Part 12

"Excuse me, madame, if I sit down; but I came up rather rapidly, and the stairs are quite steep."

"Pray rest, monsieur; I should have offered you a seat; but my room is not very cheerful, and it never occurs to me to do the honors. Dear me! I can't find any pattern. I remember now that the day before yesterday I returned the last shirts I had to make. But you have brought me a pattern, no doubt?"

"No; I did not think of it."

"But it is absolutely necessary."

"I will bring you one, then."

"If you will kindly hand it to the lady who gave you my address, monsieur, with the linen for the shirts, I will go there and get them; for, of course, you would not bring the package here yourself."

She was determined to find out who had given me her address. In my earnest desire to obtain her confidence, I said:

"Oh! I thought that you would probably undertake to buy it yourself--the linen, or percale, or Scotch batiste, or what you will; for I don't know anything about it; ladies are better at buying such things than we are. I can bring you a pattern; I will roll it up and put it in my pocket, and you won't need to put yourself out. In view of your condition, madame, you should avoid fatigue as much as possible."

"But, monsieur, if I go out to buy linen, it won't be any extra trouble to call on the lady; and I can thank her at the same time for thinking about me."

"Oh! that is natural enough! She knew that you could--that you had more claim than most women to her interest. She said to me: 'Mademoiselle Mignonne--that is to say, Madame Landernoy--deserves your full confidence, and I commend her to you.'"

The moment that I mentioned the name of Mignonne, she sprang to her feet from the chair she had taken; her brow clouded, she fixed her eyes on the floor, trembling convulsively, and murmured:

"Who told you, monsieur, that my name was Mignonne? None of the people I have worked for have known me by any other name than that of Madame Landernoy."

"Mon Dieu! I can't remember now, madame. But someone must have told me. That lady probably learned it by accident."

Mignonne made a slight movement of her shoulders, which I could not interpret as flattering to me. To be sure, for the last minute I had been stumbling and splashing about, with no idea of what I was saying. I saw that I had made an egregious blunder by calling her Mignonne. Of course, her Christian name was not generally known; and, as I knew it, she thought, no doubt, that I was a friend of the man who had so shamelessly betrayed her; perhaps she imagined that Fouvenard had sent me to her. That idea drove me to despair. A fine thing I had done, parbleu! How was I to regain her confidence?

I took two hundred francs from my pocket and handed them to her, saying:

"Here is some money to buy linen with, madame, if you will kindly attend to it. If it is not enough, please let me know----"

Mignonne refused to take the money, saying in a severe tone:

"It's not worth while for you to give me this money, monsieur; I am not in the habit of buying materials myself. Besides, I cannot, at this moment, undertake the work you offer me. I haven't time to do it; I have other work that is more urgent."

I sadly put the money back in my pocket, mumbling:

"But I'm not in any hurry for the shirts, madame; you may make them when you choose."

"No, monsieur; I don't accept work unless I have time to do it.--Adieu, monsieur!"

She had thrown her door wide open, and she stood at one side, apparently inviting me to go. She dismissed me, she was anxious to see the last of me. Clearly, to remain any longer would simply have irritated her more. I rose and bowed low, but I paused in the doorway to say to her:

"I venture to hope, madame, that I shall be more fortunate another time, and that you will then consent to work for me."

"Yes, monsieur, another time."

And she closed her door almost in my face. I was incensed against myself. If I had not called her Mignonne, she would have undertaken the work I offered her. Now she looked upon me with suspicion, with horror perhaps, thinking that I was a friend of Fouvenard, and remembering why he sent his friends to her and how they treated her.

I was convinced that she would forbid her concierge to allow me to go up to her room. I had guessed that by her manner when she said:

"Yes, monsieur, another time."

So I was dismissed, turned out of doors, by that girl whom I had visited with none but the purest and most honorable purposes! To be useful to her, to relieve her distress, to avenge her if possible for the outrages of which she had been the victim--that was my object in going to see her; and although the girl was pretty enough, never, not even since I had been in a position to judge of her beauty, had any ulterior purpose suggested itself to my mind. It seemed to me that Mignonne could be to me nothing more than a friend, a sister; no other thought had come to my mind or my heart.

However, I determined to be of some use to her, no matter what she might do; and when I have determined on a thing, I am not to be deterred by obstacles.

I hastened down the stairs, and passed the concierge and her cats without stopping. I walked very fast until I found a cab, which I entered, and was driven to a shop where they sold linens, batistes--in a word, stuff for shirts. I chose the first thing they showed me--Scotch batiste, I believe--and took enough to make a dozen shirts. Then I returned to my cab and went home, for I remembered that I must have a pattern. I took one of my shirts that seemed to be made in the simplest way, and was about to start off again, when it occurred to me that if, as I feared, she should refuse to see me, I had best leave a letter; so I concluded to write a few lines, and sign my name, in order to regain her confidence; when a man is not afraid to give his name, it is usually a proof that he has no evil designs.

I sat down at my desk and wrote:

"MADAME:

"Although you refused the work I offered you, I take the liberty of sending it to you. You can do it at odd moments; do not let it put you out in the least. If I have been unfortunate enough, madame, to arouse your distrust, and if you do not choose to receive me again, you may hand the work to your concierge when it is done, with a memorandum of what I owe you; and I will pay her. But I beg you to believe, madame, that I was led to call upon you solely by the interest that you cannot fail to arouse in all honorable persons, and that my motive is one that can be unhesitatingly avowed.

"CHARLES ROCHEBRUNE."

I closed the letter, took my cab once more, and returned to Mignonne's abode.

All this going and coming had taken some time. When I stopped in front of the house the second time, it was nearly two hours since I had left it. I went at once to the concierge, with my bundle of linen under my arm. Before I had mentioned the girl's name, the concierge cried:

"She ain't in, monsieur; that young lady's gone out; you can't go up. In fact, she don't want you to go up to her room any more; she scolded me for letting you go."

"I thought that you might have received that order, madame, and I do not insist on seeing Madame Landernoy; but here is a letter for her, and a package, which I beg you to be good enough to hand her."

"A package! I don't know if I ought to take it."

"You cannot refuse to receive it, madame. Besides, I assure you that my intentions are honorable, and that young woman does very wrong to distrust me. I hope that she will do me justice later. I will return in about a fortnight."

With that, I tossed letter and bundle on the concierge's knees, at the risk of crushing one of her cats, and turned away, paying no heed to her reply.

XVII

MADAME SORDEVILLE AND HER RECEPTION

I had done all that I could, all that it was possible for me to do at that moment for Mignonne; and I felt better satisfied with myself. I determined to forget her for a while and think of my new love.

I made up my mind to go to Monsieur Sordeville's on Thursday. I must wait until then to see the charming Armantine. The intervening four days seemed very long. There are some men who kill time and shorten the period of separation by talking of their loved one with their friends; but I have never had confidants; true love is always better placed in the depths of our hearts than in the memory of indifferent persons, who take no interest in it, or recall it only to laugh at us if we are betrayed, to call us fools if we are loyal, to envy us if we are happy. Moreover, is it true that we have any real friends? For my own part, I know of none. In my youth, I believed in the friendship of some young men with whom I was often thrown in parties of pleasure; at that time, over-flowing with confidence, I asked nothing better than to lay bare my heart, to devote myself in all sincerity to those who pressed my hand; but I was very ill repaid for my frankness and my kindliness. My delusions were destroyed too soon, and I held aloof from men and drew nearer to women; I have never repented of it, for in friendship women are infinitely superior to men.

I do not call those people my friends whom I meet by chance at parties or dinners, like Balloquet and Dupréval; they are acquaintances, nothing more.

Thursday arrived, and I betook myself to Monsieur Sordeville's, on Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin: a handsome house, handsome hall, handsome apartments; a servant to announce the guests; all the externals which indicate opulence. I entered a very spacious salon, in which there were already many people, and passed rapidly through a throng of unfamiliar faces. Monsieur Sordeville left a group of men, with whom he was talking, to come to meet me and shake hands as if we were old friends. I could not help laughing inwardly at the prodigious expenditure of handshakings in society, among people who know one another as little as Monsieur Sordeville and myself, and often are not at all fond of one another. 'Tis a pity; it would be so pleasant to have one's hand shaken, if it were to be depended upon as an assurance of affection and good will. But men have spoiled everything, and the most expressive words and gestures mean nothing now, because they have been so abused.

Monsieur Sordeville, still holding my hand and pressing it, took me to his wife.

"My dear," he said, "here is Monsieur Rochebrune, who has been good enough to accept our invitation."

The charming Armantine wore a fascinating gown, with infinite grace and coquetry. I did not recognize in her the unconstraint of my partner at Mademoiselle Guillardin's wedding party,--to-day she was a true _petite-maîtresse_, a little affected, and a little ceremonious too. But she was a very seductive woman still. Moreover, it was natural enough that in her own house she should be more punctilious in her manners than at a wedding ball. Doubtless it seemed to her becoming to assume a more dignified bearing to receive her guests; a hostess is a different person from a guest at a party, who has not to play a leading part.

It was too bad! she was so attractive at the ball! she laughed so readily, and seemed to invite one to laugh with her. However, she did the honors of her salon very gracefully; she welcomed me with an affable smile, and thanked me as her husband had done for remembering their invitation. I cannot say what answer I made; my eyes must have said more than my mouth. I tried to detect in her eyes an expression that would at least tell me that she understood me, that she guessed my meaning; but I saw only that gracious smile with which she received the homage of all the men who came up to salute her.

A person is always awkward and embarrassed in a company to which he is an entire stranger, and where he can find no familiar face. I walked away from Madame Sordeville, as it was impossible for me to stand staring at her; that would have made me look like a fool, and would not have advanced my interests at all. With women whom one is anxious to please, one should, above all things, avoid looking like a fool; to be sure, that does not always depend on one's self.

I looked about for Madame Dauberny; I looked forward to meeting her there, because she had seemed to me to be very intimate with the mistress of the house. I did not see her. Men were in a large majority; why were there so few women, and, above all, so few pretty ones? Was it intentional on the part of the hostess? Surely she was pretty enough to fear no rivalry!

The guests were chatting together in groups in different parts of the salon. There was a piano, but thus far there had been no suggestion of music. I walked into another room, where two whist tables were in operation. There were fewer people there. If she should come into that room, I could talk more freely with her. But she was too busily engaged in receiving her guests and listening to the compliments they paid her; she seemed to me to be a great flirt. It has frequently been said that all women are--the desire to please is so natural! As if men were not flirts, too! Everybody wishes to produce an impression: the ugly man seeks to please by his wit; this one by his magnificence, another by his generosity, another by his attentions, his servility, his flatteries; but the end is always the same. So, let us not blame women for being coquettish; nature, when endowing them with beauty, grace, and charm, seems to have taught them what use they could make of these advantages. But the one person that I cannot endure is a capricious woman; is there anything more insufferable than to be greeted coldly or sulkily, when you do not know the reason and have done nothing to deserve it? Certainly I had no right to complain of Madame Sordeville; still, after her friendly treatment of me at the wedding party, after the sort of intimacy which the disclosure of my secret had at once established between us, I had flattered myself that she would receive me less ceremoniously. But I must wait and see.

Monsieur Sordeville came to me and asked me if I cared for whist.

"I like all games," I replied.

An old gentleman, who closed his eyes when he spoke, as if he were going to sleep, joined us; I had no idea what he said, for the fascinating Armantine entered the room where we were, and I followed her with my eyes. A handsome young man with light hair was walking behind her, talking to her in an undertone--at least, so it seemed to me; the pretty creature laughed heartily, with divers little gestures and expressions that would have brought a regiment to terms. I was annoyed; it was unreasonable of me, perhaps, but I could not bear to have her listen so to that fellow; I was strongly tempted to join in their conversation. But it was impossible; the man who talked with his eyes closed was telling me things that must have been very interesting, judging from the way he emphasized every syllable. Mon Dieu! what tiresome people there are in the world! But, among the various species, the most insufferable, in my opinion, is the man who never stops talking, who joins the story he tells you on to another one, which in turn becomes entangled in a third, after the style of the _Thousand and One Nights_; so that he is quite capable of keeping you a whole evening in a corner of the salon, without ever giving you a chance of escape, unless you decide boldly to break away from him in the middle of one of his tales.

I have no idea how my conversation with those two gentlemen veered around to politics, of which I have a perfect horror. I discovered to my surprise that Monsieur Sordeville was in government employ and already hinted at opposition. But it did not interest me. I was tempted to close my eyes, like the old gentleman; then I should be more at liberty to think of something else. Luckily, someone began to play on the piano, and gave me an excuse for leaving my politicians.

I returned to the salon, and approached the mistress of the house, intending to say something agreeable to her. But I did not know how to begin the conversation, and I finally asked her if she were going to sing.

"No, I don't sing; but I am ready to play an accompaniment, if anybody wants me to."

"Do you play the piano?"

"Yes, monsieur; and you?"

"A little."

"Do you sing?"

"Only at home, when I am alone."

"Ha! ha! that's selfishness."

"Prudence, rather."

"Surely you will depart from your habit this evening, and sing in company?"

"Oh, no! I should not dare to, before you."

"Why so? do I frighten you?"

"You do something very different."

She smiled, as she smiled at the ball. Ah! how sweet she was at that moment!

But somebody spoke to her, and I was separated from her again. Someone was going to sing, and silence was requested; I took a seat behind two consummately ugly women, who would not distract my thoughts.

The singer was a man, a stout, square-shouldered young man, who struck an attitude like Monsieur Keller as Hercules. I expected a voice that would make our ears ring and the windows rattle; surely nothing different could come from that colossus. In truth, at the first note everybody shuddered. What a voice! indeed, I doubt if it could be called a voice. For my part, I could think of nothing but the roaring of a bull. But there were some people who thought it magnificent. He sang an aria from _Robert le Diable_. The two ladies in front of me emitted _ohs!_ and _ahs!_ which led me to believe that they agreed with me and that the performance deafened them; especially as the singer, not content with bursting our ear drums, was almost invariably off the pitch; he sang false with imperturbable assurance. There were moments when he put forth such a volume of voice that I wondered if people passing through the street would not think that a crime was being committed in the house.

At last the performance came to an end. The two ladies turned toward me with smiling faces, and I could not help saying:

"I prefer an orchestra with four drums. I don't know yet whether I have any ears left; I believe they are split."

The words were hardly out of my mouth, when the bulky singer walked across the salon and halted directly in front of the two ladies.

"I am not in good voice this evening," he said; "it seemed as if my notes wouldn't come out. What did you think, mother?"

"Why, my dear, you sang beautifully, I assure you."

"Yes, brother; you sang very well, and you made a great impression. You can depend on us; we know what we are talking about, you see. There are people who set up for judges of music, but who don't understand the first thing about it. So much the worse for them! You sang with perfect taste, and I am sure that you made many people envious of you!"

I had addressed my criticisms judiciously! the ladies in front of me were the singer's mother and sister! So the _ohs!_ and _ahs!_ indicated admiration, and I must needs tell them that I preferred to listen to drums! An additional proof that we should be careful what we say when we do not know the person to whom we are speaking.

I saw that the singer's sister was casting withering glances in my direction, so I decided to walk away and take up my position on the other side of the salon. I had made two enemies; another time I would be more prudent.

After the roaring of our friend, the audience required something soft to soothe its auditory nerves. A lady seated herself at the piano and sang an air with an abundance of trills and roulades. What a misfortune to think of singing in public when one has a shrill, squeaky voice! But I determined to make no comments this time, or express an opinion in any form of words. A young man behind me was not so scrupulous.

"They call that singing with a lemon on the key-board," he muttered.

"If this sort of thing goes on," I thought, "it certainly can't be for the music that people come to Monsieur Sordeville's."

But the hostess made us some amends by executing with much dash and brilliancy a theme with variations which had the merit of not being too long. Next, the fair-haired youth whom I had seen talking with Armantine sang several ballads. He had a pleasant voice and sang with good taste. That added to my vexation, for I was convinced that he was paying court to her. But I did him the justice to admit that he sang well.

While a duet for piano and violin was being performed, I went into another room; I confess that I was not enjoying myself. The hostess was so surrounded by courtiers and adorers that it was impossible to talk with her an instant. Indeed, she made no effort to give me an opportunity. Ah! how different from the night of the wedding ball! There were times when I fancied that she was not the same woman.

I sat down at a baccarat table which had just been made up. I was well pleased to play cards, for I have always considered it the best of all ways to entertain people in society.

I had been playing for some little time, when, happening to turn my head, I saw Madame Frédérique. Never did a meeting afford me greater pleasure. She smiled at me, and said:

"Good-evening! Are you in luck?"

"Not thus far."

"Will you give me an interest in your play? I will bring you luck."

"With pleasure!"

"Here is my stake."

She tossed me a purse filled with napoleons, and turned away without giving me time to ask her how much she wanted to bet. Strange woman! But, at all events, she was just the same as she was the other evening; she was not like her friend.

My partnership seemed to bring me luck in very truth; for the vein changed, and I won. I looked about for my partner, to ask her if she wished to go on, but I did not see her; so I continued to play, and won again. I dared not stop then; but the game was interrupted when tea was served. I saw Monsieur Archibald, Monsieur Guillardin's son, a few steps away, and bowed to him; he returned the bow, but very coldly, as if he did not care to renew the acquaintance. He need have had no fear, I was nowise inclined to strike up an intimacy with him; I remembered the way he looked at me on the night of his sister's wedding. I fancied that he looked upon me as a rival aspirant for Madame Dauberny's favor. How many false conjectures are constantly made in society!

Certainly I had had very little entertainment in that house. Madame Sordeville laughed and talked with everybody but me. I was evidently mistaken the other evening, when I thought that she looked kindly upon me, that she felt drawn toward me.

"Oh! these women!" I thought; "one never knows what to depend upon with them! But, yes, there is one thing that one can depend upon; I do not deem it necessary to name it."

I was strongly inclined to go away; but I must first settle my account with my partner, and Madame Dauberny was at that moment deep in conversation with a gentleman possessed of a superb pair of red moustaches, and chin whiskers of the same hue. He was talking with much animation; and I am very much mistaken if he was not making a declaration of love to Madame Frédérique.

You will say that I am prone to discover love intrigues everywhere. The fact is that they are the commonest things in the world. And if we see many of them, you may be sure that there are many more of which we have no suspicion. Madame Frédérique was listening to her companion as if he were telling her the story of Telemachus. I determined to wait until they had finished. I sat down in a corner of the salon, and pretended to listen to a man who had been drumming on the piano for a long time, without anyone being able to tell what he was playing. Luckily for him, nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him.