Part 6

"What's the matter with you to-night, my friend?" said Rosette; "you interfere with everybody; you find fault with whatever we do, and tear people's coats!"

"That doesn't concern you."

"How polite my lover is to-day!"

"To which aunt shall I take you this evening, mademoiselle?"

"Faubourg Saint-Denis, as usual."

"By the way, you haven't told me yet where you were perching yesterday, when I had the kindness--I might well say, the folly--to look for you at all your aunts' lodgings."

"Do you want to make me unhappy?"

"Answer me!"

"I told you that I was with a friend."

"Oh, yes! at the sponge dealer's, perhaps?"

"What an outrage! Instead of saying such things, you would do well to kiss me. It seems that we don't get beyond compliments to-day!"

In truth, she was right; I had rebuked her enough all day; the least I could do was to compensate her at that moment.

XL

A SICK CHILD

I passed a wretched night. I was eager to know if Madame Dauberny had allowed Balloquet to escort her, and if he had made any progress in my friend's good graces. Why was I so eager to know that? I myself could not understand. As I was not that lady's lover, as I had never thought of mentioning the subject of love to her, ought I to take it amiss that others should mention it? I began to believe that one could be jealous in friendship as well as in love. If Frédérique should have a lover, that would lessen the attachment that she seemed to entertain for me; doubtless that was the reason why it pained me to think that she should allow anyone to make love to her. That was selfishness, I admit; but what was I to do?

I arose early. I was strongly inclined to call on Balloquet, but I had forgotten his address. I had an idea that it was Cité Vindé; but what should I ask him. Should I not cut a very absurd figure, going there to question him? No, I would not go. Still, I would have liked to know whether he walked home with Frédérique.

While I was hesitating, uncertain as to what I should do, Pomponne opened my door and announced with emphasis:

"Madame Potrelle, concierge or portress!"

The good woman came in, bowing and apologizing for disturbing me. I asked her what brought her there.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I have come again about that poor woman--Madame Landernoy. I wanted to know if monsieur's intentions were still the same."

"What do you mean? what intentions?"

"About the work--about her taking care of monsieur's linen."

"What difference does it make whether my intentions are the same, as that young woman is convinced that I have none but evil ones? as she believes that I am laying a trap for her, in concert with those scoundrels who deceived her? Faith! Madame Potrelle, one gets tired of being constantly suspected. If it is pleasant to do good, it is painful to come in contact with ingrates. In fact, I confess that your tenant had gone wholly out of my mind, and I assure you that you would not have heard from me again."

"Oh! mon Dieu! monsieur, I can understand that. But still, if you knew how miserable that young woman is at this minute! For near a month her child has been sick--suffering all the time; the little creature needs the fresh air; so the mother takes her child out to walk, and meanwhile she don't do any work; but her little Marie's health before everything! She was a sweet little thing. She's fourteen months old already--how time flies! Madame Landernoy goes without everything herself on the child's account; and now she hasn't got any work--or what little she does get is such poor stuff--eight sous a day! Think of taking care of a child with that! So I happened to think of you, monsieur, because you were always so kind to that young woman; and I've always judged you right, I have! And I says to Mignonne: 'I'm going to see Monsieur Rochebrune and ask him for some work.'--And this time she says: 'Yes, go! go!' For she looked at her little girl, who seemed to be in pain; and what wouldn't she do to get the means of helping her!"

"And she will go so far as to accept work from me?"

"Oh! you mustn't blame her, monsieur; misfortune makes people unjust so often! Does monsieur refuse?"

"No, certainly not. Look over my commode and my closets, and take whatever you choose."

The good woman made haste to examine my effects. She made up a large bundle of linen, hastily, as if she were afraid I would change my mind; then she rolled it all up in her apron, saying:

"Will monsieur take an account of what I've got?"

"No, Madame Potrelle, that is quite unnecessary; I know with whom I am dealing, and I am not suspicious myself."

The concierge thanked me, bowed again, and took her leave, saying that the work would be attended to immediately.

Is it conceivable that during all the time that Madame Potrelle was talking about her tenant, I thought of nothing but Frédérique and Balloquet? Ah! how small a thing it takes to give a new turn to our thoughts! We are kind or cruel to others only as it gratifies our caprices. That truth is most discreditable to mankind!

I had not fully determined what course to pursue, but I decided to go out; and at my door I found myself face to face with Balloquet, who was coming to see me.

"Ah! I am delighted to find you, my dear Rochebrune!"

"And I to see you. Shall we go upstairs?"

"It isn't worth while; we can talk as well, walking."

"Very good. What have you to tell me?"

"I was coming to talk to you about Madame Dauberny. Ah! my friend, what a woman! what a physique--to arouse passions!"

"I see that you are in love with her already. Well! did you overtake her yesterday?"

"Yes, I overtook her on the street. She didn't want to accept my arm, but I insisted, and she yielded."

"Ah! she took it, did she? And you escorted her home?"

"Naturally."

"And--and--how does your passion progress?"

"It's all over! oh! it's all over, absolutely!"

I made such a sudden movement that Balloquet cried:

"What struck you then? cramp in the leg? a twist in the tendon, perhaps? That catches you sometimes in walking."

"No, I--I turned my foot. But you said: 'It's all over!'--What is it that's all over? Do you mean that you are already the fortunate vanquisher of that lady?"

"No, no! not at all! just the opposite! I said it was all over, because she gave me my walking ticket, I mean my dismissal. Oh! but she did it in the most amiable, the most courteous way--impossible to take offence. You were quite right when you told me that I should waste my time."

I was conscious of a thrill of satisfaction, of happiness, that I could not describe. Poor Balloquet! I pitied him then. I pressed his arm affectionately, and said:

"Come, tell me the whole story, my friend."

"Oh! it didn't last long. I offered my arm, as I say, and she accepted it at last. On my way, I resumed my rôle of gallant--I believe that I even ventured upon a declaration of love. We drank quite a lot at dinner, you know.--Your Rosette would do well to marry a dealer in sponges!--In short, I was very animated, my words flowed like running water. She made no reply whatever.--'It's because she is moved,' I said to myself. We reached her door, and I asked permission to go upstairs for a moment. That was a little abrupt, I agree; but when one has heated the iron so hot----"

"Well?"

"At that, the lady halted in front of me and said, in a tone at once ironical and imposing: 'Monsieur Balloquet, the day is at an end; all that you have said to me thus far I have listened to as a sort of continuation of the impromptu excursion to the country which made us acquainted. During a day of follies, it is not against the law to say foolish things. To-morrow, it would be unbecoming. You are very agreeable, monsieur, and you are Rochebrune's friend; in that capacity, I shall always be glad to see you when chance brings us together. But let there be no more talk of love between us, monsieur; that is a passion to which I have said adieu. And if I should have a fancy to renew my acquaintance with it, I tell you frankly that I should not apply to you for that purpose. So, au revoir, and no ill feeling!'--With that, she held out her hand, pressed mine warmly, and shut her door in my face. Well, my friend, on my word of honor, I am not in the least offended with her; for she's no coquette; she doesn't lure you on with false hopes, but says to you at once: 'It's like this and like that!'--You know what to expect. I will be true to Satiné. Poor Satiné! But I'll tell her to put less rose on her gloves. Never mind; she's a fine woman, is Madame Dauberny; I can't understand why you've never thought of making love to her."

Did he propose to set up as an echo of Baron von Brunzbrack?

When Balloquet left me, I squeezed his hand so hard that I made him cry out. Really, he was a very good fellow, was Balloquet, and I was very fond of him! How in the devil could I ever have dreamed that Frédérique would listen to him? There was not the slightest bond of sympathy between them.

Now that I was no longer tormented by that business, I remembered Mignonne and Madame Potrelle, and how coldly and absent-mindedly I had listened to what that good woman told me. Mignonne's child was ill, and the poor mother was in need of a thousand things to nurse her properly! Suppose I should go to see her, to encourage her? She would receive me ill, perhaps; but, no matter! I no longer felt in the mood to take offence.

I started for Rue Ménilmontant. Madame Potrelle uttered a cry of surprise when she saw me; then she said:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, have you come to take back the work that young woman needs so much?"

"No, no, far from it! But this morning I was--preoccupied, and I paid little attention to what you told me."

"That's so; monsieur wasn't like what he usually is; but, _dame!_ everyone has his own troubles."

"I would like to see Mignonne, Madame Potrelle, and see for myself what her child's condition is. Do you think she will receive me?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur. She receives anybody now, if they say they know anything about children's health."

I ran quickly up the five flights. I stopped to take breath before mounting the last narrow, dark staircase. When I reached the top, I heard a sweet, melancholy voice singing:

"'Veille, veille, pauvre Marie, Pour secourir le prisonnier.'"

Mignonne's door was thrown wide open, for it was summer, and in that way she admitted a little air and light to her chamber, which, as we know, had no window but the round hole in the ceiling.

I stepped forward; Mignonne's back was turned toward the door; she was on her knees beside a cradle placed on two chairs. The cradle was covered with a pretty piece of flowered chintz; a flounce of the same material about the base concealed the little straw mattress on which children usually lie. It had almost a luxurious look, in striking contrast with the other contents of that poor chamber; but the most poverty-stricken mother always finds a way to adorn her child's cradle.

At that moment, Mignonne was trying to put the child to sleep by singing to her and rocking her.

I stopped in the doorway; she did not turn. She did not hear me; she had no eyes or ears for anything but her daughter. She was speaking to her:

"Well! don't we propose to go to sleep to-day, Mademoiselle Marie? Don't we propose to shut our lovely eyes? Oh, yes! we have very lovely eyes, but we must sleep, all the same; that will do us good! And then, mamma wants you to. Do you hear, dear child? mamma wants you to. Oh, yes! you hear me; you smile at me. Ah! she holds out her little arms, she wants me to take her! Mon Dieu! but it would do her so much good to sleep! But I must do what you want me to, mustn't I?"

She bent over the cradle and took up the child; then she stood up, and saw me. She cast a sad glance at me, in which I no longer saw any trace of alarm.

"Excuse me, madame," I said, stepping forward; "I ventured to come to see you, because Madame Potrelle told me this morning that your little Marie was ill. I studied medicine a little, long ago; I shall be happy if I can assist you with advice, which you may follow if you think it good!--Ah! she is very pretty, dear child!"

"Isn't she, monsieur?"

And Mignonne smiled when she saw me gazing at her daughter, who was really beautiful and already bore much resemblance to her mother. But her pretty features were drawn and worn, and denoted some internal trouble; her eyes too were sad, and it is with the eyes that children express their feelings before they have learned to talk.

"How old is she, madame?"

"Almost fifteen months, monsieur."

"She seems very big for that age, and I have no doubt that it is her precocious growth that makes her ill."

"Do you think so, monsieur? Yes, that must be one of the causes. She is very large for fifteen months; and yet she isn't stout, she isn't too big, like the children that are abnormal!"

"Allow me to feel her pulse."

I took the child's hand; the skin was dry and burning. Mignonne read in my face that I was not satisfied with that examination.

"She's feverish, isn't she, monsieur?"

"A little; growing fever; that ought not to alarm you."

"Oh! do you think she will get well, monsieur?"

"Certainly I do, madame. Her condition doesn't even seem to me serious enough for you to be worried about her."

"But, monsieur, it's more than a month that she's been like this; sometimes she's better for a day or two; then she laughs and sings--yes, monsieur, I give you my word that she sings, poor dear! To be sure, I don't suppose anybody but her mother can understand her. But then she falls back into this sort of prostration, the fever comes back, and she refuses everything. Mon Dieu! then I don't know what to do to bring a smile back to her lips. Do you suppose that she's in pain? The poor little things can't tell us where they feel sick. But she will get well, won't she, monsieur?"

"I have always believed, madame, whenever I have stood beside a man or woman whom the doctors had given over, that they might still recover, for I believe more in God than in man; I have more faith in divine Providence than in human skill, and I do not think that we know as yet all the resources of nature. But when the sufferer is a child, a creature so fresh and new in life, to despair of its recovery seems to me rank blasphemy; because in that young plant, just born, there must be the sap of youth and strength and maturity. Children become very ill in a very short time, and recover their health as quickly; their eyes, sad and haggard to-night, will laugh again to-morrow; often nothing more than a ray of sunshine is needed to effect that happy change."

"Ah! monsieur, you restore my courage!"

"You must never lose it when you are nursing a sick person. I suppose that you have a doctor?"

"Yes, monsieur; but he doesn't come often. He doesn't say much of anything. But I hope he'll come to-day; I expect him."

"Would you like me to send another one?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; I have confidence enough in this one."

"Adieu, madame! Don't grieve, don't fatigue yourself too much; remember that you must retain your own health in order to nurse your child. With your permission, I will call again to inquire for little Marie."

"Yes, monsieur."

I stepped forward and kissed the child on the forehead; her eyes fastened upon me in evident amazement. Mignonne, too, looked closely at me when I kissed her little one. But she made no objection, and responded sadly to my salutation as I left the room.

I went downstairs, and found the concierge watching for me, combing one of her cats the while.

"Well, monsieur, did you see my tenant and her little sick girl?"

"Yes, madame; I did my best to revive hope in Mignonne's heart. Her child is not well, still I think she isn't in danger. What does the doctor say?"

"_Dame!_ the doctor shakes his head; he always says when he goes away: 'We shall see.'"

"He doesn't compromise himself. Meanwhile, take this money, Madame Potrelle, and see to it that the young woman and her child want nothing."

"Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! But all this money---- Why, how much have you given me? A hundred and fifty francs!"

"That's an advance on the work Mignonne is going to do for me."

"An advance! But she'll never take such a sum of money, monsieur!"

"That is why I give it to you. Pay for the medicines; there's no need of Mignonne's knowing anything about it."

"But, monsieur, suppose she should ask me how I got it?"

"Arrange it to suit yourself, Madame Potrelle; say that the druggist doesn't charge anything for medicines furnished to sick people who live under the eaves; lie, if necessary: there are cases where lying is no sin. And when this is gone, come to me at once and get more--without saying anything to Mignonne."

"Ah! monsieur, what you're doing---- Well! if anyone should ever speak ill of you in my presence, he'd get Brisquet in his face. This is Brisquet I'm combing."

"Au revoir, Madame Potrelle! I'll come again in a few days to hear about little Marie."

XLI

THE REWARD OF WELLDOING

Several days passed, and I had not been again to see Mignonne. Rosette had called upon me several times; but my pretty grisette talked too much about Monsieur Freluchon, the dealer in sponges; which led me to think that our relations would not last much longer.

Madame Dauberny was slightly indisposed; she sent for me to come to her, and I lost no time in complying. She seemed touched by my zeal. She was charming with me; she asked me about Rosette, but laughingly and without irony, as before; then she said, shaking her head:

"I am no longer afraid that that girl will make you lose your common sense and forget our friendship."

"Have you ever been afraid of that?"

"Why, yes. My friendship is too selfish. It is wrong, I realize that; but I am jealous, which a friend has no right to be. Scold me, monsieur."

"On the contrary, I forgive you--the more freely because I seem to have the same conception of friendship that you do; for----"

"For what? Go on!"

"Well! I too am jealous of the affection you bestow on others. And on that trip to the country, when Balloquet made love to you--that vexed me terribly."

"Really? Did you suppose for a moment that I would listen to that man?"

"Why not--if he had pleased you?"

"If he had pleased me--very good; but you know perfectly well that he could not please me--seriously. And so your friendship is jealous, too?"

She lowered her eyes as she asked that question. I took her hand and pressed it affectionately. At that moment, her maid entered and said:

"Monsieur Dauberny, who has just arrived, wishes to know if he may come to inquire for madame's health."

Frédérique was thunderstruck. She glanced at me, murmuring:

"He has come back! What a misfortune! I had flattered myself that he would never come back. But, after all, we must submit to our fate. After five months' absence, I dare not refuse to receive him; for his visit is solely one of politeness, no doubt. Remain, my friend; your presence will give me strength to endure Monsieur Dauberny's. Will you do me this favor?"

"If you authorize me to do so, madame, I will remain."

Frédérique told her maid that she might admit Monsieur Dauberny. I was intensely agitated by the thought that I should soon be in that man's presence; but I strove to conceal my agitation beneath a calm and indifferent air.

Monsieur Dauberny appeared in a moment. He was rather tall, but had grown too stout for his height. His face, the features of which were, generally speaking, regular, wore nevertheless an expression of brutal libertinage, and when his eyes tried to express merriment they became sea-green, watery, like those of a wild beast. He appeared to be about fifty years of age; his hair was thick and curly. He was neatly dressed, but seemed to have difficulty in carrying his great weight.

He was apparently surprised to find a man in his wife's apartment. However, he gave me a rather curt nod, to which I replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of the head and a manner so frigid that he was impressed by it and immediately bowed again much lower.

I confess that I felt incapable of bending my head before that monster. At that instant, the fate of poor Annette recurred to my memory; I remembered her bruises, her horrible suffering! I remembered that shocking scene on the outer boulevards! I felt that I could not remain longer in that man's presence. The blood rushed to my face; I was on the point of giving way to my wrath and hurling myself upon the villain! While I was still master of myself, I took my hat and left the salon.

"Are you going, Rochebrune?" said Frédérique.

"Yes, madame, yes; I beg pardon--but an important engagement--pray excuse me!"

I said no more, but went away, turning my head to avoid bowing to Monsieur Dauberny.

What would Frédérique think of my behavior toward her husband--of that abrupt departure? I did not know; but if I had stayed longer, I should have broken out; and before her, in her apartment, that would have been a mistake.

Pomponne was watching for my return; he came to meet me, crying:

"Monsieur, the old concierge--I know now that she's a concierge--from Rue Ménilmontant has been here, not with the young woman who came once and ran off as if someone was going to assault her--a very pretty blonde----"

"Well, Pomponne, well! What did Madame Potrelle say?"

"Ah! yes, that's the concierge's name; it had escaped me. She said: 'Be good enough to ask Monsieur Rochebrune to come as soon as possible--to-day, if he has a minute--to my young tenant; for she's in great trouble.'--I was going to ask her why the young woman was in trouble, but she didn't give me time; she went away again, saying: 'I'm in a hurry, I ran all the way.'--To be sure, if she had run all the way from Rue Ménilmontant----"

I listened to no more from Pomponne. I left the house at once and hurried to Mignonne's abode. I found the concierge below.

"What is there new, Madame Potrelle? Do you want money?"

"Oh, no! it ain't that, monsieur; but that poor mother--her child's much sicker. The doctor told me there wasn't any hope, but I haven't told Madame Landernoy that, for it would kill her too, she's so unhappy already! I don't know what to do to encourage her, and I thought of you, monsieur."

I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. My heart was very heavy; still, I felt that I must try to bring back a little hope to her heart.

I arrived under the eaves. The door was still open and Mignonne was kneeling by the cradle, as at my previous visit; but she was not singing; everything was perfectly still. The young mother, with her eyes fixed on her child, seemed to be watching for some gleam of hope on her face or in her breathing.

I stepped into the room; Mignonne did not even turn her head.

"Excuse me, madame," I said, approaching the cradle; "will you allow me to examine your little girl?"

The young woman glanced at me, with eyes dim with tears, and murmured:

"Oh! monsieur! just see how she has changed, poor child, in the ten days since you saw her! Just look at her!"

Poor little one! My heart sank and my chest heaved when I saw the shocking ravages that disease had wrought in so short a time. When I saw her, ten days before, she was pale and thin; but her pretty features had not changed. Now, her little face was all wasted away; her head, like her body, seemed shrunken; her mouth, which she kept tightly closed, her little features, constantly distorted by nervous contractions--everything indicated great suffering; and yet she was still sweet and pretty. Ought such angels to suffer? What crime can they have committed?

I took the child's hand; it was still burning. The mother gazed anxiously at my face and said:

"Monsieur, do you still hope?"

"I told you that I should always hope."

"Oh, yes! you are right; but for that, I should die."

"Does she complain? Can you guess where she feels pain?"