimed:

“Faith! I give it up, I am wasting my time. Théodore, tell the maid to
bring more candles.”

Théodore left the salon, but only to pay a visit to the sideboard in the
dining-room. A third contradance was formed without any improvement in
the light; it began, accompanied by the cries of Madame Giraud, still
calling for more candles; by the lamentations of Giraud, who kept
raising and lowering the wicks of his lamps to no purpose; by the
howling of the three children who were quarrelling over the sweetmeats,
and by the barking of the dog, who escorted all the departing guests to
the door, yelping at their heels.

Bélan, who was dancing opposite the stout party, paid little heed to the
noise and thought only of performing his figures; but the semi-darkness
which reigned in the salon prevented him from seeing a slice of orange
which Monsieur Théodore had dropped from his pocket; as he tried to
execute a slide, Bélan slid in good earnest, and fell between the legs
of his vis-à-vis.

The ladies shrieked with terror. Bélan rose, holding his side and
swearing that he would not have fallen if he had not trodden upon
something. The little Giraud girl picked up the crushed slice of orange
and cried:

“It was my brother who threw that on the floor.”

And the father left the salon, giving Bélan his word that his son should
be punished when everybody had gone.

That contradance was the last; the candles threatened to follow the
example of the lamps, and the dancers were afraid of falling in with
slices of orange when they balanced their partners.

Everybody departed. I went downstairs at the same time as Mademoiselle
Dumeillan and her mother. I offered the latter my hand, while looking at
the daughter only; I assisted them into a cab and bowed. That was as far
as I could go at a first meeting.

I heard someone laughing and humming behind me. It was Bélan, following
the lady in black and her husband; as he passed he whispered in my ear:

“I am following her, it’s all right. As for La Montdidier, that is all
over, it’s broken off, we are sworn enemies. Adieu, I must pursue my
conquest.”

A moment later Montdidier and his wife passed, accompanied by a tall,
fair-haired youth who had stood behind madame’s chair all the evening.

I smiled as I remembered Bélan’s purpose to be virtuous, and I could not
forbear exclaiming:

“Oh! these men! these women!”




IV

A PAIR OF LOVERS


I lived on Rue Meslay, in a large house where there were apartments for
all sorts of persons, even for those who had no money; and where,
consequently, the man who passed the night working to earn his living
used the same staircase as the man who passed the night amusing himself;
the only difference was that the former went up higher. But even under
the eaves there are pleasures and love and some very charming faces. The
man who knows how to find them is not afraid to go up rather high.

I knew that there were at the top of my house--that is to say, of the
house where I lived--some small, unplastered rooms, with cracks in the
walls and loose doors and windows, where the chimneys smoked, where one
froze in winter, where the rats and mice came every night to visit the
occupants, and which, none the less, the landlord let for the highest
price that he could obtain; however, he would not accept everybody as a
tenant, but insisted upon having none but quiet people. I had never been
up to inspect those little rooms. It was not for lack of inclination,
however, for I had met several times on my staircase a very pretty girl,
who, as I knew, occupied one of the most modest apartments on the fifth
floor. She had not the aspect of a common working girl, nor had she the
wide-awake air of a grisette, and yet she was almost that, for she
worked for her living. She made wreaths, so the concierge told me, and
mended linen when people chose to give her any to mend. But she seemed
so young that she inspired little confidence in the people to whom she
went to ask for work; and yet one may be quite as honest at sixteen
years as at forty. Honesty is in the blood; when one must look to time
and experience for it, it is never built on a very solid foundation.

Little Marguerite had not been able to obtain a room in the house
without difficulty. The landlord considered her too young and did not
want to let a room to her; he was surprised that she should have
quarters of her own so early. But the girl had a certain air of candor
which disarmed the landlord’s sternness; she swore that she was very
quiet, that she made no noise and never stayed out late; and he let a
room to her for a hundred and thirty francs a year. It was necessary to
make many wreaths to earn that amount.

Despite her innocent air, Mademoiselle Marguerite had a lover; but when
a girl has but one, when she receives only him and goes out only with
him, she is justified in saying that she is quiet, and even honest.
Honesty does not consist solely in innocence. I once had a maid who was
absolutely virtuous, and who stole my cravats.

I knew nothing of all these details when I first met the girl on the
stairway. When I saw those small features that indicated that she was
barely fifteen, those great light-blue eyes, that tiny mouth, that tiny
figure--for, except her eyes, everything about Mademoiselle Marguerite
seemed to be tiny--I made eyes at her, that is to say, I looked hard at
her, and tried to make her look at me; but she paid no attention to my
ogling and ran quickly down the stairs. Another time I ventured upon a
few words, a compliment or two, but she did not reply; after that I
ceased to ogle her or to speak to her, for I am not obstinate, and
according to my belief, in order to please a woman one must please her
at the outset.

Once, however, Mademoiselle Marguerite had rung at my door; when I found
that she had come to pay me a visit, I did not know just what to think;
but the girl, whose eyes were swollen with tears and who was sobbing
pitifully, gave no thought to the impropriety of what she was doing. She
came to ask me if I had seen her cat, which had disappeared that
morning. On learning that I had not seen her poor Moquette, she darted
away like an arrow, paying no heed to the consoling words which I
attempted to offer her.

Thereupon I said to myself: “That is a virtuous girl; for I consider it
virtuous to be faithful to her lover.” I talked a little about her with
my concierge, and what I learned confirmed me in my opinion.

“Yes, she is very quiet,” said the concierge, “except when she is
running after her cat, which she plays with as if she was only five
years old. But after all, she is very young still. And she has a friend
who is almost as young as she is. He’s a very nice fellow, too. But
they’re as poor as Job! A room with nothing in it but a bed, and such a
bed! four pieces of wood, which fall apart as soon as you touch ‘em, a
little sideboard that ain’t worth more than fifteen sous, four chairs, a
wash bowl and a little three-franc mirror; how can anyone get along with
that? That’s what Mademoiselle Marguerite calls her household! But still
she pays her rent, and there’s nothing to say.”

“Her lover is a workman, I suppose, an apprentice?”

“No indeed! he’s a dandy, a gentleman, in fact; but he seems to think
that she’s well enough off as she is, or else he can’t do any better;
and I give you my word that the girl eats potatoes oftener than anything
else. But as long as she can see her Ernest and play with her cat, she’s
as happy as a queen.”

Since I had known all this, I had regarded the girl with a friendly
interest simply. Some time after, that interest became still greater. I
overheard involuntarily a conversation between Mademoiselle Marguerite
and an old count who lived on the same landing with me. Monsieur le
comte was an old rake; there was nothing extraordinary in that; we are
all rakes more or less. He, too, used to ogle our young neighbor, and
one day, when I was about to go out, my door happened to be ajar, and
the following dialogue reached my ears:

“Listen, listen, my pretty little minx; I have a couple of words to say
to you.”

“What are they, monsieur?”

“In the first place, that you are a sweetheart.”

“Oh! if that’s all, it is----”

“Listen, my dear love, I wish to make you happy.”

“Happy? Why, I am very happy, monsieur.”

“A girl can’t be happy when she lives under the eaves, in a wretched,
poorly-furnished chamber. I will give you a pretty apartment and money
to buy whatever you want.”

“What’s that, monsieur? What do you take me for?”

“Come, come, Mademoiselle Marguerite, don’t play the prude; when a girl
has a lover, when she lives with a young man, she should not be so
severe.”

“Because I have a lover, monsieur, is that any reason why I should
listen to such things?”

“Your little popinjay of a lover gives you nothing, and will drop you
the first thing you know; whereas I will agree to give you an allowance,
and, if you behave yourself, I----”

“I beg you to say no more, monsieur, and never speak to me again; if you
do, I will tell Ernest that you called him a popinjay, and how you have
been talking to me. Ah! he will teach you a lesson.”

“What’s that? You insolent, impertinent little hussy!”

“Bah! you old fool!”

And with that, the girl ran quickly upstairs. Monsieur le comte returned
to his room grumbling, and I said to myself:

“She must really love her Ernest, since she prefers poverty with him to
comfort with another;” and I was almost ashamed of having made some few
sweet speeches to her, for, without being constant oneself, one may well
do homage to constancy.

I was curious to see her lover; but probably he came early in the
morning and went away late, or not at all. One day, however, I met him;
and I was surprised to find that I knew him; I had met him several times
in society. He was a young man of excellent family, not more than twenty
years old; he was a comely youth, but he had a mania for writing for the
stage, and had not as yet succeeded in having any of his plays produced,
except a few unimportant things at some of the boulevard theatres. His
parents did not approve of his taste for the drama, and desired to force
him to enter the government service; but he always found a way to delay
until the place was filled; and his parents, who were not at all
satisfied with him, gave him very little pocket money. Poor fellow! I
understood why his little mistress had potatoes oftener than quail.

I knew him only by his family name; I did not know that his name was
Ernest. When we met on the stairs, he smiled and we bowed. I did not try
to stop him, he always went up so rapidly. I understood that he was more
anxious to be up there with her than to talk with me.

It was a long time since I had met Marguerite and her young lover. On
returning from Giraud’s party, I noticed much commotion in my
concierge’s lodge; the husband and wife were both up, although it was
after midnight, and one of them was ordinarily in bed by eleven o’clock.
An old cook who lived in the house was also in their lodge; they were
talking earnestly and I overheard these words:

“She is very ill; the midwife shook her head, and that’s a very bad
sign.”

“Who is very ill?” I asked, as I took my candle.

“Why, monsieur, it’s little Marguerite; she has had a miscarriage.”

“What! was that poor child enceinte?”

“You don’t mean to say that you haven’t noticed it, monsieur? She was
four and a half months gone.”

“Is not Monsieur Ernest with her?”

“Oh! he is like a madman. He has just gone home; it’s only a few steps
away. He took our little nephew with him, so as to bring something back
with him probably; for there ain’t anything at all upstairs.”

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the gate. Someone opened it
and Ernest came into the courtyard with a mattress on his head; the
young man had not hesitated to endanger his fine clothes by doing the
work of a porter; when it is a question of helping the woman one loves,
such things are not considered. Moreover, at midnight, the streets are
not crowded.

The little nephew came behind, bringing an armchair covered with Utrecht
velvet; I saw that young Ernest, without the knowledge of his parents,
had despoiled his own chamber in order to provide his young friend with
a little furniture.

“It is high time that you came back, monsieur,” said the concierge, with
that alarming manner which heightens the effect of bad news.
“Mademoiselle Marguerite is very sick; there’s complications. In fact,
she is losing all her blood, and you know it can’t go on long that way.”

The young man uttered a cry of dismay, and throwing the mattress to the
ground, ran up the stairs four at a time, without stopping to listen to
anything more. I remained in front of the concierges’ lodge, both of
them being too old and too lazy to offer to carry up the mattress; as
for the little nephew, it was all that he could do to climb up with the
chair, and the cook was there solely to gossip. I soon made up my mind:
I took the mattress on my shoulders and I went up with it to the fifth
floor.

I reached the door of little Marguerite’s bedroom. It was not locked,
and yet I dared not go in. I knew that the girl was so poor; and one
should be especially careful when dealing with poor people. Perhaps she
and her lover would be offended to think that I had ventured to come up.
And yet, since she was so ill----

While I was hesitating, standing at the door with the mattress on my
shoulders, I heard a shrill voice say:

“Send for a doctor, monsieur; I won’t be responsible; you must have a
doctor, she needs one very bad.”

A very weak voice, which I recognized as the young girl’s, said:

“Stay here, Ernest, don’t leave me. I feel better when you are here.”

I pushed the door open and dropped the mattress in a corner of the room,
saying:

“I will go out and call a doctor; stay with her, as it does her good.”

“Oh! yes, yes, do go,” said Ernest; “oh! how grateful I shall be to
you!”

I heard no more; I descended the stairs rapidly and nearly overturned
the concierge’s little nephew, who had only reached the third floor with
his chair; I believe that the little rascal sat down on it at every
landing. At last I was in the street; I ran at random, looking about for
some shop that was still open, where I could inquire if there was a
doctor in the neighborhood.

Where should I apply? Everybody was in bed; I saw many midwives’ signs,
but a midwife was not what I wanted. I ventured to ring at several
doors; I jerked the bells and made an infernal noise.

“Who is there?” the concierges asked me; and I shouted:

“Isn’t there a doctor in the house?”

They answered me with abuse, or not at all; people are not polite when
they want to sleep.

I knew two doctors, but they lived so far away that the poor child would
have time to die before they could get to her. What was I to do? I did
not wish to return alone. I was tempted to cry fire. That method, which
has been employed in several plays, might serve in real life as well;
one always has to frighten one’s fellow-citizens, to obtain anything
from them. Then, when everybody had come to the windows, I would call
for a doctor.

I was about to give the alarm, when two men passed me, talking with
great earnestness. I recognized Ernest’s voice; it was he, in fact;
fearing that I would not return quickly enough, he had followed me; but
he had thought to ask the nurse for the address of a doctor, and he had
found one. I ran after him, and he thanked me, although I had been of no
service to him. We returned, walking rapidly, without speaking; poor
Ernest had but one thought, to save his little Marguerite. We arrived.
Ernest went up to his mistress with the surgeon. I remained in the hall,
going upstairs and down in my excitement. I had simply said to Ernest:

“If you need anything, I shall be here.”

How long the minutes seemed to me! Those young lovers loved each other
so dearly! the poor girl was so sweet! if she should die, how her lover
would grieve for her and regret her! To lose such a long future of
happiness! Ah! Death goes sadly astray when it closes eyes of sixteen
years.

It seemed to me that an hour had passed since the doctor went up. But I
heard steps coming down, and someone called me; it was Ernest. Joy
gleamed in his eyes, and he cried:

“My friend, my friend, she is saved; there is no more danger!”

“Ah! I am so glad to hear it!”

We shook hands. He had called me his friend, and a few hours earlier we
had hardly known each other; but there are events which bind two people
more closely than sixty evenings passed together in society. It was one
of those events which had happened to us.

The surgeon came downstairs and Ernest ran to meet him.

“Are you going, monsieur? Then she is out of danger?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, have no fear; everything is all right now, and as it should
be; I will answer for her; all she needs now is rest.”

“But you will come to-morrow morning, won’t you, monsieur?”

“Yes, I will come to see her to-morrow.”

With that the doctor went away and Ernest followed him to the street
door, gazing at him, and listening to him as to an oracle. Ah! that is a
noble art which gives us the means of saving the lives of our fellowmen.
The man who has saved the life of a person whom we love ceases to be a
man in our eyes, and becomes a god.

I was about to go to my room, but Ernest said to me:

“Come up with me a moment; it will please her.”

I followed him. The girl was lying in her bed, which in truth did not
seem to be very soft; however she had, in addition to her ordinary bed,
the mattress that her lover had brought. The midwife was seated in the
armchair, the magnificence of which was in striking contrast to the few
pieces of furniture with which the room was supplied; she had her feet
on a foot-warmer, although she was sitting directly in front of the
fireplace; to be sure, the fire was a very modest one. There was
nothing about the woman to indicate sensibility; one could see that she
was there to practise her profession and that was all; and from her
unamiable expression and the glances that she cast about her, I could
see that the poverty of the room made her apprehensive that she would
not be well paid for her services; however, she had agreed to pass the
night there, and the young man was very grateful to her.

Ernest walked very softly to the bed; but the girl instantly held out
her hand to him, saying:

“Oh! I am not asleep, I have no desire to sleep; but I am very
comfortable now. The only thing is that I am afraid it will tire you to
sit up all night; you are just getting over a sickness yourself, and you
are not strong yet. Go home; you know that I am out of danger; the
doctor said so, and since madame will stay----”

“Oh, yes, I will stay,” said the midwife, in a sour tone, “although it
puts me out; but still--great heaven! how cold it is in this room! the
wind blows everywhere. A fine fire that! just two sticks! ain’t there
even a pair of bellows here?”

Ernest hastily fetched the bellows, and handed them to the woman; then
he returned to the bed, saying:

“You must know, my love, that I shall not leave you. But here is
Monsieur Blémont, who was good enough to go out to call a doctor, when
he came up an hour ago; we haven’t so much as thought of thanking him.”

“Ah! that is true, my dear.--I beg pardon, monsieur, pray excuse me; but
I was in such pain then----”

“You owe me no thanks, for it was not I who found your doctor.”

“No matter,” said Ernest, “you showed some interest in us, and I shall
never forget it.”

“What a miserable pair of bellows! Not two sous’ worth of wind! it must
be pleasant here in freezing weather!”

I turned toward the woman; I should have liked to impose silence upon
her, for it seemed to me that her indiscreet remarks must be painful to
the two lovers. But I was mistaken; they were not listening to her.
Ernest was holding his darling’s hand, and she was gazing lovingly into
his eyes; after their fear of an eternal separation, it seemed to them
that they had recovered each other. They were entirely absorbed in their
love. But Marguerite sighed, and after a moment I heard her whisper to
Ernest:

“What a pity, my dear! it was a boy!”

Poor child! although hardly able to keep herself alive, she wanted a
child, because every woman is proud to be a mother, and a child is an
additional bond between her and her lover.

I was about to leave them when there was a loud noise outside; it was a
crash of broken glass, and it seemed to be on the roof near the window
of the chamber in which we were.

The midwife uttered a cry of terror, and ran behind me, exclaiming:

“It’s thieves! did you hear, monsieur? They’re coming in the window. We
must rouse the whole house.”

I confess that I shared the opinion of the nurse, and I was about to
open the window to see what was afoot, when Marguerite, who, instead of
showing signs of alarm, had smiled faintly, motioned to me to stop, and
said to us:

“Don’t be alarmed, I know what it is; I am used to that noise now; it is
my neighbor, Monsieur Pettermann, going into his room.”

“Who on earth is Monsieur Pettermann, and why does he make such a noise
going into his room?” asked the midwife.

“Monsieur Pettermann is a tailor, and works in his room; but he gets
drunk at least three times a week; on those days he always loses his
door key; then he climbs out on the gutter under the window of the
landing and crawls along, at the risk of breaking his neck, to his own
window, puts his fist through a pane so that he can throw back the
catch, and gets into his room that way. Ask Ernest if we haven’t heard
him do it more than a dozen times.”

I could not help laughing at Monsieur Pettermann’s habits, while the
nurse exclaimed:

“Oh! the idiot! he gave me a fright. The idea of walking on a gutter!
and when he is drunk, too!”

“If he was sober, madame, he probably wouldn’t take the risk.”

“But some day this neighbor of yours will break his neck.”

“So I have often told him. The day after, when he has his window mended,
he swears that it shall never happen again. The concierge has already
threatened to warn him out if he doesn’t enter by his door, and doesn’t
come home earlier.”

At that moment we heard someone storming and swearing on the landing.
Monsieur Pettermann, having entered his room, had succeeded in opening
his door, which was fastened only by a spring lock.

“Perhaps he wants a light,” said Marguerite; “it very seldom happens
that he asks me for anything; but he may have seen that we haven’t gone
to bed here.”

We heard a knock at the door, and a hoarse voice stuttered:

“I say, neighbor, haven’t you g--g--gone to bed, n--n--neighbor? What
would you s--s--say if I should ask you to l--l--light my little
c--c--candle-end?”

I was curious to see neighbor Pettermann, and before Ernest had had time
to drop Marguerite’s hand, I opened the door.

The tailor was still young, with a frank, honest face; but the habit of
drinking too much had made his nose purple and swollen, and his dress
was marked by a lack of order which also betrayed his intemperance.

On seeing me, he opened his eyes and said:

“Hello! have I made a mistake? This is funny. Ain’t this my neighbor’s
door, or has she moved?”

“No, monsieur,” said Ernest, “but don’t shout so loud; she is sick. What
do you want?”

“Ah! she is sick, is she, poor little woman!” And Monsieur Pettermann
walked toward the bed, saying: “Are you sick, my little woman? What’s
the matter with you?”

Ernest stopped the tailor, who was reeking with liquor; and he, always
very polite, although tipsy, fearing that he had done something wrong,
stepped back to the armchair in which the midwife was seated, and sank
upon her lap, saying:

“I beg pardon, that’s so; it’s none of my business. Ah! prout!”

“Will you get up?” cried the nurse, striking the tailor in the back. He
turned about, stammering:

“Ah! I was sitting on one of the fair sex, although I hadn’t a suspicion
of it.--Excuse me, my little woman, I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.”

“Give me your candle and let me light it for you,” said Ernest; “for
that is what you want, I have no doubt.”

“Yes, neighbor, if you would be so kind. I couldn’t use my flint because
I scratched my right hand a little, while getting into my room.”

Not until then did we notice that the poor fellow’s right hand was
covered with blood, two of his fingers being badly cut. The girl pointed
to a closet in which there were some rags, with which Ernest hastily
bandaged the tailor’s hand. He made no objection, but said:

“Oh, mon Dieu! it’s nothing at all, a trifle. I don’t know what was the
matter to-night, but I broke two panes instead of one.”

“But Monsieur Pettermann, don’t you ever propose to give up your habit
of going into your room through the window?”

“What would you have me do? I lose my key--these keys slip out of your
pocket without your knowing it, and besides, I believe my pocket has a
hole in it. But I promise you that I’ll look after it now, especially as
it is going to be hard for me to sew it up.”

“Here’s your candle.”

“Many thanks. Good-night all. Better health to you, neighbor. If you
ever need my services, call on me; don’t hesitate.”

“Thanks, thanks, Monsieur Pettermann.”

“No, don’t hesitate; call me; it will be a pleasure to me.”

The tailor returned to his room. I thought that the young invalid must
have need of rest, so I too left the room after wishing them good-night.
But I wanted to say something to Ernest alone. He escorted me downstairs
with the light. When we were both in front of my door, I stopped and
looked at him, and I held my peace; for I really did not know how to
broach the subject.

Ernest, who did not suspect that I wished to say anything to him, wished
me good-night and was about to go upstairs. I caught his arm to detain
him; I felt that I must make up my mind to speak.

“Monsieur Ernest, I am delighted to have become better acquainted with
you; I hope that our acquaintance will not stop here.”

“I thank you, monsieur. I hope so too. I tell you again that I shall not
forget your interest in my grief to-night. There are so many people who
would have laughed at my distress, and who would have blamed it.”

“Such people never see in love-affairs anything more than momentary
pleasure; the moment any pain enters into them, they think they should
be broken off.”

“Ah, yes! you are quite right. But good-night, I must go.”

“One moment more. I wanted to say to you--First of all, I pray you,
excuse me; I trust that what I am going to say will not offend you.
Young men can afford to speak frankly. Although I am five or six years
older than you, I remember very well that when I was eighteen, and was
still living with my parents, I was sometimes sorely embarrassed to give
presents to my mistress. Now listen: your young friend has met with an
accident that will entail expenses which you did not expect so soon. A
young man who lives with his parents is sometimes short of money. Allow
me to offer you my purse. You can repay me when you are able.”

Ernest shook my hand warmly as he replied:

“I thank you for your offer, Monsieur Blémont; it does not offend me,
for I do not consider it a crime to be short of money, and I will not
make a pretence of being well supplied with it, for that would give you
a poor idea of my heart, after seeing that poor child’s bedroom. My
parents are well-to-do, as you know; but they treat me very harshly,
because I do not do absolutely what they would like. They think also
that at my age, a young man should not want to spend money upon a
mistress. Perhaps they are not wrong, after all. I assure you, however,
that the privations which Marguerite and I suffer, far from lessening
our love, do in fact increase it. Should we not become attached to a
person in proportion to what she has suffered for our sake? Marguerite
is so young and so pretty, that, if she chose, she could have wealthy
lovers with whom she would enjoy all the luxuries of life; she prefers
to remain poor with me. But we are not to be pitied for that, for we
love each other better than money. However, this embarrassment will only
be temporary, I hope; I have two plays accepted, and if they are
successful----”

“Then you accept my offer?”

“Oh, no! I never borrow money when I am not certain of being able to
return it. That is a principle from which I shall never depart.”

“But when you have plays accepted, which are going to be produced----”

“A play is never a certainty; it is a cast of the dice. I thank you a
thousand times; but I have something left with which to face the
present. As for the future, we will hope, we will build castles in the
air.”

“I am sorry that you refuse.”

“And I am very glad that you have made the offer, for you are the first
one of my friends to suggest anything of that sort, and yet you have
been my friend for only a few hours.”

“It is a fact that one often passes his life with people to whom he
gives the name of friends, but who have none of the feelings of a
friend.”

“Good-night, Monsieur Blémont. If you have time to come up for a moment
to-morrow, we shall be glad to see you.”

“Yes, I will come to enquire for my neighbor. Good-night.”

Ernest went up to the fifth floor and I went into my room.




V

LOVE AGAIN


I went next day to visit my neighbor on the fifth floor and found her
alone with her lover; the midwife was no longer there; Ernest had taken
her place, no less from inclination than from necessity; for the lovers
were happier not to have a third person with them all day, and what
would be a privation to others is a satisfaction to lovers.

Ernest was seated beside his friend’s bed; I was afraid that I was in
the way, and I intended to remain only a moment, but my visit lasted
more than an hour. “Pray don’t go yet,” they said every time that I rose
to take my leave. Why was it that the time passed so quickly, that we
got along so well together? It was because we all three allowed our real
sentiments to appear, because we talked freely of the things that
interested us, and because we poured out our hearts without reserve.
Marguerite spoke of the child that she hoped for, and her eyes, fastened
on Ernest’s, seemed to say to him:

“We can make up for this lost time, can we not?”

Ernest smiled and spoke encouragingly to her; then talked about his two
plays that had been accepted; they were his children, too. For my part,
I talked to them of the theatre, balls, and love-affairs. I told them,
without mentioning any names, the adventure of Bélan and Hélène. That
made them laugh heartily. I was not aware that I spoke with more
interest of Mademoiselle Dumeillan than of others; but when I mentioned
her name, I noticed that Mademoiselle Marguerite smiled and that Ernest
did the same.

At last, after one of my anecdotes, Ernest said to me:

“My dear Monsieur Blémont, I should say that you were in love.”

“In love! I! with whom, pray?”

“Parbleu! with the fair-haired young lady who talks so well, who plays
the piano so charmingly, who has such a sweet expression.”

“What! Have I said so to you?”

“No, but we guessed it from the way in which you talked of her; didn’t
we, Marguerite?”

“Yes, yes; you are certainly in love with the young lady in pink.”

“Oh! I give you my word that----”

“Don’t swear, monsieur; you would not tell the truth.”

“Mademoiselle Eugénie is very pretty, it is true; but I hardly know
her.”

“Acquaintance is easily made.”

“I do not know whether those ladies would care to receive me. By the
way, what you say suggests to me the idea of going to see Monsieur
Giraud and talking with him about it. Perhaps he won’t be fussing over
his lamps to-day. I think that I will go there; I will lead the
conversation to the subject of those ladies, as if unpremeditated.”

“That is right: go; then you must come back and tell us how you
progress.”

I confess that the devoted love of those two young people made me long
to enjoy a similar happiness. Perhaps the thought of the charming
Eugénie had much influence upon my reflections. I was twenty-six years
old, and I was already weary of commonplace love-affairs. Still it is
very amusing to have three or four mistresses and to deceive them all,
at the same time; to have them make a row, follow you, watch you,
threaten you, and become more passionately enamored of you with each
infidelity. And the poor husbands that you make--Oh! they are most
amusing too! But amid all such enjoyments, it seemed to me that my heart
was sometimes conscious of a void. Did not Ernest and Marguerite enjoy a
more genuine happiness than I? I did not know, but I proposed to try it
and find out.

I had eight thousand francs a year. That is not a fortune, but it is a
competence. Moreover, I had gone through the regular course of study and
had been admitted to be an advocate; that was something; to be sure, I
had not tried many cases since I had been entitled to wear the gown.
Pleasure had too often diverted my thoughts from my profession; but if I
married, I should be more virtuous; indeed, I should have to be.

My father was dead; he also had been at the bar. He left me an honorable
name, which I made it my pride to keep without stain; for one may have
three or four mistresses at once without impairing one’s honor;
especially when one has neither violence nor seduction with which to
reproach oneself; and God be praised! we live in an age when it is easy
to make love without resorting to such methods. I know very well that it
is not strictly moral to deceive husbands. But example is so
contagious! and then there are so many of those gentry who neglect their
wives! Is it not natural to console them?

My mother, who passed her summers in the country, and her winters in
Paris at a whist table, would certainly be very glad to have me married;
she had three thousand francs a year which would come to me some day;
but I never thought of that; when one loves one’s parents, one must
always hope that they will not die.

I indulged in these reflections, I could not say why. After all, I had
no purpose of marrying, or at all events of entering into one of those
marriages which are arranged beforehand by parents or friends. If I
married, I should have to be very deeply in love, and to be absolutely
certain that I was dearly loved in return.

As I walked along, musing thus, I reached Giraud’s door. Should I go
upstairs? Why not? I would pretend that I had lost a cane, a switch, the
night before. I never carried one, but no matter. It was two o’clock,
and I thought that Giraud would be in his office. I went up, and found
the door on the landing open. The three children, dressed like little
thieves, and as dirty as ragpickers, were in the reception room, playing
with the dog, on whose head they had put their father’s black silk
night-cap. I noticed that the rooms had not been put to rights. The maid
was sweeping the salon, and told me that Giraud was at home. I supposed
that he was in his office; but the little girl called out to me that her
papa was dressing her mamma, and I dared not venture to enter Madame
Giraud’s chamber. Someone went to call monsieur and I waited in the
dust, pursued by the broom.

At last Giraud appeared, wringing his hands and making wry faces.

“Good-morning, my dear Blémont.”

“I am distressed to have disturbed you; I came up as I was passing,
to----”

“You do not disturb me in the least; on the contrary, you have put an
end to my sufferings. I was doing my utmost to fasten my wife’s dress.
Ah! my thumbs! heavens! how they ache! I couldn’t succeed in doing it,
and yet she pretends that her dress is too big; I don’t believe a word
of it. Françoise, go and fasten my wife’s dress.”

“But, monsieur, you know very well that madame says I go about it
awkwardly, that I’m not strong enough.”

“Never mind, go; you can finish the salon afterward.”

I supposed that we should go into his office and that we should find a
fire there, for it was not warm; but Giraud invited me to sit down on
the couch, saying:

“I don’t take you into my office, because it hasn’t been put to rights
yet. Lord! how my thumbs ache!--But we can talk as well here; the fire
will be lighted as soon as the salon is swept. Is it late? I haven’t
found time to dress yet.”

“Why, it is after two o’clock.”

“Mon Dieu! and I have three appointments for this afternoon, to
interview people who want to be married.”

“I do not wish to detain you.”

“Don’t go; they must wait for me. In truth, nothing is ever done
here.--My friend, marriage is a very fine thing! I hope that you will
soon take your place in the class of respectable married men.”

“Oh! I have time enough.”

“You must be tired of a bachelor’s life?”

“No, indeed.”

“Did you see anyone at my party yesterday who interested you? Come, tell
me about it.”

“Oh, no! that isn’t what brings me here; but I thought that perhaps I
left a pretty little stick of mine last night.”

“A stick! you must ask the children about that; they are the ones who
find everything that is left here. They are as smart as little
demons.--Théodore, Alexandre, daughter----”

“Oh, don’t disturb them.”

“Yes, yes; I am not sorry to have you see them, they are so cunning in
their answers.”

I dared not say that I had already seen the cunning creatures. Their
papa continued to call them. Théodore appeared on all fours, carrying
Alexandre on his back, the latter having the dog in his arms. The better
to imitate a horse, Théodore had put on long paper ears, and the little
girl was whipping him behind with a bunch of quills.

I laughed at the picture, and Giraud considered it very amusing at
first. But in a moment he recognized his black silk cap on the dog’s
head, and he did not laugh any more.

“What, you rascals! you have taken my silk cap to put on Azor!”

“I did it to make a Croquemitaine of him, papa.”

“I have forbidden you a hundred times to touch any of my things.--And
you, mademoiselle, what are you whipping your brother with?”

“Papa, with----”

“With a bunch of quills that was on my desk--very expensive quills,
rooster’s quills, which I keep to write my circulars with. Who gave you
leave to touch anything on my desk? But just come here, Monsieur
Théodore. What did you make those ears with?”

“With a paper that was on the floor, papa.”

“On the floor! God bless me! it is Monsieur Mermillon’s letter, in which
he tells me in detail what his daughter’s dowry will be! You little
villain! to make horse’s ears with my letters! Some day he will take
thousand-franc notes from my desk to make horns with. I will deal with
you, young man.”

Giraud started to run after his son, but I stopped him; I heard madame
calling in an angry voice:

“Giraud! Giraud! aren’t you coming to finish dressing me? Françoise
doesn’t know how to fasten my dress; that girl is frightfully awkward.”

“There, there it is,” said Giraud; “she is going to send her back again
because she don’t fasten her dress quickly enough. It is always the same
story. Faith, I don’t care, let her fix herself! Just look at my thumbs;
I haven’t any flesh left round my nails.”

Someone half opened the bedroom door; Madame Giraud stood at the
entrance half dressed, and behind her came the maid, who resumed her
broom, muttering:

“Ah! what a dog’s life! as if I came here to squeeze her waist in!”

At sight of me, Madame Giraud took one step backward, then three
forward, and exclaimed:

“Oh! pray excuse my disorderly appearance, Monsieur Blémont, but
Monsieur Giraud is a terrible man; he never finishes dressing me! But I
can’t remain half dressed. I give you my word, monsieur, that this dress
is too big for me.”

“And I give you my word, wife, that my thumbs are sore.”

“Bah! you are a tender creature; and I have three calls to make before
dinner, and you know that we dine at Madame Dumeillan’s, who has a box
at the Porte-Saint-Martin.”

“That is so, we dine out. Just imagine, my dear Blémont, that we have so
many invitations that we don’t know which to accept.”

“They dine early too. Oh dear! how unfortunate I am! I shall never be
ready in time.”

Madame Giraud had said enough for me. Delighted by what I had learned, I
walked toward her.

“If you will allow me, madame, perhaps I may be more successful than
your maid.”

Madame Giraud smiled most graciously at me and instantly turned her
back, saying:

“How kind you are, Monsieur Blémont! What, do you really mean that
you----?”

“With great pleasure, madame.”

I was not a novice at fastening dresses; I took the belt on each side,
and although I hurt my fingers a little, the dress was fastened; and I
did it as if it had cost me no effort at all.

“That’s the way,” cried Madame Giraud triumphantly; “that’s the way;
isn’t it, Monsieur Blémont?”

“Yes, madame; it’s all right now.”

“There, Monsieur Giraud, you see. When one knows how--and monsieur did
not seem to make any effort.”

“No, madame, none at all.”

“Faith, my dear fellow,” said Giraud, “if you will come here every day
when madame is dressing, you will do me a great favor.”

“Hush, Monsieur Giraud; you ought to be ashamed.--Excuse me, Monsieur
Blémont; I must go and finish dressing. A thousand thanks.”

Madame returned to her room, and Giraud invited me to sit down in a
corner of the salon that had been swept; but I took my hat and bade him
adieu; he escorted me as far as the landing, saying:

“My friend, marry. Believe me, it is the happiest state. I have three
superb matches at your disposal.”

“All right, we will see.”

“If your stick is found, I will put it away.”

“Oh! I am inclined to think, after all, that I didn’t leave it here.
Adieu.”

So Mademoiselle Eugénie would be at the Porte-Saint-Martin Theatre that
evening. The Girauds would be with them, so I should have an excuse for
going to pay my respects to them. And yet those Girauds were so stupid,
so ridiculous, with their mania for marrying everybody; I was sorry to
find that they were intimate with those ladies. But perhaps it was only
a society intimacy; one of those in which people call on one another
merely to pass the time, but do not care for one another.

I awaited the evening not too impatiently, for I was not in love. I
desired to see the young woman again because I had nothing better to do,
and because my eyes, fatigued by feigning love so long, ached to rest
upon other charms in order to recover a little of the fire which they
had lost.

I went to the theatre late, for I desired that they should be there when
I arrived. I cast my eyes over the boxes, and I discovered the ladies in
an open box on the first tier. The mother and Madame Giraud were in
front, Mademoiselle Eugénie on the second bench. I did not see Giraud;
probably he had some marriage to arrange that evening. There was a
vacant seat beside Mademoiselle Eugénie. Did I dare? But the box was
theirs and I could not presume to go in; it was essential that I should
be invited.

The young woman seemed to me even prettier than the night before. Her
simpler gown and headdress added to her charms. She did not see me, so
I was able to scrutinize her at my leisure. There was a seat in a box
near theirs; should I take it? No, that would be showing my desire to
speak to them too plainly.

The performance had begun. They did not see me, although I had drawn
nearer to them. Madame Giraud was entirely engrossed by her figure. I
was sure that she was suffocating. She did not know enough to look in my
direction.

Someone opened the door of their box,--Giraud, no doubt. No, it was a
young man; he saluted the ladies and Mademoiselle Dumeillan smiled upon
him; she talked and laughed with him! It was well worth while for me to
go there to see that! Mon Dieu! how stupid a man can be! I was jealous,
and all on account of a person whom I hardly knew, and to whom I had not
said a word of love. Was not that young woman at liberty to have a
lover, ten lovers indeed, if she chose? I blushed at my folly, and to
prove to myself that she was absolutely indifferent to me, I went at
once to the box next to hers, for I did not see why the presence of
those ladies, who were almost strangers to me, should prevent me from
talking with Madame Giraud, whose dress I had fastened that morning.

I entered the box. I did not look at Mademoiselle Eugénie; indeed, I
pretended not to see the ladies. But in a moment Madame Giraud called to
me:

“Good-evening, Monsieur Blémont. How kind of you to come to see us! So
you remembered that I said that I was coming here to-night with these
ladies?”

The devil take Madame Giraud with her memory! I replied very
deliberately:

“No, madame, I did not know, I had no idea--but I agreed to meet
somebody here; that is why I came.”

Then I bowed coldly to Madame Dumeillan and her daughter, after which I
turned and looked at the audience. But Madame Giraud soon began again to
talk to me; she was inclined to overwhelm me with marks of friendliness
since I had succeeded in fastening her dress.

I pretended to listen to Madame Giraud, but I had no idea of what she
was saying. I was listening to the young man who was talking to
Mademoiselle Eugénie. His remarks were very vague; he had nothing
particular to say to her, and talked about nothing but the play. I felt
that my ill humor was vanishing. I turned toward the ladies and joined
in the conversation, but I did not rest my eyes on Mademoiselle Eugénie.
I should have been sorry that she should think that I had come there on
her account.

Before long the young man took leave of the ladies and returned to his
party. He left her; did that mean that he was not in love with her? I
cast a furtive glance at Mademoiselle Dumeillan. After that young man’s
departure she was as light-hearted and seemed to enjoy herself as much
as when he was there. I began to think that I was mistaken and that he
was not a lover.

Thereupon I moved close to their box, and during the performance I
exchanged a few words with Mademoiselle Eugénie. Once my hand touched
hers, which was resting on the rail that separated us; the contact was a
mere chance; our two hands touched, she hastily withdrew hers, and I did
the same, faltering some words of apology. But that lovely hand when it
touched mine caused me a thrill of delicious emotion. A simple touch
produced such an effect as that! I would have liked to know if
Mademoiselle Eugénie--but she was not looking in my direction.

In the next intermission, Madame Giraud, who was talking with Madame
Dumeillan, suddenly turned to me and said:

“By the way, madame, Monsieur Blémont is a lawyer; he knows all about
the laws, and what rights people have. My husband isn’t very well posted
in such matters; his forte is marriages. Consult Monsieur Blémont about
your business; he will tell you whether you are in the right or not.”

“I should not dare to annoy monsieur,” replied the mother, “or presume
to take his time.”

I eagerly offered my services and asked what the business was; but she
could not explain it to me at the theatre; it was necessary for me to
look over documents and title deeds. That was just what I hoped. Madame
Dumeillan gave me her address, and, while renewing her apologies for the
trouble I was about to take, thanked me in advance for calling upon her
some morning. She thanked me for something which I would eagerly have
asked as a favor! How happy I was! But I succeeded in concealing my
delight. I did not again put my hand near Mademoiselle Dumeillan’s; it
was especially essential then that I should be careful not to act like a
man in love. A novice throws himself at people’s heads, but a clever man
knows how to husband his privileges.

Acting upon this principle, when Giraud arrived I paid my respects to
the ladies and left the theatre. Had I remained I should have seemed to
be looking for an opportunity to escort them home.




VI

I GO TO THE HOUSE


The next day arrived and I hesitated about calling upon the two ladies.
Would it not be showing too much eagerness? No, it would be no more than
polite; since they chose to have confidence in my talent, I ought not to
keep them waiting.

I waited until the clock struck two; then I went to Madame Dumeillan’s.
The condition of affairs there was not the same as at Giraud’s. The maid
had finished sweeping the rooms. The one who admitted me ushered me into
a room decorated without display, but with taste; there was a good fire
and I found the young lady of the house practising upon the piano.

Mademoiselle Eugénie left her music to inform her mother of my arrival;
I dared not tell her that it was on her account alone that I had come;
that would have been going too fast. What a pity it is that one cannot
go straight to one’s goal. How much time we waste!

The mother appeared. After the first salutations she explained her
business to me and showed me her papers. Eugénie left the salon while
her mother was talking to me; and it was well that she did, for I was
listening distractedly, and I think that I answered incoherently. After
she had gone I was all attention. The mother’s business concerned a
small farm which had descended to her husband, and her possession of
which was disputed by his brother-in-law. Her right seemed to me
incontestable; but I could not read all the papers at once. She thought
it quite natural for me to take them away in order to study them at
home.

Eugénie returned and we talked of less serious things. The mother was
very agreeable; Eugénie was bright and well informed, and although I had
not yet become intimate with them, I was already on very good terms with
them. After an hour’s visit, I took my leave; I did not need to ask
permission to call again, for I had a foothold in the house.

I did not go to Madame Dumeillan’s again for two days. I am a peculiar
man; I was determined to conceal my sentiments, and I should have been
distressed to have Mademoiselle Eugénie suspect the impression that she
had produced upon me. At last I made my second call. I had made a
thorough study of the case in which the widow was threatened with a
suit. I was persuaded that she was in the right; I so assured her and I
offered my services to look after the matter, which I considered as
already won. Madame Dumeillan was overjoyed; she thanked me and accepted
my offer. I was no longer a stranger in the house; they seemed to look
upon me as a friend.

The mother and daughter received much company; but they had one special
reception day during the week. On that day there were cards and music
and sometimes dancing. Their guests were more select than those one met
at Giraud’s; they were an entirely different set. And yet there were
some whom I should have been glad not to see there; they were the young
men, very attractive young men, who were attentive and devoted to
Eugénie. How absurd I was! I had no objection to young women coming
there, but as to men, I would have liked to have none but bewigged
heads. Those I found extremely agreeable.

For my own part, I think that I was not often agreeable. No one ever is
when he is really in love. I liked to see the ladies in private; then I
was much happier. If Eugénie played, there was no young man leaning over
the piano, ready to turn the leaves for her. If I talked with her, we
were not interrupted by some dandy coming to pay her a compliment; and
yet I realized that they could not receive me and no one else.

I did not neglect the business that was entrusted to me; the prospect of
winning the suit was doubly agreeable to me: I should oblige the ladies
and I should give them a favorable opinion of my ability. It did not
require much eloquence to succeed; madame triumphed over an adversary
who had sued her because he had a mania for litigation. Only two months
from the time of my first call, I had the pleasure of bringing the
affair to a successful termination.

Although the property at stake was of no great value, Madame Dumeillan
thanked me effusively; mothers think a great deal of money. Eugénie
thanked me courteously, but that was all. As a general rule our
relations were rather cool. Why did she not treat me as she did other
men? Had she noticed that I was annoyed when men paid court to her, that
I moved away when others approached? Did she not like my disposition? In
truth she must have found me far from amiable. I was much less so than
any of the other men who visited her mother. I never made any flattering
remarks to her, I made no pretence of being devoted or gallant to her.
Was that the way for me to succeed in making myself agreeable to her?
Yes, I preferred that she should love me as I was! I wanted her to prove
to me that she had read my heart, and I did my utmost to conceal from
her what was taking place in it! Love sometimes makes us very eccentric.

Sometimes I promised myself to change my manner toward Eugénie; I tried
to do as the other young men did who came to her house: to be agreeable
and gallant, to laugh and joke when others were about her; but I did not
play my part well, my gayety was forced; Eugénie seemed to notice it,
and that made me still more awkward.

The young men who were received at Madame Dumeillan’s were all men of
breeding; there was nothing in their attentions to Mademoiselle Eugénie
which could offend the greatest stickler for propriety. Why then should
I take offense? Because I could not be agreeable to her, was it any
reason that others should not be? I realized that I was wrong; but I was
determined to study and become thoroughly acquainted with Eugénie’s
character. I thought her a little inclined to flirt. In a girl of her
age, and so pretty, that is very excusable; and besides, are not all
women flirts? Yes, all, a little more or a little less; but it is a
failing inherent in their nature. But is it a failing? Innocent coquetry
is nothing more than a desire to please; that desire leads them to take
more care with their dress, with the arrangement of their hair, with
their whole personal appearance. What should we say of a woman who
neglected all such things? We should blame her, or we should think that
she had no taste. Why then should we call that a failing which is done
to charm and fascinate us? By their education, by the place they fill in
society, women are debarred from occupations in which they would be more
successful perhaps than we are; from important negotiations, which they
would untangle more quickly than many diplomatists; and from political
discussions, in which so many men do not know what they are saying. We
have left to women the simple and less arduous occupations of the
household; but those occupations, even if they suffice to employ the
time, can not furnish sufficient occupation for the mind and the
imagination, to prevent them from seeking other employment. Some men
think that a needle, an embroidery frame, or a piano ought to be enough
to keep a woman busy. I do not think, like Cato, that wisdom and common
sense are incompatible with the female mind; I believe that their
intellects, their imaginations require other resources than a needle and
a piano. They are forced to become coquettes because the desire to
please is an employment which occupies the mind and gives it food for
dreams; they would be much less coquettish if they were employed upon
the same tasks that we are. And then there are so many degrees in
coquetry! The sort of which I speak is perfectly natural, and perfectly
legitimate for women. Eugénie had no other. She was fond of amusement,
that was natural; and yet she never showed any disappointment when her
mother declined an invitation to a ball. I was sure that she had an
affectionate heart; her eyes sometimes had such a tender expression, and
I had seen her shed tears at the performance of a sad play. But that was
not sufficient proof that she would ever love passionately.

I was inclined to believe that she took no interest at all in me; she
was most cold and reserved with me. She noticed doubtless that I
followed her with my eyes, that I constantly watched her. I did not see
the sense of going to a house to be dismal when others are merry, and
perhaps to make oneself ridiculous. That thought made me blush for my
weakness; self-esteem has so much influence on our hearts! I determined
to think no more of Eugénie, and in order to forget her more quickly I
determined not to call at her mother’s for a fortnight.

It was very hard for me to adhere to that resolution, for I had never
passed more than two days without seeing her! However, a week passed,
and I had kept my word; on the ninth day I reflected that Madame
Dumeillan, who always was very friendly to me and always seemed to be
very glad to see me, would think it strange that I had allowed so long a
time to pass without calling. After all, if her daughter was cool to me,
it was not that excellent lady’s fault, and it should not make me
discourteous to her. On the tenth day I decided to call there in the
evening.

I did not select a reception day; however, I found some old
acquaintances of Madame Dumeillan there who had come to play boston; two
ladies and an old gentleman were playing with the mother, and Eugénie
was alone, in a corner of the salon, embroidering.

Madame Dumeillan inquired with interest for my health; she had been
afraid that I was ill and was intending to send to my apartment the next
day. I thanked her, and apologized on the plea of a press of business;
then I left the mother to her game and took a seat beside Eugénie.

She bowed coldly to me; she did not raise her eyes and addressed to me
only the most trivial remarks; she was not even so polite as to reproach
me for having allowed a long time to pass without calling. It seemed to
me then that that young woman was as odious to me as she had been
fascinating; if I had dared, I would have taken my hat and left the room
instantly; but that would have been discourteous.

Ah! if we had loved each other, how much we should have found to say at
that moment, when we were practically alone in the salon, for no one
paid any heed to us! But we must needs confine ourselves to exchanging a
few meaningless words! Sometimes we were several minutes without
speaking; she would not raise her eyes from her work. Ah! how I should
have delighted to destroy that embroidery, which seemed to engross her
so completely!

A half hour passed in this way. She continued to work with the same
assiduity, and I was still beside her, saying little and sighing
involuntarily. Suddenly the door of the salon opened; it was Monsieur
Gerval, one of Eugénie’s most persistent suitors, who often played and
sang with her in the evening. This Gerval was a good-looking fellow and
very agreeable; so that he was one of those whom I detested most
heartily. I am sure that I changed color when he came in; I instantly
felt an enormous weight settle down upon my chest. While Monsieur Gerval
went to pay his respects to Madame Dumeillan, I walked quickly to the
corner of the room where I had placed my hat; for I did not propose to
stay a minute longer; I wished that I were a hundred leagues away; I was
angry with myself for having come. I already had my hat in my hand and
was on the point of leaving the room without a word to anyone, when a
hand clasped mine, pressed it gently, and detained me; at the same
moment Eugénie, for it was she, said to me in a tone which I had never
before heard from her lips:

“Why are you going away? To pass a fortnight without coming and then go
away like this! Really, I can’t understand you. What have we done to you
here, that you should stop coming?”

I stood like a statue. That soft voice, in which there was reproach and
affection at the same time, that hand which still held mine, and those
eyes which looked into mine with a fascinating expression--all those
things startled me, but also caused me a thrill of happiness hitherto
unknown to me. One must have loved truly to understand all that I felt
at that moment. I squeezed her hand frantically, and it returned the
pressure; then she gently withdrew it, still looking at me. All this was
the affair of a moment, but that moment decided the rest of my life.
Eugénie loved me; she had read my heart, and I felt that I could not
live without her, that Eugénie henceforth would be all in all to me.

I thought no more about going away. Eugénie returned to her seat and
Gerval came to speak to her; but I was not jealous any more, Gerval had
ceased to be offensive to me; it had required only an instant to change
the whole current of my thoughts. I returned to Eugénie’s side. While
talking with Gerval, she succeeded in looking only at me. The young man
suggested to her that they should sing together. She looked at me again,
and seemed to ask me if that would be agreeable to me. I added my
entreaties to Gerval’s. She consented to go to the piano, but on her way
there she passed close to me and our hands met. When she sang with
Gerval a duet in which two lovers sing to each other of love, her eyes
addressed to me the words that she sang. Ah! when two hearts understand
each other, there are a thousand ways of proving it.

After that duet, Gerval proposed another; she declined on the ground of
a sore throat, and returned to her seat by my side. Gerval remained for
some time; it seemed to me that he was less merry, less sparkling that
evening than usual. At last he said good-night and left.

I drew nearer to Eugénie; she still held her work, but she was not
working; our eyes met often; we talked in undertones; I had so many
things to say to her now, and yet we exchanged only a few words; but
our glances were more eloquent than our speech.

How rapidly the time passed! I was so happy with her! The card players
finished their game, and Madame Dumeillan called to her daughter to give
her her purse. The others were going away, and I must needs do the same.

“I hope that it will not be so long before you come again,” said Madame
Dumeillan kindly. And Eugénie, as she passed me, whispered:

“You will come to-morrow, won’t you?”

My eyes alone answered, but she must have understood them; I saw a
loving smile upon her lips. I went away, drunk with love and pleasure. I
returned home hardly touching the ground. It seemed to me that my
happiness bore me aloft and transported me to the third heaven,--that is
to say, if there is a third heaven.

As I went upstairs, I thought of my young lovers on the fifth floor. I
had neglected them sadly for some time! But I had been constantly
depressed and jealous and in ill humor, and the picture of their love
would simply have aggravated my suffering. Now I could safely go to see
them. I should not be sad and gloomy with them, and they would
understand my happiness.

It was only a quarter-past eleven, and I decided to see whether they had
gone to bed. I went upstairs, knocked and mentioned my name; Ernest
opened the door.

“Where on earth have you been?” he said, laughing; “it’s a month since
we’ve seen you.”

“He has just come from his Eugénie,” said little Marguerite. “Oh! how
happy we look! It seems that our love-affair is progressing finely!”

“Yes, very well indeed. Ah! I am the happiest of men to-night! She loves
me, I am sure of it now; she prefers me to all the men who have made
love to her; and yet I was much less attentive, much less agreeable than
the others.”

“What difference does that make? One is always agreeable when one is in
love.”

I told them all that had taken place that evening between Eugénie and
me. They listened with interest, they understood me, for they loved each
other dearly. When I had finished my story, I sprang up and danced about
the room; I could not keep still.

“Look out!” said Marguerite; “you’ll smash everything. Why, don’t you
see how fine it is here now, monsieur?”

I had not so much as looked about the room. In fact, there was some
change: the wretched bed was replaced by a low bedstead of painted wood,
but very neat and clean. There were curtains and a canopy above the bed.
The chairs, which I remembered as almost all broken, had been replaced
by six new ones; and a black walnut commode had replaced the little
sideboard. Lastly, there was almost a good fire on the hearth.

“Do you see how fine it is?” said Marguerite; “my Ernest gave me all
this. His play has succeeded. Oh, it is very pleasing indeed, his play
is! When the author was called for and his name was given, I was so
happy that I longed to shout: ‘It was my little man who did that!’--He
has a great mind, has my little man!”

“Will you hold your tongue, Marguerite?”

“No, monsieur, I propose to talk. We are not so poor now as we were.
See, look at my mantel, see those two cups and the porcelain sugar bowl!
That box is to put the money in for the week’s expenses. When there’s
anything over, I put it in a Christmas box. Oh! we are very happy now!”

Poor child! how little she needed to esteem herself rich! So many people
would have considered that chamber a wretched place still. I
congratulated her and admired everything that she showed me. I
complimented Ernest on the success of his play. I shared their happiness
most sincerely; it made me happier to see how happy they were. I
remained with them for more than an hour, talking of Eugénie and of our
love. They told me of their little plans for the future, of the hopes in
which they indulged,--very modest hopes, which proved that, being
engrossed by their love, they knew neither ambition nor vanity.

I had not begun to think of retiring, and I believe that we should have
passed the whole night talking thus; but suddenly we heard a loud noise
on the roof, and broken glass falling on the leads and into the yard. I
was startled at first; but I soon recovered myself and began to laugh as
I glanced at Ernest and Marguerite, who did the same. It was Monsieur
Pettermann breaking into his room.




VII

THE PRELIMINARIES OF HAPPINESS


I went every day to see Eugénie, for I did not see why I should continue
to conceal my love. She loved me, she knew that I adored her; was it
possible that her mother was not also aware of our sentiments? I had
never dreamed of making Eugénie my mistress. My only desire and hope was
for an enduring happiness. Eugénie should be my wife. I was sure of her
consent, but it would be necessary to have her mother’s as well.

I believe that that good woman had divined my sentiments long before;
parents are not always deceived by our little stratagems, by our
affectation of coldness and ceremony; but when they pretend not to see,
it means that they secretly approve our inclinations. Madame Dumeillan
saw that I went there every day, and one does not go every day to a
house where there is a pretty woman, unless there is love underneath.
Eugénie pouted when I was late, and scolded me when I suggested going
away; her mother heard it all and simply smiled. I saw that our love was
no longer a secret to anyone.

Eugénie no longer called me Monsieur Blémont; she called me Monsieur
Henri, and Henri simply, when we were alone. How pleasant it is to hear
the woman we love call us for the first time by our Christian name,
without that depressing _monsieur_! From that moment a stronger bond
united us, a more tender intimacy existed between us. Eugénie could love
as dearly as I; I read all her thoughts in her eyes; she no longer tried
to conceal from me what she felt. I had found the woman that I desired:
beauty, charm, wit and virtue. Yes, virtue; for Eugénie was kind, easily
moved, and submissive and affectionate to her mother; I never heard her
utter a murmur about complying with her slightest wish. I had judged her
to be very coquettish, but I was mistaken; she loved the amusements of
her age, she abandoned herself to them frankly and without reserve; but
that is not coquetry. She laughed with those who tried to please her,
but she gave false hopes to none of them. Now, when at her mother’s
receptions, young men came to pay court to her and to make complimentary
speeches, she no longer laughed; their flattering words bored her; her
eyes sought me and followed me incessantly; and when she could escape
from the crowd, she would come to me and whisper:

“Henri, I no longer enjoy society; I like it much better when you alone
come to see us.”

Perhaps Eugénie was a trifle too susceptible; she yielded too readily to
first impressions. I found that she would sometimes take offence and
sulk for several days on account of a remark misunderstood, or a
perfectly innocent act; but I was sure that that trifling defect would
disappear with time and experience. I believed also that Eugénie would
be jealous, yes, very jealous; she changed color and was evidently
disturbed when I happened to talk a long time with the same lady. But,
far from blaming her for that sentiment, I was secretly overjoyed by it;
that jealousy was a new proof of the love that I inspired in her. I
should have been very sorry to have her indifferent when I was talking
with a pretty woman; for then I should have thought that she cared but
little for me. Moreover, I had not hoped to find a perfect mortal; they
say that such do not exist. And if there were such a thing as a perfect
woman, I should not care to marry her; I think that a man would be bored
with her.

Eugénie agreed to teach me music; she declared that I had a sweet voice
and that I sang with taste; we began our lessons at once. I did not make
rapid progress, but as we enjoyed the lessons, and as they gave me an
opportunity to be with Eugénie, to tell her again and again that I
adored her, she gave them to me often, and I could not help becoming a
musician. In my turn, I was to teach her painting; she had some idea of
drawing and earnestly desired to be able to use a brush; and I had no
doubt in a short time she would do honor to her master.

Every day increased my love for Eugénie, and every day I obtained new
proofs of her attachment to me. Those delightful hours which I passed
with her, but always in her mother’s presence, made me long for a still
greater happiness. Why should I delay to settle my fate? Eugénie, I felt
sure, would accept joyfully the title of my wife.

Thus far I had spoken to her of love only, not of marriage. But what
need had I to utter that word? And could Eugénie mention it to me? A
well-bred young lady doesn’t ask the man who is making love to her if he
proposes to marry her, for she cannot assume that he has any other
purpose. She who asks such a question always places herself in an
unfavorable position; it is as if she said: “I will love you when I am
sure that you will marry me.” A wretched sort of love that, which one
can order or countermand at will!

One day I went to Madame Dumeillan’s. It was about noon. By an
extraordinary chance Eugénie was alone; her mother had gone to pay a
visit, and Eugénie had succeeded in excusing herself from accompanying
her; she hoped that I would come. She told me so with that charming
smile which transported me and filled me with rapture; she gave me her
hand, which I pressed ecstatically; then I seated myself beside her,
very close, as close as I possibly could. I talked to her of my love; I
told her--as I had told her a hundred times before--that I was happy
only with her. But one is never weary of listening to protestations of a
passion which one shares; when such assurances tire us, it means that
our hearts are beginning to change.

As I talked with Eugénie, I passed my arm about her waist for the first
time, and I drew her lovingly toward me; but she gently extricated
herself and rose, saying:

“Come, monsieur, come to the piano, you must take a lesson this
morning.”

I felt incapable of looking calmly at the notes; I detained Eugénie by
the hand.

“Let us continue to talk, please! We have plenty of time for the piano.”

“We can talk while we practise.”

“It would be impossible for me to practise this morning.”

“Why so, monsieur? Do you mean that you are tired of your music lessons
already?”

“Oh, no! but I have so many things to say to you! It so seldom happens
that I find you alone!”

“Does mamma’s presence prevent you from talking with me? Don’t we talk
hours at a time every evening, while they are playing cards?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the same thing; it’s much pleasanter to be alone!
Dear Eugénie! I would like to pass my life with you and nobody else!”

“Oh! you would very soon get tired of that!”

“Tired of being with you! Impossible! But perhaps you yourself would not
be willing to sacrifice to me the attentions of this mob of young men
who sigh for you.”

“Oh! how mean it is to say that! When I am bored to death everywhere
where you are not! Do you mean to say that I listen to the compliments
and flattery of a lot of young men? Nonsense! come to the piano,
monsieur!”

“Just a moment!”

I adored her, I was certain that she loved me, and yet I trembled at the
thought of mentioning the word marriage! What a strange thing! To
hesitate, to be embarrassed about mentioning to the person you love, a
bond which you both desire! I had never hesitated with a pretty woman
about overcoming her modesty and abusing her weakness; it seems to me
that it requires more courage to behave oneself than to misbehave.

I held Eugénie’s hand, which she abandoned to me; I could not speak, but
I covered her hand with kisses. I did not know if she guessed all that
was going on in my heart; but a deep flush covered her cheeks, and she
turned her eyes away in order to avoid mine. At last I stammered in an
undertone and with an almost shamefaced air:

“Eugénie--will you be my wife?”

She did not answer, but her hand pressed mine affectionately; her bosom
rose and fell violently; I met her eyes, which she tried to avert, and
they were wet with tears. How sweet are the tears which pleasure causes
one to shed! I fell at Eugénie’s feet, reiterating my oath to love her
all my life.

I was still at her feet--one is so comfortable in that position before
the woman whom one adores! It has been said, I believe, that nothing is
more absurd than a man at a woman’s feet; that may be true with respect
to a woman who resists us, but with her who loves us, I can see nothing
absurd in that position--I was still at her feet, when the door of the
salon opened; it was Madame Dumeillan. She found me at her daughter’s
feet.

I was not confused at being surprised in that attitude, for I had no
guilty designs; and Eugénie herself looked at her mother without alarm;
but she said to her, with a blush:

“Mamma, he swears that he will love me all his life; he asks me if I
will be his wife.”

The mother smiled; we had told her nothing new. But I ran to her, seized
her hands and pressed them in mine, and begged her not to stand in the
way of my happiness and to call me her son.

“What answer has Eugénie given you?” asked Madame Dumeillan kindly. “I
am inclined to spoil her a little, you know; if she doesn’t want to
marry you, I warn you that I shall not force her.”

As she said that, the good woman glanced at her daughter mischievously;
she knew very well that my love was returned. Eugénie threw herself into
the arms of her mother and concealed her sweet face upon her breast; she
could not speak, and I myself had hardly the strength to do so. Madame
Dumeillan took her daughter’s hand and placed it in mine. Eugénie’s face
was still hidden, but her hand answered my pressure. Her mother put her
arms about us and held us to her heart. What a blissful moment! Shall I
ever enjoy a purer happiness?

This first outburst of enthusiasm passed, Madame Dumeillan exclaimed:

“Well, on my word! I am acting very thoughtlessly for a mother! Here I
am joining your hands, and I do not even know whether you have your
mother’s consent, whether an alliance with our family will be agreeable
to her.”

“Oh! yes, madame, I have no fears in that direction. My mother will be
overjoyed to see me married; the choice that I have made cannot fail to
please her. I have never yet mentioned it to her because first of all I
wanted to know whether Eugénie,--whether mademoiselle your daughter----”

“Nonsense! say Eugénie, monsieur; you have that privilege now; you give
him leave, do you not, my daughter?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Dear Eugénie! oh! how kind you are, madame! But I will go at once to
see my mother; I propose that she shall come herself to-morrow.”

“Oh, dear me! give her a little time.”

“No, madame, we must move quickly in order to be happy. You have given
your consent, may I not be in haste to call you my mother, too?”

“To call her your wife, you mean, you rascal!”

“Well, yes, I am crazy to call her my wife! Dear Eugénie! I am so happy!
I will hurry to my mother’s.”

“So soon! Why, he is mad, on my word!”

“You will come again this evening, Henri?”

“Can you ask me such a question?”

I kissed Eugénie’s hand and Madame Dumeillan’s, and hurried from the
house, to go to my mother. Ah! I was very happy; and yet I longed to be
a few weeks older, in order to be even happier. But we are forever
longing to grow old, and if we had our whole lives at our disposal, we
should use them up in a very short time.

My mother was not at home. What a nuisance! She had gone out to make
some calls. Upon whom? Where should I look for her? I went away,
informing the servant that I would come again. I went away, but I had no
idea where to go. My mother lived on Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule, and I knew
no one in that neighborhood. Eugénie lived too far away for me to return
there, for I intended to go to my mother’s again soon. I determined to
walk about on the boulevards in the Marais; they are less frequented
there than elsewhere, and I could think of my Eugénie without being
distracted by the crowd.

I walked there for fifteen minutes, then returned to my mother’s; she
had not come in, and I must needs walk still longer. What a bore! I
should have had time to go to see Eugénie; away from her, I seemed not
to live.

A little man passed me, turned about, then stopped, barring my path. I
had paid no attention to his performance, but he called out:

“I say! what in the devil are you thinking about, that you don’t
recognize your friends?”

It was Bélan. I shook hands with him.

“I beg your pardon, my dear Bélan, but I did not see you.”

“You were terribly preoccupied. You were thinking of your love-affairs,
I’ll wager.”

“Faith, yes; I don’t deny it. I was thinking of the woman I shall adore
all my life.”

“Oho! how exalted we are! I recognize myself in that!”

I was like a child, I longed to tell everybody what made me happy. I
told Bélan of my love and of my impending marriage to Mademoiselle
Dumeillan. The little rake made a pirouette and clapped his hands,
crying:

“The deuce! you are going to be married? On my word, there is a secret
sympathy between us: I am thinking of marrying too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In fact, I am fully decided upon it; I am tired of _bonnes
fortunes_. And then, when your life is always in danger, it becomes
wearisome after a while. Since my adventure with Montdidier--you
remember?”

“Oh yes! perfectly; it was that day that I first saw Eugénie at
Giraud’s.”

“Oho! so you met your future wife at Giraud’s, did you? Then it was they
who arranged the marriage?”

“No indeed. Madame Dumeillan sees them very seldom. For my part, I have
never mentioned them to her; it doesn’t seem to me that I need Giraud to
arrange a marriage for me.”

“Never mind; as it was at his house that you met the young woman, he
will be furious if he isn’t invited to the wedding, if he doesn’t manage
the whole thing, if his wife is not near the head of the table, and if
his three children aren’t allowed to stuff their pockets with dessert.”

“In that case I fancy that he will have a chance to be furious.”

“To return to myself, my dear fellow, I must tell you that since my
adventure with Madame Montdidier, I have had some very disagreeable
times: obliged to jump out of the window of an entresol; another time,
to pass the night on a balcony, where I caught a cold that cost me eight
bottles of syrup; and lastly, to avoid being surprised by a husband,
compelled to hide in a chest, where I nearly stifled! I stayed in it an
hour, and when they let me out, I was purple; my breath was all gone;
faith! that completely disgusted me with love-affairs and intrigues; and
like yourself, I propose to have done with them. I am courting a young
lady who lives on Rue de la Roquette. I am going there now. You may have
seen her at Giraud’s--Mademoiselle de Beausire?”

“I don’t remember seeing her.”

“Ah! she is a very handsome girl; regular features, aquiline nose--I am
very fond of aquiline noses--extraordinary eyes, small waist, beautiful
figure,--everything is there!”

“Everything,--you are sure?”

“Bah! you wicked joker! yes, I am sure of it. Anybody can see that at
once. I am paying most assiduous court to her, and I have reason to
believe that she does not look upon me with indifference. Not long ago,
while we were playing games at her mother’s house, she chose me to
whisper a secret to; she came to me blushing, and said in my ear: ‘I
don’t know what to say to you.’ I was enchanted!”

“I don’t wonder.”

“Yes, for ‘I don’t know what to say to you’ meant: ‘I am afraid of
saying too much.’”

“With a well-disposed person it might mean that.”

“Since then I have made no secret of my intentions. Indeed, she is an
excellent match; she has a dowry of eighty thousand francs, and
brilliant expectations. Her family is noble. And look you, my dear
fellow, I confess that, in order to make myself more attractive to the
mother, I ventured to put a little _de_ before my name; it was Giraud
who advised me to do it. I am now called Ferdinand de Bélan.”

“Oho! so you have ennobled yourself on your own authority?”

“My dear fellow, I believe that I have a right to do it; while searching
through my family papers, I discovered that one of my ancestors was an
officer of the kitchen to Louis XV, and a man had to be of noble birth
to fill that post. It was during the Revolution, no doubt, that my
father dropped the _de_, from fright.”

“But I have often heard you profess the most profound contempt for
titles, and make sport of old parchments.”

“Oh! a man often says a thing, you know, just so as to seem to have an
opinion;--You must see my future wife, you must see her, that’s all I
say. And my mother-in-law--a superb woman still, and with such a manner!
she used to be at court, so she is a little strict in the matter of
etiquette; but she adores her daughter and she has sworn never to part
from her!”

“So you are going to marry two women at once, are you?”

“Oh! that is merely a figure of speech. But this is the time of day when
the ladies are visible. Adieu, my dear Blémont; I invite you beforehand
to my wedding; for I propose to have a magnificent wedding party at
Lointier’s; his rooms are superb. I have already in my mind the two
costumes which I shall wear on that great day, and the steps I shall
perform to open the ball. I trust that I shall go to your wedding, too?”

“Really, I don’t know whether we shall have any celebration. That will
be as Eugénie wishes; I assure you that I do not give any thought to
that.”

“Well, I dream every night of weddings, banquets and dances; twice I
have tipped over my somno, thinking that I was opening the ball. Really
it is very nice to be married: if anyone would assure me twelve thousand
francs a year, I wouldn’t remain a bachelor. Adieu, my friend: I must
hurry to wait upon those ladies.”

For my part, I went again to my mother’s, and that time I found her. She
had not finished asking me about my health when I began to tell her of
my love-affairs; and I did not stop until I had begged her to go to
Madame Dumeillan’s with me at once.

But my mother did not share my eagerness, which indeed made her smile.
She was very glad that I was thinking of settling down, and she had no
doubt that I had made an excellent choice; but she fell back on the
heartless conventional phrases:

“We must see; we must make sure; we must not be in a hurry.”

Not be in a hurry when one’s happiness is in the balance! ah! parents
never choose to remember the time when they were in love! I urged and
entreated my mother to go at once to see the ladies. She calmly called
my attention to the fact that it was four o’clock, that she was dining
out, and that it was too late for her to call upon Madame Dumeillan that
day. All that I could obtain from her was a promise to go on the
following day; she even gave me permission to inform the ladies that she
would call.

I had no choice but to make the best of it. I left my mother, and I
would have sworn that, before I reached the foot of the stairs, she had
already forgotten my visit, and was wondering what partner she would
have at whist that evening.

I returned to Eugénie after dinner. Nowhere else could I be patient and
find means of passing the time until the day when I should be her
husband.

Unluckily, it was the evening of Madame Dumeillan’s reception; many
people came, and we could not talk. My eyes expressed to Eugénie all the
impatience that I felt because I was unable to talk to her of my love;
and her glances told me that she shared my annoyance. At that moment,
society was most disagreeable to us. If all those people had known how
pleased we should have been to see them go!

However, the card tables being arranged, I hoped to be able to approach
Eugénie at last; but behold, Monsieur Giraud and his wife arrived. After
the usual greeting and exchange of compliments, Madame Giraud took
possession of Eugénie, and her husband joined me. He talked to me in
what, as I thought, he intended as a sly tone. He had evidently heard
that I was paying court to Mademoiselle Dumeillan; he thought that
perhaps I would ask him to negotiate my marriage, to speak for me, to
arrange the provisions of the contract. Poor Giraud! I saw what he was
driving at; I pretended not to understand his hints and allusions. When
he mentioned Eugénie, I changed the subject. He was offended; he rose
and left me. That was what I wanted. I was sure that his wife was going
through the same manœuvres with Eugénie. Bélan was right: those
people would never forgive us if we married without letting them have a
hand in it; but we could do without their forgiveness.

Madame Giraud walked away from Eugénie with evident displeasure. Eugénie
glanced at me with a smile; I had guessed aright the subject of their
conversation. The husband and wife met and whispered earnestly together;
then they walked toward Madame Dumeillan and surrounded her, one at her
right, and the other at her left; she could not escape them. They
evidently proposed to try to learn more from Eugénie’s mother; but I
knew that they would waste their time, that Madame Dumeillan would tell
them nothing; she invented an excuse for leaving them after talking a
few moments.

Giraud and his wife were very angry. They came toward me again, and I
expected that they would hurl epigrams at me and tear me with their
claws. I was not mistaken; Madame Giraud began, speaking to her husband
so that I should hear:

“It is very amusing, isn’t it, Monsieur Giraud?”

“Yes, Madame Giraud, very amusing; there is a great deal of diplomacy
here.”

“Yes, they make a mystery of something that is everybody’s secret.”

“Aha! they evidently take us for fools.”

“It seems that way to me.”

“Wouldn’t anyone say that it was a question of uniting two great
powers?”

“Perhaps they are afraid they will have to invite us to the wedding.”

“Great heaven! weddings! we have no lack of them; in fact, we have so
many that it is fairly sickening.”

“I declined an invitation to another to-morrow. And there is poor Bélan
who has already invited us to his, which is to be at Lointier’s.”

“That young man will make a very good husband. Does he get along all
right with Madame de Beausire?”

“Oh, yes! since I went to see the mother-in-law, all the obstacles have
disappeared. There are some people who aren’t afraid to let me take a
hand in their affairs, and who are greatly benefited by it.”

“Let us go, Monsieur Giraud; we still have time to go and see our good
friends who have that expensive apartment on Rue de la Paix, and whose
daughter you found a husband for two months ago.”

“You are right; I am sure that they expect us to have a cup of tea.”

The husband and wife disappeared without a word to anyone. And those
creatures were offended with us because we found it natural and
convenient to manage our own affairs! But in society it takes so little
to make enemies, especially of narrow-minded people.

The guests began to leave, and I found a moment to talk with Eugénie. I
told her that my mother would come to see her the next day. She blushed
and sighed as she replied:

“Suppose she doesn’t like me? suppose she isn’t willing to have me for
her daughter?”

Not like her! who could fail to like her? I was not at all disturbed. I
reassured Eugénie, and I left her at last when the clock so ordered, as
I had not as yet the right not to leave her at all.

On returning home, I met Ernest coming down from his mistress’s room.
Since I had been spending all my time at Madame Dumeillan’s, I had sadly
neglected my friends of the fifth floor. Ernest reproached me for it
mildly, but they were not offended; they knew that I was in love, and
thought it quite natural that I should think of no one but my love. But
Ernest said to me:

“I hope that you will come to see us sometimes, although Marguerite will
soon cease to be your neighbor.”

“Is she going to move?”

“In a week. She is not going to live in an attic any longer, thank
heaven! Poor child! she has been miserable enough; she has made so many
sacrifices for me, that I may well be glad to offer her a pleasanter
position at last. Thank heaven! my affairs are prosperous. I have been
successful, my friend, and I have made money. I have not squandered it
at the cafés or restaurants, because I have always remembered
Marguerite, in her attic, poor and destitute of everything. You see
that, whatever my parents may say, it is not always a bad thing to have
a poor mistress, for it has made me orderly and economical in good
season.”

“I see that you are not selfish, and that you are not like many young
men of your age, who think that they have done enough for a woman when
they have taken her to a theatre and to a restaurant,--pleasures which
they share with her,--but who cease to think about her as soon as they
have left her at home.”

“I have hired a pretty little apartment on Rue du Temple, nearly
opposite the baths. That is where we are going to live; I say we,
because I hope that before long Marguerite and I shall not be parted. It
matters little to me what people say; I propose to be happy, and I shall
let evil tongues say what they will.”

“You are right, my dear Ernest; happiness is rare enough for a person to
make some sacrifices to obtain it. I am going to marry my Eugénie! I
have attained the height of my ambition!”

“I might marry Marguerite too; but we are so happy as we are! Why should
we change? Besides, we have plenty of time, haven’t we? Adieu, my dear
Blémont. You will come to see us, won’t you?”

“Yes, I promise you that I will.”




VIII

MARRIAGE.--A MEETING.--THE BALL


My mother went to see Madame Dumeillan, and they suited each other. It
is a miracle when two women of mature years suit each other. My mother
found Eugénie very attractive; she complimented me on my choice, and she
was very hard to suit, too. I was overjoyed, in ecstasy. The provisions
of the contract were very soon arranged by the two ladies, each of whom
had but one child. For my part, I hurried forward the wedding day to the
best of my ability. And yet, I was very happy. I passed three-quarters
of my afternoons and all my evenings with Eugénie. If the ladies went
out, I escorted them. Our approaching union was no secret, and many
young men congratulated me on my good fortune. Some of them sighed as
they glanced at Eugénie; perhaps they were in love with her. Poor
fellows! I pitied them; but I could do nothing for them.

It was decided that I should retain the apartment which I occupied. It
was large enough for my wife, and I had it decorated carefully in
accordance with her taste. It would not have been large enough if Madame
Dumeillan had come to live with us, as I expected at first. Eugénie too
hoped that she would not leave her; but Madame Dumeillan said to her
affectionately but firmly:

“No, my child, I shall not live with you. When a man marries, he wishes
to take but one wife; why give him two? I know that Henri is fond of me;
that he would be glad to have me live with him; but I know also, my
children, that a young couple often have a thousand things to say to
each other, and that a third person, no matter how dearly loved, is
sometimes in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial
disputes, the presence of a third person may be most harmful, and may
prolong for a week what need have lasted but a moment; it checks the
outpouring of love and intensifies the bitterness of reproach. But I
will live near you, and I shall see you often, very often. And whenever
you want me, you will always be able to find me.”

Eugénie was obliged to yield to her mother, and for my part, I
considered that Madame Dumeillan was right.

Should we have a wedding party? That was a question which I asked
myself, and which I was tempted more than once to put to Eugénie. But a
little reflection convinced me that I should be wrong not to celebrate
my marriage. To please me, Eugénie would pretend that she did not care
about a ball; but at twenty years of age, possessed of innumerable
charms, endowed with all the graces which attract and subjugate, is it
not natural for a woman to long to show herself in all the glory of her
happiness? Is that not a marked day in her life when she is called
madame for the first time, although she has not absolutely ceased to be
a maiden; when she has not as yet the assurance of the former, but on
the contrary has all the shrinking modesty of the other in an
intensified form? Yes, at the age of love and enjoyment, it is essential
to have a wedding party; doubly so, when one marries the object of
one’s passion; for happiness is always an embellishment. My Eugénie
needed no embellishment; but why should I not have a little vanity? Why
should I not be proud of my triumph?

So it was decided that we should have a wedding party: that is to say, a
grand breakfast after the ceremony, and in the evening a supper and ball
at Lointier’s. I determined to look to it that my Eugénie should have
magnificent dresses for that great day; not that she could possibly be
more beautiful in my eyes, but I wished that she should enjoy all those
triumphs which mark an epoch in a woman’s life. I gave her leave to be a
coquette on that day.

The moment of my happiness drew near. We turned our attention to the
list of guests. For the breakfast there would be very few, enough
however to make sure that they would not be bored, and that it should
not have the aspect of a family party. For the evening, many people were
invited; the salons were large, and it was necessary to fill them. We
simply tried to make sure that in the throng none of those fine
gentlemen should worm themselves in, who are known neither to the groom
nor to the bride, nor to their relations, but who boldly present
themselves at a large party, where, under cover of their decent
exterior, they consume ices and often cheat at écarté.

We had already written a multitude of names; I had not forgotten Bélan,
and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and
her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would
rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugénie and
her mother with a smile, I said to them:

“Shall we put down their names too?”

“I am sure that I know whom you mean!” cried Eugénie. “Henri is thinking
of the Giraud family.”

“Exactly.”

“Why invite them?” asked Madame Dumeillan; “they are terrible bores, and
their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying.”

“I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they
made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their
house that I first met Eugénie. And then our invitation will please them
so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so.”

“Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them.”

So Giraud’s name was put down on the list. At last, the solemn day
arrived. I rose at six o’clock in the morning, having slept hardly at
all. I could not keep still. What should I do until eleven o’clock, when
I was to call for my mother, and then for my Eugénie? To read was
impossible; to draw or to paint was equally impossible. To think of
her--ah! I did nothing else; but it fatigued me and did not divert my
thoughts. After dressing, I went all over my apartment, where I was
still alone; I made sure that nothing was lacking. I hoped that she
would be comfortable there. That apartment, which I had occupied four
years, involuntarily reminded me of a thousand incidents of my bachelor
life. That room, that little salon had seen more than one female figure.
I had received many visits. When a lady had promised to come to
breakfast or to pass the day with me, how impatiently I counted the
minutes! How, until the time arrived, I dreaded lest some inopportune
visitor should ring the bell in place of her whom I expected! How many
kisses, oaths and promises had been exchanged on that couch! And all
those things were so soon forgotten!--Ah! I was very happy in those days
too!

But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not
burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed
reading them over; but suppose Eugénie should find them! I determined to
burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?

I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed
with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either
because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply
because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the
fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them,
I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an
episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time passes amid
such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I
was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last
farewell to bachelorhood.

I set them afire, not without a faint sigh. At last my bachelor amours
were burned, and only a pinch of ashes remained; some day nothing more
will remain of all the riches, of all the marvels of this earth.

Those were very serious thoughts for a wedding day, but they served to
pass the time, and that was something. Moreover, extremes always meet:
the happier one is, the more disposed is one’s mind to melancholy
thoughts. A grocer weighing sugar, or a postman delivering letters, does
not feel such impressions.

But I almost forgot something else; for since I had thought of nothing
but Eugénie from morning until night, it was not surprising that I had
not set all my affairs in order. I had once amused myself by painting
miniatures of some of the ladies whose letters I had just burned. Those
portraits were in the desk upon which I painted; there were eight of
them.

Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because
of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why
destroy them? In the first place, Eugénie would never see them; and even
if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from
life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those
ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk,
whence I thought that they would never come forth.

Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was
left which could possibly offend Eugénie’s eye. No, she could come there
now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those
rooms than such as she should choose to receive.

It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I
were at my mother’s a little before the hour. If only the carriages did
not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge
and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it
in my buttonhole?

The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to
speak, but his wife did not give him time.

“Monsieur,” she said, “this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be
able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this
bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your
happiness, which will last forever.”

While his wife glibly delivered this speech, the concierge tried to slip
in a few words, but he did not succeed. I took the bouquet, gave them
some money and dismissed them. A wedding day would have little charm if
one must submit to many congratulations of that sort. At last a carriage
arrived. I went downstairs and passed rapidly before a long line of
cooks and some gossiping old women who lived in the house, who were
stationed in the courtyard to see me, as if a man who was going to be
married had his nose placed otherwise than usual on that day.

I was driven to my mother’s, and found that she had just begun to dress.

“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and
read the newspaper.”

Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who
could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to
remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her
dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.

At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her
away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she
wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the
carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect
order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.

We arrived at Madame Dumeillan’s. Eugénie was ready; I was confident
that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my
impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were
there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I
should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been
possible.

One of our witnesses kept us waiting. There are people who would not
hurry one iota to please others, and who know of nothing in the world
that is important enough for haste. I could not live with such people.

At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor’s office.
I was not allowed to escort Eugénie. On that day everything was
subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his
wedding than on his wedding day.

I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed
extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more
impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved
and was weeping. Dear Eugénie! I thought of nothing but loving her
forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do
it.

It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in
procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with
their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was
over!

I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had
offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said
to them: “until this evening;” and they replied with a low bow.

We drove to Lointier’s, where a handsome breakfast awaited us. But a
wedding breakfast is generally a decidedly gloomy affair. The bride can
hardly be expected to laugh, and even when she is happiest, she is
thoughtful and talks little; the grandparents are always intent upon
preserving their dignity. For my part, I was engrossed, or rather
annoyed, by the reflection that it was still early in the day. There
were in the party some jokers, or persons who tried to joke; one stout
gentleman, a kinsman of my mother, regaled us with some of those
superannuated jests concerning the occasion and happiness that awaited
us; but his sallies met with no success; nobody laughed at them, and he
was forced to keep to himself the ample store of _bons mots_ with which
I am sure that he was provided. I was delighted, because I considered
such jests very bad form; they should be left for the weddings of
concierges or servants; the modesty of a young woman who has but one day
of innocence left should be respected; and we should assume innocence in
those who have none.

Eugénie and I were at a distance from each other; we could not talk, but
we glanced furtively at each other and our eyes mutually counselled
patience.

The clock struck five, and the ladies left to change their dresses. I
escorted my wife to the carriage which was to take her home with her
mother. I would have been glad to go with her, but Madame Dumeillan and
my mother persuaded me that it was my duty to remain with the guests who
were still at table. Eugénie leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:

“Oh! we shall be much happier to-morrow, my dear! we shall not be
separated then, I trust.”

Dear Eugénie, you were quite right. I had to return to the table,
because it pleased some of our guests to eat and drink through four
hours. If only I had been hungry!

We left the table at last, at six o’clock. Several of the gentlemen
began to play cards. As courtesy did not require me to watch them lose
their money, I left the restaurant and drove to my wife’s house.

The hairdresser had just arrived, and she had abandoned her lovely hair
to him. Really, those hairdressers are too fortunate, to be able to pass
their fingers through those lovely locks and to gaze constantly at the
pretty head which is entrusted to them. That one took at least
three-quarters of an hour to arrange Eugénie’s hair, as if it were
difficult to make her look charming! But women are wonderfully patient
with respect to everything that pertains to their toilet.

Her hair was arranged at last; but they took her away, for she was not
dressed. My wife was not yet mine; she was still in the grasp of the
conventionalities of that day. I was fain to be patient, until I once
had possession of her. But that night I would bolt all the doors, and no
one should see her the next morning until I chose.

I saw that Eugénie would not be dressed for at least an hour, so I went
out and tried to kill time. I jumped into one of the carriages which
were waiting at the door, and was driven to the Tuileries. I alighted on
Rue de Rivoli, and entered the garden. The day was drawing to a close;
the weather was gloomy and uncertain. There were very few people under
those superb chestnuts toward which I walked. I was delighted, for I do
not care for a promenade where there is a crowd; the people who stare at
you or jostle you every moment prevent you from dreaming, from thinking
at your leisure.

I rarely went to the Tuileries; to my mind that great garden was
melancholy and monotonous; but on that day it seemed pleasanter to me,
for I could think freely of my wife. My wife! those words still had a
strange sound to me. I was married, I who had so often laughed at
husbands! Had I been wrong to laugh at them, or should I prove an
exception to the rule?

I walked at random. Finally I found myself in front of the enclosure
where the statues of Hippomenes and Atalanta stand. That reminded me of
a certain assignation. It was three years before, in the middle of
winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow; the garden, the benches
were covered with it, and it was very cold. But I had an assignation,
and on such occasions one does not consult the thermometer. It was with
a certain Lucile, who, for decency’s sake, called herself Madame
Lejeune, and who mended cashmere shawls. She was very pretty, was
Lucile. About twenty-three years old at that time, with a pretty,
shapely figure, and an almost distinguished face which did not betray
the grisette. I had an idea that her portrait was among those that I had
preserved. She was accustomed to love madly for a fortnight; during the
third week she calmed down, and ordinarily she was unfaithful by the end
of the month. As I had been warned, I considered it more amusing to
anticipate her, and to take up with another before the fortnight had
expired. She did not forgive me; her self-esteem was wounded, for I have
no idea that she would have been more constant with me than with others;
but she tried to make me believe that she would have, and whenever I met
her I could always detect a flavor of bitterness in her speech and anger
in her glance.

It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had
arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite
the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored
each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her
nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her
eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan’s, at
the Pavillon-Français. It was one of the red-letter days of my
bachelorhood.

Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugénie.
I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of
me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile
on her lips.

“You must admit,” she said, “that the snow is all that is needed to make
the resemblance complete.”

It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her.

“You here, madame?”

“Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in
search of memories.”

“I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I passed these
statues, I remembered a certain assignation, one winter, and I confess
that I was thinking of you.”

“Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to
the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?”

“If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their
thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less--you can hardly detect the
difference.”

“Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you
have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!”

“I do not see that I have said anything to you that----”

“Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach
great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how
fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?”

“Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came
here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball.”

“Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?”

“Lovely.”

“A widow or unmarried?”

“Unmarried.”

“How old?”

“Twenty years.”

“Has she--you know what?”

“I can tell you that better to-morrow, if I should happen to see you.”

“Are you the best man?”

“Better than that.”

“Better than that! What! Do you mean--Oh, no! that is impossible. You
are not going to be married?”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because you don’t do such crazy things as that.”

“I don’t know whether marriage is always a crazy thing, but I can assure
you that I was married this morning, and that, far from regretting it, I
congratulate myself upon it.”

“Oh! if it was only this morning, that is easy to understand.--What! are
you really married, Henri? Ha! ha! how amusing it is!”

“What is there so amusing about it?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Poor Henri! You are married! Upon my word, I can’t get over
it. But I promise you that it gives me the very greatest pleasure! Ha!
ha! ha!”

Lucile’s sneering laughter had an ironical note that began to irritate
me. I bowed to her and turned away, but she detained me.

“By the way, one moment, monsieur; it is probable that I shall not have
the pleasure of talking with you again for a long time, for a married
man doesn’t go out without his wife. So yours is very pretty, is she?”

“Yes.”

“And are you very much in love with her?”

“More than I have ever been.”

“Oh! how frank!”

“Why shouldn’t I say what I think?”

“To be sure. Then you must try to make her love you more than you have
ever been loved. Ha! ha!”

“I think that that will not be difficult.”

“Do you think so? You may be mistaken.”

“Excuse me, madame, if I leave you; but my wife must have finished
dressing, and I must return for her.”

“If _your wife_ is waiting for you, why, go, monsieur; and see to it
that she never waits for anybody else. Ha! ha!”

I saw that Lucile had not forgiven me. I left her. I was unable to
conceal the vexation that that woman caused me to feel. I jumped into
the carriage which took me back to Eugénie. She was waiting for me; the
sight of her, a single word from her lips, speedily dissipated that
slight cloud. Eugénie was dazzling; her charms, her graces, her lovely
dress, everything combined to add fascination to her aspect. I took her
hand.

“It is time to go to the ball; let us start,” said Madame Dumeillan and
my mother. I held Eugénie’s hand, I was looking at my wife, and I had
forgotten everything else.

Our appearance in the salons was greeted with a flattering murmur. Words
of praise rang in my ears, and I admit that they flattered my heart too;
it was my wife who was the object of universal admiration. Eugénie
blushed and lowered her eyes; but it would have been difficult for her
to avoid hearing the compliments which were rained upon her as she
passed.

There were many people already there, and my acquaintances came forward
to greet me. Giraud took my hand and pressed it. I felt inclined to be
friendly with everyone, I was so happy! The men crowded about my wife to
obtain the favor of dancing with her; they took their numbers, and I
overheard one of them say that he was number twenty-six. Judging from
that, it was evident that I could not look forward to dancing with my
wife that night. But I made the best of it, and invited other ladies to
dance.

I spied a little man, pushing and jostling everybody to make a passage
for himself; it was Bélan, escorting a young lady who was at least a
head taller than he, and with whom he was about to dance. When they
passed me, they stopped, and he said to me:

“My friend, this is Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire, of whom I have
spoken to you so often.”

I bowed low before Mademoiselle Armide, who was neither beautiful nor
ugly, and whose eyes were almost as large as her mouth; but there was in
her face and in her whole person something stiff and prim which smelt of
the province a league away.

People crowded around Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide to see them dance.
The little man danced very well; and as he had a very good figure, he
had procured tight trousers, a tight coat and a tight waistcoat; there
was not a fold to be seen on his whole body; if his face had been black
you would have thought that he was a little negro _in puris
naturalibus_.

Between the contradances I struggled through the crowd, to try to
introduce to my wife a crowd of people whom I hardly knew, but who said
to me:

“Won’t you present me to madame?”

At midnight the crowd had become so great that it was difficult to move.
Did I know all those people? No; but I had told several of my
acquaintances to bring their acquaintances, and that sort of thing
extends very far sometimes. However, it was a brilliant affair. There
were lovely dresses and very pretty women; the men were well-dressed,
and I saw none of those expressionless, ignoble faces, none of those old
creased caps which one is surprised sometimes to see at a fashionable
party, where however they often have more right to be than most people;
for those unattractive, common faces which we see in corners at a
wedding party usually belong to some uncle or some cousin whom it was
impossible not to invite.

Three times I found Giraud eating ices or carrying them to his wife. He
had brought only two of his children; the two older ones; that was very
considerate of him. I was so happy that I asked Madame Giraud to dance,
and she seemed highly flattered by that courtesy. But what did it matter
to me with whom I danced when it was not Eugénie? I no longer thought of
paying court to ladies; other times, other ideas.

“Your ball is delightful,” said Bélan, leading me into a salon where
card playing was in progress, but where it was possible to move about.
“There are at least four hundred people here.”

“Faith! I should be hard put to it to say how many there are here. If
they are enjoying themselves, that is all that is necessary.”

“It will be like this at my wedding. What do you think of Armide?”

“She is very attractive.”

“And her eyes?”

“They are superb.”

“They are extraordinary, are they not? Well, my dear fellow, she has
everything like that,--wit, talents, and such an air of distinction! Did
you see us dancing together?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we get along well?”

“It is a pity that you are a little short beside her.”

“Short! you are joking. She is a little tall! However, when a man is
built as I am, it is worth three inches of height. I certainly wouldn’t
change figures with that tall, lanky man in front of us. Those tall
fellows are always awkward. Have you seen Madame de Beausire?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come then, and let me present you to her. You will see a woman who
hasn’t a single touch of the plebeian; she is the type of true
distinction.”

I submitted to be led away; I did whatever anyone wanted that night. I
saw a tall, yellow woman who resembled a piece of old tapestry, and who
looked as if she had never laughed since she came into the world. I made
haste to bow and to run away. It seemed to me that one must necessarily
catch the _spleen_ in Madame de Beausire’s company.

The supper hour arrived; at last the ball was drawing to a close; and
although I was not exactly bored, still I should have been very glad to
be at home with my wife.

The ladies were conducted to their seats. I looked after the comfort of
everybody; I saw that the tables, large and small alike, were properly
waited upon.

“Pray rest a moment and eat something,” people said to me.

Much I thought about eating! I preferred to hurry the supper of that
multitude.

I found Giraud and his two children sitting at a small table with three
young men. Giraud had a currant cake on his knees, and he had slipped a
bowl of jelly under the table, not choosing to pass it, for fear it
would not come back to him. I called for fish, chickens, and pâté; I
covered his children’s plates with cakes. Giraud was in ecstasy; he
shook my hand, murmuring:

“This is one of the finest weddings I have ever seen, and God knows that
I have seen a tremendous number of them!”

Madame Giraud, who had been obliged to leave the large table when the
other ladies rose, walked behind her husband and children at that
moment, with an enormous reticule hanging on her arm. While pretending
to pass the gentlemen what they wanted, I saw that she kept opening the
bag and thrusting cakes, biscuit, and even pie crust into it. Giraud,
seeing that I had noticed his wife’s manœuvring, said to her angrily,
as she was trying to force some macaroons into her bag:

“What on earth are you doing, Madame Giraud? What sort of manners are
these? You are putting macaroons into your bag!”

“Just for Azor, my dear, the poor beast. He is so fond of macaroons, you
know. They would be wasted, so what harm does it do? I want poor Azor to
have a little of the pleasure of this party.”

“You know very well that I don’t like such things, Madame Giraud.”

I appeased Giraud, who pretended to be very angry; then I walked away,
in order to leave his wife at full liberty; and she ended by making a
perfect balloon of her bag.

Meanwhile, the tables were gradually deserted; many people returned to
the ballroom, but many others entered their carriages, and I considered
that the latter acted wisely.

The ball was more agreeable perhaps, because it was more comfortable to
dance. Eugénie continued to be invited, and I must needs content myself
with dancing opposite her; but there were figures in which we took each
other’s hands, and then how many things we said by a soft pressure! it
seems that the heart, that the very soul, passes into the beloved hand
which presses ours lovingly.

The ranks became thinner. My mother had gone, and Madame Dumeillan was
only awaiting our departure to follow her example. It was five o’clock.
The daylight was beginning to show through the windows, and to lessen
the brilliancy of the candles. The number of ladies diminished every
moment. I went to Eugénie’s side.

“I am tired of dancing,” she said, “and yet I am afraid to refuse.”

“Why, it seems to me that we might venture to go now.”

She lowered her eyes and made no answer. I concluded that I had done
enough for others and that I might think of myself at last. I took my
wife’s hand and led her from the room; Madame Dumeillan followed us; we
entered a carriage and drove away. We had to take Madame Dumeillan home
first. It was a short distance, but it seemed very long to me. The
nearer one’s happiness approaches, the more intense one’s impatience
becomes.

We spoke but little in the mother’s presence. At last we reached her
house, and I alighted. Madame Dumeillan embraced her daughter; it seemed
to me that their embrace was interminable. Selfish creatures that we
are! it did not occur to me that that was the last embrace in which a
mother would hold her daughter, still a virgin, in her arms, and that I
should have all the rest of my life to enjoy my privileges as a husband.

Madame Dumeillan entered her house. I returned to the carriage, and we
drove on. At last I was alone with Eugénie, with my wife. I believe that
that was the sweetest moment that I have ever known; it had seemed to me
that it would never arrive. I put my arms about Eugénie; she wept when
she embraced her mother; but I embraced her, and she ceased to weep,
for I overwhelmed her with caresses, and unfamiliar sensations made her
heart beat fast.

At last we reached my apartment, our apartment. The servant who was to
live with us, and who had been in her mother’s service, was waiting for
us in the concierge’s room, with a light; but it was broad day; we
needed no service. My wife and I entered our home. I led her by the
hand, I felt that she was trembling and I believe that I trembled too.
It is a strange effect of happiness that it suffocates one, that it
almost makes one ill.

I closed the doors and shot the bolts. I was alone with my wife! At last
there was no third person with us! We were at liberty to love each
other, to tell each other of our love, and to prove it!




IX

THE HONEYMOON.--BÉLAN’S WEDDING


How happiness makes the time fly! A fortnight after I became Eugénie’s
husband it seemed to both of us that we had been married only the day
before. That fortnight had passed so rapidly! It would be very difficult
for me to say how we employed the time; we had no leisure to do
anything. In the first place, we rose late, we breakfasted
_tête-à-tête_, and then we talked; often I held Eugénie on my knees;
people can understand each other better when they are close together.

We made a multitude of plans, our conversation being often interrupted
by the kisses which I stole, or which she gave me. We were much
surprised, when we glanced at the clock, to find that it was almost noon
and that we had been talking for two hours. Then we had to think about
dressing to go to see Madame Dumeillan, and sometimes to take a walk or
drive. We continued to talk while we dressed. I would ask Eugénie to
sing me a song, or to play something on the piano. If I chanced to have
a visitor, or a client who kept me in my office fifteen minutes, when I
came out I would find my wife already impatient at my long absence, and
we would talk a few minutes more to make up to ourselves for the
annoyance caused by my visitor. At last we would go out; but we always
acted like school children and chose the longest way, so that it was
almost dinner time when we reached my mother-in-law’s. We had been to
the theatre twice since we were married; we preferred that to going to
parties. At the theatre we were still alone and could talk when the play
was dull; but in society one is never free to do whatever one pleases.
We always returned home early, and we were always glad to get home. But,
I say again, the time passed like a flash.

My wife found my apartment much to her liking; she told me that it was a
pleasure to her to live where I had lived as a bachelor. She often
questioned me about that period of my life, and listened to my answers
with interest and curiosity; but I did not tell her everything; I
slurred over many episodes; for I had discovered that Eugénie was
jealous. Her brow darkened when there were women in my adventures, and

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