Part 21

"I was so delighted that Monsieur Bouqueton didn't make a scene, that I accepted his invitation. I certainly ought to have been suspicious of his honey-sweet air, but I'm very fond of _bischoff_. Oh! what a miserable thing it is to be a glutton! That fault has always made me make a fool of myself.

"I put my cap on again, and we went out. Monsieur Bouqueton put me into a cab, but I didn't hear what he said to the driver. We started off. It was about ten o'clock at night. The cab went on and on.

"'Is this café of yours very far?' I asked.

"'Rather far; but we shall soon be there now.'

"The cab stopped at last. Monsieur Bouqueton helped me out and paid the cabman, who drove away. I looked about; it was as dark as a pocket, and we had no lantern. All I could see was big trees.

"'Where are we?' I asked, beginning to be frightened; for I began to suspect treachery. I couldn't see any light; but the trees made me think that we might be on the outer boulevards. But why should he have taken me there? At that time of night, in winter, all the restaurants must be closed.

"Without answering my question, Monsieur Bouqueton took my arm and led me away; we walked for some minutes, but didn't meet a soul.

"'I won't go any farther,' I said suddenly, and stopped. 'You have deceived me, and I want to go back to Paris.'

"'Well! all right! we won't go any farther,' said my conductor, in a voice whose savage accent froze the blood in my veins. 'We are well enough here for what I have to say to you, and for the lesson I propose to give you.'

"He had no sooner said this than he knocked me down with a blow of his fist. I shrieked as I fell; but the miserable villain knew well enough that no one would come to my rescue. He called me the most horrible names--beggar--oh! I can't tell you all the vile names he called me! Certainly, I deserved some of them! But he wasn't content with treating me like the lowest of the low; he kicked me in the head and breast and everywhere."

"What a ghastly thing!" cried Balloquet, while I, restraining my feelings with the utmost difficulty, felt great drops of perspiration on my brow. The story of that loathsome conduct made my cheeks tingle.

"I begged Monsieur Bouqueton to spare me," continued Annette. "I confessed my guilt and begged for mercy; but he would not listen; he kept on kicking me and calling me vile names. At last, he hurt me so that I could not speak. I don't know whether the monster thought he had killed me,--that was his purpose, I don't doubt,--but, when he saw that I didn't move, he may have been frightened, for he suddenly ran off, and I heard his steps die away in the distance. I lay there on the ground a long while, in horrible pain. At last a heavy wagon came along, and the driver heard me groaning. He came to me, put me in his wagon, and took me as far as the barrier, where he left me. There they gave me what assistance I needed. I came to myself, but when they asked me what had happened, I couldn't tell them the truth, so I made up a story about robbers. When I felt able to go home, they called a cab and sent me home. All men aren't as wicked as Monsieur Bouqueton, thank God! if they were, we should have to long for another Flood. The next day, I took some medicine. The blows on my hips and legs are all black and blue, but they won't amount to anything. I hoped it would be the same with the one I got here, on the breast, but it hurts me awfully, it cuts like a knife; and that's why I came to see you, monsieur."

"Let me see the bruise, my child; you must show us your breast--doctors, you know----"

"Oh! I'll show you whatever you say, monsieur."

And, without any false modesty, Mademoiselle Annette unbuttoned her dress and bared her breast. At that moment we could examine it without any risk to her, for the thought that the poor girl was in pain put all other thoughts to flight. Under the left breast there was a purple spot, with a yellowish circle all about it. Balloquet frowned and his face became grave and sad; I believed that I could divine his thought and I turned my head away; the sight was too distressing. The girl meanwhile smiled a wan sort of smile, and said:

"That was a famous blow I got, wasn't it, monsieur?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, yes."

The doctor put his finger on the purple spot.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!"

"And that?"

"Yes!"

"And that?"

"Oh! yes, it does!"

"We must look after this; you must do just what I say, and take the draught I prescribe."

"But it isn't dangerous, is it, monsieur?"

Balloquet made an effort to resume his customary cheerful expression as he replied:

"No, mademoiselle, no; you will come out all right. But you must follow my directions carefully; you must keep a bandage on your breast all the time, wet with a liquid I will give you."

"You don't need to feel it any more, monsieur?"

"No, mademoiselle."

"When must I come again?"

Balloquet reflected a moment, and said:

"Don't come here again; I am going to move, and I don't know yet where I shall go; but leave me your address; I will call to see you."

"Oh! you are very kind, monsieur; but--when a doctor puts himself out to call, it costs more than when one goes to see him."

"Never fear; it won't cost you any more, for it won't cost anything."

"Oh! you are very good! And you won't forget to come?"

"If your bruise was a mere trifle, I might forget you; but it's serious enough to prevent my neglecting it. I will come to see you."

"This is my address, monsieur: Annette--Rue Rochechouart, corner of Rue Bellefond."

"Just Annette?"

"That's all, monsieur; when a girl has been foolish, she ought not to bear her parents' name."

"Here, my child, here are your prescriptions. Be careful to follow my directions. Don't tire yourself, and be good. It's a bore, I know, but it is necessary for your safety. I will see you in a few days."

The girl had rebuttoned her dress and was about to leave the room.

"Have you seen Monsieur Bouqueton since?" I asked.

"Oh, no, monsieur! the monster! If I should see him, I believe I should faint with fright."

"But what about your young lover? Didn't he promise to avenge you, when he found out what had happened?"

"Oh, yes! he is going to square accounts with him, if he ever meets him. But he's a thoughtless fellow, my lover is! He says that one day, but forgets all about it the next."

"Well, mademoiselle, I promise you that you shall be avenged; I promise you that Monsieur--Bouqueton shall receive sooner or later the punishment that his treatment of you deserves. If your lover doesn't administer it, I myself will undertake to do it."

"You, monsieur? Why, do you know Monsieur Bouqueton?"

"I never saw the man, but I know who he is. I tell you again--you shall be avenged."

"Oh! mon Dieu! monsieur, I am not very vindictive; just let me get well, and I won't think any more about that old villain.--I have the honor to salute you, monsieur le médécin!"

"I expected that you were to witness an amusing consultation," said Balloquet, after Annette had gone; "for these girls come to see us so often for mere trifles. But, unluckily, I was mistaken. That poor creature made my heart ache, her injury is so serious; I anticipate the worst--terrible suffering, and death."

"Poor girl! What a punishment for her sins! What a ghastly result of idleness, of indolence! I will not say, of coquetry, for there was nothing in her dress to indicate that she has ever been kept."

"Is it true that you know this infamous blackguard who kicked her in the breast?"

"Yes; his name is not Bouqueton; that is a name he assumes to cover up his escapades."

"Look you, my dear fellow, if ever you need my help in thrashing that scoundrel, you will afford me a very great pleasure, and I beg you not to forget me. I am a good-for-naught, I admit; I love all the women whose physique makes them worth the trouble of loving; I deceive them without scruple, because they pay me back in my own coin. In that respect, I fancy you are not unlike me. But to strike a woman, to inflict bodily suffering on a weak creature to whom we have owed the most delicious of joys!--oh! that is infamous, execrable! No infidelity can excuse such barbarous conduct!"

"You are quite right, Balloquet. Remember the two lines that have never grown old, despite their antiquity:

"'Let shallow fops cry out, and fools lament; The honest man, deceived, departs and says no word.'

Au revoir, Balloquet! you will let me know about the poor girl, won't you?"

"To be sure! I will call on you and give you my address, when I have one."

XXVIII

A WORD OF ADVICE.--AN ASSIGNATION

It was cold, but the weather was superb. On leaving Balloquet, the whim seized me to take a turn about the garden of the Tuileries. I found many people in the garden. Fashionably attired ladies, well supplied with furs and warm cloaks, were seated along the main avenue, near the Terrasse des Feuillants. I glanced at them without stopping, but with the pleasure that one has in looking at flowers when one walks through a flower garden.

Suddenly I felt an involuntary thrill; I had recognized Madame Sordeville, but not until I was almost face to face with her. I was about to look the other way, when I saw another familiar face beside Armantine's: Madame Dauberny was sitting with her friend. They had seen me, and both had their eyes fixed on me. To pretend not to see them was impossible, and I raised my hat.

Frédérique barely moved her head, still looking at me, but maintaining the grave and almost frigid expression which she had adopted with me. It was not so with Madame Sordeville; she smiled upon me most affably, and said in her sweetest voice, as she pointed to a vacant chair by her side:

"Ah! is it you, Monsieur Rochebrune? I supposed that you had gone abroad, it is so long since we saw you. Pray sit down a moment with us. As we must depend upon chance for meeting you, you will surely give us a few moments."

"If monsieur is in a hurry, why do you insist upon detaining him?" said Frédérique, sharply. "For my part, I have never understood how anyone could compel a person to break an appointment wholly as a matter of courtesy."

But I had already seated myself beside Madame Sordeville, for I could not resist the charm of her smile. All my resolutions vanished before that smile, and I replied:

"I have time to stop; and even if I had any business on hand, I should be too happy to postpone it for such a pleasure."

Frédérique said nothing; she sat erect in her chair, with her head thrown back a little, so that I could not see her face; but, as a compensation, I was able to look at Armantine to my heart's content, for she turned to me and said, with the same charmingly amiable expression:

"Why have you abandoned us so entirely, monsieur? Our house must have offered you very little attraction. Indeed, I can easily believe that our small parties are not very amusing; and yet, I had imagined that you would enjoy yourself there. I was very foolish, was I not?"

"No, madame; you were quite right. But urgent business----"

"Oh! don't talk like that, monsieur; you know perfectly well that we don't believe anything of the sort. You have found more entertainment with others, and you have been very sensible to give them the preference."

"You know that that is not true, madame."

"Know it, monsieur? How do you expect me to know anything, except that you suddenly ceased to come to us? It seems to me that I could not very well ask you the reason. I was talking with Frédérique about you a moment ago."

"What! you thought of me, madame?"

"Yes," murmured Frédérique, swaying back and forth on her chair; "Armantine was saying that you sang ballads beautifully."

Madame Sordeville nudged her friend; I believe, indeed, that she pinched her. As for myself, being not at all wounded by that malicious remark, I hastened to reply:

"If I had any pretension to be considered a singer, madame, what you have just said might mortify me; but as it has never occurred to me to hold myself out as anything of the sort, I will be the first to laugh with you over my performance at Madame Sordeville's."

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Rochebrune, I have no idea why Frédérique said that; I don't think that she did it to laugh at you, for, after all, it may happen to anyone not to be in condition for singing--to have trouble with his throat;--and he may sing perfectly well another time."

"He takes his revenge," said Frédérique, in an undertone. "'This play is by a clever man who will take his revenge sooner or later.'--That's the consecrated phrase of newspaper critics after a play has failed."

"You seem to be very ill-disposed toward me, madame," I said, trying to catch a glimpse of Madame Dauberny's face; but I could not succeed.

"I, monsieur? Not in the least; I am joking, that's all. I am not one of those people whose feelings are changed by a false note."

Armantine seemed ill at ease, and hastened to change the subject. We talked about indifferent matters, but our eyes were not indifferent. Madame Dauberny did not utter a word. Was she angry with me? did she still bear me a grudge? Surely it was a long while for a kiss to rankle! I was almost grieved by Frédérique's treatment of me, but Armantine made me forget it by the amiable way in which she talked with me. I had never seen her show so much pleasure in being with me. However, I realized that I must not wear my welcome out, so I took leave of them.

"Shall I still have to depend on chance meetings for a glimpse of you?" asked Madame Sordeville, as she answered my salutation.

"No, madame; I shall not again wait for chance to serve me, as it might not always be so favorable."

Frédérique nodded slightly in acknowledgment of my bow, but not a word, not a smile.

"Upon my word," thought I, "she's very sensitive for a _gaillarde_!"

Armantine, I had been told, was a flirt; and, indeed, I had been several times in a position to judge that it was not safe to rely on the hopes she aroused. But, without flattering myself that I could cure her of that failing, it was possible that she might love me. After all, I had never yet met a perfect woman; in truth, I had never sought one. In short, that lady had turned my head again by her glances and her smiles, and I had already forgotten the way she treated me at her two receptions; the resolution I had formed not to expose myself again to the risk of being made the plaything of a coquette did not hold out against the allurements she had practised on me. Mon Dieu! why should we keep our resolutions in love, when we have no resolution at all in respect to the most serious matters?

On the day following this meeting, I could contain myself no longer, and I made a careful toilet with the purpose of calling on Madame Sordeville; for I had noticed that she attached some importance to the costumes of her guests. That was another pardonable foible in a woman who thought constantly of dress, and who believed, in all probability, that everybody agreed with her as to the momentous nature of the subject.

I was preparing to go out, when Pomponne brought me a letter which had just been handed to the concierge with the request that it be delivered to me at once.

I did not know the writing; in such cases, the first thing one does after breaking the seal is to look at the signature. I saw at the foot of the page: _Frédérique_.

What! Madame Dauberny writing to me! I lost no further time in reading the letter.

"You are probably intending to go to Madame Sordeville's. Do not go there, do not go to that house again; this is the best advice I can give you. If you are really desirous to see Armantine, if your love for her has revived, thanks to the coquetries she lavished upon you yesterday, see her elsewhere than at her own house. I write you these lines because I remember our pleasant intimacy, which was of short duration, but which has left in my heart marks of its passage. So, trust me and take my advice. I should consider that I insulted you if I should ask you not to mention this warning.

"FRÉDÉRIQUE."

The contents of that letter seemed to me most extraordinary. I read it over several times, but could not understand it. Frédérique urged me not to go to Madame Sordeville's, but she gave me no reason, no hint, as to the purpose of that warning. It could be nothing more than a freak, the result of momentary ill humor with her friend. I was much perplexed by the letter, but I had no idea of following the advice contained therein. Indeed, for some time past, Madame Dauberny had treated me so strangely, she had been so cold to me, that I found it hard to believe in that recrudescence of friendship of which she spoke in her letter. If she meant the warning seriously, why did she not come and speak to me herself? She had told me several times that she had no more hesitation in calling on a young man than on a friend of her own sex.

And so, without giving another thought to Frédérique's advice, I went at once to Madame Sordeville's.

I found Armantine in her dainty boudoir, surrounded by flowers and embroidery.

I do not know whether she expected me, but it seemed to me that her dress and her coiffure were even more coquettish than usual. Probably I was mistaken, and it was because I was not accustomed to gaze upon her charms that they produced that effect on me.

I was welcomed with extreme cordiality. Armantine had her merry, sarcastic, and melancholy moods. On the day in question, she seemed almost sentimental; she laughed less frequently than usual, but I considered her the more fascinating so.

She gave me her hand and bade me sit beside her, saying:

"This is delightful! It hasn't taken you long to keep your promise this time."

"It is my greatest happiness to be with you, madame; and my reason for depriving myself of that happiness so long is that----"

"Well, monsieur? it is that----?"

"That---- Look you, madame, I propose to be quite frank; have I your permission?"

"Why, of course."

"I propose to tell you of all the torments I have suffered. In the first place, I love you--but you are well aware of that; I have told you so before."

"Yes, you have told me so; but that is no reason why it should be true. All men say as much to a woman who is at all attractive, and of whom they flatter themselves that they can make the conquest."

"But, in that case, madame, what must a man do to prove that he really loves?"

"In the first place, it seems to me that he should not let centuries pass without calling; you must agree, monsieur, that that is a curious way of proving one's love."

"But, madame, when he is received coldly, when the person in question does not deign to address a word to him, after having given him some reason to hope; and when she laughs and talks incessantly with other men before his eyes, without any pity for the anguish he suffers----"

Armantine laughed aloud, disconcerting me so that I dared not go on.

"Ah!" she cried, when her paroxysm of merriment had subsided; "that is to say, monsieur, that if a woman was weak enough to listen to you and believe you, she must never listen to any other man's gallant speeches? When a gentleman accosted her, she should run away at once, lest he be tempted to offer her his homage? Perhaps, too, she ought to make wry faces, squint when anyone looks at her, for fear she might be thought pretty?"

"Oh! madame!"

"If that's your way of thinking, monsieur, I must warn you that you would very often have occasion to lose your temper with me. I like to have men pay court to me; I like to have them think me pretty--yes, and tell me so. I don't know whether that is coquetry, but, in my opinion, there is no greater pleasure for a woman."

"No greater pleasure? Not even love? Not even to be loved sincerely?"

"One does not prevent the other."

"Well! tell me that you love me; let me prove to you that I adore you, and I promise not to be jealous of all the men I see fluttering about you. When a man has the certainty of being preferred to all others, then suspicion is an insult. But is he not justified in trembling, when he has received no favor?"

Armantine did not reply, but she was deeply moved. I tried to take advantage of her agitation to embrace her; but she pushed me away and eluded me, saying:

"What are you doing? Someone may come at any minute. I cannot deny myself to callers; the servants know that you are here."

"Very well! meet me somewhere. Do you not go out whenever you choose?"

"Yes, but---- One thing I will not do, and that is, go to your rooms. Someone might see me go in, and I should be ruined! I am not a _gaillarde_, like Frédérique, you know."

"Let us meet somewhere."

"I should never dare to go alone to any out-of-the-way place."

"You can take a cab."

"I should be afraid, all alone, in a cab. No, monsieur, I am no dare-devil; I am very cowardly."

"Say rather, madame, that you do not choose to grant me an assignation."

"Ah! monsieur is losing his temper already. Well, let me see; to-morrow I am to go to the Champs-Élysées with Madame Gerbancourt and her sister--two _petites-maîtresses_ whom you must have seen here. They are not beautiful, but they are always beautifully dressed. Madame Gerbancourt has rather a good figure; her sister is too thin."

"I haven't the faintest recollection of the ladies."

"No matter! You will find us sitting opposite the Cirque."

"Very good!"

"It will be about two o'clock. You may come and speak to me. They live near by, on Rue de Ponthieu. When they start to go home, I will say that I am waiting for Frédérique. They will leave me, I will stay with you, and then----"

"Oh! you are adorable! I swear to love you all my life!"

"Really? I thought that you were in love with Madame Dauberny too?"

"With your friend? No, indeed; I have never dreamed of such a thing! I would have been glad to obtain her friendship; her original character pleased me mightily; but I have failed to do it. You must have noticed how coldly she treated me yesterday."

"Yes, I did. But I don't know what has been the matter with her lately; she is so capricious; I see much less of her than I used."

The doorbell rang, announcing visitors. I took leave of Madame Sordeville at once, fearing that something might happen to make her change her mind; for she was very capricious, too, and it was not safe to give her time to retract.

"Until to-morrow!" I said, very tenderly, as I left the room.

I was so happy, that I trod on air. I was sure of my triumph now. When a woman gives us an assignation, is it not equivalent to a surrender? And, under such circumstances, the man who does not grasp the opportunity is an idiot--or something worse!

XXIX

AN ENCOUNTER ON THE CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES

The day of my assignation was magnificently clear. I gave thanks to the weather; for if it had been stormy, she would not have been likely to walk on the Champs-Élysées; and the day before, in my delight, I had not thought of that. But everything seemed propitious, and I fairly swam in bliss. Pomponne curled his lip slightly, as he looked at me with an idiotic expression; the fellow evidently considered himself very penetrating. I thought of nothing but Armantine; I was really in love with her, and it seemed to me that I had never loved other women so dearly.

While dressing, I found Madame Dauberny's note in my pocket. I was overjoyed that I had not heeded her advice; but still I reread the note once more. I determined that, when I met the writer, she would have to explain what she meant by that warning.--"Our brief intimacy," she wrote, "has left in my heart marks of its passage."--Really, I should not have suspected it, in view of her present treatment of me.