Part 3

"I adored a lady who resisted my advances, messieurs. One day I succeeded in inducing her to go up in a balloon with me. When we were once in the air, I said to her: 'My dear love, if you continue to be cruel, I'll cut a hole in the balloon, and it will be all over with both of us.'--My charmer ceased to resist me, and I assure you, messieurs, that it's very pleasant to make love among the clouds."

"I call for an encore for that."

"And I am wondering whether Roland always has a balloon at his disposal, already inflated, to enable him to triumph over women who try to resist him."

"What, messieurs! do you doubt the truth of my story?"

"On the contrary, it is delicious," said Montricourt; "I am simply trying to think of one that would be worthy to serve as a pendant to your balloon."

"For my part, messieurs," said a tall man with blue spectacles, "as I am very near-sighted, my _bonnes fortunes_ have almost always ended unfortunately. When I had been attentive to a young woman, if I went to see her the next day, I was sure to throw myself at her mother's knees and say sweet things to her, thinking that I was talking to the daughter. However, one day, a lady, to whom I had been paying court with marked ardor, consented to come to breakfast with me. Imagine my delight! But she said to me: 'For heaven's sake, don't keep on your spectacles, for I think you are frightfully ugly in them; I detest spectacles.'--To satisfy her, after ordering the daintiest of breakfasts and donning the most elegant costume you can imagine, I took off my spectacles and awaited the visit that was to make me the happiest of mortals. At last there was a knock at my door. I ran to open it, holding my arms in front of me, for I could see almost nothing at all, being short-sighted to the last degree; but I was certain that it was a woman who came in, because I touched her dress. I didn't give her time to speak to me--I was so madly in love! I took her in my arms; she tried to cry out, and I stifled her shrieks with my kisses. Not until it was too late did I hear her voice saying:

"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, whatever's the matter with you this morning? You must have swallowed a fulminating powder!'

"Impressed by the accent of that voice, I ran for my spectacles and put them on. Imagine my wrath! I had insulted my concierge! The excellent woman had brought me a letter from my fair one saying that it was impossible for her to come. Since then, I beg you to believe that I have never made love without my spectacles."

This tale called forth hearty laughter. Then a stout party told us at great length that his wife had been his only _bonne fortune_.

We all blessed that gentleman, who well deserved the Cross and our esteem.

IV

THE LOST KEY

Monsieur Faisandé's turn having arrived, he reflected, assumed a solemn expression, and held forth thus:

"Love, messieurs, is not such an entertaining, enjoyable, happy-go-lucky affair as you all seem to think. Most of you seek to enter into an intrigue solely to amuse yourselves; but the results, messieurs, all the results that may ensue from cohabitation between a man and a woman, from the carnal sin, from----"

"I was perfectly sure that Monsieur Faisandé would be more indecent than the rest of us when he began upon this subject," said Balloquet; "he has a way of preaching morality that would make a _vivandière_ blush."

"I should be very glad to know what you consider unseemly in my language, Monsieur Balloquet?"

"Your language is excellently well chosen; it is technical; but you produce the effect of a medical book on me; they are most estimable works in themselves, but young women mustn't be allowed to read them. Pray go on, Monsieur Faisandé; I am terribly sorry that I interrupted you, you were beginning so well!"

The Treasury clerk pursed his lips and continued, emphasizing every word:

"I have never had any _bonnes fortunes_, messieurs; and I don't propose to begin now that I am married."

"What a hypocrite!" muttered my stout neighbor. "I don't know the fellow's wife, but I pity her; for I am convinced that she has a mighty poor fellow for a husband."

"What, Monsieur Faisandé! not even some trivial little bit of fooling to tell us? Come, search your memory, did nothing ever happen to you in the Cité? in Rue aux Fèves or Rue Saint-Éloy? There are plenty of frail damsels on those streets, they say."

This time Monsieur Faisandé turned green; he did not know which way to look, and stammered a few inaudible words. Dupréval, observing his evident discomfort, and wishing to put an end to a scene which threatened to lose its comic aspect, hastily asked Montricourt to take the floor.

The dandy smoothed the nascent beard that adorned his chin, then said in a low voice, assuming a serious air:

"What I am about to tell you, messieurs, may seem improbable to you. Understand that I have had a pair of wings made--yes, messieurs, a pair of wings as magnificent as an eagle's. I fasten them under my arms, and then, as you can imagine, I go wherever I choose. When a woman attracts me, I fly in at her window, even if she lives on the fifth floor; I carry her off, and I win her in mid-air! It's a wonderful thing!"

"I beg your pardon," said Monsieur Roland, ironically; "while you are making love in mid-air, you can't keep your wings at work; so you must fall. Look at the birds; they always light to do their billing and cooing."

"I anticipated that difficulty, my dear fellow; so, before I launch myself in the air, I always make myself fast to your balloon, which holds me up."

This witticism ranged all the laughers on Montricourt's side, and even Monsieur Roland decided to admit defeat.

It was now the turn of Monsieur Rouffignard, the corpulent bon vivant who sat next to me.

"My story won't be long," he said; "I rush my love affairs through on time; I don't like to have things drag along. I was in love with a woman who wasn't handsome, but had a fine figure; and I'm a great fellow for shape; I tell you, I set store by shape! To speak without periphrasis, I prefer what's underneath to what's outside. Well! I was making love to a lady who had little to boast of in the way of features; but such a superb bust! such well-rounded hips! I said to myself: 'If all that's only as firm and hard as a plum pudding, it will be all right; for, after all, one can't expect to find marble unless he goes to a statue.'--I would have been glad to have a chance to appraise, by means of a slight caress, more or less innocent, the real value of what I admired, but my inamorata didn't understand that sort of play; as soon as I made a motion to touch her, she'd shriek and wriggle and scratch. 'I shall never triumph over such untamed virtue as this,' I said to myself. But one fine day--that is to say, one evening, she agreed to meet me. She gave me leave to call between ten and eleven. I took good care to be prompt. Madame lived alone. She opened the door herself, and admitted me; but I was surprised to find that she had no light. I presumed that it was simply excess of modesty, and that defeat in the dark would be less trying to her; I had the more reason to think so, because she offered only a slight resistance. I began to grow audacious, but fancy my disappointment; instead of what I had hoped to find, I found nothing but _cliquettes_--that is to say, bones, of different degrees of sharpness. My audacity gave place to alarm; I recalled the romance of the _Monk_, and the story of _La Nonne Sanglante_; I began to be afraid that I was alone with a skeleton. But I had in my pocket one of those devices which we smokers use to obtain a light. I lighted it, without warning my fair; she shrieked when she saw the flame, and I did the same when I found that I was tête-à-tête with a beanpole. All I had admired was false. I alleged a sudden indisposition, and fled. Since then, whenever that lady meets me, she glares at me as if she would strike me dead. I am very sorry for her, but one shouldn't pretend to be a millionaire when one doesn't own a single foot of ground."

It was my turn to relate my adventures. I have had amusing ones and sad ones; but, presuming that the sentimental sort would be misplaced on that occasion, I determined on this:

"The scene is laid in the country, messieurs, in a delightful region about five leagues from Paris. I had gone there to pass a fortnight with a friend of mine who has a house in that neighborhood; he had consumption, and was living on milk exclusively; so I leave you to guess whether the establishment was a lively one. However, one should be willing sometimes to make sacrifices to friendship. And then, too, there was a house near by, occupied by several tenants, among them a charming young widow whom I had met in society in Paris. She was a blonde, with tender blue eyes and a languishing smile, and an expert coquette, I assure you! You will say that all women are; but there are gradations. I renewed my acquaintance with her; in the country, as you have lots of time to yourself, love does its work much more quickly than in town; and then, the delicious shade, the verdure, the charming retired nooks where you can hear nothing but the twittering of birds--are not all these made to incline one's heart to sentiment, to invite to love? A welcome invitation, which it is so pleasant to hear! In a word, I made such progress with my lovely widow, that nothing remained but to obtain a tête-à-tête. That, however, was not so easy as you may think. The house where my blonde lived was occupied by a lot of inquisitive, gossiping, evil-tongued people, whose greatest delight was to busy themselves about what others were doing. That is the principal occupation of fools in the country; they get up in the morning to spy on their neighbors, and do not go to bed happy if they have not done or said some spiteful thing during the day. My attentions to the pretty widow had been remarked; so they instantly passed the word around to watch us, to dog our steps; she and I could not move, without the whole province knowing it. All those bourgeois and clowns of the pumpkin family were worthy to be police-men in Paris; and I thought seriously of recommending them to monsieur le préfet.

"The result was that we had to act with great secrecy. The house where my widow lived had a large garden. All gardens have a small gate; and each tenant was supplied with a key to the little gate of the garden in question, which opened into a lovely meadow. Several times, when talking with my inamorata in the evening, I had urged her to give me her key, so that I could get into the garden. By waiting until midnight, I was certain to avoid meeting any of her fellow boarders, for all of them went to bed at ten o'clock, as a rule. My constant refrain was: 'Let me have the key; or else let me in at midnight.'

"At last, one evening when we had met at a neighbor's, as we left the house my blonde came to me, took my hand, and whispered in my ear:

"'Come to-night.'

"Imagine my joy, my ecstasy! I walked quickly away from her, lest she should change her mind. Everybody went home, myself with the rest; I longed so for the time when they should all be asleep! My friend's old cuckoo clock struck twelve. I left my room at once, stepping lightly, stole from the house, and hastened to the meadow. I sat down on the grass, a few steps from the gate, and waited impatiently until it should open to admit me to the summit of felicity.

"Half an hour passed, and the gate did not open. I said to myself: 'Someone near her has not gone to bed yet, I suppose, and she's afraid to come down; I must be patient.'--Another half-hour passed and the gate remained closed. I stood up, thinking that she might have left it unlocked so that I could go in. I ran to the gate to find out, but it was locked on the inside. I walked back and forth, I sat down and stood up, keeping my eyes always fixed on that gate, which did not open. I thought of everything that could possibly have delayed my lovely widow, or kept her from coming. One o'clock struck, then the half, then two.--'She has made a fool of me,' I said to myself; 'she won't come at all! But what object could she possibly have in keeping me waiting all night? Does my love deserve such a cruel disappointment? In fact, did she not, of her own motion, tell me to come to-night? No, it isn't possible that she purposely makes me pass such wretched hours here.'

"I could not make up my mind to go. Still hoping, I said to myself at the faintest sound: 'She's coming; here she is!'--But the sound ceased, and she did not appear. Thereupon I would walk away a few steps, but again and again I returned.

"Day broke at last, and with it my last hope vanished! For people rise very early in the country, and, when it was light, I knew very well that the lady would not risk her reputation by coming out to me. So I returned to my friend's house, with despair in my heart, swearing that I would never again address, that I would never look at, that woman who had made such a fool of me.

"But the next day, chance, or rather our own volition, brought us together. I was on the point of heaping reproaches on her, but she gave me no time; with a wrathful glance, she said to me in a voice that shook with indignation:

"'Your conduct is shameful, monsieur: the idea of making sport of me so! of making me pass a whole night in the most intense anxiety! For I had the kindness to believe that something must have happened to you; but I was mistaken. Why, in heaven's name, did you ask for a thing which you did not want? It is perfectly shocking! I detest you, and I forbid you ever to speak to me again!'

"You can imagine my amazement at this harangue. Instead of apologizing, I overwhelmed her with complaints and reproaches for the sleepless night I had passed at the garden gate. My manner was so genuine and so sincere, that the young widow interrupted me.--'What!' she exclaimed; 'you passed the night in the fields? Pray, why didn't you come in, monsieur?'

"'Come in? by what means, madame?'

"'Why, with the key to the little gate, which I myself gave you.'

"'You gave me the key?'

"'Yes, monsieur; last night, when I spoke to you, I put it in your hand.'

"Everything was explained. I remembered perfectly that when she whispered to me she had taken my hand; and that was when she gave me the key--or, rather, when she thought that I received it; but, alas! she was mistaken; the key fell noiselessly on the grass, and neither of us noticed it. You see, messieurs, what trifles happiness depends upon. I asked pardon and claimed another assignation; but with women a lost opportunity is seldom recovered.--'Try to find the key,' she said. I hastened to the place where she had spoken to me the night before. Alas! in vain did I scratch the ground and examine every tuft of grass; I did not find the key. A few days later, the pretty blonde went away, and I never saw her again."

V

FILLETTES, GRISETTES, AND LORETTES

I had performed my task; Dumouton and Fouvenard alone remained to be heard. The latter having requested the privilege of speaking last, the man of letters in the yellowish-green coat bowed gracefully and began:

"To speak of one's _bonnes fortunes_, messieurs, is to speak of the ladies; with me, it is to speak of fillettes, grisettes, or lorettes; for as to bourgeois dames or great ladies, married or single, I have always deemed them too virtuous to be the objects of my attachment. That is my individual opinion; opinions are free. Allow me, therefore, to indulge in a brief digression concerning fillettes, grisettes, and lorettes. I know that my colleague, Alexandre Dumas, has discussed this subject; but there are subjects that are inexhaustible--always attractive and interesting: women and love enjoy that blessed privilege.

"It has been said that Paris is the paradise of women. Ah! messieurs, he who said that can never have visited the tiny chambers, the closets, the attics, sometimes even the garrets, where that charming sex often lacks the first essentials of life; sometimes by its own fault, sometimes by the fault of destiny, or, to speak more accurately, of those cruel monsters of men, who play so important a part in the story of these young women.

"The _fillettes_ of Paris are the daughters of honest bourgeois or artisans, whose parents, too much engrossed by their labor or by the care of their business, put them out as apprentices, or as shopgirls, or, as happens in the majority of cases, leave them at home to look after the housework and keep house.

"Imagine a girl of fourteen to sixteen years of age, taken from her school, and, all of a sudden, because her father has become a widower, or because her mother sits at a counter all day, burdened with the whole charge of the household. She has no maid to assist her; for if she had, she would be a _demoiselle_, not a _fillette_. The _demoiselles_ have had a good education, they have had teachers who have tried to enlighten their minds and their judgment and to train their hearts; indeed, they are supposed to know a great many things; but they are entitled to do nothing at all during the day, just because they are _demoiselles_.

"The fillettes, on the contrary, have to do everything, and generally are taught nothing. But you should see how they manage the household that has been thrown on their hands--mere children, who were playing with their dolls yesterday. Ordinarily, they begin by sweeping, very early; but if the lodging consists only of a single room and a cabinet, the housework is never finished till the end of the day--when it is finished at all. To be sure, the fillette doesn't work long at any one thing; she is required to change her occupation every minute; indeed, it rarely happens that she dresses herself entirely. The young woman whom you meet on the street early in the morning, carelessly dressed, in shoes down at heel, with unkempt hair, dirty hands, and a modest manner, is a fillette.

"She has just begun to sweep, and suddenly she drops the broom, which sometimes falls against a pane of glass and breaks it; but the young housekeeper doesn't mind that. She starts to remove her curl papers; she removes one, she removes two--but just as she has her hand on the third, she remembers that she hasn't skimmed the stew; so she abandons her hair, runs to get the skimmer, and brandishes that utensil, humming Guido's song:

"'Hélas! il a fui comme une ombre!'

And to give more expression to her song, more passion to her voice, she often holds the skimmer lovingly to her heart. But as she sings, her eyes happen to fall on her canary's cage; she hastens thither, for she remembers that she hasn't given the bird anything to eat for two days. But as she is on the point of opening the cage, it occurs to her that she would do well to think about her own breakfast; so she turns her back on the canary, to go and visit the pantry. What she finds there does not suit her; so she goes down to the fruit stall to buy some fresh eggs. But on the way, she changes her mind; she prefers preserves, so she goes into the grocer's, where she meets a young woman who has been her schoolmate. They chat, and sometimes the chance meeting carries them a long way.

"'Come with me a minute,' says her friend; 'I live close by, and I'll show you a dress my fiancé sent me from Lyon.'

"'Oh! so you've got a fiancé, have you? are you going to be married?'

"'Yes, in two months.'

"'That's funny.'

"'Why is it funny?'

"'Because they don't ever think about marrying me.'

"'You're too young.'

"'I'm only a year younger'n you. But my folks would rather keep me at home to do the housework.'

"'Come, and I'll give you some candy I got when I was a godmother.'

"'Have you been a godmother? Oh! what a lucky girl you are! you have everything!'

"It is very hard to resist the invitation of a friend who offers us candy. The fillette forgets her housework, her stew, her canary, and even her breakfast, as she chats with her old schoolmate, who has been a godmother and is engaged.

"When at last she goes home, just as she is entering the house, she is saluted, and sometimes accosted, by a young man of most respectable aspect, whom she invariably meets when she goes out. I leave you to judge at what hour the housework will be done and the soup skimmed.

"This young man is not a lover as yet, but he closely resembles a man in love, and if ill fortune sometimes be-falls the fillette, who is at fault? Is she the one to be blamed? should we not charge it rather to the parents, who so shamefully neglect those who have neither strength, nor sense, nor experience, to resist the seductions of the world?

"Paris is swarming with these fillettes, messieurs; some remain virtuous, although they live among dangers; as they have no fortune, they do not always find husbands, but pass from the fillette stage to that of an old maid, without becoming better housekeepers by the change.

"As for the _grisettes_, that's another story. The grisette loves pleasure; she wants it, she must have it. She has at least one lover; when she has only one, she is a most exemplary grisette. However, they do not pretend to be any better than they are; they make no parade of false virtue; they are neither prudish nor shy; they cultivate students, actors, artists, the theatre, balls,--out of doors or indoors,--promenades, dance halls, restaurants; and they do not recoil at the thought of a private dining-room.

"The grisette is a gourmand, and is almost always hungry; she is wild over truffles, but is perfectly content to stuff herself with potatoes; she adores meringues, but regales herself daily with biscuit and tarts; she would climb a greased pole for a glass of champagne, but does not refuse a mug of cider.

"You know as well as I, messieurs, that when you have treated a grisette to a dainty dinner, you must not conclude that her appetite is satisfied. On leaving the table, if you are in the country, the grisette will suggest shooting for macaroons, and will consume several dozen; then she will ask for a drink of milk, and a piece of rye bread to soak in it; then she will want some cherries, then beer and gingerbread. In Paris, you will have to supply her with barley sugar, syrups, punch, and Italian cheese.

"Let us do the grisette of Paris justice; she is active, frisky, alluring, provoking; she is not always pretty, but she has a certain--I don't know what to call it--a sort of _chic_, which always finds followers. She handles the simplest materials in such a way as to make herself a pretty little costume; she often wears an apron, and a cap almost always; she rarely puts anything else on her head, and she is very wise; for her face, which is captivating in a cap, loses much of its charm under a bonnet, unless it be a _bibi_, the front of which never extends beyond the end of her nose.

"The grisette is a milliner, or laundress, or dressmaker, or embroiderer, or burnisher, or stringer of pearls, or something else--but she has a trade. To be sure, she seldom works at it. Suggest a trip into the country, a donkey ride, a bachelor breakfast, a dinner at La Chaumière, a ticket to the play, and the shop or workroom or desk may go to the deuce.