Part 8

Mignonne speedily fulfilled her promise; she appeared one morning, alone; she desired to show me that she no longer had any suspicion of me. I talked a few minutes with her. We spoke of her daughter, the subject in which she was most deeply interested. The people who are afraid to speak of those they have lost are the ones who wish to forget them at once. When one does not wish to forget the dear ones who are no more, why should one shrink from speaking of them?

Then I went out, after saying to her:

"The keys are in all the drawers. Look over everything, and take away what you choose. That is your affair; and my servant has orders to obey you like myself, if you need anything."

Several weeks passed thus. At first Mignonne came every four or five days, then a little oftener, then every other day; and I frequently found her established in my quarters, and working there; for she had said to me one day:

"When there isn't much to mend, perhaps one shirt, or one waistcoat, it is hardly worth while to carry it home, if it doesn't annoy you to have me do it here."

And as it did not annoy me in the least to have her work in my rooms, as I observed with delight that her grief was more calm, more resigned, and that when she was busily employed there she had much more distraction than in her own chamber, I urged her to work there whenever it was convenient for her to do so.

Pomponne alone seemed very much puzzled because that young woman did her sewing in my apartment when I was not there; especially as Mignonne was not talkative, and as I had forbidden him to presume to ask her any questions.

XLIII

CONJECTURES

I called again to see Frédérique, but she had not returned from the country. Did she propose to spend the summer there? It seemed to me that she might have told me where she was going, and have asked me to pass some time with her.

I was unhappy over Frédérique's absence; but, above all, I was hurt by her manifest indifference. I would have liked to scold her; I would have liked to tell her that I was very angry with her. Where was she? what was she doing? whom did she see now? Madame insisted upon my telling her everything, but she told me nothing.

One day when Mignonne was working in my salon, and I, contrary to my custom, had not gone out, the doorbell announced a visitor. Mignonne rose at once, saying:

"I will go, monsieur."

"Why so, Mignonne? Stay, I beg you; you are not in my way; and if my visitor has anything to say to me in private, I will take him into my bedroom, that's all. There is not the least reason why you should go."

Mignonne resumed her seat, and Ballangier entered the room. He was still in cap and blouse, but his dress was irreproachably neat, and his hands very white. When he saw a young woman installed in my apartment, he started back in surprise, and would have gone away.

"I beg pardon! I didn't know that you had company. Pomponne told me I might come in."

"Why, of course; come in, come in! You mustn't let madame frighten you away. Take a seat, and let us talk."

Ballangier decided to sit down. Mignonne went on sewing and kept her eyes over her work.

"Well! have you still plenty to do? are they still satisfied with you? I am sure that they are; I can read it in your eyes."

"Yes; my employer is perfectly satisfied with me. If you knew how rich I am now! I am actually saving money! Can you believe that I have seventy-five francs put by?"

"Well done, my friend! As soon as a man has succeeded in saving something, it's like a snowball. It isn't so hard as people think to become well to do. Often nothing is necessary but determination; but it must be constant and immovable."

"Oh! that's the way it is with me now; there's no danger of my stumbling. Why, when I see a drunken man, it makes me blush for shame, and I say to myself: 'How could I ever take any pleasure in making a beast of myself like that!'"

"And your reading?"

"That gives me a great deal of entertainment, too. But there are some things I have to read over two or three times, because I don't understand them right away."

"Would you like me to give you some more books?"

"Thanks, not to-day. I am doing an errand for my employer, and I had to pass your door; that's why I took the liberty of coming up."

"You did well, for it's a pleasure to me to see you now."

Ballangier smiled, then glanced furtively at Mignonne. We talked for some time; then he rose, saying that he must hurry, because his employer was waiting for him. I walked into the reception room with him, and there, after bidding me adieu, Ballangier murmured:

"She's mighty pretty, that little woman sewing in there!"

"Yes, she is pretty; and, what's better still, she's respectable."

"Ah, yes! Is she a lady?"

"I'll tell you another time who she is."

When Ballangier had gone, I returned to Mignonne, who went on with her work and said nothing. Still, I would have bet that she was surprised to hear me, a young man of fashion, addressed thus familiarly by a man in cap and blouse.

Pomponne handed me a huge envelope which the concierge had just brought upstairs. The enclosure was printed; evidently a wedding invitation. I read:

"Mesdames Falourdin, Riflot, Piquette, Dumarteau, Lumignon, Chamouillet, and Cavalos have the honor to announce the marriage of their niece, Mademoiselle Rosette Gribiche, to Monsieur Jules-César-Octave Freluchon, dealer in sponges."

Ah! it was very amiable on Rosette's part to send me an announcement of her wedding. But something was written at the foot of the sheet:

"You are requested to attend the ball, which will take place at Chapart's, Rue d'Angoulême; I rely on you for the polka."

Ah! there I recognized my saucy grisette. She was quite capable of insisting on dancing all night with me; and I was not at all certain that she would not demand something else. But I would not accept her invitation, I would not go to her wedding feast. I would be more sensible than she was. I would not swear that, later on, I might not do myself the pleasure of buying a sponge of her. Meanwhile, I wished Monsieur Freluchon all happiness, and I was convinced beforehand that it would be his.

One evening, when I went home, Pomponne said to me, rubbing his hands gleefully:

"Monsieur had another visitor to-day. Mon Dieu! monsieur had only just gone out, when Madame Dauberny came."

"Madame Dauberny? Oh! how sorry I am that I didn't see her!"

"She came in; in fact, she waited for monsieur quite a long time, talking with your seamstress."

"What do you mean by my seamstress? In heaven's name, can't you say Madame Landernoy?"

"As that lady sews for monsieur, I thought she was his seamstress."

"No matter! what did Frédérique say when she went away? Will she come again to-morrow?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; she won't come again to-morrow nor any other day; for she said to me when she went away: 'You will tell your master that I shan't come again.'"

"She said that she wouldn't come again! That's impossible, Pomponne; you are mistaken; Frédérique could not have said that."

"Beg pardon, monsieur; I'm sure she said it, because it surprised me; and I said to her: 'Why! is madame angry with monsieur?'"

"Oh! I recognize you there! Always inquisitive and chattering! Well, what did she say to that?"

"She said: 'That's none of your business!'--I didn't say any more."

I could not understand why Frédérique should have said what Pomponne had reported to me. If she had come often to see me without finding me, it might be conceivable; but, on the contrary, I had been more than ten times to inquire for her while she was in the country.

"No matter!" I thought; "I will go to see her to-morrow, and obtain an explanation of all this, I hope."

The next day, as soon as I had finished breakfast, I hastened to Madame Dauberny's. At last, she was at home! Her maid ushered me into her room.

I found Frédérique enveloped in a morning gown. Her lovely hair, falling in long curls on each side of her face, was without ornament. She was very pale, and her manner was cold and constrained; she greeted me with a smile that was not sincere, and said:

"Ah! is it you, Charles?"

"Yes, it is I. You came to see me yesterday, and I am extremely sorry that I was absent. But that fact does not seem to me a sufficient explanation of your saying to my servant that you would not come again. What did that mean? I have been here ten or fifteen times to see you since you went into the country, where it never once occurred to you to write me, to tell me where you were. I could not write to you, for I had no idea in what direction you had gone. But I came, nevertheless, again and again; for I could not tire of coming, when I hoped to see you!--Tell me, what is the matter? what have I done? Why are you offended? for you are offended, I can see by the cold way in which you receive me."

Frédérique listened to me attentively. She forced herself to smile and offered me her hand, saying in a faltering tone:

"All that you say is true--I have no right to be angry--and I am not any longer."

"But you are!"

"No, I am not."

"Why did you tell Pomponne that you would not come again?"

"Why--because--as you have a woman installed in your rooms now--I thought that my visits could only----"

"Upon my word, I can't understand you! Because a person comes to my rooms, a person who looks after my linen, takes it away and brings it back!--What has that to do with our friendship?"

"Is she the--the young woman in whom you took such a deep interest?"

"Yes, madame. She has lost her child, her little girl, who was her only joy! It seems to me that that is an additional reason for trying to lighten her sorrow."

"Oh! most assuredly! It seems, too, that you have done wonders for her, for she says everything good of you! she extols you to the skies! Never fear, my friend, she is truly grateful!"

"But that ought not to seem extraordinary to you, who maintain that ingratitude is the most shocking of vices."

"No, no! I see nothing at all unusual in all that."

"Mon Dieu! Frédérique, you drive me mad! Do you know that, to hear you, one would think you were unkind and unfeeling, and yet I know that you are not."

"She is very pretty, that young woman!"

"I told you that before. And because she is pretty--is that a reason for not doing anything for her?"

"Oh! quite the contrary! That is a reason for being deeply interested in her, for having her come to work in one's own rooms, and pass her days there.--Ha! ha! ha! Really, Rosette wasn't so foolish as I: she guessed the truth at once."

"What do you mean by that, Frédérique?"

"I mean that you love that young woman, that you are in love with her, that you mean to make her your mistress! Oh! mon Dieu! it's all simple and natural enough, and I don't blame you. You are free, and so is she; you are perfectly entitled to--to live with her, if it suits you to do so! But what I don't like, what pains me, is that you always make a mystery to me of your sentiments and your intrigues; that I never learn your secrets except from others; that you haven't confidence enough in me to tell me of your new amours. That is what angers me. For, you see, being neither your mistress nor your friend, I am nothing at all to you! So I cannot see the necessity of continuing our acquaintance."

My heart sank; I felt, not anger, but sorrow, genuine sorrow, to find that I was unjustly judged by a woman to whom I would have been glad to lay bare my whole heart, to whom I longed to tell my most secret thoughts, hoping to read her heart as she would read mine. That reproach of a lack of confidence in her touched and wounded me; as I was not guilty, I would not even try to justify myself.

I took my hat and prepared to go.

"Are you going already?" exclaimed Frédérique.

"Yes, madame. I consider it useless to remain longer with a person who believes neither in my words nor in my affection. I thought that you were able to judge me fairly, to appreciate my feelings. I was mistaken. Some day, I doubt not, you will realize your error. Then, madame, perhaps you will come to me and offer me again that friendship of which you now think me unworthy; and you will find me, as always, happy to deserve such a favor."

Frédérique looked at me; I believe that she was on the point of rushing toward me; but she repressed that impulse, which came from her heart, and I went away, determined to make no attempt to see her again. I had learned that one can no more rely on a woman's friendship than on her love; that there must inevitably be a strain of inconstancy or caprice in all their affections.

On the day following my visit to Madame Dauberny, Mignonne came as usual to bring back my linen; but, contrary to her custom, she took another package and prepared to go away again at once.

"Don't you propose to stay and work a while to-day?" I asked her. She seemed embarrassed, and hesitated before replying; at last she faltered, lowering her eyes:

"Monsieur--it is--I am--I am afraid that staying here so often to work--I am afraid I am in your way."

"What is the source of that fear to-day? Haven't I told you that I could receive in my bedroom anybody with whom I wished to be alone?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Why this fear, then? What new idea have you got into your head?"

"It didn't come into my head."

"Whose, then, pray?"

"Monsieur--the fact is--that--it was day before yesterday that a lady came to see you. Didn't your servant tell you?"

"Certainly he did."

"That lady sat down; she stayed a long time with me, and examined me very closely. She had a strange way about her. When she mentioned you, she said just _Rochebrune_, or _Charles_. She is very intimate with you, it seems."

"Well! what then?"

"After looking at me so hard that I didn't know which way to turn, she began to talk to me. She asked a lot of questions about the beginning of our acquaintance. She asked me how long I'd known you, and--and--oh! a lot of things I don't dare tell you. I just told her the truth--all you had done for me, and all I had to be grateful to you for. You are not angry, are you, monsieur, because I told her all that?"

"Why should it make me angry?"

"The strange part of it was that the lady didn't seem pleased to hear me say all--all the good of you that you deserve! She kept shrugging her shoulders--I saw it plainly enough! And at last she cried: 'This is all very noble, it's magnificent; but it's easy to see what the end of it will be. When a young woman installs herself in a young man's bachelor apartment, there must be in the bottom of her heart a sentiment stronger than her care for her reputation; it must be that she isn't afraid to be looked upon by the world as that young man's mistress.'"

"She said that?"

"Yes, and then she went away, saying: 'I don't want to make you unhappy, mademoiselle; I simply mean to give you a little advice.'--Oh! but she did make me awfully unhappy!"

"And is that the reason why you don't propose to work here to-day?"

"Oh! it isn't on my own account, monsieur; it's on yours. That lady says it will keep all your friends from coming to see you. I wouldn't for the world have you quarrel with anyone."

"You cannot believe anything so absurd, Mignonne! Say, rather, that you are afraid to be looked upon as my mistress--that it has occurred to you that----"

"O monsieur! for heaven's sake, do not finish! After all you have done for me, the memory of my daughter alone would be enough to make me worship you. What do I care for anything the world can say? Do I know the world? Have I any reputation to preserve? Would life have any charm for me, were it not for you, who attached me to it by giving my daughter a last resting place? You, and the memory of Marie, that is all the world means to me! What do I care for all the rest? Oh! if it does not displease you to have me stay, tell me so again, monsieur, and I swear to you that I will obey you with happiness and joy."

"In that case, stay, Mignonne."

The young woman hastily unrolled the work she was about to take away; she took her needle and set to work in her usual seat, after looking at me with a smile.

She at least showed undiminished confidence in me.

XLIV

LOVE ON ALL SIDES

Mignonne continued to come to my rooms. I found already that my living expenses had diminished materially. I asked her to have an eye to a thousand and one details of housekeeping, to which I never paid any attention; she did it with a zeal and an intelligence that astonished me. I was like Ballangier, I was becoming too rich; and yet, nothing was ever lacking; on the contrary, I was as comfortable as I could wish. I discovered that a woman is very useful in a house.

Mignonne's health was fully restored, and she had recovered her fresh color; she never laughed, but a sweet smile sometimes played about her lips. I was delighted with the change and congratulated her on it.

"It is your work," she said.

When we talked together, she always spoke of her daughter; she went to see her almost every day, and I often saw in her belt a flower which she constantly covered with kisses. I guessed where she had plucked that flower.

Ballangier came to see me, and did not find me; but he found Mignonne, and Monsieur Pomponne told me that he sat in front of her more than an hour, without opening his mouth.

"How do you know that?" I demanded, pulling Pomponne's ear; "did you listen at the door?"

"I couldn't listen, monsieur, as they didn't say anything."

Oh! these servants! Is there no way of finding one who is neither inquisitive, talkative, a liar, nor a gossip? When they are not all of these together, they are phoenixes!

"You received a visitor for me, did you?" I asked Mignonne.

"Yes, monsieur, that young mechanic; for he seems to be a mechanic."

"Yes; he's a cabinetmaker. What did he say to you?"

"He talks very little. But he told me enough for me to understand that you are his benefactor, too; that he owes you a great deal."

"No, I am in no sense his benefactor. What I did for him was a duty. But he behaved very badly at one time; for a long while he led a life of idleness and dissipation. He was deaf to my entreaties and remonstrances. In those days, his presence was as distasteful to me as it is agreeable now. He has turned over a new leaf, become a respectable man once more, and a good workman; I have given him all my friendship again, and some day I hope--I hope that he will make a good husband. Then, if Ballangier could fall in with a woman like you, Mignonne, gentle and virtuous and hard-working, and if he could win her love, he would be altogether happy."

Mignonne had become serious. She looked at the floor, murmuring:

"Oh! as for me, monsieur, you know very well that I can never think of marriage! You know that I have been a mother!"

"If you concealed nothing from the man who loved you, you would still be worthy of an honest man's love and esteem. Ought anyone to be so severe as that, Mignonne? Who has not sinned--more or less?"

"However, monsieur, I shall never have any occasion to tell my story, for I shall never marry."

"We cannot foresee the future."

"Oh! I can safely take my oath to that!"

I insisted no further, for it seemed to be a painful subject to the young woman. Probably, engrossed as she was by her daughter's memory, she did not choose to admit that anyone could divert her thoughts from her, even in the future.

Nothing from Frédérique. She did not come to see me, and I certainly should not go again to her. So it was all over; we had quarrelled--and for what? More than once, unconsciously perhaps, I had walked in the direction of her house and found myself in front of it; but at such times I made haste to retrace my steps. I would have been glad, however, to know if she were in Paris, or if she had gone away again. If chance should bring us together, surely we could not pass on the street without speaking. But I did not meet her.

By way of compensation, I did meet Ballangier near my own house. He was on his way to see me; but as he had met me, he said that he would not go upstairs. Something made me think that he would have preferred to go up. I noticed a certain constraint in his manner. He asked about Mignonne, but he did it with the air of one who dared not reveal all of the interest he took in that young woman. Poor Ballangier! it was not difficult to divine what was going on in his heart; he was not an expert dissembler.

Another day, I met him again near my abode, and he made haste to tell me that he had not come out without the permission of his employer, who was still content with him, because he always worked two hours later at night when he left his work in the morning. I looked him squarely in the eye, and said:

"You don't tell me everything, my friend. You are concealing something from me at this moment!"

He blushed, became confused, and stammered:

"Concealing something? I? Why, I don't think so!"

"You are not very sure, are you? But I'll tell you straight away what it is: you're in love!"

This time he turned pale.

"In love? with whom, pray?"

"With whom? Why, with that young woman whom you have seen several times at my rooms, and whom I call Madame Landernoy--or Mignonne."

"Oh! nonsense, Charles! you are mistaken. I consider her very good-looking, to be sure; and then, her manner is so sweet and so modest! But I certainly shouldn't presume to fall in love with her, especially as--as you might not like it! For, you see, you have a right to love her, you have done so much for her, and you give her work to do."

"My friend, if that is all that prevents you, you may fall in love with Mignonne at your pleasure; for, so far as I am concerned, I look upon her as a sister; I have never dreamed of loving her in any other way; and for the very reason that I have been of some service to her and that she has enough confidence in me to come to my rooms to work, I should feel bound in honor not to love her otherwise than as a sister."

Ballangier's face became radiant. He seized both my hands and squeezed them hard; he would have cut capers in the street, if I had not prevented him.

"Is it possible?" he cried. "You don't love her! you don't think of loving her! Oh! if you knew what a weight you have taken off my breast!--For I do love her, Charles; yes, I do love that young woman! love her, do I say? why, I idolize her, I am mad over her! It took me all of a sudden when I first saw her, it struck me here! Since then, it's impossible for me to think of anything else. But I wouldn't ever have told you; I wouldn't ever have told her, either. You'll forgive me; for I thought that, with her always in your rooms--I thought you couldn't help loving her--but nothing of the sort! You see, I've never been in love before; I've known a lot of street walkers--but as to love, not a bit of it! And now, what a difference! And how proud I am to be a decent, hard-working man again! Perhaps I might take her fancy. Do you think she'll ever love me, Charles? Oh! if she could love me!"

I strove to calm him; then I began by telling him Mignonne's whole story. He listened attentively, muttering from time to time:

"Poor girl! the villains!"

When he knew all, I asked him if he still deemed Mignonne worthy to be his wife.

"Do I think her worthy? Yes, indeed, poor girl! The least she's entitled to is to find a man who'll make up for all the injury others have done her. But suppose I should begin by killing this Fouvenard? by smashing this Rambertin?"

"No, no, Ballangier; we must forget those wretches. If an opportunity should offer, I don't say----"

"Ah! how quickly we'd seize it! how we'd trounce those fellows!"