Part 1

_AMI FRIGHTENS THE DOCTOR_

_"But the groaning seemed to come nearer; suddenly it changed into a loud barking, and an enormous dog rushed from the room I was about to enter, planted his front paws on my chest, and glared at me with eyes that were far from gentle!"_

NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME XIII

PAUL AND HIS DOG

VOL. I

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH [Illustration] GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._

PAUL AND HIS DOG

I

A MASQUERADE AT THE OPÉRA

What a crowd! how eager all these people are to make their way into the ball-room! they begin to push and elbow one another even in the street, in front of the entrance to the theatre; the carriages move too slowly to suit the persons inside or the police officers whose duty it is to keep all vehicles in motion.

See those maskers; those dominos have hardly time to alight from their coupé, for the coachman must move on instantly to make room for the confrère behind him; many persons even alight before they are in front of the theatre, hoping to reach their destination more quickly.

It is evident therefore that they must be afraid of not finding room, of not being able to crowd their way into that sanctuary of pleasure, of folly, rather; and yet one can always get in, at any hour. Though the hall be overflowing with people, though the foyer be full to suffocation, though it be impossible to move in the corridor,--it makes no difference: one can always find a way to slip into the vast throng.

People push you, bump against you, tread on your feet, force you to go to the right when you want to go to the left. You do not find the person you are seeking, you are separated from your companion; if you have arranged yourself with great care and elegance, in a few minutes your clothes are rumpled, torn, stained.--But what does it matter! you are at the Opéra masquerade.

You are speedily bewildered by the noise made by the multitude that surrounds you; the heat becomes stifling; add to this the odor of the bouquets and of the perfumery used by the ladies, and lastly the strains of the enormous orchestra playing galops, waltzes, polkas, mazurkas, with a swing, a precision, a vigor which makes your legs twitch; and do not be surprised if you begin to feel like a different man, if your brain whirls, if your heart beats more rapidly, if you suddenly become inclined to play pranks, to enjoy yourself--no matter how.

But you do not intend to have come to the Opéra ball for nothing. You aspire to an intrigue, a conquest, an unexpected meeting. You seek pleasure, no matter under what form it presents itself, and you often pass several hours in the quest, or rather, in quest of the unknown.

Ah! it is so provoking when a domino with a graceful figure, a tiny hand and a well-arched foot takes your arm, saying:

"I know you!"

_I know you!_ those three words, uttered by an unfamiliar voice, but by a woman who takes your arm, clings to it familiarly, leans toward you and looks into your eyes in a very alluring way--those three words disturb you, excite you, toss you at once into the field of conjecture. No matter how many times you may hear them during the night, they always produce their effect, and especially, as I said just now, if the masker who says them to you has a pretty figure, a pretty hand, pretty eyes--all of which make one desire or hope for a charming face.

First of all, you try to identify the person who speaks to you; you examine her eyes, the lower part of her chin, which the mask imperfectly conceals; you pass in review the feet, the arms, the figure, the hair. You listen attentively to the tone of the voice, which is never perfectly disguised to a very sharp ear.

But when all these have failed to give you any information; when you abandon the idea of recognizing your companion, then you proceed to imagine a woman to match your ideal. Behind the mask that covers her face, you place lovely, intellectual features of the sort that you most affect; your imagination takes fire--you have met the woman of your dreams, you are beginning to fall in love; a few seconds more, and you will have a full-fledged passion on your hands. But no; it will not go so far as that. You will restrain yourself, for there is always a reverse side to the medallion; and that reverse side the sirens themselves are blundering enough to show to you. You have not had your lady on your arm ten minutes, when she says to you:

"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"

Ah! what a tumble your imagination takes at that! how suddenly your dreams of a woman of fashion, distinguished, mysterious, passionate, are transformed into humble flower-makers, corset-makers, waistcoat-makers, and sometimes something even humbler!

"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"--can it be that a woman of breeding, a woman of the _beau_ _monde_, or even of the _beau demi-monde_, would ask that question?

No, that has the savor of a grisette, or a _fillette_, a league away! I am aware that Carnival has its license, and that, with the face masked, one may venture to say things that one would not say with the face exposed. But it is none the less certain that that unlucky phrase is almost equivalent to the unmasking of your conquest, and brings you down at once from the fertile land of illusions to the much more arid regions of reality. And then, as if they instantly divined the wishes of your fair companion, the dealers in bonbons and oranges always arrive at the moment the question is asked. You are too gallant to refuse, moreover, you probably know that, if you should refuse, your conquest would at once drop your arm, saying:

"Bah! what a skinflint! Thanks! I've had enough of your acquaintance; it ain't worth the cost of a stick of sugar candy!"

Plume yourself then, if you can, upon having been that damsel's escort, upon having felt her arm lean upon yours and her hand respond to the pressure of your hand; alas! there is no excuse for pride.

But, you will tell me, there are exceptions; ladies of the best society, pretty bourgeoises, even women of honorable name, indulge in the pleasure of the masquerade; there is no danger of their unmasking, you may be sure! on the contrary, they disguise themselves with the greatest care, in such wise as to turn aside all suspicions and to deceive everybody who knows them. But those things which they never succeed in concealing are their elegant manners, their distinguished bearing, their refined language.

Yes, there are, doubtless, some of those ladies at the Opéra; they have longed to satisfy their curiosity by a glimpse of one of these orgies.

Sometimes a more powerful motive leads them thither; they desire to surprise a disloyal lover, to confound him, to unmask his treachery; or,--and this is much more agreeable--they have consented to come secretly into this crowd, because they know that they will meet here someone whom it is impossible for them to see elsewhere; and perhaps, under cover of the mask, they will consent to let fall from their lips a sweet confession which you would never have obtained otherwise.

It is true that there are these exceptions, and that you have a chance of falling in with one of these ladies. Indeed, it would distress me to rob you of the many illusions in which the charm of a masquerade consists; but I must remind you that these _comme il faut_ ladies are not at the ball to enter into an intrigue; it is always an intrigue already begun that brings them there. And then, what probability is there that one of them will come to you, take your arm, and say: "I know you!" when she does not know you and has not come to the ball on your account? Are you not convinced now that you will not intrigue with one of these ladies?

No, you are not, because in your heart you consider yourself a sufficiently attractive youth to take the eye of a nobly-born dame, who may not have come on your account, but who would be very glad to make your acquaintance. That is your idea; it is very pleasant to you to believe that! Very well, believe it! If it makes you happy, you are wise. Cradle yourself in the sweetest illusions, let your imagination run riot, though you have nothing to show for your stick of candy.

On a certain night, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-six--it was Mi-Carême, and consequently the last day of license permitted after the Carnival. It was therefore the last Opéra masquerade, and so it was magnificent in respect to numbers, uproar and eccentric costumes. There were, as always, numbers of pretty little women dressed as _débardeurs_,[A] that is to say, in high-necked shirts, velvet or satin breeches with broad bands of brilliant colors, sash tied behind, and on their heads a sort of foraging-cap covered with flowers and worn over the ear in the true swaggering style.

There were Pierrots of all colors and sizes, a few ladies dressed à la Pompadour, many gypsies, and some of those young men who are determined to attract notice at any cost, and for that purpose adopt a costume to which it is difficult to give a name. One, dressed in knee-breeches of spangled satin, wore high postilion's boots and a Turkish jacket; on his back he had a quiver, on his head a saucepan by way of helmet, and fastened to the saucepan, a plume of enormous size. This plume, which waved in the air three feet above the crowd, could be seen from one end of the hall to the other. It must have been fatiguing to have that immense thing on one's head; but what do not people do at a masquerade, to attract attention?

Another represented a savage or a bear, it was hard to tell which. He had made himself a sort of crown with those little brooms which are sold for three sous. He carried an umbrella in one hand and a fan in the other. The more extravagant one's costume, the more trouble one takes to be seen by the multitude.

But the orchestra gave the signal for a quadrille. As a general rule, all those maskers who are costumed in character dance, for they aim to display as much extravagance in their dancing as in their costumes. Unluckily for them, there are officials whose duty it is to moderate their enthusiasm and to call them to order when they put too much _laissez-aller_ into their steps. In heaven's name, what would they do if they were not watched!

The quadrille almost always ends in a general galop. Thereupon everyone joins in and is whirled away in the vortex. The innumerable sets are confounded in a resistless torrent of gallopers which roars around the ball-room, in five, six, sometimes seven rows at once; all galloping and jumping and running! Woe to the unlucky wight who stumbles! the torrent stops only with the music, and he would inevitably be trampled under the feet of the dancers.

But do not be alarmed, nobody falls; they all are sure-footed and agile performers; and those pretty little female _débardeurs_, who seemed to you but now so slender and delicate, are often the most intrepid of all in that mad galop in which one must not pause.

Toward the end, the orchestra quickens the time; then it ceases to be a dance; it is a genuine delirium, a frenzy; shouts and singing blend with the music, and the whirling mass passes before you like a railroad train. At that moment, the sight is truly miraculous, truly interesting to watch; and we know many people who go to the Opéra ball solely to sit in a box and watch the galop at their ease. In truth, I doubt whether anything similar can be seen elsewhere.

Two dominos had just entered one of the proscenium boxes. The first, pearl-gray, trimmed with rich lace, was worn by a tall, slender woman whose well-developed figure it outlined sharply. Despite her disguise, one could divine that the costume covered a person well accustomed to the noisy demonstrations of the maskers and to the eccentricities of the dancers. There was something bold and determined in her manner, and, as she watched the galop which was then at its height, the gray domino seemed neither surprised nor fascinated; she gazed at that rushing torrent, not like a person enjoying an entertaining spectacle, but like a person at the theatre who pays no attention to the play that is in progress, but is solely occupied in looking for someone among the audience.

The second domino was black; it was worn by a person of medium height and decent demeanor, in whose appearance there was nothing to attract attention. She, however, seemed to take much pleasure in watching the galop, and from time to time uttered exclamations eloquent of the surprise which that frenzied dance caused her.

The two ladies had seated themselves at the front of the box, where, in all probability, their seats had been engaged. The gray domino, whose eyes were fastened on the dancing throng, was certainly looking for someone; the black domino, who was looking for no one, cried from time to time:

"Oh! look there, my dear! how they push one another! See! that tall Pierrot has taken his partner in his arms and away he dances with her! Mon Dieu! suppose he should fall! And see that Marquise Pompadour with her wig half off; she's going to lose her wig! look, Thélénie!"

"Yes, yes, I see; but I beg you, my dear Héloïse, not to make so many exclamations; anyone would think you had never seen anything."

"But I haven't ever seen the Opéra ball. I've been to Valentino, Sainte-Cécile, and the Salle Barthélemy."

"Enough, enough! for heaven's sake, keep quiet, and above all things, remember not to call me by name when you speak to me. You must see that it isn't worth while for me to disguise myself carefully if you are going to shout my name in the ears of everybody who passes."

"I only mentioned your given name."

"And that's just the one that people know best; and as it isn't so common as yours, anybody would know it was I."

"That's so; your name's a very pretty one--like a name in a novel; did your parents give it to you, or did you take it?"

The gray domino did not think it best to answer this question except by a slight shrug, which clearly signified: "Mon Dieu! how stupid you are!"

But the black domino, who perhaps did not understand pantomime, went on talking none the less.

"For my part, I'd rather be named Thélénie than Héloïse: Héloïse is very common, and then it seems there's some story about a Héloïse and her lover, a Monsieur Abelard. I don't know it myself, it must be an old story, for I've never read it in the papers. But it seems that it's laughable, for the men who make love to me say: 'O lovely Héloïse, I'd like to be your lover, but not your Abelard!'--I always pretend to understand, for I don't want to seem ignorant; I wouldn't dare ask them to tell me about the adventures of those two, so I just laugh and say: 'Tell me, why don't you want to be my Abelard? you're very hard to suit!' Then they laugh harder than ever.--I say, Thélénie, you know such a lot of things, you've had an education--tell me that story, won't you?"

Tall Thélénie, for we know now the pearl-gray domino's name, thanks to her companion's prattle, suddenly placed her hand on the black domino's and said:

"Hush! I think I see him--that young man dressed as a postilion, at the left, with a dairymaid on his arm; look, I say!"

"That postilion--Monsieur Edmond! oh, no! his nose is much longer."

"No, no, you are right; it isn't he!"

"Is Monsieur Edmond to be disguised as a postilion?"

"How do you suppose I know how he's disguised, or if he is disguised? I am not even certain that he's at the ball; and yet I have a shrewd idea that he'll come; it's the last masquerade, and he's so fond of sport."

"Bless me! it's natural at his age! how old is he?"

"Oh! how you pester me with your continued questioning, Héloïse!"

"Mon Dieu! how touchy you are to-night! Is it my fault, I should like to know, that you've quarrelled with your lover, that he plays tricks on you! When that happens to me, I console myself very quickly; I take another, and very often that brings back the old one, who is angry because I do as he does, and becomes much more in love than before! But you must know that method--all women employ it and it invariably succeeds."

"Yes, I know it, and I used to make use of it; but now--I can't act like that with Edmond."

"It seems that you are really caught, my dear! An experienced woman like you! I'm amazed!"

"You're amazed at everything to-night!"

"That proves that I am not blasé, and that's something."

"Do you say that to insult me?"

"Hoity-toity! now I'm insulting her! On my word, you're in a murderous mood! If I had known, I wouldn't have come to the ball with you. To be sure, you paid for my domino; but I could have found someone else to pay me that attention. I came to the ball for fun, not to quarrel."

"Come, come, Héloïse, don't lose your temper. I am in an ugly mood to-night, that's true; my nerves are all on edge, for I don't know where he is, the traitor, and I want to know. I still love him; I love him; and remember, he is the first man who ever introduced me to that sentiment."

"Indeed? If you said that to him, I should believe it was humbug, as we always say to our last lover: 'Ah! my dear! you are the first man who ever taught me what love is!' but you've no reason for lying to me; I don't dare to say again that you astonish me; you might tell me again that I am astonished too much."

"My dear Héloïse, my life has been decidedly agitated, I admit; I don't set myself up to you as a pattern of virtue!"

"You are quite right, for I shouldn't believe you."

"I will even tell you honestly how old I am,--a thing that women do not often admit to each other. I am thirty-two; as you see, I should have had some experience."

"Thirty-two! Well, without flattery, you may lie fearlessly on that subject, for no one would think you more than twenty-eight at most."

"At thirty-two, with my face and figure, I thought that I might still fascinate a young man of twenty-six."

"That you might! I should say so! Why not, I should like to know? Is a woman old at thirty-two? For my part, I hope to make conquests at forty-five; but I have plenty of time before me, thank God! I am in my twenty-third year."

"I have had more than one liaison, it is true, but I tell you again, Edmond is the first man I ever loved--with love; and when a woman feels that sentiment so late in life--why, it's very violent, so violent that it makes her capable of anything!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! you frighten me, my dear! But don't get excited; it will pass away."

"I wish it might, but I have no hope of it."

"If he loved you, and you were sure of it, in a little while you would cease to love him; it has always worked that way with me."

"Hush! hush! here comes someone I know; above all, don't turn."

The door of the box was open, and a gentleman had entered. He was a man of about forty, but still very handsome; tall, with a fine figure, regular features, a distinguished face, and a piercing, ironical glance; in his brown eyes, which were rather too heavily shadowed by his lashes, there was almost always a mocking look, which, however, was quite in accord with his always mocking speech.

An extremely yellow and bilious complexion detracted somewhat from the advantages which this gentleman would naturally have owed to his physique; but there are ladies who prefer yellow skins to white ones, and whose preference does not stop short of the mulatto.

This personage, as he entered the box, toyed with a beautiful gold-rimmed eyeglass, which was suspended about his neck by a light hair chain. He remained on his feet for some time, closely watching the pearl-gray domino. But, since his arrival, the two ladies at the front of the box pretended to be gazing with interest at the ball, where the galop had just come to an end; and neither of them turned.

Annoyed by the persistence with which the two dominos showed him only their backs, the newcomer stepped over a bench and seated himself behind them. Then he tapped the gray domino's shoulder lightly and said to her in an undertone:

"My fair friend, it's of no use for you to persist in not turning, and to force your companion to follow suit, which seems to be very distasteful to her; it doesn't prevent my recognizing you. I watched you just now from below; your black eyes shone like carbuncles; those eyes betray you, my love; when you don't wish to be recognized, assume the costume of Fortune, and wear a bandage over them."

"I don't know what you want with me," said Mademoiselle Héloïse's companion, carefully disguising her voice; "my eyes shine, you say? so much the better; I am delighted. I have no reason to hide them. If I don't turn round, you may be sure that it's not on account of you, whom I don't know, and whom I have no desire to know!"

"Ah! my dear Thélénie! If I hadn't recognized you already, your last words would have left me in no doubt as to your identity! A person may disguise her face and figure, or change her voice,--that's all very well; but she must remember also to change her mental habit and her mode of speech. You have always had a considerable leaning toward impertinence; and you yielded to it again just now when you said that you had no desire to know me. Tell me, am I not right? Take my word for it, and profit by this advice--if you want to puzzle anybody and to avoid being identified, be good-natured, indulgent, and don't speak unkindly of anyone; then I promise you that people won't recognize you."

The tall Thélénie with difficulty repressed an angry exclamation; however, she forced herself to laugh as she replied:

"Ha! ha! ha! that is all very pretty! Well, why aren't you disguised as a magician, since you pretend to be able to tell everyone so exactly what sort of person she is?"

"Oh! I don't disguise myself any more; my time for that has passed."

"True; you are too old for that."