Part 10

"Ah, yes! Saint-Bergame. He came very late, as usual; one produces a greater effect by making people wait for one. Ha! ha! But you must know him, if you have been a friend of Madame Dauberny from childhood. You must have met him often at her house."

Again Monsieur Sordeville's smile was tinged with mockery. I answered, this time without embarrassment:

"I saw nothing of Madame Dauberny for a long time, until very recently."

"Then it must have been during that time that she made Saint-Bergame's acquaintance; their liaison is hardly six months old. But he is on a very intimate footing with her, none the less; however, that is easily seen."

The tone in which Monsieur Sordeville said this left me in no doubt that he had the same opinion that I myself had formed concerning the relations between these two. But if he believed it, it seemed strange to me that he should allow his wife to be so intimate with Madame Dauberny as she seemed to be. Was there not reason to fear that the evil example might be contagious? or was Monsieur Dauberny's conduct such as to excuse his wife's? or again, was Monsieur Sordeville one of those philosophical husbands who look upon all such things as mere trifles undeserving of their attention? I was tempted to believe that the last conjecture was nearest the truth.

"Who is this Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" I asked, after a moment.

"Hum! I have no very definite idea. However, he represents himself as a journalist. But nowadays, you know, a man is a journalist just as he is an advocate. Everybody writes for the newspapers, or at least tries to create that impression."

"I know that the profession of journalist is an honorable one, when it is carried on without prejudice or passion, when one writes with impartiality. I will not say, with spirit and good taste, for those qualities should be indispensable prerequisites of admission to the guild. Unluckily, it is not always so. Since newspapers have become so numerous, all the unappreciated poets, all the unsuccessful authors, have turned journalists. These gentry, having failed to induce anyone to produce their plays, fall furiously upon those authors who succeed. Luckily, the real public does substantial justice; often, indeed, the very extravagance of the insults heaped upon a man of talent simply intensifies the public interest in him. And, after all, it is a pitiable thing, it seems to me, to pass one's life tearing to tatters those who produce! It is the old story of the he-goat in the fold: he does nothing, and attacks whoever wants to work."

"You don't seem to be fond of journalists?"

"I think very highly of them when they are intelligent and their criticisms are decent. I once knew a very popular literary man, who laughed till he cried over the savage attacks that the journalists made upon his works. 'If I were not successful,' he would say, 'those fellows would not honor me with their hatred. They would not say anything about me unless it were to offer me some patronizing compliment. Ah! my dear fellow, congratulate me! Everybody cannot have enemies.'--But, to return to Monsieur Saint-Bergame: for what newspaper does he write?"

"Really, I can't tell you; for some new sheet--more than one, perhaps. He has the reputation of being very bitter, and prides himself on it."

"He has no reason to. Nothing is so easy as to say unkind things; the conversation of cooks and concierges is principally made up of them."

"I believe, too, that Saint-Bergame has had a long play in verse accepted at the Odéon, or at the Français, or perhaps at the Théâtre-Historique. But he's been talking about it a long, long while, and nobody else ever mentions it."

"And are these monsieur's only titles to the admiration of his contemporaries?"

"I know of no others. However, he's a good-looking fellow, dresses well, and follows all the fashions. He's a _beau cavalier_; so you must not be surprised if all the ladies fight for the honor of capturing him."

"Oh! I am surprised at nothing."

"But do you not cultivate the arts, Monsieur Rochebrune? I should say that I had heard of songs and ballads of which you are doubly the author, having composed both words and music."

"Yes, monsieur, that is true. But one is no more a literary man because one can write a ballad, than one is a composer because one has composed an air and worked out a piano accompaniment for it."

"Mere modesty on your part, monsieur; you can't make me believe that a man can compose an air without being a musician."

"One may be like Jean-Jacques, who had not the slightest conception of counterpoint."

"I don't know whether Rousseau was a consummate musician, but I wish that somebody would give us something equal to his _Devin du Village_."

"I am with you there, monsieur, although it should have a new orchestration."

"My wife is a fine performer on the piano, and she has a good voice; we have music at our house on Thursdays; that is the day the music lovers assemble. If it would be agreeable to you to hear them and to join them----"

"You are too kind, monsieur; it will be a very great pleasure to me. I can listen to music twelve hours at a time, without tiring."

"We shall rely upon you, then, monsieur, on Thursdays especially. But you will be welcome at any time. Do you know our address?"

"No, I do not."

"Here is my card."

Having handed me his card, Monsieur Sordeville walked away. On my word! a charming husband! he anticipated my dearest wish. And yet, he did not act like a simpleton. Oh, no! he certainly was not one of those obliging husbands who see nothing of what goes on under their roofs. Madame Frédérique was right in her prediction that he would invite me. I was decidedly puzzled; but I could see nothing in it at all that augured ill for me. Madame Sordeville was very pretty, very captivating. I felt that I should love her passionately. I did not know whether she was inclined to follow her friend Frédérique's example, but I had permission to call at her house, and that was something.

As soon as the quadrille was at an end, I once more approached the spot where the two ladies had established themselves. Monsieur Saint-Bergame was still with them; but he did not frighten me--he bored me, that was all.

I cannot say whether the invitation I had just received had given me an air of triumph; but when she saw my face, Madame Sordeville smiled and exchanged a glance with her friend. I would have given--I cannot say how much, to know the meaning of that glance.

Monsieur Saint-Bergame said to Madame Dauberny, with a curl of the lip, and an affectation of familiarity:

"Do you expect to stay here long?"

"Why not? I am in no hurry; my mind is at rest; Monsieur Dauberny won't sit up for me."

"This party seems to me intolerably dull."

"You are exceedingly polite! For my part, I am enjoying myself immensely."

"Oh! you enjoy yourself everywhere, madame!"

"That is creditable to my temperament, at all events."

"There's a curious mixture of faces here--it's not homogeneous."

"Very good! try to write an amusing article about it; it will be a windfall to you."

"On my word, you are very sharp this evening!"

"I thought that you were used to it."

"The next contra-dance is mine, you know, madame?" I said to Madame Sordeville.

"Yes, monsieur, to be sure; I have not forgotten it."

Her manner as she made that reply was charming. Women have a way of saying the most trivial things which gives them enormous value in our eyes. That depends considerably, however, on one's frame of mind.

The orchestra began to play a polka. I looked disconsolately at my pretty partner.

"Do you polk?" I asked.

"No. I waltz, but I don't polk."

"But I do," said Madame Dauberny, holding out her hand. "And you know how well we danced together. Suppose we see if we can succeed as well here as at Monsieur Bocal's ball?"

What an extraordinary woman! she said that as if we had known each other ten years. She was very pretty in my eyes at that moment. I hastened to take her hand, and we began to dance. I enjoyed it all the more because I had observed Saint-Bergame's horrible scowl.

We danced for some time without speaking, and, vanity aside, I believe we performed very creditably. After we had twice made the circuit of the room, I could contain myself no longer.

"Doesn't that gentleman who was with you polk?" I murmured.

"I was sure that you would ask me that!"

And she began to laugh. In truth, my question was most idiotic. But I am very prone to say such things. I am always conscious of it afterward, which is a little late. For fear of making a fool of myself again, I did not say another word. Thereupon my partner asked me:

"Have you spoken with Monsieur Sordeville again?"

"Yes, madame."

"And he invited you to his house?"

"Yes, madame."

"What did I tell you? We guessed as much by your radiant expression just now."

I knew then the meaning of the glance they exchanged when I approached them. But I did not like that: "_We_ guessed as much"; that identity of thoughts and sentiments was by no means pleasing to me. I have always noticed that the women who tell each other everything, their inmost thoughts and the most secret impulses of their hearts, never have anything left to confide to their lovers. With them they act, but do not lay bare their hearts. Friendship is almost always injurious to love. That is not my understanding of a profound sentiment, a genuine attachment.--But what am I moralizing about?

I took the indefatigable Frédérique back to her friend. The handsome dandy was no longer there. I heard Madame Sordeville whisper:

"He has gone. He said he was going away; he was furious."

"Really? That doesn't disturb me in the least!"

But my gentleman had not gone. I saw him not far away. If he was jealous of me, he was sadly astray: I was thinking exclusively of Madame Sordeville and waiting impatiently for the quadrille, so that I could talk with her more freely.

That moment arrived at last. I stood up beside my partner; each cavalier did the same. O blessed moment! What an excellent invention is dancing!

I felt that I must make the most of my opportunity; I told Madame Sordeville that her husband had invited me to come to their house. She smiled, but made no reply. I could not rest content with that.

"May I hope to be so fortunate, madame, as to obtain from your lips a confirmation of the invitation I have received?"

"Whatever my husband does is well done, monsieur, and I can only approve it."

That was a courteous reply, but nothing more. It seemed as if my fair partner were distraught. It is never very flattering to one's self-esteem to have the person to whom one is talking thinking of something else; and when that person is a woman with whom one is in love, it is much more mortifying. I was on the point of making a declaration of love, but it did not pass my lips. Could it be possible that she was nothing more or less than a coquette who had been amusing herself at my expense? Nonsense! Had I already forgotten all that she had done for me that evening? Wounded self-esteem often makes us very unjust. I determined to wait and not to go so fast, either in forming my judgments, or in my love.

When the dance came to an end, many of the guests prepared to go away. Madame Sordeville rejoined her friend, who also seemed disposed to retire. What was there to detain me there? I had permission to call upon the charming Armantine, and that was all that I could expect.

I left the restaurant. As I passed the rooms where the Bocal wedding party was still in full blast, I heard a good deal of noise. Was it merrymaking or quarrelling? Faith! Balloquet must take care of himself; and I went home and to bed.

XV

A VAGABOND

On the day following that night which I had so well employed, I did not wake until after noon. I went over in my mind the events of the preceding evening. When one has done so much and heard so many anecdotes, one may be pardoned for being a little confused.

Madame Sordeville's pretty face very soon presented itself to my memory. Now that I was no longer excited by the illusions of the ballroom and the strains of the music, I tried to determine what sort of woman she was, and whether I could reasonably hope for success if I should make love to her.

She was pretty, well formed, graceful, amiable--yes, and intelligent; at all events, she possessed that sort of wit that gives sparkle to a conversation; I could not say as yet whether it had any substantial foundation. In that respect, women are much more deceitful than men; they are much more skilful in throwing dust in one's eyes. Too often the flow of words and bright sallies is only a sort of froth that will not stand the test of time.

Madame Sordeville was undoubtedly a flirt. It is often said that all women are; but there are gradations. There are the amiable flirts who give a pungent flavor to love; there are others who do not give a lover one moment's peace or rest; and, frankly, a woman who takes pleasure in tormenting one is a sorry acquaintance. But I had not got to that point; perhaps the lady in question would never be anything to me, albeit her husband seemed to be not at all jealous.

The anecdotes that were told at our dinner the day before recurred to my mind; one of them especially had made a deep impression on me, and I was surprised that I had forgotten for so long a time that young girl of Sceaux--that unhappy Mignonne, toward whom Fouvenard had behaved so abominably. As if it were not enough to abandon her after having made her a mother, he must needs force her, against her will, into another man's arms! That was a perfect outrage! The law punishes men for less than Fouvenard had done--and all because she loved him! Unhappy girl! and to think that she was on the point of becoming a mother! I simply must see her, and try to alleviate her misery. Perhaps she was in utter destitution. He said Rue Ménilmontant, No. 80. I determined to go there; but I hoped that he had lied to us; that his Mignonne did not exist. It would be too execrable, if it were true.

I rang for my servant, and he appeared. He was a simple-minded fellow, but trustworthy, I was confident; and as that is the rarest of qualities in all ranks of society, I kept Pomponne in my service, although he was very often guilty of the most stupid blunders, and was of such a prying, inquisitive turn that I often had to reprove him.

Pomponne gave me all that I required for my toilet; but, as he walked about the room, I noticed that his manner was unusually idiotic, a symptom which always indicated that he had something to say and did not know how to go about it. So that it was necessary for me to give him a lead.

"Have you been making a fool of yourself since yesterday, Pomponne?"

"Me, monsieur! what makes you ask me that? You didn't tell me to, did you?"

"Why, you don't usually wait for my instructions to do that. Are there any letters for me?"

"No, monsieur."

"Did anybody call while I was asleep?"

"Call?"

"Yes, call."

"I don't think so, monsieur."

"You don't think so? Aren't you sure?"

"Oh, yes! I am sure."

"What the devil's the matter with you this morning, that you seem so much more stupid than usual?"

"Why, it seems to me that I'm just the same as usual."

"Come, brush my hair, and be quick about it! It's late."

You must know that Monsieur Pomponne was an excellent hair dresser; that and his trustworthiness, you see, made him rather a notable personage. He had studied the trade of hair dressing for some time; he gave it up, so he told me, because, as he had a fine lot of hair, his head was constantly used for beginners to practice on, and that got to be rather tiresome.

"And the love affairs, Pomponne--how do they come on?"

My servant blushed; he was not an accomplished rake, you see.

"Oh, monsieur! I haven't any love affairs!"

"Ah! so you choose to play the close-mouthed lover with me?--What about the maid-servant of the old gentleman opposite? you haven't made love to her, you rascal, have you?"

"Oh, monsieur! I may have laughed a little with her; just in a joking way, that's all."

"We all know what it means to laugh with maid-servants."

"However, I think I'm going to lose her--poor Mademoiselle Rosalie!"

"Is she sick?"

"No, monsieur; I mean that she's probably going to leave the house. She has discharged her master."

"Discharged her master? You mean that her master has discharged her, of course?"

"No, monsieur; I give you my word that she told me: 'I don't want any more of my master; I've given him his papers.'--And she added: 'I said _zut_! to him.'"

"The deuce! Mademoiselle Rosalie's language is rather décolleté, I should say! Why is she leaving her master? He's rich and a widower--an excellent place for a servant, especially for one who says _zut_."

"It seems, monsieur, that her master doesn't like to pay her."

"Nonsense! that can't be. My old neighbor is noted for paying promptly and not having any debts."

"I beg pardon, monsieur: they have had a dispute. You see, Mademoiselle Rosalie has a funny custom; she gets a commission for everything."

"I don't understand. Doesn't she get any wages?"

"Yes, monsieur; she has three hundred francs."

"Well?"

"Well, that don't make any difference; when she does an errand--for instance, when her master sends her with a letter to one of his friends, or anywhere else--well, that's fifteen sous; she charges a commission of fifteen sous. When she has to wash the windows, it's twenty sous. When she scrubs, it's twenty-five sous; do you see?"

"Perfectly. So it's just the same as if he hadn't any servant; that's very convenient!"

"She calls that putting the masters where they belong."

"Just try putting me where I belong! I'll discharge you on the instant."

"However, it seems that Rosalie's master never found any fault with all that; but the other night he told her to warm his bed; and when she charged him twelve sous for it the next day, that made him mad. I says to her: 'I must say, mamzelle, it seems to me, you might warm your master's bed for nothing!'--'Well, I guess not!' says she; 'he'd get into the habit of having it done every night!'"

"Peste! there's a servant who will make her way in the world."

"She's making it, monsieur; she tells me that she takes thirty-six francs to the savings bank every month."

"And her wages are only twenty-five! She has the saving instinct, sure!"

While I was talking with Pomponne, I noticed an odor that was not customary in my apartments.

"Pomponne," I said abruptly, "have you been smoking this morning?"

"Smoking, monsieur? You know I never smoke."

"But it smells of tobacco here; not of cigars, but of a pipe, and vile tobacco too."

My servant smiled with an expression which he tried to render cunning, and said in an undertone, leaning over me:

"I know who it is; it's the other one."

"What other one?"

"The man who's waiting out there, in the reception room."

"What! there's someone waiting for me, and you didn't tell me?"

"Oh! he--he said he wasn't in any hurry."

"And you told me that no one had called!"

"He's not a caller. I heard you say once: 'If that person comes here again, and I have company, call me at once; don't let him in.'"

I trembled as I began to realize who the visitor was.

"Can it be----" I faltered.

"Yes, monsieur; it's the party named Ballangier--the one who's so free and easy like, and makes himself so much at home here, just as if he was in his own house."

I felt as if a heavy weight had settled down on my chest. In an instant all my cheerful thoughts had vanished. A feeling of depression replaced them. The presence--the very name--of Ballangier always produced that effect on me.

"Has this--gentleman been here long?"

"About three-quarters of an hour, monsieur, when you rang."

"Didn't you tell him that I had been at a ball, and that I was likely to sleep very late?"

"Yes, monsieur, I said all that. But he just sat down and said: 'That's all the same to me; I've got plenty of time.' And then, he took out a pipe and lighted it. It was no use for me to say: 'You mustn't smoke here; my master don't like the smell.'--He sings out: 'I smoke everywhere! and you can open the windows and burn some _castonnade_.'"

"Show the gentleman in, and leave us. And if anybody should call while he is here, remember, Pomponne, that I am not at home to anyone."

"Yes, monsieur--as usual."

Pomponne went out, and in a moment the person who was waiting entered my bedroom.

Ballangier was thirty-four years old; he looked older, because he had led a riotous life for a long while. Dissipation and debauchery make a man old prematurely.

Imagine a man of more than ordinary height, who would have had a good figure if he had not acquired the habit of stooping. A refined, regular face, aquiline nose, small, heart-shaped mouth, and very black eyes surmounted by heavy eyebrows; an abundance of hair, once black, but now gray. All this would have formed an attractive whole, had it not been spoiled by a pronounced hangdog air. An expression that was impudent when not made stupid by drink, and manners that were often brutal; in addition, clothes that were always soiled and often in tatters, and the gait of a drummer; this rough sketch may serve to convey an impression of the person who stood before me.

On the present occasion he wore a brown frock-coat that was neither ripped nor torn. It lacked only two buttons in front, but it was covered with spots and stains. His black trousers were shockingly muddy, as were his boots. As for his linen, that was invisible. A frayed black stock encircled his neck, and he held in his hand a round black hat which seemed to have had many hard knocks.

When he entered my bedroom, Ballangier removed his pipe from his mouth. He walked forward, swaying his hips, nodded to me with a smile, and stretched himself out in an easy-chair, saying:

"Here I am! How goes it, Charles?"

"Very well, thanks."

"It seems that you had a bit of a spree last night, and you've had a good snooze this morning. You do right to enjoy yourself. It's such good fun to spree it! I'd like to do nothing else, myself."

"I should say that you had done little else thus far."

"Bah! bagatelles! To make things hum, a fellow must have the needful. Everything's so dear to-day! Those villains of wine merchants and restaurant keepers won't give credit any more!"

"They are wise."

"Why are they wise?"

"Because you have run up bills more than once that would never have been paid if I hadn't paid them."

"Who says I wouldn't have paid my debts? But a fellow must have time! Why are they in such a hurry?"

"You make me blush for you, Ballangier! Am I the person for you to make such speeches to?"

"Well, what's the matter now? Ain't I to be allowed to speak?"

"You might at least save yourself the trouble of lying to me, who know you too well! and who know what your conduct has always been! When a man who has no income desires to meet his obligations, he says to himself: 'I'll work and earn money.'--For, as I have told you a hundred times, there's no other way to obtain an honorable position in the world. You refuse to understand that everybody on this earth has to work, from the smallest to the greatest, from the humblest clerk to the highest functionary, from the artisan to the artist. The very rich men whose lot you envy--for the idle and lazy, the people who do nothing, naturally envy the lot of the rich--those who have great wealth have to busy themselves with investing it, managing their property, overlooking the conduct of the people they employ, regulating their expenses; and if they wish to retain their fortune, I assure you they don't pass their whole life enjoying themselves."

Ballangier lay back in his chair, shook the ashes out of his pipe, and looked at me with a bantering air, as he rejoined: