Part 13

"Let us have done with this! Where is Mignonne? Give that young woman up to us; we will not leave this house without her."

"I don't know what you mean, and I order you to leave the house."

Instead of complying, Balloquet and I walked up to Monsieur Dauberny, and I held before his eyes the hand in which was Annette's ring.

"What about this--do you know what this means?" I said.

At sight of the ring, Dauberny turned a greenish white and fell into a chair. Balloquet seized his arm.

"It was I," he said, "who attended the unhappy Annette, the woman you murdered! She is dead; but I received her full confidence, and we are familiar with your crime to its smallest details."

Dauberny could not speak. Great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead; he took a key from his bosom and held it out to us with a trembling hand, stammering almost inaudibly:

"On the second floor. Mignonne is on the second floor."

I motioned to Balloquet to stay with Dauberny, while I flew upstairs to the second floor. I found two doors; the one at the rear was locked. I opened it and found Mignonne on her knees, praying, in a corner of the room. When she heard the door open, she gave a shriek and ran toward the window; but I called her by name; she recognized my voice, and fell unconscious to the floor. Poor girl! joy sometimes kills. I took her in my arms and carried her downstairs. The air revived her; when we reached the yard, she opened her eyes and smiled at me.

"You have saved me again!" she cried.

Balloquet heard our voices and joined us. I told him to take Mignonne to the cab; then I returned to Dauberny, who was still in the lower room, pale and trembling, like a criminal awaiting his doom.

"Monsieur," said I, "we will hold our peace concerning your crime; but you must go away, leave France, and never let your wife see you again."

He motioned that he would obey me, and I made haste to join my friends.

Ballangier was like one mad with joy; he seized Mignonne's hands and kissed them, and I made haste to tell the young woman that but for Ballangier we should have known absolutely nothing of her abduction, and that he was her savior.

Thereupon she gave Ballangier her hand.

"Poor boy!" she said.

She told us that the night before, in a narrow, lonely street, two men, who doubtless were watching for her, had suddenly seized her and taken her to a cab which was waiting a few yards away. To prevent her crying out, one of them held a handkerchief over her mouth; but that precaution was unnecessary in the carriage, as terror had deprived her of the use of her senses.

On recovering consciousness, she found herself in the little house at Montmartre. A man, whom from her description I identified as Faisandé, was with her, and tried to allay her fears.

"You will see my friend Bouqueton to-night," he said. "You will come to an understanding with him, for he's a good fellow; he seems to be in love with you."

Mignonne threw herself at his feet, imploring him to set her free. He contented himself with locking her in a room, where the shockingly ugly old hag brought her food. The evening passed, and no one came. Mignonne did not close her eyes during the night. At last, about eight in the morning, another man, whom she recognized as the one who had insulted her on the street, appeared before her and informed her that she must be his mistress. Mignonne repulsed him with horror, and he left her, saying:

"Weep, shriek--it will do no good; you will be much wiser to make the best of it; we will dine together this evening, and I will pass the night with you."

Mignonne, alone once more, had determined to die rather than yield to that man; having no weapon, she had resolved to jump out of the window when he returned to her room. Then she prayed--and it was at that moment that I arrived. It was time.

* * * * *

At last we were at my rooms once more. Frédérique was awaiting us; she embraced Mignonne, then insisted that I should tell her all. I had not the strength to speak. The intensely exciting scenes that I had passed through had inflamed my wound; I was in terrible pain, and I swooned.

L

A PRESENTATION

It seems that I was ill a week; my wound threw me into a fever; then, I was delirious, and a scratch that should have amounted to nothing became a serious matter as a result of the events following my duel.

But I became convalescent at last, I was restored to health and happiness; for Frédérique was there, beside my bed, watching for my first glance. Tears fell from her eyes when I held out my hand to her.

"Saved!" she cried; "saved! Ah! Balloquet was right when he said that you were cured; but I dared not believe him!"

I saw two other persons stealing softly toward the bed; they were Mignonne and Ballangier. I shook their hands; I tried to thank them; but Frédérique begged me not to speak yet. I could smile at them, and that was something.

Madame Dauberny had learned from Balloquet how we had succeeded in rescuing Mignonne. He had not concealed from her that Monsieur Bouqueton was poor Annette's murderer. Frédérique had taken an oath never again to live under the same roof with that man. For my part, I did not believe that he would ever venture to reappear in society.

Health returns quickly when the heart is at peace. A few days later, I was walking on the boulevards, leaning on Frédérique's arm.

"My dear," she said, "Balloquet insists that the country air will complete your cure. To-morrow, if you feel strong enough to endure the journey, we will go to Fontenay and pass the rest of the season there."

"To Fontenay?" I said, looking her in the face. "Why, aren't you afraid of meeting people there whose presence annoys you?"

"Oh, no, no!" she said, fixing her lovely eyes on mine; "I am not afraid of anything now, for I am sure of your love."

The next day, we went to Fontenay, and Frédérique absolutely insisted upon taking Mignonne with us; she had become very fond of her; to be sure, Mignonne was much more amiable to Ballangier.

Mignonne lived in the pavilion which I had previously occupied, and I was under the same roof with Frédérique; a convalescent requires so much attention!

Armantine came to see us soon after our arrival. Frédérique received her with vastly more cordiality than before, notwithstanding which, Madame Sordeville came much less frequently; women have a tact which enables them to divine instantly when they have lost the game beyond recall.

I went to Paris and made inquiries about Ballangier; all that I learned was in his favor. I went to see him at his employer's, and invited him to dine at Fontenay on the next day but one. At first he declined what he called an honor; but I did not leave him until I had made him promise to come. The poor fellow asked nothing better, for I told him that he would see Mignonne.

I invited Balloquet to come into the country on the same day. On my return to Fontenay, I told Frédérique of the invitations I had ventured to extend without asking her permission; she closed my mouth by informing me that I need not ask her permission for anything. Then, after a moment's reflection, she said:

"I too propose to invite some people for that day. Will it annoy you if I have other company?"

"On the contrary, on that day it will give me great pleasure."

The next day, I went to Paris again; I had various purchases to make of gifts which I had in mind. As I passed through Rue du Petit-Carreau, I noticed a sponge shop. I thought of Rosette and stopped. Someone called me; it was my pretty brunette, enthroned at the desk.

"Are you afraid to come into my shop, monsieur?" asked Rosette, who was as lively and alluring as ever. "You were going by without deigning to say good-day to an old acquaintance."

And she began to sing:

"'Eh quoi! vous ne dites rien! Mon ami, ce n'est pas bien! Jadis c'était différent, Souvenez-vous-en!'"[B]

"Still as merry as ever, Rosette?"

"Faith, yes! sponges ain't such a dismal trade as I thought; and then, my husband's such a good fellow! He's like putty in my hands!"

"You are happy, are you?"

"Yes, monsieur, very happy. Are you sorry for that?"

"On the contrary, I am very glad."

"And your lovely friend--does she still pretend to be nothing but a friend?"

"Faith, no! we are on better terms than that now; we were both mistaken in thinking that our feeling for each other was only friendship."

"Bah! I saw what was coming a long way off! It was a long time coming, that love!"

"Adieu, Rosette!"

"You will give me your custom, I hope? Send me your doctor _à la rose_ too, with or without his gloves."

"I will send all my acquaintances to you."

"Oh! I haven't told you--on Sundays, I have my seven aunts in the shop, and people come in just from curiosity; we make a lot of money that day."

I left Rosette and returned to Fontenay. I showed Frédérique all that I had bought for Mignonne; I proposed that the young woman should wear a costume which would enhance the charms of her person, and I suggested that Frédérique should superintend her toilet. She approved all that I had done; I fancy that she also divined a great part of what I intended to do.

The reception day came in due time. The Ramonet brothers and several other neighbors arrived before dinner. Armantine was among those invited. I was very glad of it; I should have regretted her not being there on that day. Balloquet soon appeared, and then our old friend the Baron von Brunzbrack, who wrung my hand with great force, saying:

"I vould like to pe your frent no more, but I vas, all te same."

"Why should you not be my friend, monsieur le baron?"

"Because, ven she haf sent me a letter of invitation, Montame Dauberny, she haf told me dat she loafe you, but dat she offer to me her frentship."

"Well, baron, isn't it something to be her friend?"

"Ja, ja; but I vas right, ven I haf susbect dat you pe in loafe mit her."

"You had second-sight, baron."

Mignonne appeared at last, in a lovely costume, which became her to admiration, and which she seemed ashamed to wear. It was Frédérique herself who led her into the salon; she blushed when she came in, although Frédérique whispered to her:

"Don't be afraid, Mignonne; the men admire you and the women envy you; that is the most delightful part that one can play in society."

Madame Sordeville bit her lips when she saw Mignonne; that was a tacit homage to her charms.

Everybody had arrived, except Ballangier. He came at last, dressed without pretension, but very suitably for the occasion.

The whole company was assembled in the salon on the ground floor. I took Ballangier's hand and led him to Madame Dauberny, saying:

"Pray permit me, madame, to present my brother."

Everybody loudly expressed surprise, except Frédérique, who whispered to me:

"I knew it."

But the one upon whom my words produced the greatest effect was Ballangier himself. He stood as if rooted to the floor, trembling like a leaf; tears gathered in his eyes, and he said under his breath:

"O Charles! why tell it? there was no need."

"No need to acknowledge you as my brother?" I said, raising my voice. "Oh! be sure that this is a very happy moment to me! If I did for a long time conceal the ties that united us, do you suppose that it was because our positions were different, because you were only a workman, while I, more favored by fortune, chose to be an artist, a poet, a financier? No, my dear fellow; I forbade you to call me your brother, when, led astray by vicious men, you lived a life of idleness, drunkenness, and debauchery. Yes, I blushed to be the brother of a lazy vagabond! But now that you have reformed, now that you possess the esteem of your fellow workmen and your employers, I am proud to call you my brother; for one should always be proud to be related to an honest man, whatever rank he may hold in society."

Balloquet shook hands with me, saying:

"What you said was very fine, Rochebrune!"

The baron complimented me too, but I fancy that he did not understand.

I continued, addressing Frédérique:

"Yes, madame, Ballangier is my brother; not on the father's side--our names are not the same--but on the mother's side. My mother was a widow with one son when she married Monsieur Rochebrune, my father.--And now," I added, turning to Mignonne, "allow me to solicit your hand for my brother, who loves you sincerely and who will devote his life to making you happy."

Mignonne timidly gave her hand to Ballangier, saying to me with her customary gentleness:

"I shall be very happy to be your sister."

While all this was taking place, Armantine cut a peculiar figure. She left us early in the evening. The next day, she left Fontenay.

"How did you know that Ballangier was my brother?" I asked Frédérique, when we were alone.

"My dear, have you forgotten that day on the Champs-Élysées? The poor fellow was tipsy, and, while I was trying to quiet him, he involuntarily told me the secret, although I asked him no questions."

A few days after that festivity, Frédérique received a letter, which she read with evident emotion. Then she handed it to me, murmuring:

"See, my dear! you began the work, and Providence has done the rest."

The letter was from Zurich, Switzerland, and contained these words:

"MADAME:

"Monsieur François Dauberny, travelling for pleasure, met his death three days ago on one of our glaciers. The sad event occurred, it is said, while he was pursuing a young Swiss girl, who had refused to listen to him. The papers found upon him give the information that he was your husband."

"Well!" said I, taking Frédérique's hand; "nothing can part us henceforth!"

THE GIRL WITH THREE PETTICOATS

I

THE DANGER OF SLEEPING TOO MUCH

At first glance, you will think that this is a paradox, you have so often heard it said that: "There is nothing so good as sleep"; or: "Sleep is so beneficial"; or: "Sleep is the greatest of restorers"; or: "He who sleeps, dines."--I ask your pardon for this last quotation. I am persuaded that you have never experienced its truth.

To all this I might reply that the best things have their bad side, and that we must never abuse them. But I will content myself with simply giving you some figures; you are aware that there is nothing so convincing as figures.

I take people who go to bed at midnight; many, it is true, go to bed much later; but as there are vast numbers who go to bed earlier, the balance is preserved. You retire at midnight, then, and you get up at eight in the morning; you have slept eight hours, or one-third of your day. Consequently, if you live sixty years, you will have devoted twenty years to sleep. Frankly, doesn't that seem to you too much? Ah! but I can hear you retort:

"But, monsieur, one doesn't sleep all night without waking; I never have eight hours' sleep!"

Very good; I agree. Instead of twenty years, then, I will charge you with only fifteen; is not even that a good deal of time wasted?

"Sleep," says Montaigne, "stifles and suppresses the faculties of our mind."

You will say: "Rest is indispensable to mankind"--and to womankind, too, the ladies are so charming when they are asleep!--That is true; but habit is everything in a man's life; with four hours' sleep a day, or a night, you might be in as robust health as Æsculapius. I love to believe that the god of medicine was in robust health; however, I will not take my oath to it. But, to reach that result, you must get into the habit of not sacrificing more than four hours to oblivion of your surroundings. Now, as you adopt a contrary course, the result is that the more you sleep, the more you feel the need of sleep, which, by deadening your faculties, thickens your blood, deprives you of a part of your normal activity, and sometimes makes your mind indolent--that is to say, if you have one; but I am sure that you have.

Sleep has another great disadvantage; it tends to produce obesity; and you will agree that you do not wish to be obese. That is a burden with no corresponding benefit. In general, nothing ages a man so quickly as a big paunch. Find me a man who desires one; I am inclined to think that you would search in vain. On the other hand, you will find men by the hundred who do their utmost to compress and abolish what stomach they have; to that end, they often employ means which impede their respiration; they wear corsets, like women; there are some who even go so far as to refrain from satisfying their appetites, who do not eat as their stomach demands, always in the fear that that organ will protrude unduly.

Alexander the Great, or the great Alexander--no, I think it better to say Alexander the Great, because he stands by himself, and great Alexanders are very numerous--Alexander the Great often desired, even when he was in bed, to resist the attacks of sleep, for fear that it would make him forget the plans and projects that he had in mind. Perhaps you will ask me why he went to bed, that being the case. He went to bed to rest, but not to sleep. To that end, he caused a large copper basin to be placed on the floor beside his bed; he kept his arm extended over the basin, and held in his hand a big copper ball. If sleep overcame him, his fingers would relax, and naturally the ball would drop and make such a splash when it struck the water that it woke him instantly.

You have the right to do as Alexander the Great did, when you wish to avoid going to sleep; but perhaps you will find it rather tiresome to hold your arm over a basin, with a heavy copper ball in your hand. I admit that one must needs be Alexander the Great, or Alexander Dumas, to do such things.

There are other ways of keeping awake: sleep rarely assails you when you are enjoying yourself; therefore, you need only enjoy yourself, but that is not always so easy as one might think.

A gentleman, whom I will call Dupont, with your permission, and who lived in the pretty little town of Brives-la-Gaillarde, had the unfortunate habit of sleeping too much. He was married, but it seems that that fact did not amuse him enough; there are some men who are capable of hinting that it was more likely to increase his infirmity.

This much is certain: that Madame Dupont herself often said to her husband:

"You sleep a great deal too much, monsieur; it's perfectly ridiculous! You're only forty years old; what in heaven's name will you do when you're fifty? You fall asleep as soon as your head touches the pillow, and don't wake up during the night; in the morning, I can hardly make you open your eyes. You're not a man any longer, you're a marmot. Let me tell you that when I married you I didn't think I was marrying a marmot! But never mind about me; this sleeping all the time will be the death of you; you're getting to be terribly fat, and you'll soon have a stomach like Punchinello."

Monsieur Dupont was impressed by his wife's harangue; perhaps he would not have cared so much about the resemblance to a marmot, but he was not anxious to have a stomach like Punchinello.

He did not hesitate, but went at once to his physician and said to him:

"Doctor, I sleep a great deal too much; my wife complains about it, and I feel myself that it's making me lazy. What must I do to sleep less?"

The doctor, who was very fond of smoking, shook his head and rolled a cigarette, as he asked:

"Do you smoke?"

"Yes, doctor, I smoke all the time; but I fall asleep even when I'm smoking."

"That's a pity! because I was going to advise you to smoke."

"Advise something else."

"Do you take snuff?"

"Yes, doctor; I have a collection of snuffboxes; but I don't take much pleasure in it."

"That's too bad! for I would have advised you to take snuff."

"Try something else."

"Do you play cards?"

"I know all the games, but I don't care for any of them; cards put me to sleep at once."

"So much the worse! I would have advised you to play cards. For, after all, to avoid going to sleep, you must amuse yourself. Have you ever been to Paris?"

"Yes, doctor, twice; but it was a long while ago, when I was in business. It was before my marriage. I have an idea that I rather enjoyed myself in Paris."

"Well, then, go there again; spend a few weeks in Paris; that will wake you up, invigorate you, and amuse you. But be sure to go alone; don't take your wife."

Dupont heartily approved this last injunction; he hastily made the necessary preparations, told his wife of the doctor's prescription, and started; nor did madame seem greatly distressed by his departure. But one does not care much for the society of a marmot, unless one is a marmot also.

II

HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT THE BALL

It was the year 1860, and it was the carnival season, which unluckily was very brief that year. We say unluckily, for we admit that we do not agree with the people who say:

"Masks have gone out of fashion; it isn't the thing to disguise yourself now to drive or walk on the boulevards. No, no! That's all gone by, forgotten, bad form! Before long, there won't be any carnival."

In the first place, we do not understand why such people frown upon something that tends to amuse and rejoice the common people. It may not make you laugh, monsieur, who seem always to be in a bad humor, and whose nerves are unstrung when you see other people enjoying themselves. I am very sorry for you! But I assure you that, in the old days, when, during the pre-Lenten season, a triple row of carriages filled with masks formed an immense Longchamp in the centre of Paris, the promenaders and idlers did not complain because they were furnished with that spectacle gratis.

Everybody could not afford to go to the Opéra ball, or even to the Salle Barthélemy; and the modest annuitant, as he strolled about the streets with his wife during the carnival days, returned home in high glee when he had rubbed elbows with Harlequins or Punchinellos; and if a Bear said to his wife: "I know you!" the delighted couple could not contain themselves; and madame would say proudly to her concierge: "A Bear said to me: 'I know you!'"

You must see, you pessimists, who want to abolish the carnival, that by abolishing it you would grieve a great many people. I know that that is a matter of indifference to you; but, despite your efforts, so long as the world exists, there will be masks. Some people would tell you that there are masks all the year round; that you need not wait for carnival time to see them. But, as you hear that very often, I will not say it.

The carnival is the season of intrigues and of mad pranks. Again, we might say that there are intrigues all the year round; but that has been said before, and we will not repeat it. We will take the liberty, in passing, of calling your attention to the fact that we say only novel things; that is very considerate on our part, and we are persuaded that we shall receive due credit therefor.

Monsieur Dupont was, as we have said, a man of forty years; that is the age of passions, when one is destined to have any; but thus far the gentleman in question had not manifested the slightest symptom of anything of the sort. He smoked, took snuff, gambled, and drank, but without enthusiasm, and, we might say, without enjoyment. As for the women, you have seen that he slept most of the time beside his wife. Nevertheless, Monsieur Dupont was not insensible to the charms of beauty; what attracted him more than anything else in a woman was figure, shape, carriage; in short, he preferred a well-proportioned body to a pretty face; and unluckily for Madame Dupont, she was rather pretty than well made. Perhaps that was what had made her husband such a heavy sleeper.