VOLUME IV

SANS-CRAVATE;

OR,

THE MESSENGERS

VOL. II

LITTLE STREAMS

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS

BOSTON NEW YORK

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

SANS-CRAVATE;

OR,

THE MESSENGERS

[CONTINUED]

XXIII

A NEW PATRON

Several days had passed since Albert left Paris. His sudden departure had greatly surprised his friends and boon companions, and, as they did not know the cause of it, each of them formed his own conjectures.

"He probably thought that there wasn't enough sport in Paris," said Mouillot, "and has gone elsewhere in search of adventures."

"I have no doubt that he is following some woman who has magnetized him," observed Monsieur Dupétrain; "someone who can make him go to the end of the world by the power of her magnetic fluid."

Balivan, distraught as always, exclaimed at first:

"What! Albert has left Paris? That's very strange! Can he have gone on a sketching trip?"--But on the next and following days, as he smoked his cigar on the boulevard, he never failed to say: "It's a surprising thing--I haven't met Albert to-day."

Monsieur Varinet, the young man with white eyebrows, and holder of Tobie's olive, said nothing at all.

There were two persons who might have informed these gentlemen as to the cause of Albert's departure: Tobie Pigeonnier, who had been his second in the duel, a fact of which he would have boasted everywhere had he not been forced anew to shun the society of his friends; for, being less prepared than ever to redeem his fetich, and to cut a figure in society, the little man had disappeared; no one ever saw him, by day or by night, so that it might well be believed that he was dead or had left Paris; and Monsieur Varinet was beginning to contemplate distrustfully the little, dried fruit which he still kept in his purse.

The second person was Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir; that gentleman, who had known of Albert's duel, was not long in learning of his departure from Paris. He was no sooner absolutely certain of that fact than he hastened to Madame Baldimer's to inform her.

That lady, whose features had assumed a more serious expression than ever since her rupture with young Vermoncey, received Célestin rather coldly; when she had listened to what he had come to tell her, as to something which she already knew, she replied shortly:

"Your intimate friend has left Paris without you! It seems to me that he has treated us about alike; our discredit is complete. The result is, monsieur, that I fancy that you are not likely to know much more than I about his affairs hereafter, so that you will not be called upon to put yourself out to please me."

Célestin tried to assume a sentimental air, as he replied:

"Hereafter, madame, I shall not come to talk about Albert, but about myself and my love for you. I have broken entirely with my friend, for Albert, having found me with you, is too jealous to forgive me. I care very little, however, for his hatred or his indifference, since you have promised to reward me."

Madame Baldimer rose and bowed low to her visitor.

"I will keep my promise, monsieur, as you will see very soon."

And the next day, Célestin received a parcel carefully wrapped in paper, and a short note, in Madame Baldimer's hand, containing these words only:

"I promised to pay you for what you did for me, and I keep my promise, monsieur. Deign to accept the contents of this parcel; it is your compensation."

Célestin hastily tore off the wrapper, and found the magnificent shawl that Albert had presented to the fair American, and the costly opera glass given her by Count Dahlborne. Thus she rewarded Célestin by sending him the gifts she had received from her other two adorers.

At first, he gnawed his lips in anger, muttering:

"What does she take me for? I consider her damnably impertinent. The idea of offering to pay me! It won't take me long to send back her parcel."

But, after examining the two objects, Célestin thought better of it and sent neither of them back.

"They will help me to seduce some other woman," he said to himself.

Madame Baldimer had estimated him at his exact value.

Paul had resumed his occupation; as before, he arrived at his stand very early in the morning; but Elina, too, came to her work at the dressmaker's before any of her fellow apprentices had left their beds--in spite of which fact, she was sometimes the last to appear in the workroom; for every morning she slackened her pace when she saw the young messenger, who ran quickly to meet her. It rarely happens that there is not some doorway, some passage, some porte cochère, which offers shelter to those who wish to talk, and who are very glad not to stand where they are exposed to the eyes of everybody who passes. Lovers especially seek sheltered nooks and dark corners; when they are walking together on the street, you will see them look out of the corners of their eyes, to right and left, hoping to espy some obscure passageway, and agreeing that it is a great pity that all the new houses have porte cochères. And as soon as they discover the most uninviting nook, they hasten thither to talk a moment. That moment sometimes lasts for hours. Oftentimes a concierge, disgusted that any one should talk unless they talk to her, calls out impertinently from the end of the passage:

"Aren't you most through chattering there? Well! those people are making themselves at home! They make assignations in my passageway! They keep other folks out, but what do they care! If I didn't keep an eye on 'em, God knows what they'd be up to on my premises! God! what a place this world is getting to be!"

Another one will say nothing, but begin to sweep pools of water against the legs of the couple who have stopped in her doorway. Or else she will close the door of the passage, saying:

"Who do you want to see? You can't stand there, I tell you!"

But all these petty annoyances slide lightly over the good nature of a pair of lovers. If they are obliged to go away, they stop again a little farther on; or they defy the sweeping, the unkind remarks, the silly jests, and the inquisitive glances of the gossips of the quarter, who, in most cases, act as auxiliaries to the concierges. What do they care what is said, or what happens about them? oftentimes they don't see it. It is so pleasant to love and to tell each other of it, to gaze into the loved one's eyes, to talk in whispers, to understand each other at the slightest hint, to exchange ardent thoughts and warm breaths. When we are enjoying such bliss as that, it engrosses us and leaves us no senses with which to be conscious of anything else. She was quite right, was that lady of the good old time, who, when her knight sought a shelter from the rain, cried:

"You no longer love me! if you did, you would not have noticed that it rains!"

Elina told Paul all that she did, all that she thought, all the plans she formed during the day and sometimes during the night; for one does not always sleep at night, especially if one is very much in love.

The young messenger received these sweet confidences with the deepest interest, for he was always included in Elina's projects. The little dressmaker had not a thought or hope which did not relate to Paul; and she told her lover so with an artless sincerity which enchanted him. But, for all that, he was often very depressed, and that grieved the young girl, who said to him one morning:

"Aren't you glad that I tell you all my thoughts? don't you approve of my plans for the future? Instead of being gratified that I think of you all the time, it seems to sadden you and make you unhappy; if that's how it is, monsieur, I won't tell you anything more!"

"Oh! do not think that, mademoiselle," Paul replied, as he took Elina's hand. "I listen to you with the greatest pleasure; I am too happy to hear what you say, to know that I am always in your thoughts. But, do what I will--I think----"

"What, pray?"

"That all these plans are not certain to be carried out. For, before I can marry you, before I can have the happiness of calling you my wife, I must have money in hand. Your aunt, Madame Vardeine, will never consent to give you to a poor messenger; and she will be in the right. Oh! yes, parents are always right. You are fitted to marry a rich man, with an established position--a man whose honorable calling will not expose you to the risk of having to blush for your husband. Not that I despise my trade! far from it; but the world has its customs, its exigencies, its laws, which we are bound to respect. The man who stands at the street corner, to do errands, cannot hope to be received in the salon of the humblest bourgeois. And you, Elina, with your charms, your intelligence, your beauty, are capable of conferring happiness on a man who will be able to take you into society, who will have an attractive position and a name to offer you. Whereas I lack everything. Ah! you see that I do wrong to love you! and that I am justified in being depressed!"

While her young friend was saying this, little Elina showed, by repeated impatient gestures, how far she was from sharing his ideas. At last, barely giving him time to finish, she cried:

"Hush! hush this minute! for what you are saying is very wicked. So you would have me cease to love you, because you are a messenger! But I insist upon loving you, monsieur, and I will love you whether you want me to or not. Besides, what you say isn't fair to yourself. Are you like other messengers? do you swear every time you speak? are you coarse and vulgar, and rude in your manners? No, you are just the opposite; you are perfectly well fitted to go into a salon; indeed, you would not be out of place; all you would have to do would be to change your jacket for a coat; and is that so hard to do?"

"No; but the coat isn't enough."

"I beg your pardon, monsieur--a coat and education. But are you obliged to remain a messenger forever? When we are married, you can go into something else; you will have saved something, for you can't spend very much money, you live so modestly; you never go to the wine shop. I have heard your comrades say more than once: 'He must be saving money; he works hard, and never enjoys himself.'"

Paul looked at the ground as he replied:

"Alas! no, mademoiselle; I haven't saved anything; I have no money."

"Why, what do you do with your money, then?" cried Elina. "You can't give it to your parents, as you haven't any."

Paul blushed, and stammered:

"I haven't been able to save anything, mademoiselle; it isn't my fault."

Elina feared that she had wounded him, and made haste to say:

"Oh! pray forgive me for saying that. Mon Dieu! perhaps you will think that I care for money! I care nothing at all about it, I tell you; don't grieve, Monsieur Paul; we shall have enough, anyway. I am rich, you know; I have what my father left me, and when I am of age my aunt will have to give it to me. Then it will be yours, and with that we shall have enough to start a nice little business. Come, monsieur, don't be cast down any more, when I tell you that we shall be very happy some day."

Paul sighed as he kissed Elina's hand; but soon the smile reappeared on his lips and love in his eyes; how could he complain when he saw how dearly she loved him?

Such was generally the end of these interviews on a street corner, under a porte cochère, or at the entrance of a passage.

Such loving words as these are not always exchanged behind the gorgeous hangings of a salon.

I do not say this to induce you to make love on street corners; but solely to show you that it is done everywhere. The poor must have some compensation.

After these affectionate conversations with the little dressmaker, Paul returned to his place lighter-hearted and more content with his lot. Then he would look about for Sans-Cravate, with whom he was most desirous to be reconciled, because he had, in the depths of his heart, a feeling of affection for him, which he could not overcome. Genuine affection is not readily destroyed, and, when you have a sympathetic feeling for a person, it is like the natural instincts: drive it away if you will, it returns at a gallop.

But Sans-Cravate was almost never in his place; as soon as he had earned a few sous, Jean Ficelle enticed him away to spend them.

One morning, when Albert had been away from Paris for some time, a gentleman stopped in front of Paul, who was sitting on his _crochets_, and said to him:

"I was looking for you, my friend; I have something for you to do. Do you recognize me?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur," Paul replied quickly, and with evident emotion; "you are Monsieur Albert's father; I should be very blameworthy if I had forgotten you--you were so kind to me!"

"I was no more than just," Monsieur Vermoncey rejoined, with a smile. "Come with me, if you will; I have several errands for you to do."

Paul followed Monsieur Vermoncey, who took him up to his apartment and gave him several letters to deliver, to which he was to bring back answers--some verbal, others written. The young man set off at once; he performed the commissions intrusted to him promptly and with marked zeal; as most of those to whom he was sent gave him no written answers, he had to remember exactly what each of them said to him. But he had an excellent memory, and he transmitted the messages faithfully to Monsieur Vermoncey.

Albert's father was surprised at the remarkable celerity with which Paul had made the journey to several places at a distance from his house, and greatly pleased by the way in which he had carried out his wishes. He paid him generously, saying:

"You have done well, my friend, very well! but another time you need not hurry so; barely an hour and a quarter to go to all four corners of Paris! I call that going like the wind, not walking! I don't want you to make yourself ill in my service."

"Oh! you need have no fear, monsieur; it is a pleasure to me to show you my zeal."

Monsieur Vermoncey seemed surprised by the young messenger's language. He looked earnestly at him for several seconds, then dismissed him, saying:

"Until another time! but only on condition that you won't go so fast."

A week later, Monsieur Vermoncey's servant came after Paul, who went with him at once. The young man was ushered into his patron's apartment, and the servant left him in the library, saying that he would tell his master that he was there.

In a few moments he returned, and said:

"Monsieur has not finished the letter he was writing, and now he has a visitor; he told me to ask you to wait a little while, if you can."

"Yes, yes; so long as monsieur wishes," Paul replied.

"Stay here, then; it's pleasanter, and nobody goes through this room."

Left alone, Paul sat down and glanced timidly about. Against all four walls were shelves filled with books, which were protected from the dust by sliding glass doors; but several of the doors were open, and the books were at the service of those who cared for them.

The young man gazed for some time, with something like envy, at those treasures of wit and learning gathered in so small a space; he read the names of Voltaire, Rousseau, Corneille, Molière, Montaigne, La Fontaine, and said to himself:

"Mon Dieu! how fortunate anybody is to own all these books! to be in such good company! for an author's mind is himself, his works are his thoughts, and when reading him one can imagine that he is listening to him; that it is he who is speaking. What a blessed thing is genius! it does not die! A man can never have a moment's ennui when he is in the company of those men!"

Paul heaved a sigh, and, thinking that he might have a long while to wait in the library, concluded that he would do no harm by opening one of the books which were before him; so he put out his hand and took the volume that was nearest him. It was La Rochefoucauld's _Maximes_; he resumed his seat, and began to read it with avidity.

He had been in the library quite a long while, but he was still reading, and the time passed very quickly. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning his head, saw Monsieur Vermoncey, who said to him with a smile:

"Ah! I have caught you."

The young man blushed, and hastily rose to his feet.

"Pray forgive me, monsieur," he faltered, "for presuming to take down one of those books; but I had to wait--and I thought that--that----"

"There is no occasion to apologize, my friend; you have done no wrong. On the contrary, it is greatly to your credit that you are fond of reading. What book have you there?"

"La Rochefoucauld's _Maximes_."

"That is rather a serious work; what do you think of it?"

"What he says is very sad, and does not give one a very high opinion of men. But I'm afraid it is true."

Monsieur Vermoncey looked at Paul in amazement.

"Really, my friend," he said, "you are no common messenger; I have noticed already that you express yourself in much better language than most of those in your station, and now your opinion of this book proves that I was not mistaken; you have had a good education, have you not?"

"Yes, monsieur; an excellent man, who had no children, became interested in me and took me into his family when I was hardly ten years old. He was kind enough to send me to school; and I was so happy not to remain ignorant, that I made the most of the instruction that was given me."

"How does it happen that your patron, having given you an education, allowed you to become a messenger? He should have completed his work and found you a place."

"Ah! monsieur, it was not that excellent man's fault. He took me into his own office as clerk; but at his death I lost everything, place and patron. It was then that I became a messenger; it was necessary for me to earn money."

"To assist your parents, I suppose?"

Paul lowered his eyes, and murmured very low:

"Yes, monsieur; it was for them."

"I understand you now!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey; "you are a good son; you sacrificed your hopes, your future, to what you considered the duty of making yourself useful at once to those who gave you life. Poor fellow! your conduct is very noble. But you must leave a trade which is not for such as you. Yes; I will undertake to find you an honorable and lucrative position."

"Oh! monsieur--such kindness!"

"Why, it is not more than justice. Anyone can see that you ought not to be a messenger. Do you know how to write?"

"Yes, monsieur; my handwriting is not very bad; I know how to figure also."

"Very good. I will find a place for you, never fear. I can't promise that it will be very soon, for here in Paris there are so many applicants for even the smallest places, that there are very few vacancies; but I promise you that--yes, within three months you will have changed your position in life."

"Mon Dieu! what have I done to deserve that you should take so much interest in me?"

"In the first place, all that you did the first time I ever saw you, to help me to find my son; and, secondly, you attracted me at once; I felt that you were a worthy young man. Rely on me hereafter; I propose to replace the protector you have lost."

"Ah! monsieur."

Obeying an irresistible impulse, Paul seized Monsieur Vermoncey's hand and put it to his lips, then let it fall, and drew back, as if he feared that he had offended him; but Albert's father, deeply touched, took the young man's hand and pressed it warmly.

"Come, come, be of good heart, my friend; you will make your way. But, pending your change of occupation, will you do another errand for me--take this letter and this casket to one of my friends?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur; whatever you choose; I am at your service, and shall always be; even if my position should change, my devotion to you would remain the same. You will see that my heart is not ungrateful."

Paul took the letter and casket, and hastened away to deliver them at their destination. He acquitted himself of his commission with his accustomed zeal, and his new patron said, as he dismissed him:

"I shall not forget you, my friend; I shall begin at once to look after a place for you, for I shall not be content until I see you engaged in some employment worthy of your education and manners."

Paul thanked Monsieur Vermoncey again, and took leave of him, mentally returning thanks to heaven for giving him a new protector. He began now to believe that Elina's delightful plans might be carried out, and that the dreams of happiness of which she so often told him might some day come to pass.

XXIV

WINE.--CARDS.--BLOWS

It was eleven o'clock in the forenoon; Sans-Cravate, who had done a good day's work the day before, carrying billets-doux for several young men of fashion, who are always generous when they are in good humor, had gone off to walk as usual with Jean Ficelle, who led him toward Pont d'Austerlitz, to the place where games of chance were usually in operation.

As they walked along, the two friends, who had already refreshed themselves several times, talked with much animation; and the amusing part of it was that while one of them talked on one subject, the other talked on another, and neither of them listened or answered; which did not prevent them from going on.

"Yes!" said Sans-Cravate; "I don't think any more of her than if I'd never known her. Damme! if anybody should ask me now what color Bastringuette's eyes are, I should be hard put to it to answer. I don't remember."

"And you see," said Jean Ficelle, "there is people who say that you never win at cards. But that's all nonsense! and the proof is that I might have made my fortune if I hadn't been a coward."

"But to say that she wasn't pretty, that there wasn't something alluring about her--I should lie, if I denied it. But all women have that. Parbleu! you only have to be in love to find it out."

"Look you, I'll give you a comparison: You haven't got any money, and you stake what you have--then you win! But if you have anything, you're afraid of losing it; so you won't risk it, and you miss the chance of making a fortune."

"And that fellow who's always looking at me, and acts as if he wanted to speak to me. Oh! just let him come--I'll give him a warm reception! It ain't that I've seen him with Bastringuette. No, I'll have to admit that; since that day on Rue Barbette, when we met Paul dressed like a swell, and Bastringuette a little farther on--I've never seen him with her, and they do well to keep out of sight! For if they should act as if they meant to laugh at me--why, by heaven! it would go hard with 'em!"

"And then, you see, there's some who are mighty smart--they always win. I know one fellow--and he's a great swell--who makes six francs a day with _biribi;_ that's a trade that would suit me down to the ground!"

Suddenly Jean Ficelle put his hand on his comrade's arm and stopped him, saying:

"Look, they're already at it, the rascals! They go to work early, they're no sluggards!"

The messengers had reached the river bank, near a game of _table-basse_, run by a tall fellow whose tongue was never at rest; he bewildered his audience by his incessant chatter.

A number of men of somewhat forbidding aspect were gathered about the game. But as two countrymen approached, the spectators made room for them; and the sharper offered them a dicebox with some little balls, crying:

"Come, messieurs, try your luck! every throw wins something, and it's only twenty sous a throw; and for twenty sous, if you choose, you can win a magnificent silver repeating watch, or a cover of the same metal, which you can have the pleasure of presenting to your good wife; or a thimble,--also of the same metal,--with which you can do homage to your venerable mother, if you are fortunate enough to possess her still."

The peasants could not resist the temptation; one of them took the dicebox and threw the balls, and Jean-Pierre counted. (_Jean-Pierre_ is the sobriquet by which these charlatans call one another.) He counted with amazing facility and dexterity; his addition always seemed perfectly fair, but no one ever won prizes worth more than two or three sous.

"Come, messieurs, keep on, try your luck again," cried Jean-Pierre; "that throw turned out well for Jean-Pierre, but the luck will change; you'll win the big prizes, messieurs! and Jean-Pierre will be in the hole. But he will always be only too happy to fulfil his engagements with the honorable company."

The peasant, who had won only a box of matches for his twenty sous, threw again, in the hope of having better luck, and the product of the sale of his cabbages, beans, and strawberries soon passed into Jean-Pierre's pockets.

While the bumpkin stood rooted to the spot, dazed by the loss of his money, a mechanic approached the table, and, after looking on for some time, observed:

"I like _biribi_ better."

"Here you are, monsieur! here's the _biribi_ you're looking for!" cried the sharper, producing three cards from an apron which he wore, and in which was an enormous pocket whose gaping mouth seemed ready to engulf all the silver and loose change of the assembled company.

While the sharper arranged his _biribi_ table, and made his three cards fly about with remarkable dexterity, another mechanic, who had followed his comrade, said to him:

"Come away, Benoît; don't bet! Those games are a fraud, you know that everyone always loses."

"What's that, monsieur, you say that everyone always loses with me?" cried the croupier, having first cleared his throat in order to speak more volubly. "Why, in that case, you can't have been present at all the throws I lost just now. Ask the honorable company here present if I haven't paid out more than a hundred francs within half an hour--yes, monsieur, a hundred francs! And I don't put it too high, and I don't count a silver watch that that gentleman over yonder won from me--the one with the handsome whiskers; and ear-rings--of pure gold, hall-marked, that I redeemed for twelve francs from that short young man who looks so happy, and who means to give the money to his virtuous mother, who has longed for a cup of chocolate for sixty years!--Isn't this so, my little man?--You see, he shows you his twelve francs and presses them to his heart. Oh, no! no one ever wins with me, messieurs! But, I tell you, this game is absolutely free from trickery; it is simply for you to guess where the card called _biribi_ is. It isn't my fault when you guess wrong. The sums I have already lost are enormous! But if I should tell you that I always lose, I should lie; no, messieurs, I don't always lose; but you have an even chance, if you have a sharp eye, if you pick it out of three cards--that's very few--three--only three cards; if you pick out _biribi_, why, Jean-Pierre is certainly in the hole. Come, messieurs, make your bets! I pay cash, my pockets are well lined! there's plenty of the _quibus_! it rests with you whether it passes from my pockets into yours."

The gambler concluded his discourse by slapping the pocket which contained his money; and the workingman, bewildered by that torrent of words poured forth without pausing to take breath, made up his mind to try his luck; he followed with his eyes the three cards which Jean-Pierre moved about on the table, from right to left and left to right, with a rapidity which made the eyes ache; then, believing that he was sure of his card, he placed upon it all the money he had received for his week's wages, which was all that his family had to live upon.

"Will you take all that at once?" he cried excitedly.

"Why not, monsieur? Jean-Pierre never weakens; he takes whatever you choose--your clothes or your handkerchiefs, if you haven't any money! Jean-Pierre will do anything to please you."

"Let her go, then; that one's _biribi_! Turn it over."

The gambler turned the card--the workman had lost; he was crestfallen and speechless with dismay, and the peasant, who also had been stripped, laughed stupidly and said:

"He ain't any smarter than I am, he ain't."

Meanwhile, spurred on by Jean Ficelle, who claimed to be certain that he could tell him how to win, Sans-Cravate was about to give way to the temptation to try his hand at _biribi_, when a confederate ran up; he had sighted a police officer on the horizon. In an instant, the games were folded up and carried off by the Jean-Pierres, who ran as fast as their legs would carry them; while their dupes remained behind, feeling in their empty pockets, and trying to decide--one of them, whether he should return to his village without the proceeds of the sale of his produce; the other, whether he dared face his children, who would ask him for money with which to buy bread.

Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle walked away.

"We arrived too late," said the latter; "it's too bad! I have an idea that we would have broken the bank, and then what a spree we'd have had! we wouldn't have worked for a week!"

"For my part, I am glad I didn't play," said Sans-Cravate; "the money goes too fast that way; and then, too, gambling's a miserable business!"

"Oh! _ouiche!_ as if a man mustn't have some fun out of life! weren't we born to enjoy ourselves? Only sneaks, like Paul, talk that way. For my part, I claim that gambling's the spice of life; look you, I'll give you a comparison----"

"Pshaw! there's a wine shop yonder; I like that better than your _biribi_."

As the two friends were about to enter the wine shop, a man behind them hailed them:

"So you're too proud to speak to a friend, eh?"

They both turned, and Jean Ficelle uttered a joyful exclamation.

"Why, it's Laboussole!" he said; "old Laboussole! Well, this is a surprise!"

It was, in fact, Monsieur Laboussole who stood before them; but his aspect was a little less shabby than formerly: he wore a frock-coat of chestnut-colored beaver, abnormally full, and so long that he almost walked on it; it was plain that the garment was not made for him, but that did not prevent him from carrying it with a swagger, and looking down at himself often with a complacent expression, as if admiring his coat. His hat was the same one; but instead of the strip of bed ticking for a cravat, Monsieur Laboussole wore a black stock, which was not absolutely new, but nevertheless imparted to its wearer a sort of bellicose aspect. Add a pair of moustaches which were as yet in their infancy, and which persisted in growing black on one side and gray on the other, and you can form an idea of Laboussole as he accosted the two messengers.

"Well, well! is it really you, old fellow?" continued Jean Ficelle, wringing Laboussole's hand. "It's a long time since I saw you--almost three months and a half."

"Yes," said Sans-Cravate, who seemed less delighted than his comrade by the meeting; "not since the day we drank together on Rue Saint-Lazare, and monsieur was arrested."

"Oh, yes! to be sure--I remember," said Laboussole, good-humoredly. "You were present at the time of my arrest, weren't you? A blunder, my boys, an unlucky blunder, and nothing else! They mistook me for another man; and after keeping me in prison two months, they let me go in a hurry. They went so far as to make apologies--which I accepted--but it was almighty unpleasant, all the same. I was tempted to go to law, to make a claim for damages and interest; but everybody said to me: 'We've never had a doubt of your innocence; society has always done you justice, and that ought to satisfy you.'"

"_Pardi!_ I never believed you were guilty, and I've said so more than once to Sans-Cravate.--Ain't that so, Sans-Cravate? haven't I told you they did wrong to arrest Laboussole, because he was as white as my shirt?"

Sans-Cravate nodded his head; whereupon Laboussole seized his hand and shook it, saying:

"Your good opinion is very pleasant to me, my boys. Yes, I am quite as white as Jean Ficelle's shirt--perhaps a little whiter, even;--but I believe you were going into the wine shop; don't let me keep you."

"On the contrary, you're coming in to have a drink with us. Who ever heard of friends meeting without wetting their whistles?"

"With pleasure, my friends; let's go in; I was just thinking that I felt the need of moistening my lips."

The three men entered the wine shop. Jean Ficelle asked for a small private room, and they were shown into one where there were two tables, both unoccupied. Wine was brought, and the glasses were filled and emptied several times. Monsieur Laboussole seemed overjoyed to have met the two messengers; Jean Ficelle manifested equal satisfaction; and Sans-Cravate himself, after drinking three or four glasses of wine, became very good-humored.

"I say, old fellow," said Jean Ficelle, scrutinizing Laboussole, "seems to me, business must have been pretty good with you since we met. On my word, you're rigged out like a landholder of Ile Saint-Louis! _Bigre!_ what style!"

"Yes," replied Laboussole, drawing himself up in his beaver coat. "I'm in a very pretty line of business now. I have a position in an enterprise that is just being started; I have an idea that I'm going to make my fortune."

"The devil! there's nothing cheap about you!"

"What sort of a business is it?" asked Sans-Cravate.

"It's something new and ingenious, my friends; imagine, if you please, that a party of capitalists have conceived the idea of forming a company to insure against fleas and all insects that devour mankind; for, as you probably know, mankind is being decimated by insects, and, if we don't look out, the world will come to an end that way. Now, then, the company has a capital stock of a million. With a million francs, you see, it would beat the devil if they couldn't wipe out all the fleas in Europe. It's a magnificent chance; the shares are going up, up at a frightful rate!"

"Oh! I say! that's a funny kind of insurance!"

"Messieurs, everything is insured nowadays: life, fortune, women--yes, messieurs, a company's being formed to guarantee the fidelity of your wives and mistresses! There won't be any more cuckolds, messieurs. Think what a vast enterprise! and what an age--that will have seen it! But they haven't succeeded yet in raising money enough to start the thing; they need a lot of money, so it seems. Speaking of mistresses, what's become of your sweetheart Bastringuette? I don't see her with you, my dear Sans-Cravate; has she got the smallpox?"

"Oh! I haven't seen anything of her for a long time," replied Sans-Cravate, with a frown; "nor thought of her, either."

"Oho! did she do--what I mentioned just now?"

"Apparently."

"Come, come! let's not talk about Bastringuette," cried Jean Ficelle. "You see, Laboussole, that it puts my comrade out of sorts."

"Oh! excuse me, my boys, excuse me! I was thoughtless; it was my friendship for you that misled me. Let's have a drink!"

"What's your position in the flea business, eh?"

"A very fine one--I am an inspector. We send clerks ahead to attend to destroying the insects; then I arrive at the house of the insured, I inspect the premises, I search everywhere; and after my visit, I defy you to find anything there at all."

"Are you required to have a moustache in your position, that you let yours grow?"

"It isn't absolutely required, but in all the best places moustaches are worn, and I felt that I owed that to myself. Your health, my bucks! To my pleasure at being in the bosom of my friends once more!"

Monsieur Laboussole's tone was becoming affectingly sentimental. They drank, and touched glasses; the bottles rapidly succeeded one another; their brains began to get heated, especially Sans-Cravate's, which took fire very easily. Ere long, Jean Ficelle called for a pack of cards.

"I'll play you a game of piquet, Laboussole," he cried; "piquet, the honest man's game--just for fun, to pass the time, and to see if you know how to play it."

"I play like an oyster," rejoined Laboussole; "but still I'll play whatever you say. Because I always assert that luck may come my way. Let's have a drink!"

The waiter brought the cards. Jean Ficelle took them and sat down opposite Laboussole.

"Sans-Cravate don't play," he said; "he don't like cards."

"Why shouldn't I play, eh?" cried Sans-Cravate, with a violent blow on the table. "Piquet! why, that's my favorite game; I'm very strong at it."

"Well, you shall play after a while," replied Jean Ficelle, winking at his vis-à-vis. "Let me give the inspector of fleas a beating first."

The game began; the players announced that they were playing for two francs the game, but no money was put up. Laboussole lost three games in succession; whereupon Jean Ficelle rose, with a laugh, and said:

"You certainly ain't on your game, old man. I've got six francs to eat up; that's not bad, and I don't want you to ruin yourself treating us."

Sans-Cravate took Jean Ficelle's place, after asking Laboussole:

"Have you had enough?"

"I! nonsense! do I ever cry _baby_? I'm always on deck when a friend proposes a game. Besides, as I said just now, luck may come my way; she's a female, so she ought to change often. What are we playing for?"

"Whatever you say."

"A thirty-sou piece----"

"The devil! that's rather high!"

"We must make the game interesting."

"All right; thirty sous it is."

The game began; Jean Ficelle took his stand behind Sans-Cravate. Monsieur Laboussole frequently looked up into the air, as if to invoke Fortune and implore her to smile upon him; but his eyes always met Jean Ficelle's, who signalled to him with his fingers.

Sans-Cravate lost the first game; and Monsieur Laboussole cried, with his most affable air:

"You see, my boys, luck may turn any time; that's what I rely on."

"My revenge!" cried Sans-Cravate.

"Always, my boy! always at your service; a well-bred card player never refuses a revenge, under penalty of being called a _carotteur_; and I've never been called that. But let's have some wine first and drink a bumper! Cards make me horribly thirsty."

Jean Ficelle undertook to fill the glasses. Sans-Cravate lost the second game, and demanded another, which he also lost; but Laboussole did not cease to exclaim:

"You play much better than I do; I can't imagine how I succeed in beating you!"

Sans-Cravate continued to demand his revenge, which Laboussole was always eager to accord; while Jean Ficelle took care that the glasses should be filled as soon as they were empty. The wine and the game soon bewildered Sans-Cravate to the point that he hardly knew what he was doing; his adversary, on the other hand, retained his sang-froid, and combined with it all his social talents. It was not long before Sans-Cravate found that he had lost all the money he had with him; he had not enough left to pay for the wine they had drunk, a part of which was chargeable to him.

"I'll pay for you, and you may owe it to me," said Jean Ficelle. "I am not capable of leaving a friend in a hole."

Sans-Cravate was astounded to find himself without a sou, for he had thirty francs in the morning. He felt in all his pockets, and cried:

"How's this? I have lost all my money! I want to keep on playing and make myself good! I'll play on credit."

But Laboussole moved his chair away from the table and rose, saying:

"I'd like nothing better than to give you your revenge, my boy, but this is the time of day when I have to attend to my duties. I have three houses to inspect to-day; and if a sign of an insect should be found in one of them to-morrow, I should lose my job. A job worth three thousand francs a year, with lodging, candles, and perquisites, don't grow on every bush. So I am obliged to leave you, my bucks; but we will meet again soon; I'll look you up at your place of business on the street corner, and I'll give our worthy friend Sans-Cravate all the revenge he wants. Au revoir, my friends!"

Monsieur Laboussole shook hands with each of the messengers. When he took Jean Ficelle's hand, he left in it half of the money he had won from his comrade,--probably in accordance with a previous understanding,--then left the room, saying:

"The next time I see you, friends, I'll give you a prospectus of our enterprise, so that you can see if you wouldn't like to take some shares. You can buy three shares for seven francs ten sous. Dividends of twenty per cent are guaranteed, and you get in addition portraits of the inspectors, which you can have framed, if you choose."

When Laboussole had gone, Jean Ficelle paid the bill and took Sans-Cravate away. He made no resistance; he was dazed by the wine he had drunk, and in a savage humor because he had lost his money, and, more than all, because he had gambled; for he knew in his heart that he was not acting the part of an honest man, and that Jean Ficelle's company was a constant incitement to evil. When a man's conscience speaks to him in that way, when he listens to its reproaches, and, while trying to drown its voice, is none the less dissatisfied with himself, there is still room for hope that he will return to the path of respectability.

The messengers had been walking together for some time, at a somewhat uncertain pace. Jean Ficelle, who loved to talk grandiloquently, and who credited himself with the art of hoodwinking his hearers, was presenting his comrade with a comparison to prove that the gambler who has lost all his money is much nearer to winning than he whose pockets are full. Sans-Cravate listened, without paying the slightest attention; his face was flushed, his expression alert and quarrelsome; he did not step aside for anyone, and he had more than once roughly jostled persons who passed him, and had nearly thrown them down.

"Look out what you're doing," said Jean Ficelle; "you're running into everybody! You'll get yourself into trouble!"

"Why don't they get out of the way? So much the worse for them! and if anyone isn't satisfied, just let him say so."

Suddenly, as they were walking along the canal, Sans-Cravate spied a man talking earnestly with a woman on a street corner. To utter an exclamation, come to a halt, and grasp his companion's arm so hard that he made him cry out, was a matter of an instant with Sans-Cravate.

"What in God's name's the matter?" demanded Jean Ficelle, almost terrified.

"It's him--and her! Yes, there they are together. Look--over there, at the corner of that street!"

Jean Ficelle looked; he recognized Paul talking to Bastringuette, with great earnestness and with an air of mystery.

"_Pardi!_" he exclaimed; "the turtle-doves have evidently met here by appointment--a long way from our neighborhood, so as not to be seen. How this fits in--when you was just saying that you'd never seen Paul with your fly-away! You see 'em now."

"Yes--and I still doubted! Ah! the villain! but he's got to pay me for his treachery!"

"What are you going to do? Come, Sans-Cravate, no knock-down fight. Just give him a clip--he well deserves it--and then, off we go! for, although there ain't many people passing, we must look out for loafers."

Sans-Cravate paid no heed to what his comrade said, but strode rapidly toward Paul; Bastringuette had left him, and he was walking away by the canal, when Sans-Cravate planted himself in front of him.

"You don't go any farther," he cried.

"Is it you, Sans-Cravate?" said Paul, looking up at him. "Great heaven! what's the matter? You look like a madman!"

"The matter is that you're a coward, a sneak!"

"Sans-Cravate!"

"Who was that with you a minute ago?"

"Bastringuette."

"And she ran off when she saw me, because she was afraid I'd give her a beating; but I don't beat women, I don't; I take my revenge on men--and you've got to fight with me!"

"Sans-Cravate, you are entirely mistaken--I give you my word of honor. I am not Bastringuette's lover; I have never mentioned the word _love_ to her; besides, you know perfectly well that I am in love with another woman."

"That proves that you love two at once, that's all! Oh! you can't fool me any more with your wheedling ways. You're a blackguard, a traitor--I know you now. Come, coats off!"

"Sans-Cravate, you are not in your right mind at this moment. When you are not so excited, you will listen to me."

"No, no, not a word! I've swallowed your insults and been called a coward long enough. It's time to put an end to it."

"But you are mistaken; listen to me."

"I tell you, I won't; we must fight."

"I have told you before that I will not fight with you."

"Then I'll find a way to force you to."

"Yes, yes," said Jean Ficelle, from behind Sans-Cravate; "when a man entices a friend's mistress away from him, he can't refuse to give him satisfaction."

Paul cast a contemptuous glance at Jean Ficelle, and was about to answer him, when Sans-Cravate rushed at him like a madman and shook his fist in his face, crying:

"Will you fight?"

"No, for you are drunk! I am bound to overlook your foolish behavior."

"Oh! that's it, is it?"

And Sans-Cravate, utterly beside himself with jealousy, jumped at Paul, and, seizing him around the waist, threw him against the wall of the canal. The young man tried to save himself; but he stumbled and staggered, and, as he fell, his head struck a large paving stone which, unluckily, had been left lying there; its sharp edge made a deep wound, and the blood soon formed a pool about the wounded man.

Paul did not utter a sound; but Sans-Cravate, when he saw the blood flowing from the wound, stood as if turned to stone, horror-stricken, and his face became ghastly pale. Jean-Ficelle seized his arm.

"Let's be off!" he said; "let's be off! you've given him his dose, and that's all that was needed; now let's cut sticks."

"But he is wounded, he's bleeding," muttered Sans-Cravate.

"Bah! just a scratch--a trifle; that's none of our business."

"No, I won't leave him so; the least I can do is to carry him to that shop yonder, to have his wound dressed."

Sans-Cravate stooped over Paul, who, in addition to the wound on his head, had a badly bruised arm. To take off his jacket and turn back his shirt sleeve, to see whether the arm was seriously injured, was the work of an instant; as he bared Paul's forearm, he saw a small, perfectly distinct, blue cross. He was about to carry the wounded man to a shop near by, when Bastringuette came running up; seeing Paul wounded and bathed in blood, she cried:

"What an outrage! they have murdered him! poor boy! poor Paul!"

And the tall girl, kneeling on the ground, raised the messenger's head and examined it. At that moment, several persons, attracted by her outcry, drew near the wounded man. Once more Jean Ficelle pulled Sans-Cravate by the arm, saying:

"Well! they don't need you here, you see; he'll be well taken care of."

"That's true; you are right--as she is with him, there's nothing for me to do here. Let's go!"

As he spoke, Sans-Cravate hurried away with his comrade, not once turning his head to look back, as if he were afraid to meet Bastringuette's eye.

XXV

AN EVENING PARTY.--A SOUVENIR

There was a brilliant reception at the house of a wealthy foreigner, who had taken up his abode in Paris because he had concluded that the people of that city have learned most thoroughly the secret of enjoying themselves, of varying their amusements, and of doing themselves credit with their wealth. He was absolutely right; and as the Parisians are very fond of people who give them dinners, concerts, balls, routs--in a word, festivities of every sort, the residence of the wealthy foreigner became the usual rendezvous of a large number of people, and his receptions were always crowded.

It may be that those persons who insist upon knowing in whose company they are, who are afraid to sit at a card table with a gentleman or lady whose social position is not definitely fixed, might have found much to criticise in the society which was wont to assemble in the salons of Monsieur Grazcernitz (such was the wealthy foreigner's name); but as the number of those who like to be entertained is very considerable, he was always certain of having an abundance of guests.

To obtain an invitation from Monsieur Grazcernitz, it was sufficient to have cut a figure in society, to have made a name for one's self in letters, art, or commerce, to be able to sing an aria or a ballad with taste and expression, to tell an anecdote interestingly, or even to make a pun. To the ladies, the wealthy foreigner was even more indulgent; a pretty woman, a woman of fashion, a blue-stocking, an unknown or unappreciated artist, were always welcome in his salon. One often met there people whom one never met on the fashionable promenades or at the theatre; just as we may meet at a railroad station a friend whom we have not seen for several years, a mistress who, we supposed, had gone to Russia, an old artist whom we believed to be dead--in a word, someone whom we should vainly seek in the streets of Paris.

Now, Monsieur Grazcernitz's salons were frequently honored by the presence of Monsieur and Madame Plays. Monsieur went thither as his wife's escort, and madame to display her charms and her dresses, and to make conquests. It was at that house that she had made Albert Vermoncey's acquaintance.

Madame Baldimer also was an habitué of the wealthy foreigner's salons. It was at his receptions that she had been named the fair American.

Balivan, the absent-minded painter, was also to be met with there, and the jovial Mouillot, Dupétrain the magnetizer, the young man with the white eyebrows, and Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir, who possessed the art of insinuating himself everywhere.

Tobie Pigeonnier had obtained an introduction to Monsieur Grazcernitz a short time before the loss of his olive; he had been overjoyed to find himself at a function where punch, ices, cake, and delicacies of all sorts, were served in great profusion to the guests. Since the adventure of the fetich, he had not dared to show his face in Monsieur Grazcernitz's salon, and that was not one of the least of his annoyances.

Madame Baldimer had just been announced. She entered the salon under the escort of Monsieur Dupétrain, who, by dint of telling her that he possessed the power of magnetizing and putting to sleep anybody that she chose, had succeeded in inducing her to receive him.

The fair American was magnificently dressed, and resplendent with diamonds and jewelry; the beauty of her face and the splendor of her costume attracted every eye, and a circle soon formed about her.

"That Dupétrain's a lucky dog!" said a very ugly little man; "he is Madame Baldimer's escort, she accepts his arm. How can anyone understand such a whim? to select for her cavalier an ugly creature--with nothing to recommend him--while so many good-looking young men, men of real merit, are paying court to her!"

"What does that prove?" rejoined a gentleman, laughing in the last speaker's face. "You don't suppose Dupétrain is that woman's lover, do you? on the contrary, she accepts his arm because he's of no consequence at all. Besides, she has been courted by many other men, who have been no more fortunate for having acted as her cavalier. That lovely creature impresses me as being inclined to amuse herself at the expense of every man who is attentive to her."

"Do you think so? Haven't some of them fought duels for her?"

"Yes; I believe there has been a duel; but I don't know who the parties were."

The arrival of two new guests changed the subject of conversation. Monsieur and Madame Plays entered the salon. The host went forward to meet the superb and massive Herminie, saying:

"Mon Dieu! madame, what a pleasure it is to see you! we have been deprived of that pleasure so long! What has become of you? For more than two months you haven't been seen in society! I have asked about you several times, and been told: 'Madame Plays has gone into retirement in one of her country houses; she receives no one and sees no one; in fact, she has turned hermit.'"

Madame Plays affected a languorous air, as she replied:

"It is true--I haven't been into society for a long while! Ah! I would like never to return to it."

"What! shun society at your age, madame, when you have been its brightest ornament! Why, that is not lawful; it's a crime, it's downright robbery!--Would you allow it, Monsieur Plays?"

Monsieur Plays tried to imitate his wife's manner, as he said:

"My wife took me with her to one of our estates; it was very dull; there were only we two, and we had no visitors; for we didn't tell anybody where we were going, we went off all of a sudden, as if we were ashamed of it. But still, when something has happened to afflict one--you understand--and my wife certainly had good cause for tears in----"

Madame Plays pinched her husband's arm, and whispered:

"Hush! that's enough; hush! Who asked you to say that?"

Monsieur Plays held his peace, and pretended to have a paroxysm of coughing as an excuse for not finishing his sentence. Monsieur Grazcernitz took the fair Herminie's hand and led her to a seat on a divan, with divers other ladies, with whom she soon entered into conversation.

But after a few seconds, the lady at the robust creature's right rose and walked into another salon; in a short time, the lady at her left likewise rose and vanished, and the fair Herminie was left alone on the divan. Thereupon several young men approached her and favored her with an assortment of the insipid, commonplace flatteries of which such a prodigious supply is ordinarily consumed in fashionable salons.

A young man who had talked with Madame Plays a few minutes left her abruptly, and observed to one of his friends:

"That's a most extraordinary thing; I can't understand it."

"What do you mean?"

"You see that lady over there, with whom I was talking just now?"

"Madame Plays?"

"Yes. Well, my dear fellow, I can't imagine what kind of perfume she has about her, but it's absolutely insufferable."

"The deuce you say!"

"It's like the smell of stale tobacco; it's perfectly sickening."

"Impossible."

"Look! there's Alfred leaving her now; let's see what he says.--Alfred!"

"What is it?"

"You were just talking with Madame Plays; did you smell anything?"

"Oh! parbleu! that was what made me leave her. I like to smoke a cigar, but a lady who smells like a guardhouse isn't at all agreeable. She must chew! that's the only explanation."

"She probably adopted the habit in her retirement."

"We must go and ask her husband."

"Oh, no! I should never dare."

"It's evident that you don't know Monsieur Plays! I'll bet you that I dare. Follow me, without making it apparent, and you'll see."

The young man who had spoken last walked up to Monsieur Plays, whom he discovered in an adjoining room, standing near a whist table and watching the game with close attention.

"Well, Monsieur Plays," said the young man, bowing to him, "you seem to be much engrossed by the game?"

"Yes; I am watching it rather closely."

"Are you studying the fine points of whist?"

"I study everything."

"You must be a fine whist player."

"On the contrary, I don't understand the game yet; for ten years, I've been watching it; but I hope that, by dint of watching, I shall learn it finally. My wife absolutely insists on my learning it; that is why I never lose a chance to look on."

"Speaking of madame, Monsieur Plays, she seems to have become a _lionne_[O] in her retirement."

"A _lionne_! my wife! Why, no; far from it, I assure you! on the contrary, her disposition has become more tractable; she is very mild and gentle now."

"You don't understand me, Monsieur Plays; by _lionne_, we men of fashion mean an eccentric woman, one who is very far advanced in the modern ideas of progress."

"What! you think my wife is advanced?"

"And, I may say, a woman who smokes. Isn't it a fact that Madame Plays indulges in that pleasure now?"

"My wife smoke! never! Oh! you are entirely mistaken. I can guess why you ask me that; you noticed that she smelt of tobacco, didn't you?"

"Faith! yes, Monsieur Plays, I did notice it; and, if I must tell you, I am not the only person in this company who has noticed it."

"I believe you; oh! I can readily believe you, as I have noticed it myself, and this evening isn't the first time that my wife has exhaled an odor of smoking tobacco. Ever since she took me off to our country place, where we lived like bears, I have noticed that same odor; and I have said to myself more than once: 'My wife smells of tobacco, and it seems to me that the smell is getting stronger and stronger.'"

"And you haven't asked madame what caused it?"

"I beg your pardon; one day I ventured to say to her: 'Herminie, are you in the habit of smoking in private? if you are, don't mind me, I beg you; smoke as much as you please!'"

"Well?"

"Well, my wife considered my question very impertinent, and she punished me--that is to say, she ordered me not to---- But, excuse me, this seems to be a very interesting hand; a gentleman has just made the _odd_; I must try to understand."

Monsieur Plays turned his attention to the whist table once more, and the young man walked away with his friends, having obtained no new light.

While this conversation was taking place, Madame Baldimer, noticing Madame Plays alone on a divan, went and seated herself by her side. The two ladies were slightly acquainted, having met rather often at Count Dahlborne's receptions, and Herminie had no suspicion that it was the fair American for whom the fickle Albert had purchased a shawl like hers.

"What has become of you lately, madame? it seems an age since we saw you at any sort of festivity; and everybody has been lamenting it."

The tone in which Madame Baldimer spoke might, to some people, have seemed slightly satirical; but Madame Plays saw only amiability therein, and she replied, with a long-drawn sigh:

"I thank you, madame; it is too kind of you to believe that people think of me; but I have been in close retirement, as was very natural after the painful event of which I was the cause, and for which I reproach myself so bitterly! Ah! I dared not show my face!"

Madame Baldimer, after putting her smelling-bottle to her nose, with a muttered: "This is very strange; it smells like a tobacco factory here!" leaned toward Madame Plays, and said:

"You say that you were the cause of a painful occurrence?"

"To be sure; can it be that you have not heard of it?"

"I have not the faintest idea what you mean."

"I supposed that it must have made a great sensation in society, and that is why I ran away and dared not come back! And you have not heard of the duel?"

"A duel!"

"Certainly; a duel about me--that is to say--I had no idea it would go so far. Mon Dieu! there are some women who like nothing better than to have men fight for them; but my remorse is terrible!"

Madame Baldimer bestowed a piercing glance on Herminie, as if she wished to fathom her thoughts.

"Who was the man who fought for you, madame?" she asked.

"Monsieur Albert Vermoncey and Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier, two hot-headed youths who adored me. Oh! what a misfortune it is to arouse such passions! That young Albert had deceived me, it is true; but that was no reason---- Oh! how wrong it was of me to say that I wished to be avenged!"

"Monsieur Albert fought a duel for you, you say? When?"

"The day before I left Paris for the country--about two months and a half ago."

"Well! what was the result of this duel?"

"Horrible, madame, shocking! Poor Albert was killed by that little Tobie--killed with a sword-thrust! That is the calamity of which I am the cause, and for which I shall never forgive myself!"

Madame Plays covered her eyes with her handkerchief; but, instead of the emotional outburst which she anticipated from Madame Baldimer, she was surprised to hear that lady say, with a sarcastic smile:

"Abate your remorse, madame; do not be so heart-broken, I entreat you; for the men who get themselves killed for your sake are still in remarkably good health."

"What! what do you mean by that, madame?" cried the fair Herminie, restoring her handkerchief to her pocket.

"I mean that young Albert Vermoncey is not dead."

"Not dead! Albert not dead! Oh! that is impossible, madame; it was his adversary in person who came and told me the result of their ill-omened meeting! He did not leave Albert until he was certain that he had ceased to breathe; and, as a token of his victory, he took a cigar from his victim and brought it to me, and I have worn it here, on my heart, ever since. It has never left me for an instant!"

Madame Baldimer began to laugh more loudly than ever, until she could hardly speak.

"Ah! so you carry a cigar in your bosom," she faltered, at last. "I am not surprised at this odor of tobacco, which I could not understand. Ha! ha! ha! this is most amusing! it was a delicious joke!"

Madame Plays began to take offence at the fair American's hilarity over her adventure.

"Really, madame," she muttered angrily, "I did not suppose that you were so hard-hearted! to laugh because a young man lost his life for me--or, at least, at the hands of one of my chevaliers! I cannot see what there is to laugh at in that."

"Mon Dieu! madame, how many times must I tell you that you are mistaken? that somebody has made a fool of you? Monsieur Albert Vermoncey did fight a duel, it is true, at about the time you mention; but he fought with Count Dahlborne, and I think that I can assure you that you had nothing whatever to do with their quarrel. Monsieur Albert was the victor in that duel; the count was slightly wounded. As for young Vermoncey, he left Paris immediately after the affair; he travelled in Normandie, in Belgium, and in Auvergne; and he returned to Paris yesterday with a girl whom he has abducted and brought back with him without his father's knowledge. You see that I am well posted, madame."

Madame Plays was stupefied, and could not find a word to say; when she recovered herself, her first act was to take a piece of a cigar from her bosom and throw it, with an angry gesture, under the divan on which she was seated. When she was able to speak, she faltered:

"What, madame! can it be possible? Monsieur Albert is not dead? that monster, that perfidious wretch, still lives? You are sure of it?"

As Madame Baldimer was about to reply, a newly arrived guest entered the salon in which the two ladies were. It was Monsieur Vermoncey, Albert's father, who had never before appeared at Monsieur Grazcernitz's reunions. Having frequently met in society the wealthy stranger, who always urged him to come to his receptions, he had considered that courtesy required that he should attend at least one of them; and although he had long since ceased to find any pleasure at such functions, he had decided to pay his respects to Monsieur Grazcernitz on the evening in question.

At sight of Albert's father, Madame Baldimer's features underwent a transformation: her lips closed tightly, her eyebrows drew together, her forehead became clouded, and her eyes, alight with an unaccustomed gleam, seemed to flash fire.

Monsieur Vermoncey passed through the salon into another room; Madame Baldimer followed him with her eyes, and, when she could no longer see him, unable to control her feelings, she sprang to her feet, without answering the soft-hearted Herminie, who had asked her another question about Albert, and hastened into the room which she had seen Monsieur Vermoncey enter. He had taken a seat beside the master of the house; Madame Baldimer seated herself in front of them, and, while apparently listening to the compliments of Monsieur Dupétrain, who joined her at once, her eyes were constantly fixed on the two gentlemen facing her.

Monsieur Grazcernitz passed in review, for Monsieur Vermoncey's benefit, the company assembled in his salons; and as a householder delights to exhibit to you every corner of his house, even to the darkest corridor and the smallest closet, that he may boast of all its comforts and conveniences, so the wealthy foreigner, who was exceedingly proud of his brilliant and crowded reception, took pleasure in singing the praises of his guests, and did not mention a single name without adding a word or two to give it prestige.

"Look," he said, pointing to a little old man with an intelligent and satirical face, whose costume denoted a country gentleman; "that old gentleman at your right is a rich landholder of Bretagne; he passes ten months of the year on his estates, and when he comes to Paris retains his country costume. He has two hundred thousand francs a year, and he cares little what other people say. They wanted to make him mayor, sub-prefect, prefect even--but he refused everything. He's a philosopher after the pattern of Seneca, who inculcated contempt of wealth by drinking Falernian in a gold cup. That gentleman with the decorations, who is speaking to him at this moment, is the chief of a department, captain in the National Guard, and member of the Council of Discipline; he is said to be a very influential man. He doesn't despise offices, not he; he has three now, and is a candidate for two others. This lady here at our left is a charming person; she sings like an angel, when she is well accompanied, but she declares that no one is ever able to accompany her. The little brunette by her side is not pretty, but she's a blue-stocking! she writes poetry, novels, plays, and works for the newspapers; she's the editor of a sheet which is distributed for nothing, and has an enormous list of subscribers. Oh! that man over yonder is one of the leaders of fashion in Paris. See what a superb figure he has! people fight with one another over having clothes made by his tailor. He once shut himself up for a whole week in his room, trying to determine whether he would wear round or pointed waistcoats. That good-looking youth by the piano is an excellent composer, who will write an opera as soon as he has a suitable libretto. That tall, thin gentleman standing by the fireplace is a talented amateur on the cornet-à-piston; he was to bring his brother, who affects the trombone; they play duets together which are said to be very interesting. And do you see the little, light-haired man in the next room, with a turned-up nose and an impertinent air? He's a ballad singer of the first rank; he imitates Levassor, Achard, and everybody else, with much skill; so that there's a constant rivalry to secure him; he's all the rage at parties. That stout lady with whom he is talking has a magnificent contralto voice; unfortunately, she is never willing to sing."

Monsieur Vermoncey listened with a distraught air to his host's comments; his eyes had met those of the fair American, and, as he looked at her, he was conscious of a sentiment which he could not understand; was it simply admiration of Madame Baldimer's beauty? was it curiosity? did the sight of her awaken bitter memories in his heart? He was unable to answer any of these questions; but as Monsieur Grazcernitz started upon a grandiloquent eulogium of a small boy of nine, who, it was said, already played the violin like Paganini, Monsieur Vermoncey interrupted him.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Grazcernitz; but who is the lady sitting opposite us and looking at us at this moment?"

"That lady," replied the host, motioning to the boy to come to him, "why, she's a very fine woman, indeed: tall and beautiful and well built.--He plays on the fourth string variations on the air of _Le Roi d'Yvetot_ which are simply fascinating, they say."

"Pardon my inquisitiveness, but there is an expression on that lady's features which seems familiar to me."

"She's a very fashionable woman! All the men are in love with her!--He can do something wonderful, too, on the treble string--also after the style of Paganini."

"But her name, if you please?"

"Little Adolphe Kromiousky; he's a Pole."

"I ask you the name of the lady sitting opposite us."

"Oh! that is Madame Baldimer, commonly known in society as the fair American."

"Madame Baldimer! Can it be that---- Ah! I am not surprised that the sight of her caused me an emotion that I could not understand! So that is Madame Baldimer!"

"Do you know her?"

"Oh! no, not I! But my son was very much in love with her; he fought a duel for her."

"That doesn't surprise me. As I tell you, she turns the heads of all the men."

"And it seems that she takes pleasure in causing her adorers to fight among themselves. Ah! I no longer consider her beautiful; I can't bear to look at her."

"Was your son wounded?"

"No, thank heaven! but he might have been killed, and that woman's coquetry would have robbed me of my only remaining child."

"Would you like me to present little Adolphe Kromiousky?"

"Anything that will give you pleasure."

And Monsieur Vermoncey rose and walked hastily into another room, in his eagerness to shun the presence of Madame Baldimer. His host followed him, calling after him:

"Why, where are you going? young Kromiousky is in that room. He won't play anything this evening; but he is studying a fine piece of Paganini's, which he will play on a violin that belonged to Paganini."

Monsieur Vermoncey seated himself in a salon where people were singing and playing the piano; he had been there but a short time, when he saw that Madame Baldimer had again taken a seat facing him, and that her eyes were almost always turned in his direction.

"It's very strange," thought Monsieur Vermoncey; "it looks as if that woman were following me! She looks at me in a most extraordinary way. I wonder if she has been told that I am Albert's father; and if she thinks that it was by my advice that he ceased to see her? Yes, that must be the explanation of her keeping her eyes fixed on me. Does she aspire to force me too to do homage to her charms? I propose to show her that she is wasting her time and trouble."

Monsieur Vermoncey left the music room and went into that where the card playing was in progress, which few ladies visited. There was a vacant seat at a bouillotte table, and he took it, saying to himself:

"That woman is not likely to follow me here."

But he had not been playing five minutes, when the fair American appeared, and seated herself in a chair which was close beside his.

Monsieur Vermoncey felt unaccountably disturbed; the woman's conduct seemed to him so strange that he was almost frightened. However, as he was not obliged to look at her, he continued to play without turning in her direction, courtesy not requiring him to speak to a lady whom he had never seen before.

But several young men, among them Dupétrain the magnetizer, soon joined the fair American and began to converse with her.

"How is this, madame? you, in the cardroom?"

"Why not, monsieur? Are ladies forbidden to come here?"

"Of course not; but the idea of watching a game of cards, when music beckons to you, and the dance--for they have just begun to dance."

"Well, messieurs, if I prefer cards to dancing, am I not at liberty to do so?"

"Oh! but that cannot be! A pretty woman prefer cards to dancing!"

"We have heard you say that you detested cards."

"Am I not entitled to change my mind? Ask Monsieur Dupétrain here, who is gifted with second-sight; perhaps he can tell you what attracted me to this salon."

"I, fair lady? Ah! I would compel you to tell us, if you would let me put you to sleep!"

"Not at this moment; the place would be ill chosen, I should say. But you can often render a lady a great service by putting her to sleep, Monsieur Dupétrain. If I had known you earlier, I would have asked you to draw the horoscope of a young girl--in whom I was very deeply interested."

"What happened to her? Was she pretty?"

"Lovely!"

"Oh! then it must be a love story."

"Mon Dieu! yes, messieurs; it is, as you say, a love story--a story of love, and seduction; a very commonplace story to you. But we women are always interested in such stories."

"Pray tell us this girl's story, madame."

"I assure you that it is not likely to interest anybody who did not know the principal actors in it. She was a young seamstress, very poor, but perfectly virtuous, until a young man, who was little richer than she, paid court to her. The girl allowed herself to be seduced; her heart was given, and she fell; for the young man had made the fairest promises, as men have a way of doing when they seek to seduce us. The poor child became a mother; and instead of working four times harder than before, in order to provide her with the means to bring up the child, the seducer sent it to join the unfortunate creatures who are brought up by public charity and who do not know their parents. Oh! that arouses your indignation, does it not, messieurs? When the poor girl asked to see her child, to embrace it, she was put off by falsehoods. But she learned the truth at last; and while she, with a breaking heart, prayed that her son--for it was a son--might be restored to her, her seducer was busily engaged in paying attentions to a young woman of large fortune. To make a long story short, my poor girl died; and the gentleman married, became very rich, and was highly esteemed in society.--You see, messieurs, that my story is in no wise different from what is happening every day."

Monsieur Vermoncey had not lost a word of Madame Baldimer's narrative; at the outset, he had turned as pale as death; his hands shook, and great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; he held his cards, but did not see them, and had no idea what he played. At last, one of the gentlemen who were playing with him said to him:

"You must be feeling ill. Pray leave the table, and go and get some fresh air."

Monsieur Vermoncey did not know what reply he made; it seemed to him that he had not the requisite strength to leave the room, for his knees bent and his legs gave way under him. However, he made a mighty effort, and attempted to leave the table; but in order to push his chair away, he was obliged to disturb the lady who was seated so close to him.

He turned toward her, stammering some unintelligible words. Madame Baldimer had finished her story, and all her auditors had pronounced it exceedingly interesting. The fair American fixed her piercing eyes on Monsieur Vermoncey, and said:

"And you, monsieur, what do you think of my story? Did it interest you too?"

Albert's father murmured something which no one could hear, and, having succeeded in breaking out a path, he abruptly left the salons, still followed by Madame Baldimer's eyes, for she seemed to enjoy his confusion and pallor.

While all this was taking place in the cardroom, Madame Plays, deserted by Madame Baldimer, had risen and set out in search of her husband, who had ventured to leave the whist table in order to watch the dancing. His wife spied him at last, behind a quadrille, and, seizing his arm, led him into a corner.

"I have found you at last," she said; "it's very lucky!"

"Excuse me, my dear love, for leaving the whist table," rejoined Monsieur Plays, alarmed by his wife's agitated manner; "but I assure you that I am beginning to understand; one of the players said to another: 'We have the _odd_!' from which I conclude that the _odd_ is like Pope Joan or the double six; so, you see, I understand whist."

"Oh! monsieur, what do I care about whist! it's something much more important that I have to talk to you about."

"You look as if you were very warm--would you like an ice?"

"Hush! and listen to me: Albert is not dead!"

"What do you mean? that young man who was killed in a duel for you?"

"Yes, Albert Vermoncey, for whose death I blamed myself, whose sad fate I lamented. He is alive; he is in Paris."

"Then he wasn't killed dead?"

"Mon Dieu! don't I tell you that he wasn't killed at all?"

"So much the better! for he was a very pleasant fellow; and now you won't suffer with remorse any more, or shed any more tears over his premature end."

"What do you say? So much the better! Why, you don't seem to understand that I have been tricked, made a fool of, in the most indecent way! as to Albert's not being dead--I am not sorry for that, although he behaved very dishonorably to me! But why should that man come and tell me that he had run his sword through him and killed him? Why bring me a cigar which he said he had found on the body? And I had the kindness to weep and lament and go into retirement for two months--seeing nobody but you, and almost bored to death! and to carry in my bosom that cigar, which was said to have been found on the dying Albert!"

"Ah! you had a cigar about you! so that's the reason that you smelt like a--trooper, and that someone said to me this evening: 'Your wife is a _lionne_.'"

"You see, monsieur, I have been played with in the most abominable way! But this is not to be the end of it! I trust, monsieur, that you will not allow people to amuse themselves at your wife's expense, and, consequently, at your own; for to show disrespect to a wife is to show disrespect to her husband, and I have been shamefully insulted."

"But, my dear love, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"What do I expect you to do! what a question! I expect you to challenge the insolent villain who lied to me!"

"What! you want to have that poor Albert killed again? You have only just learned that he's alive, and----"

"No, monsieur; I am not talking about Albert now; but of that little man who dared to come and tell me that he had killed him in a duel. Do you know Tobie Pigeonnier?"

"Tobie Pigeon----"

"You must have seen him here two or three times."

"Oh! yes, a little short fat man; I remember him very well. He's a very good-looking fellow."

"He's a little blackguard, who lies with imperturbable assurance. It was he who offered to be my chevalier and avenge me; it was he who brought me that wretched cigar. Luckily, I didn't receive his news kindly; but, it doesn't make any difference, he was the cause of my crying my eyes out, and seeing nobody but you for two whole months; I will never forgive him for that. You must hunt him up, monsieur, and demand satisfaction."

"What, my dear love, a duel?"

"I insist upon it."

"But duelling is forbidden now."

"I don't care if it is."

"I don't know how to fight."

"Everybody knows how to fire a pistol."

"I have never tried."

"To-morrow morning I will take you to Lepage's shooting gallery; you must spend six hours there, and when you get through you will be able to fire well enough to fight a duel."

"But suppose Monsieur Tobie refuses?"

"Then you will have the right to punish him another way. Carry your stick, in case you need it."

"But, Herminie----"

"But I tell you, monsieur, that I will have it so. Now, let us go home; I shall not appear again in society until I am avenged; for it seemed to me to-night that people avoided me, and that the young men laughed and whispered together as they looked at me."

"Your cigar was the cause of that, madame."

"No matter! when you have chastised the man who chose to amuse himself at my expense, others will not be tempted to imitate him. Let us go, monsieur."

And the robust Herminie carried off her husband, who was not at all pleased at being forced to fight, and, for the first time in his life, was trying to think how he could manage to disobey his wife.

XXVI

A REMOVAL.--A SURPRISE

The weather was dark and damp and cold. Sans-Cravate was seated in his usual place, as dismal and gloomy as the weather. His eyes wandered from side to side, often resting on the spot where Paul was accustomed to stand; then he fixed them on the ground at his feet, rested his head on his hands, and sat perfectly motionless.

Jean Ficelle walked to and fro in front of his comrade, whistling or humming between his teeth, and from time to time taking a bite from a great slice of bread which he rubbed with a raw onion; but that repast seemed to be a matter of necessity, not of enjoyment.

"_Sacrédié!_" he exclaimed suddenly, halting before his friend. "It ain't any use for me to try to like this stuff--it's nasty! Dry bread and onion will never be as good as roast veal. This is a beastly sort of breakfast for a fellow to eat; but when you're breaking in two with hunger, you must stuff your blackguard of a belly with something or other! If I only had a drop of wine to wash it down with! but there's not enough in my pocket to pay for the smallest kind of a glass. And that wine shop keeper yonder won't trust me any more, on the pretext that I owe him money now! What an old fool! Parbleu! if I didn't owe him anything, he couldn't ever have trusted me. People ain't reasonable at all. I say, Sans-Cravate, business has been pretty bad lately. We don't earn hardly anything."

"That ain't surprising; when we have a few sous, you take me right off to spend 'em! then people come and don't find us in our places, so they hire somebody else; that's the way I've lost almost all my customers. Oh! I know well enough that I am doing wrong; I shall never save up money by hanging round wine shops and seeing nobody but loafers. What can they think of me at home? I am ashamed to write to my father. And my sister, little Liline, that I meant to save money for, to give her a marriage portion! Damnation! I'm an infernal coward! And to think that I haven't got the strength of mind to begin to work hard again as I used to! Ah! when a man has grief in his heart, he's good for nothing."

"Ta! ta! ta! there you go again! You're always blaming yourself, and for what? Sans-Cravate, you're no man! is it our fault if we don't get any errands to do? No. But just because we go and take a drink once in a while outside the barrier, you say we're losing our customers. That's damned nonsense! Look you: I'll give you a comparison, to prove that customers come all the same when we ain't here. There's Paul, that gawk who used to stand over yonder, and hasn't showed up for two weeks because you hit him so hard that he hurt himself a little when he fell,--well, in the fortnight he's been away haven't they sent here for him twenty times, to go to Monsieur Vermoncey, who wanted him? And five days ago, when you were off on an errand, didn't monsieur himself come and ask for him? There's a man that looks as if he was well fixed; he's the father of your old customer, Monsieur Albert. Ah! there was a young fellow who paid handsomely; how the money slipped through his fingers, and what a pity he's left Paris! If he hadn't, what lots of cart-wheels we'd have to spin!"

"But what did Monsieur Vermoncey say to you?"

"_Pardi!_ he says like this: 'Tell me, my good man; your comrade who used to stand yonder, young Paul, is never in his place now; what has become of him? is he sick?'--I wasn't fool enough to tell him the truth, you understand, so I says: 'No, monsieur; he hasn't been coming here for some time, and I think he's given up the business. But I am here, monsieur, to do any errands you want done; tell me what you want, and I'll go.'--'I was anxious to see your comrade and talk to him,' says he; 'I take an interest in him; where does he live? can you give me his address?'--'Wait a minute,' says I; 'he lives in a street I don't know the name of, but I think it's No. 2 or No. 4--an even number, anyway.'--At that, my man went off as if he was mad, and I says to myself: 'Sold again!'"

"But if he really has business with Paul--why not send him to him?"

"Not much! Catch me sending customers to others, when we're short of 'em ourselves! that would be too soft. And, besides, did he ever tell us his address, the fox? do we know where he lives?"

"No; but since that unfortunate fall, which I was responsible for, you know that he has been living in Bastringuette's room and that she is taking care of him; you must know it--as it was you who told me."

"Yes, to be sure he's with her. Instead of having him taken to the hospital, where he'd have been taken care of for nothing, she took him to her own room; she's his nurse, his _soeur de pot_. Gad! a woman must love a man, to spend all her money in drugs and medicines for him! But it seems she does love him--with fire and blood!"

Sans-Cravate gnawed his nails, but said nothing. After a few minutes, he asked, in a low tone:

"How about his wound? isn't it getting better? Won't he soon be well?"

"Oh! I don't know! that is to say, yes--the wound on the head's better; it's all healed; but it seems that the arm will take longer; he broke something or other when he fell, and that can't be put right in a minute."

"What surprises me," said Sans-Cravate, after a pause, "is that the little dressmaker hasn't come once to ask us about him."

"_Pardi!_ she's probably done the same as he has--some other love affair; and the proof is that she don't come to her work as early as she used to; and she goes away much earlier. She has assignations to keep, no doubt. Bah! it's no use, I can't swallow this dry; it scrapes my throat; I must have a drink! Come on, Sans-Cravate, let's go to that other wine shop, on the right; you can say it's to be charged to you, and they'll trust you."

"No; I don't propose to get trusted any more. When we haven't got any money, we must drink water."

"Why, that's nonsense! on the contrary, when you haven't got any money, you get tight to forget your troubles. Come on; I'll treat, and owe you the money."

"No, I won't go!"

The decided tone in which Sans-Cravate spoke convinced Jean Ficelle that it would be useless for him to insist; so he went away alone, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously and saying:

"As you please. I'll get along without you; I can find some friend who'll offer me a bottle."

Sans-Cravate was conscious of a secret satisfaction in not having yielded; he rested his head on his hands again, and was soon absorbed in thought--probably of Bastringuette, whom he had sworn to forget. Suddenly he felt a light tap on his shoulder; he looked up and saw Albert before him.

"What! is it you, monsieur?" he cried, overjoyed at the reappearance of his generous customer. "Ah! it's a long while since we have seen you; I was speaking of you only a moment ago."

"Yes, Sans-Cravate, it is I; I have been in Paris only a week, and I was absent more than two months. But I need you at once. Are you at liberty?"

"Always, monsieur, always at your service. You know that I am devoted to you."

"Yes, yes; I am well aware of your zeal, and I know that I can rely on your discretion, too; and that is why I have come for you. Listen; I need someone who is strong and active; I have brought a lovely girl back to Paris with me."

"Oho! I recognize you there, monsieur."

"You understand that my father must know nothing of this episode!"

"Of course not, monsieur."

"I established my young friend in a pretty little apartment, which I had had furnished beforehand; it was in a distant quarter, on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain; I felt sure of never meeting my father in that neighborhood. But, as luck would have it, one of his best friends had moved while I was away, and taken lodgings directly opposite the house to which I took the young woman I love."

"_Bigre!_ that won't do! you must change your quarters."

"I learned that fact only yesterday, and I have already hired a delightful little apartment on Rue Grange-aux-Belles, near the canal. This time I will answer for it that my father won't meet me! So what I want is to have my furniture moved at once from Rue de Grenelle to Rue Grange-aux-Belles."

"There is nothing easier."

"Here is some money; procure a wagon at once, and whatever else you need. Here are the addresses; you will ask for Madame Albert's apartment; that is the name I have given my young friend. The apartment is very small, only two rooms and a dressing closet, so it won't take you long to move everything. Let us see, how much time do you need? It's half-past nine now."

"Well, monsieur, at two o'clock everything will be in its place on Rue Grange-aux-Belles."

"At two o'clock; very good! you are an invaluable fellow. I am going to take my young friend out to breakfast, so that she need not have to undergo the annoyances of moving; and at two o'clock I will bring her to her new lodging, where you are to wait for us; don't spare the money."

Albert walked rapidly away, and Sans-Cravate folded up his _crochets_.

"Good enough!" he said to himself; "this is more like; my best customer has come back! how lucky that I didn't go off with Jean Ficelle! I should have missed this job. And to think that that Paul told me to distrust Monsieur Albert and the errands he gave me to do! Ah! the traitor! he's the one I ought to have distrusted; he's in Bastringuette's room, she is nursing him. She certainly must love him pretty well, as Jean Ficelle says. To be betrayed by a friend! But this is no time to think of that; I must go to work, for I've no time to waste."

Sans-Cravate procured a horse and wagon, and went to the house on Rue de Grenelle, where he asked for Madame Albert's apartment. The concierge, who had been notified and handsomely paid by young Vermoncey, was very zealous and obliging, and offered to help him to move the furniture.

"I can't refuse," replied the messenger, "for I didn't bring anybody with me but the driver, and he has to stay with his horse; I counted on your help, especially as I can give you a good _pourboire_."

"I have been well paid already," said the concierge. "That gentleman is very generous, and I'm sorry that he's going to leave me, for I lose a handsome profit. And then, the little woman hasn't got any maid as yet, and my wife's been doing her housework. She don't know anything about Paris, for she's never been here before; and my wife, who knows Paris like a cab horse, would have shown her about."

"Is she pretty?"

"Very pretty, and something innocent and childlike about her. It's easy to see that she comes from a long way off."

"Oh! Monsieur Albert has good taste; but let's go upstairs and get to work."

The concierge took Sans-Cravate to a small apartment furnished with no less coquetry than refinement; all the furniture was modern, and in the best taste; nothing had been forgotten that could add to the charm of the retreat; the hand of a rich and generous lover was visible in every detail.

"_Fichtre!_ but Monsieur Albert does things in good shape!" said Sans-Cravate, after an admiring glance at the furniture; "but we must be careful not to break or injure anything. I'll take the responsibility."

The messenger set to work with an activity and skill which aroused the concierge's admiration: in two hours, everything had been taken downstairs and carefully packed on the wagon; and Sans-Cravate, having given the concierge a _pourboire_, started for Rue Grange-aux-Belles.

He soon reached the address indicated, and found the concierge as courteous and zealous as he of Rue de Grenelle, because Albert had employed the same means to win his favor. To set the human machine in motion, one need not cudgel his brains for long; it is enough to grease the joints.

"Do you want to give me a lift with the biggest pieces?" asked the messenger; "my orders are to give you a good _pourboire_."

"I'd have done it for nothing, but I'll take the _pourboire_," replied the concierge, with a laugh.

"This one has been paid, too," said Sans-Cravate to himself; "but he isn't so honest as the other; he don't say so."

They went up to the apartment hired in the name of Madame Albert: it was on the second floor, and consisted of two pretty rooms and two dressing-rooms; the paper was all new, the paint fresh; nothing was lacking but the furniture.

"The deuce!" thought Sans-Cravate, as he looked over the apartment. "This part of the job won't go all alone as the other did. All I had to do then was to take everything I found; but I don't know where to put the different things here. If I put a bed there, and they want it somewhere else; if I put a commode over yonder, and a couch in this corner, and they don't look right,--why, they won't be satisfied. The young lady ought to be here, to tell me what to do. However, I'll just do the best I can according to my own ideas; and when she comes, if it ain't right, I'll change it."

The concierge approved this reasoning, and they went about their task. Sans-Cravate worked with redoubled zeal and ardor; he was determined to fulfil his promise and satisfy Albert. He worked so hard, and spurred on the concierge so successfully, that the clock had not struck two when all the furniture was in place in the new apartment.

But the perspiration poured from the face of the messenger, who was overdone with fatigue and sorely in need of rest and refreshment.

"Monsieur Albert told me to wait," he said to the concierge, "but I don't think I need wait in the apartment; there's a wine shop close by, and I'll go there after I've sent the wagon away. Be kind enough to come and tell me as soon as they arrive, and I'll be here in two strides."

"All right," said the concierge; "you can go and take a bite at the wine shop, and I'll let you know."

Sans-Cravate paid and dismissed his carrier, then went to the wine shop, seated himself at a table, and ordered a breakfast which he had well earned by his labor, and which he ate with much greater zest than all the _extras_ he had discussed with Jean Ficelle.

He had been at the wine shop a long while, and his appetite was beginning to be appeased, when the concierge appeared and said:

"They have come, and are waiting for you; everything's all right except one commode that they want changed."

"I'm all ready!" cried Sans-Cravate, and he made haste to pay for his breakfast and follow the concierge. "Has Monsieur Albert come?" he asked.

"Yes, he came with the little lady, but he went right away again; he was evidently in a great hurry. The little lady's all alone now."

"Ah! he went away again, did he? The devil! in that case, I shan't know whether he's satisfied. But if the lady is, that's all I want, as the apartment's for her. Besides, he may be coming back."

"Yes, as you say, if the lady is satisfied, that's all he cares about."

When they reached the house, the concierge allowed Sans-Cravate to go up alone.

"You know where it is," he said; "I don't need to go with you."

And the messenger went up to the apartment, saw the key in the door, and entered the outer room, which was empty.

"The little lady is evidently in the back room," he said to himself; "I may disturb her; but still, as she wants something moved, she must be expecting me."

He began to cough, to let her know that he was there; then, as no one answered, he decided to go into the other room. He saw a woman, whose back was turned to him, as she was looking out of the window.

"Excuse me, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "it's the messenger who moved you."

The young woman turned, and disclosed a face, which, although very pale, was fascinating in its sweetness and simplicity. It was an assemblage of charming features: eyes of a blue as pure as a cloudless sky, and shaded by long, jet-black lashes; a small, well-proportioned nose; a tiny mouth with even, white teeth; and, lastly, imparting an infinite charm to the whole face, a something artless and touching--something which denoted that its possessor did not know how to lie.

Sans-Cravate gazed at the young woman, and stood as if rooted to the floor, unable, afraid, to believe his eyes. At last he stepped forward, then stopped, looked at her again, and muttered:

"Oh! my God! is it possible? is it a dream? But, no--I am mistaken--it cannot be her!"

But the girl, who had begun to tremble as she looked at Sans-Cravate, and whose eyes had filled with tears, suddenly ran forward and threw herself into the messenger's arms.

"Brother! can it be you? Mon Dieu! aren't you willing to recognize me?"

"My own sister! my Liline!" cried Sans-Cravate, taking the girl's head in his hands, and covering her face with kisses; "so it is really you!"

But the joyous expression of his face came and went like a lightning flash. He let his arms fall, stepped away from the girl, and continued with an accent of utter despair:

"My sister here in Paris--with Monsieur Albert! My sister abducted--and ruined, of course! O my God! our poor father!"

And Sans-Cravate sank upon a chair; he could not speak, he could not see; his forehead was burning, he was completely crushed by his grief. But his sister went to him again, she held out her arms to him, knelt at his feet, and said in a tone that went to his heart:

"Forgive me, brother, I beseech you; forgive me!"

That sweet voice reached the lowest depths of the messenger's heart; he raised his sister and drew her to him, saying:

"But how can it have happened? Come, tell me the whole story; don't keep anything from me, for I must know all!"

Adeline sat on her brother's knee, and said in a faltering tone:

"Yes, I will tell you how it happened; you know that I never lie."--Then, with an intonation of the voice and a simplicity of language as ingenuous as her features, she told her story as follows:

"The last time that you came home to see father, I was, as you know, living with a rich lady who had taken a fancy to me and treated me as her daughter. Father gave his consent, for he thought the education I should receive with her might be of use to me some day. So I was at Clermont, with my patroness. She made me work hard--reading, and studying music; but I often regretted our little cottage, brother, where I could run and jump about and play when I pleased; while in my patroness's salon I always had to be neatly dressed, to stand very straight, and to give up all the games I had enjoyed in my childhood; in fact, Étienne, if I must admit it, I was sometimes depressed and often bored; but I dared not say so, for fear of seeming ungrateful. My greatest happiness was to sit at a window looking on the road; for from there I could see the fields and our village and our mountains; and as I worked at my embroidery, I often looked with a sigh in the direction of our cottage.

"About five weeks ago, while I was at the window, I saw a young man ride by. He looked at me; I turned my eyes away, but I thought I could see that he bowed to me. The next day, he passed again and looked up again; and as I was sure that he bowed to me that time, I thought that it was courteous to do as much. Several days in succession he rode by; I was always at the window, always looking toward our village, but I knew very well when the young man was there. The window was not very far from the ground; he rode near and said a few words to me, which I didn't listen to the first day, but which I answered on the second. In short--I don't know how it happened, but, before long, Monsieur Albert--he was the young man on horseback--told me that he loved me, and I confessed that I loved him too. Ah! brother, if you knew how happy he looked when I told him that; he declared that he couldn't live without me, and I urged him to go to the village to see father and ask his permission to marry me. The next day, he came with a very downcast air, and told me that he had seen father, who had refused his consent to our marriage; then I told him to see my patroness, but he said that she had other projects for me; that he knew that she intended to marry me to a very rich old gentleman whom she expected at Clermont any day. At that I wept, but Albert said to me: 'There's only one way for us to avoid being parted; that is, for you to consent to come to Paris with me; we will be married at once, and then our parents will have to forgive us.'--I refused at first; but he begged so hard, swearing that I should surely be his wife, and there was so much love in his eyes and in my heart, that I ended by giving way.--'I will take you to Paris,' he said; 'and when we are married, I'll write to your father to join us there.'--Then I thought of you, and I said: 'I have a brother in Paris, his name's Étienne, and he's a fine fellow;'--but--I mustn't lie to you--I didn't tell him you were a messenger, for at my patroness's they seemed to laugh at men who followed that calling. I said that you were learning to make money, but that I didn't know how, and Albert answered: 'We will find your brother, and I will love him too.'--Well--so I allowed him to carry me off, to bring me to Paris; I did whatever Albert wanted me to do. Forgive me, Étienne; it was very wicked, I know. But Albert is an honorable man; he will marry me, because he has promised to; I shall be his wife, and then father will forgive me, too, won't he?"

Sans-Cravate listened in gloomy and depressed silence to his sister's story; when she ceased to speak, he sat for some time, absorbed in his grief, and seemed to be waiting for her to say something more. But he suddenly pushed her away, sprang to his feet, and began to pace the floor, crying:

"So this is how these fine young men behave, whose errands we do for them! Ah! I deserve what has happened; yes, I have been doing wrong for a long time, I too am becoming a ne'er-do-well, I allow myself to be tempted to gamble and drink, and I forget my old home, and my father and family! And now, this fine gentleman who pays me so generously, this excellent customer who is always so free with his money, gives me another big fee--and for what? to help him hide my sister, whom he has abducted and dishonored! Ah! _crédié!_ my hands itch!"

"Oh! brother, don't be angry. Perhaps Albert doesn't know that you are my brother."

"Oh! no, indeed he don't know it! if he had, you may be sure he wouldn't have come for me. And then, you told him that your brother's name was Étienne, and everyone here calls me Sans-Cravate. But heaven has permitted me to find you in Paris; for, do you see, Liline, I am here now, and your seducer must undo the wrong he has done, or I'll kill him on the spot!"

"Oh! my dear brother, don't have such horrible thoughts! Why should you suppose that Albert has deceived me? As he told me that I should be his wife, he will certainly marry me!"

"Marry you! Poor girl; with all the fine things you learned at Clermont, you are still very ignorant! you don't know that these young Parisian dandies take pleasure in deceiving women who are weak enough to listen to them--yes, and are proud of it; that they have three or four mistresses at once; that they fall in love with every pretty face they see."

"Oh! mon Dieu, brother! do you think Albert is like that?"

"I don't think it; I am sure of it! Haven't I served him in his intrigues a hundred times--carried his love letters and his messages? Ten thousand thunders! And I laughed at it, and thought that it was all right for him to amuse himself--to deceive poor girls who were often driven to despair by his treachery--to make sport of other people's sufferings! Ah! I was a heartless villain; and, instead of serving him so faithfully, I ought to have said to him: 'Monsieur Albert, what you are doing is all wrong, and I refuse to do any more of your dirty work.'--But when we ourselves are not injured, we don't care; it seems nothing at all to us, and we even laugh sometimes at the rascality practised on others! Ah! my poor Liline! Why did father let you go to that lady's at Clermont? why didn't he keep you with him at the cottage? and me too, instead of sending me to Paris? Ah! a man ought never to part with his children! ain't they always better off with their parents than anywhere else? Come, come; you are crying now; come and kiss me: don't cry, don't despair!"

The pretty Auvergnate wept bitterly, for her brother had torn her heart by telling her that her lover was a deceiver; but she could not believe as yet that Albert did not intend to keep his promise, and she murmured between her sobs:

"Oh, brother! I am very sure that he loves me; he tells me so all day long. Why should he have brought me to Paris, if he doesn't love me?"

"Oh! he loves you enough to make you his mistress--but his wife! remember that we are only poor folk, that I am only a messenger--while he is a young man of high social position; he is rich; he wouldn't have me for a brother-in-law; why, you see, even you yourself, who have had a fine education and learned society manners, didn't dare to tell him that your brother was a messenger."

"Oh! forgive me, brother!"

And the girl threw herself into Sans-Cravate's arms, hid her face against his breast, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

"No, no!" she repeated; "he will not deceive me."

Sans-Cravate disengaged himself from her arms, drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and cried:

"Well! this is no time to cry like two children; that won't help us. I must act; I must decide what to do. But I have made up my mind."

"What are you going to do, brother?"

"I am going straight to Monsieur Albert's father, because, you see, that's all there is to do. The son might say: 'I ain't my own master, I don't dare, I must wait.'--But that ain't the kind of answer I want. With the father we shall know what to expect, at all events. Besides, they say that Monsieur Vermoncey's an honorable man; in that case, he will understand my grief and be touched by your position; he won't be willing that honest poor folk should be dishonored by his son; he won't despise us because we haven't got any money, and because I'm only a messenger. I'll say to him: 'Monsieur, we didn't go after your son, to try to catch him; it was him that wanted my sister, and he ran off with her and promised to marry her; and if he don't marry her, _jarni!_ it will be bad for him, for I ain't the man to put up with such an insult.' But Monsieur Vermoncey will understand me, and he loves his son; he's a fine man, and he will consent--yes, I feel hopeful now, for it seems to me that I have words in my heart that can't fail to move him. Come, Liline, don't cry any more; cheer up; you shall marry Monsieur Albert."

"Oh! yes, brother, yes! I'm very happy that you agree with me now."

And the artless child, with whom laughter soon succeeded tears, threw her arms gayly about his neck.

"You must stay here, Liline, and wait for me; you won't leave this house?"

"No, brother."

"When is Monsieur Albert to return?"

"This evening."

"Then I shall be back before him, and I hope to bring you good news. If I don't--if my prayers are rejected--then I'll take you away with me, sister; I won't leave you with your seducer another minute. I will work for both of us. I shan't go to the wine shop any more, that's all over; and I'll steer clear of Jean Ficelle. I will try to save up a tidy little sum before long, and then I'll take you back to father, and we won't leave him again. You'll go with me, won't you, Liline?"

"Yes, brother. But Albert will marry me, his father will consent--you said so yourself just now."

"At all events, we must hope so. Come, kiss me, sister, and pray heaven that my attempt may not be thrown away!"

The girl threw herself into her brother's arms, and he held her to his heart for some time; it required an effort on his part to make up his mind to leave her; at last, summoning all his courage, he kissed Liline once more and left her, to call upon Monsieur Vermoncey.

It was several days prior to this time that Albert's father had fallen in with Madame Baldimer at Monsieur Grazcernitz's reception, whence he had returned home in a state of violent agitation after listening to the fair American's story.

From that moment, Monsieur Vermoncey had remained in his own apartment, sunk in profound melancholy, and had denied himself to all visitors. It seemed that some deep-rooted sorrow, which had been slumbering in the depths of his heart, had suddenly awakened with renewed violence and was engrossing all his thoughts.

His son's return, however, had brought a ray of light into the Vermoncey household; but Albert, absorbed by his new passion, spent as much time as he possibly could with the girl he had brought from Clermont; so that Monsieur Vermoncey saw very little of his son, and he made excuses for him, concluding that after such a prolonged absence he was hungry for the pleasures which he found in the capital.

Sans-Cravate walked with a determined step to Monsieur Vermoncey's house, but when he arrived there he felt that his courage failed him; however, to revive it, he thought of his sister, to whom he had promised good news; he thought of his old father, and of their honor, which was in his hands; then he no longer faltered, but passed the concierge and went up to the door of Monsieur Vermoncey's apartment, where he rang.

"What do you want?" inquired the servant, when he saw the messenger, whose disordered dress, excited manner, and flashing eyes seemed to point to some extraordinary occurrence.

"I want to see Monsieur Albert's father--Monsieur Vermoncey."

"What do you want of him?"

"What I want of him concerns nobody but him and me, and I am not disposed to tell it to you."

"Did monsieur send you on some errand, and have you brought back an answer?"

"He didn't send me anywhere; but I have something to say to him."

"Monsieur is in his study; he doesn't receive anyone."

"But he must receive me!"

"When monsieur refuses every day to receive visits from his friends, I don't imagine he is likely to give preference to a messenger!"

Sans-Cravate spat on his hands and rubbed them together, then shook his fist in the servant's face.

"Do you see that?" he said; "if you don't do my errand right away, I'll smash your nose so that I'll defy you to blow it!"

Sans-Cravate's eyes were so eloquent of his determination, that the servant, having involuntarily stepped back, deemed it prudent not to resist him, and decided to go to his master, to whom he said:

"There's a very savage and rough-mannered messenger outside, who insists on speaking to monsieur. Shall I turn him out of doors?"

Monsieur Vermoncey thought that the man had probably come to bring him news of Paul, for whom he had found a place, and whom he had sought in vain at his usual stand.

"Show him in," he said.

This command was most unwelcome to the servant, who returned to Sans-Cravate and said sullenly:

"Come in; monsieur consents to receive you;--these masters are most astonishing with their whims."

Sans-Cravate trembled slightly, but did not hesitate; he entered the study and found himself in Monsieur Vermoncey's presence.

Albert's father was seated in front of the fire; he turned his head and scrutinized Sans-Cravate, who, after opening the door, stood on the threshold, afraid to go forward.

"Well, what do you want with me? speak!"

Sans-Cravate felt that his throat was parched and that he had no saliva in his mouth; some instants passed before he could articulate a word, but at last he stammered:

"Monsieur, it is--it is about--about monsieur your son."

"My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, who instantly recalled the first time that Paul had come to see him, and feared that another duel was on the carpet. "My son--what has happened to him?--is he in danger? Speak!"

"No, monsieur; no, he is not in danger; and when I say that it's about him--I should say that I have come on my own account, that it's myself who---- _Sacrédié!_--excuse me, monsieur, but I am so worked up--it ain't fear--but it makes me feel queer. One minute, monsieur; my mind is coming back, and, after all, why shouldn't I dare to speak to you? you are an honorable man. I'm a miserable fool to tremble so--now, it's all over!"

Monsieur Vermoncey looked at Sans-Cravate with more interest, and waited with some curiosity for him to explain himself.

"My name is Étienne Renaud," the messenger continued, in a firm voice; "I come from Auvergne; I came to Paris to be a messenger, and they have given me the name of Sans-Cravate here; it's a nickname of no consequence, and I don't mind it. My regular stand is on the corner of Rue du Helder and the boulevard."

"I remember now that I have seen you there," said Monsieur Vermoncey, "and that you have a young man named Paul for your comrade. Have you come to give me news of him?"

Sans-Cravate made a wry face at the name of Paul, and continued:

"No, monsieur; no, it hasn't anything to do with him. I must tell you, monsieur, that I left a very pretty sister in Auvergne, who is seventeen years old now; a lady in Clermont took a fancy to her and insisted on taking her into her family, to give her an education, like a young lady. My sister's an honest girl, d'ye see, monsieur; leastways, she was till the devil sent a young gentleman from Paris down that way, and he began to hang about the house. He saw my Liline and thought she was pretty--_dame!_ it would be hard for anyone not to think so,--the sweetest little face in Auvergne; and now she has distinguished manners, so that anyone would swear she was a princess! Well, monsieur, to cut it short, this young man--who's a good-looking fellow, too, worse luck! and all the women like him--well, he seduced my sister! The poor child! she believed in love right away, as you believe fine weather's coming when you see the first swallows. He told her a lot of things to turn her head, and made her believe my father had refused to give him her hand; which ain't true, I am sure, for my father loves her too dearly to refuse to give her to the man she loves. In short, he promised, swore, that he'd marry her, if she'd consent to come to Paris with him; and my sister believed it all, she never thought for a moment that the young man meant to deceive her, so she yielded to his entreaties. She came to Paris with her--her lover--I might as well say the word. And the young man who did all this is your son, monsieur, Monsieur Albert!"

"My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, fastening his eyes upon Sans-Cravate, unable to believe that he had heard aright. "My son has done that! Oh, no! you are mistaken; you have been misinformed."

"Oh! it's only too true, monsieur; there's no chance of any mistake. I know Monsieur Albert well; I've been his messenger a long while; and as he always spoke pleasantly to me, I liked him--yes, I was fond of him; his good humor, his pleasant manners, his happy disposition, perhaps his very faults--all fascinated me too. In fact, I would have jumped into the fire for him; and he knew it, and he always came for me when he had some shady errand to be done. I hadn't seen him for more than two months, and I'd concluded he was travelling somewhere, when he came after me at my stand about half-past nine this morning."

"This morning?"

"Yes, monsieur; it ain't an old story, you see.--'Sans-Cravate,' he says, 'I've brought a lovely girl back to Paris with me, but my father mustn't know anything about it. I took lodgings for her a long way off, on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain; but I have just found out that one of my father's intimate friends lives on that street now.'"

"True--Monsieur Delmas. Well?"

"'And so,' he went on, 'as I don't want to meet anybody I know when I go to see my young friend, I've hired another apartment, on Rue Grange-aux-Belles, near the canal.'--In short, monsieur, he employed me to move the furniture from Rue de Grenelle to the new lodgings in a great hurry, and to wait till he brought his lady there. I agreed, of course, and did what he told me to do. I finished the job before two o'clock, and I had gone out to rest a bit, for I was tired out, when the concierge came and told me they had arrived and the young man had gone right away again. I went to see the lady, to find out whether she was satisfied with the way I'd fixed her furniture. You can judge of my feelings when I recognized my sister Liline in the girl Monsieur Albert had abducted. She cried when she saw me, and kissed me, and begged me to forgive her; then she told me how it had all happened, just as I have told you; and she begged me not to get angry, because she is perfectly sure her lover will marry her as he has promised."

"My son has done that! abducted a virtuous girl! and seduced her! Oh! that is very bad--it is----"

Monsieur Vermoncey did not finish his sentence, but hid his face in his hands.

"I am only a poor, uneducated messenger, monsieur. But I have my honor, and I care all the more for it, d'ye see, because it's all I've got. At first I cried with my sister, and broke her heart by telling her that her seducer was probably a fickle fellow who only intended to deceive her as he has a thousand other women; but she seems so convinced of his love; and then, she's so sweet and pretty, poor Liline! After all, why shouldn't Monsieur Albert love her sincerely? That thought brought back my courage, and I comforted her and made up my mind right off to come and tell you the whole story, because you're the young man's father, and it can't be fixed without your consent. I thought, monsieur, that you would listen to the voice of poor people who may be ruined by your son--but who can be made very happy by you, if you choose."

Sans-Cravate ceased to speak; he was satisfied with his performance. In truth, his sister's plight had made him almost eloquent; for we never lack moving words, words that go to the heart, when we follow the heart's promptings.

Monsieur Vermoncey said nothing, but seemed absorbed in thought. The messenger anxiously awaited the words that were to come forth from his mouth, and to decide his sister's fate; but he dared not urge him to speak, and his eyes alone bore witness to his impatience.

At last, Monsieur Vermoncey rose, went to Sans-Cravate, put his hand on his shoulder, and said:

"Come, my friend, let us try to forgive a young man's wrong-doing, all the consequences of which he failed to realize. I am rich; I will take it upon myself to look after your sister's future, and that of your whole family; your father, in his old age, shall have everything to make life pleasant, and----"

"What's that? what's that?" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, stepping back and looking Monsieur Vermoncey squarely in the eye. "What are you coming at with all your talk about money? It isn't money that we ask, but the honor that your son has taken away from us and must give back. In a word, monsieur, for I don't go to a place by thirty-six roads, I have come here to demand your consent to Monsieur Albert's marriage to my sister."

"My son marry your sister!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, with a slight upward movement of the shoulders. "Nonsense, my friend; surely, you can't think of such a thing; such a marriage is impossible! There are distinctions, conventions, in society, which we are bound to respect. In fact, my son cannot ally himself to a--messenger!"

"Then why could he dishonor my sister?" cried Sans-Cravate, in a loud voice and with an angry glance at his interlocutor.

"Hush, my friend, not so loud, for heaven's sake!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, astonished by the tone the messenger had assumed. But Sans-Cravate paid no heed; he was no longer the timid creature who trembled when he entered the presence of the man of the world and could not speak to him without stammering; now he was a brother demanding justice for his sister, and firmly resolved to obtain it.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am no boaster; I haven't come here to fling words in the air without any result; I have come to tell you what is going to happen. Either monsieur your son will marry my sister, you understand--either he'll marry her, or I'll kill him--unless he kills me. But as I believe there is such a thing as divine justice, and I am the injured party, I can afford to think that I shall kill him."

Monsieur Vermoncey dropped into a chair.

"Kill my son!" he cried; "my Albert! the only child left to me--the only tie that binds me to life! Do you mean to kill me too?"

"Then consent to his marriage to my sister, monsieur, and don't think you'll have any reason to blush for the connection. There's nothing dishonorable, monsieur, in being connected with honest folk who never injured anyone. The dishonorable thing is to carry trouble and despair into a family, to seduce a girl, and to abandon her when she may be carrying within her a token of her weakness; and if that should be so, monsieur, what would become of the child? He wouldn't have any father--he----"

Monsieur Vermoncey sprang to his feet, ran to Sans-Cravate, and grasped his hand, saying:

"You are right, my friend, and I must give way. Yes, I consent to my son's marrying your sister."

"Can it be possible?" cried Sans-Cravate, jumping for joy; "you consent--you are willing? I am not deceiving myself?"

"Yes, my friend, I consent; you have my word; but you must leave your present business; I will find you some more suitable employment."

"Oh! whatever you choose, monsieur; mon Dieu! I'll go back to the old home, I'll take care of the barnyard, I'll never go out of the house, if you say so."

"Never fear, my friend; I will arrange matters so that we shall all be satisfied. Go and get your sister, and bring her back with you; I will receive her as my daughter, and I desire that the marriage ceremony be performed at the earliest possible moment."

"Oh! this is too much good fortune! I knew that you were a good man. I will love you as I do my own father; and my poor sister, my Liline, how happy she will be! Why, it's enough to make one crazy with joy!"

And Sans-Cravate danced about the room, overturning furniture, laughing and singing. Monsieur Vermoncey was obliged to quiet him, and to remind him that his sister was expecting him.

"Oh, yes! you are right," was the reply; "my sister's waiting for me, and I don't hurry and tell her! What a fool I am! And that poor Monsieur Albert, who is with her, no doubt! I'll go right away and tell them how kind you are; and I'll bring them back to your arms. Oh! it won't take me long, I promise you."

A minute later, Sans-Cravate was in the street, and he ran without stopping to the house where he had left his sister. He was drenched with perspiration when he arrived. He entered the house and was already on the stairs, when the concierge called him.

"Well, comrade, where are you going so fast?"

"Parbleu! to see my sister. The pretty little lady who moved in to-day is my sister."

"I don't know anything about that, but you won't find her."

"What! has she gone out--alone?"

"No--with the young gentleman who brought her here; he came back just after you went away."

"Well! they'll be back soon, no doubt. Do you know which way they went?"

"No; and I don't think they'll be back for a long while. The gentleman sent for a cab, and put in the satchel of clothes they brought here this morning. Then he gave me the keys to the apartment, and said: 'Just air the rooms a little, now and then.'--And with that, he put the little lady in the cab, got in beside her, and good-day. It's my opinion they've left Paris."

"Gone! they have gone!" ejaculated Sans-Cravate. "Great God! Monsieur Albert probably thought that his father wouldn't forgive him; he was afraid he'd have to part with Liline. Oh! what a misfortune! But they'll write, I hope. Didn't my sister leave any word for me?"

"Not a word; but I saw she was crying when she got into the cab."

"She was crying--poor girl! and they'd have been so happy, if they had only waited for me!"

Sans-Cravate was in despair; but as he could learn nothing more from the concierge, he returned to Monsieur Vermoncey and told him of the abrupt departure of the lovers.

Albert's father was greatly distressed by the news, and he at once sent to his son's apartment to ascertain whether he had left a letter for him. The servant brought back a short note, which had evidently been written in great haste and contained these words only:

"Excuse my absence, father; I am compelled to go away again, and this time without saying good-bye to you. But don't be anxious; you will hear from me often, and I hope to see you again before long."

"And he don't say where he's going!" murmured Sans-Cravate. "What a pity! you could have written to him at once that he could come back, that everything was forgiven."

"Perhaps he will tell me where he is, in his first letter," suggested Monsieur Vermoncey; "then I will write to him, or else we will both go and join them."

"Ah! yes, yes, we will do that, that's a fine idea; but till then I must be patient. Will you allow me, monsieur, to come often to ask whether you have heard from your son?"

"Whenever you choose, my friend; you are no longer a stranger to me. Here, Étienne, take this purse, and give up your trade; from this moment you do not need to earn money."

Sans-Cravate declined the money that was offered him, and replied, in a melancholy tone:

"No, monsieur, not yet; my sister ain't your son's wife as yet; until then, let me stay as I am."

Monsieur Vermoncey's persistent entreaties could not shake his determination.

"Let's hope they will come back," he said, as he went away, "or that we shall soon find out where they are."

He returned to his stand, lost in thought, with no desire to laugh or dance, and saying to himself:

"Was it because he learned that Liline had found her brother that Monsieur Albert carried her off so quick?"

XXVII

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP

When Paul lay on the ground, unconscious, after he had been wounded on the head and arm by his fall, Bastringuette had hastened to the spot; and seeing Sans-Cravate walk rapidly away, she had partly divined the cause of the younger man's deplorable condition.

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried the girl; "they have been fighting--or, rather, Sans-Cravate insisted on fighting this poor boy, who ain't strong enough to stand up to him. And it must have been jealousy that made Sans-Cravate do it--because he saw me talking to Paul. I'm the cause of his hard luck--or my beastly coquetry, my foolish idea of changing lovers, when I was well off. But that's how it always is in love; when you're well off, it bores you, and you want to change; when you're badly off, you stay as you are."

While she talked thus to herself, Bastringuette did what she could for the young messenger. The people who had collected talked about carrying him to the nearest hospital, but Bastringuette cried out at the word:

"I guess not much! You don't catch me letting this poor boy go to the hospital while I have a decent place to take him to! He must have rooms somewhere himself; but as he can't talk just now, he can't tell us where they are. Anyway, it will be more convenient for me to nurse him and make herb tea for him in my room; for these boys never have a kettle fit to boil water in."

So the flower girl sent for a cab; they lifted the wounded man into it, after she had bandaged his head and arm as well as she could; then she gave her address--Rue des Martyrs, near the barrier--and when they arrived there, Paul was taken up to her room, with the assistance of the cabman and the concierge, and placed on her bed.

As may be imagined, Bastringuette's domicile was not luxurious. Her apartment consisted of a bedroom and closet, on the fifth floor, under the eaves. She called it the sparrows' entresol.

The furniture was very modest: a wooden cot-bed, a cherry commode, six cane-seated chairs,--or rather six chairs that needed to be reseated,--a small table, a mirror, a foot-warmer, and a stove. So much for the bedroom. As to the closet, it contained a row of pegs, on which nothing was ever hung. But the aspect of the bedroom was not unpleasant and did not indicate downright poverty, thanks to the spotless cleanliness that prevailed.

The bed was surrounded with calico curtains, always very white; there were also two little curtains of the same material at the window, taking the place of one large one. On the commode, on the little table, and on the window sill, there were almost always flowers, some in pots, some in blue carafes. Flowers were Bastringuette's one luxury, and more than once she had breakfasted on a crust of bread in order to have flowers during the winter, when she did not sell them.

After placing Paul on the bed, Bastringuette went to one of her neighbors and asked her to go for a doctor. The tall girl was popular in the house, because she was light-hearted and clever; and they loved to hear her talk, and repeat in her homely language all the flattering speeches made to her by the men who bought flowers of her.

When they learned that the flower girl had a wounded man in her room, the neighbors all wanted to help: one went for a doctor, another for a druggist; this one had a remedy of her own preparation, that one an infallible ointment; so that when Paul opened his eyes he found himself surrounded by women of all ages, all talking at once, and all anxious to cure him, offering ointment, herb tea, plasters, and blisters, each with at least three phials in her hand. Luckily for the wounded man, the doctor came and restored peace among the women, who were disputing with one another as to whose remedy should be preferred. The doctor began by throwing all the phials out of the window, then turned his would-be confrères out of the room; and having examined the patient, found that the wound on the head was severe but not dangerous, that he had sprained his arm when he fell, and that what he most needed were rest and good nursing.

Paul looked about the room in amazement. When the doctor had gone, Bastringuette said:

"Now, try to be calm and quiet; let me take care of you, and don't talk! the doctor says you mustn't. You're in my room; that vexes you, perhaps, but, _dame!_ I didn't know your address, and I wouldn't let you be taken to the hospital. It don't put me out a bit, don't you be afraid; I'm my own mistress, and I snap my fingers at what folks say! I know well enough that there's some people always ready to see something wrong in whatever anyone does, and who'll think you're my lover. I don't care for that. There was a time when I'd have liked right well to have you, I don't deny it; I had fallen in love with you; you made my head queer, like a sunstroke. And that was when I turned my back on poor Sans-Cravate! I made a great success of that. You told me right out that you loved somebody else--and then--there was what I heard, what I found out about you. I saw plain enough, then, that you was too far above me--by the way you acted. Hush! don't speak, the doctor says you mustn't. You don't like what I say, so I'm done, it's dead; I won't mention it again. When chance let me into your secret, you made me swear to keep quiet about it; but that's no reason why I can't tell you, between ourselves, that it's a noble thing you're doing, and you ought to have the prize of virtue, the prize of---- Well, you're moving your lips, so I'll shut up. Now, go to sleep, or try to go to sleep; and when you wake up, perhaps you'll have a pleasant surprise--no one knows!"

"You are too good," murmured Paul, in a weak voice; "but I am in your way here; you ought to have let me----"

"Hold your tongue this minute! I ought to have let you be taken to the hospital, eh? That would have been a sweet thing to do! when I was the cause of it all--yes, it was my nonsense! If I hadn't made eyes at you--in fact, if I hadn't tried to catch you, would Sans-Cravate have hit you? Now, he hates me, and he's quite right; but he's all wrong to fight you, because it ain't your fault. Come, go to sleep; the doctor said you must sleep; and I tell you again that you ain't in my way; I've got another bed in the closet, and I'll sleep on that. I'm going out to get the medicines the doctor ordered; I shan't be gone long."

Bastringuette left the room; and Paul closed his eyes, praying heaven to deal kindly with him, because his existence was still necessary.

Toward evening, after several hours of restless slumber, he opened his eyes; two faces were leaning over him, waiting for the moment of his awakening. Paul uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized Elina.

"Yes, it's Mamzelle Elina," said Bastringuette; "it's your sweetheart. I went and waited for her at her dressmaker's door, so's to tell her what had happened to you, and I had an idea she'd come back with me. That's why I said perhaps you'd have a pleasant waking-up."

Paul held out his hand to the little dressmaker, who gazed at him with eyes full of love and tears as she said:

"Oh, my friend! you are wounded! what a misfortune! But still I'm very happy that Bastringuette came and told me. She told me how it occurred, too. A horrid drunken man pushed you and knocked you down; she happened to be passing and saw you lying on the ground, unconscious, and had you brought here to her room. She's a dear, good girl, and she loves you almost as much as I do. I should have been so anxious, so unhappy, when I didn't see you! I should have thought again that you had stopped loving me. But now I'll come and see you every day; yes, monsieur, every day; in the morning when I go to my work, and at night before I go home to my aunt's.--What is it, monsieur? don't you want me to?"

"If your aunt should find it out," Paul murmured, "she would scold you, and I don't want to expose you to----"

"What an extraordinary man!" cried Bastringuette; "he's willing to be loved, but he don't want anybody to do anything for him. Bless my soul! mademoiselle will get up a little earlier and go home a little later--what a hardship! She'll tire herself, perhaps, to get here a little sooner; but she'll see you, and that'll do you good and her too."

"Oh! yes, my dear," said Elina, "let me spend every minute I am at liberty with you; let me help Bastringuette; I shall be so happy when I see you getting better every day! and the first time you go out, you will lean on her and me. Oh! you shall see how I can take care of you, too; I look like a light-headed little thing, but I won't be that any more; I mean that you shall be satisfied with me."

The young invalid felt the tears roll down his cheeks when he saw how fond they were of him; and he was so moved to find himself the object of such sweet and loving attentions, that he could not speak; but he looked from one to the other of the girls who stood beside his bed, and his eyes probably told them all that was taking place in his heart, for Bastringuette exclaimed, with her customary bluntness:

"Oh, well! if we're going to be sentimental, and all three of us cry, we shall make a pretty mess of it; it'll give him the fever, and he won't get well. The doctor said he mustn't be excited, and we've done nothing else!"

Elina sat down beside the bed, took one of the injured man's hands in hers, and said to him in a low, very low tone:

"Does it do you any harm to see how much I love you? More's the pity if it does; I'll tell you every day. And if my aunt should find out that I come to see you, why, I'll say: 'Paul is going to be my husband, aunt; and a woman has a right to nurse her husband.'"

While the little dressmaker said to her lover all that her heart prompted her to say, Bastringuette went to one of her neighbors and borrowed a wretched mattress, which she carried into her closet; then she threw some old clothes on it, and said to herself:

"I shall sleep well enough there; anyway, a nurse can't sleep much."

Elina, having to return to her aunt, left them with regret, saying:

"Until to-morrow!"

Then, after administering to her patient a draught prescribed by the doctor, Bastringuette lay down on the mattress on the floor of the closet.

"I'll be on hand if you make the least movement," she said to Paul.

Early the next morning, Elina was at the flower girl's, bringing some sugar and a small jar of preserve.

"It's my right to help take care of him," she said to Bastringuette. "My aunt gives me so much a day for my food, and I can afford to pinch myself a little for my poor Paul."

That seemed natural enough to Bastringuette, for she would have done as much.

If the certainty of being loved had been sufficient to restore the young messenger's health, Paul would have been cured in a very short time. But such was not the case; unluckily, the patient's mind was constantly occupied by other thoughts. He was worried and alarmed by his helpless plight, and the wound on his head, instead of cicatrizing, became more serious, because it was complicated by a sharp attack of fever.

The two girls redoubled their zealous attentions to the patient; Bastringuette passed part of the night with him; Elina sometimes arrived before daybreak, and often remained very late in the evening, having succeeded in making her aunt believe that she worked late at Madame Dumanchon's. Both of them deprived themselves of the most essential necessities of life, so that the sick man need lack nothing; but neither of them complained nor would have consented to surrender the place she occupied.

One evening, after a day during which the fever had not left him for an instant, Paul looked about and saw that Bastringuette was alone in the room. She had gone into a corner, so that the invalid might not see her eat the piece of dry bread of which her evening meal consisted. Paul called her, and she hastened to his side after thrusting her bread into her pocket.

"What day is it?" he asked, fixing his eyes, bright with fever, on Bastringuette's.

"What day? This is Tuesday."

"No, not that; what day of the month?"

"Oh! it's the twenty-fourth."

"The twenty-fourth! Why, how long have I been sick?"

"It was the fifth you got so used up! I remember it very well; it was a Thursday."

"The fifth; so I've been here nineteen days?"

"Well, what if it was fifty? I can understand that it bores you to be sick, but ain't you well taken care of here? Don't Mamzelle Elina and I do all that's necessary, all the doctor says?"

"Ah! yes, my good Bastringuette--indeed you do too much! But to-morrow's the twenty-fifth. Great God! It can't be postponed. That thought, Bastringuette, is what gives me the fever and keeps me from getting well."

"What thought? Come, speak out, tell me what you want me to do. I'll do it right away."

"Oh! yes, yes! you will do it, won't you?"

"Do you want me to swear?"

"No. Listen: that old lady, at whose rooms you met me, on Vieille Rue du Temple----"

"Madame Desroches?"

"Yes; I absolutely must send her some money."

"Money! Mon Dieu! as if----"

"Oh! I am well aware that you haven't any, my poor girl! I know that you and Elina deprive yourselves of everything in order to take care of me."

"No, no--nonsense! The druggist gives me the medicines for nothing."

"Listen. To-morrow morning, early, you must go to my room--the key is in the pocket of my jacket. It's on Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, No. 10. Go up to the fifth floor, the door on the left. There you will find sixty francs in the table drawer."

"Ah! what luck!"

"Wait a moment: you are to take that money, also a frock-coat, a pair of black trousers, and a black waistcoat, which you will find in a small wardrobe. They are all in good condition, almost new, I wear them so seldom. However, if you think they are not enough, take all the linen you can find--four shirts, some sheets----"

"Mon Dieu! what am I to do with all those things?"

"Take them to the Mont-de-Piété, and get forty francs on them, which you will put with the sixty; for to-morrow,--yes, to-morrow, the twenty-fifth,--you must carry a hundred francs to Madame Desroches. You must do it, do you hear?"

"Noble young man! What! you mean to go on doing without everything, to----"

"Hush, Bastringuette! you must carry that sum to-morrow to the widow of my benefactor. If that isn't done, I feel that I shall never get well."

"Oh! in that case, I'll go. Never you fear! I'll do everything you've told me, and she shall have the money to-morrow. But suppose your concierge won't let me carry the things away?"

"There isn't any concierge."

"In that case, it will soon be fixed up."

"Good! I thank you, Bastringuette. And you won't mention this to Elina?"

"Oh! dear me, no! as long as you don't want her to know your good deeds."

"I am simply doing my duty. If only heaven will permit me to finish what I have undertaken! I was so happy to think that, in a few months more---- However, you'll go to-morrow, won't you, Bastringuette?--By the way, one word more: Madame Desroches will ask you, no doubt, why I haven't been to see her for so long a time, and why I have sent you with the money. You must tell her that I sent you because I had to leave Paris, to go on a short journey for the house in which I am employed. Don't forget that."

"No, I won't forget anything."

Paul slept more quietly, thinking that the person whose self-constituted protector he was would not have to suffer by reason of the misfortune that had befallen him. That night his sleep refreshed him, and when he woke he saw Elina's pretty face leaning over him, and, in the background, Bastringuette, whose eyes seemed to express a wish to speak to him.

"Oh! what joy!" cried Elina; "you have slept till much later to-day. It's almost eleven o'clock. Luckily, I had a dress to deliver, so I was able to come back."

"And I feel much better," said Paul.

Bastringuette seized the opportunity, when she was giving the invalid his draught, to whisper in his ear:

"Your errand is done. She has the hundred francs."

Paul could not reply, but his look expressed his satisfaction. From that day the fever abated, and the young man soon became convalescent.

XXVIII

THE INEVITABLE HAPPENS

It was only a few days since Albert had returned to Paris, and he had hardly had time to see his closest friends, when he disappeared again, and no one knew the reason of his abrupt departure.

When the jovial Mouillot chanced to meet Balivan or Dupétrain or Célestin, it rarely happened that they did not discuss the conduct of young Vermoncey.

"What sort of a life is he leading now?" said Mouillot; "he goes off, and is gone nearly three months; then he comes back, we see him two or three times, and off he goes again without a word, just at the beginning of winter, when all sorts of amusements have centred in the capital."

Monsieur Célestin, who had not given out that he had had a definitive rupture with Albert, contented himself with some such reply as this:

"As I have been entirely unable to understand Albert's moods of late, I have seen very much less of him. He's a queer fish: one of those people who fly into a passion without any idea what it's all about; and I bother my head very little as to what he does or what becomes of him!"

"For my part," said Balivan, "I am very fond of the fellow. He's heedless and light-headed, but I am sure that he's as straight as a string, and he's most obliging. He's a mighty bright fellow, too; and if he'd like, I'd be glad to take a trip to Italy with him."

"If Monsieur Albert had chosen," said Monsieur Dupétrain, "he would have made a first-class subject for magnetism; he had just the right look in his eyes to put himself in communication with a somnambulist."

"How about the fair lady that you were paying court to not long ago?" said Monsieur Célestin, in a sarcastic tone; "have you magnetized her?"

"Madame Baldimer? No; I tried, but I couldn't make it work; she's a woman who is absolutely free from nervousness."

They asked one another about Tobie Pigeonnier also, who was still undiscoverable.

"Gad!" said Mouillot; "I wouldn't give five sous for that olive stone that poor Monsieur Varinet persists in carrying about in his purse."

Madame Plays was not disturbed about Albert, but she was fully determined to be revenged on little Tobie, who had hoodwinked her so completely with his alleged duel and was responsible for her having exhaled an odor of tobacco for two months. Every morning, she sent for a carriage, entered it with her husband, and took him to a shooting gallery, thence to a fencing school; and there the submissive husband was compelled to practise an hour with the pistol, and another hour with the sword; and his wife constantly scolded him because he could never succeed in hitting the target or in learning to parry a thrust.

Poor Monsieur Plays would return home tired to death.

"My dear love," he would say to his wife, "I assure you that I prefer to learn whist; I understand it much better than I do fencing."

"Whether you understand it or not," the fair Herminie would reply, "you've got to fight with that little Tobie, who isn't likely to be very formidable. Remember, monsieur, that you are to challenge him, wherever you meet him!"

And Monsieur Plays would bend his head with an air of resignation; and when he was on the street, or driving, if he saw a man who resembled Tobie, he would hasten away in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, two months had passed since Sans-Cravate had found his sister, only to lose her again at once. During that time the messenger had called frequently at Monsieur Vermoncey's, to ask if he had heard from his son, and if he knew where he had taken his sister. But Albert had written only two letters to his father; they were very short, and did not mention the girl he had abducted. One was dated in Alsace, and the other in Switzerland; he simply said that he was travelling, and gave no address.

As time passed, Sans-Cravate's hopes grew fainter and fainter; often, after questioning Monsieur Vermoncey, he would shake his head sadly, and mutter:

"This looks bad! I tell you, monsieur, I'm very much afraid Monsieur Albert don't intend to do what's right. I don't like this keeping my sister away from me and preventing her from writing--for if he didn't forbid her to do it, I'm sure she'd have let me know where she is before this. And then, his not making any attempt to get you to forgive him for what he's done! I'm only a poor devil, without any education, but it don't seem to me that all that looks like a purpose to keep his promises."

Monsieur Vermoncey strove to reassure him, saying:

"You can always rely on my word!"

And the messenger would return to his stand, reflecting thus:

"The father's an honorable man, that's sure; he'll never go back on what he says; but what good does it do me to have the father's word, if the son don't keep his?"

Since he had seen his sister, since he had conceived the hope that she would be received into the Vermoncey family, Sans-Cravate had entirely changed his ways: he no longer drank too much; he had ceased to frequent wine shops; he was neither quarrelsome nor noisy as before; lastly, he had ceased to consort with Jean Ficelle, and all that worthy's insistence was powerless to induce him to leave his place or neglect his work.

Once only he had met Paul, who was then convalescent, and was crawling painfully along, on Bastringuette's arm; for it was the middle of the day, when Elina could not be with her lover.

Sans-Cravate felt that he quivered all over, and that his hand trembled, when he saw his former comrade's pale, emaciated face. If Paul had been alone, it is probable that Sans-Cravate would have thrown his arms about him and begged him to forgive the injury he had done him; but the presence of Bastringuette reawakened all the pangs of jealousy in his heart, and he walked quickly away, cursing anew his former friend and his former mistress.

But, whether because he was still too weak to work, or because he preferred not to encounter the man who had nearly killed him, Paul did not return to his former stand.

The cold was sharp, the snow fell in large flakes, and the people on the streets and the boulevard walked quickly and did not often stop. Sans-Cravate was in his place, seated on his _crochets_; on his head was a broad-brimmed woollen hat, which protected him from the snow; but, despite the severity of the weather, his neck was bare, as on the warmest day in summer.

"I say, well-named!" cried Jean Ficelle, as he drew near, blowing on his fingers; "do you propose to stay here just to let the snow fall on your nose? This is no weather for customers to take the trouble to come after us. Let's go and get under cover in a wine shop."

"No, I'm done with wine shops," replied Sans-Cravate, shortly.

"Oho! so it's all up with you, is it? You're not a man at all; you've forgotten how to laugh or drink or play cards. Good-day! you're lost to society."

Jean Ficelle walked away. Sans-Cravate had not been alone on the corner three minutes, when, in spite of the bad weather, a young woman in a coquettish little cap and silk apron, and struggling with a large umbrella to shelter her from the snow, walked up to the messenger and said to him:

"Are you Monsieur Sans-Cravate?"

"Yes, mamzelle."

"My mistress would like to speak to you right away."

"Your mistress! Oh! I guess I know you; aren't you with a lady who lives in Rue Neuve-Vivienne?"

"Yes, with Madame Baldimer."

"That's the name."

"Will you come?"

"Right away, mamzelle."

Sans-Cravate followed the lady's-maid, and as he walked along he remembered that he had often carried letters for Albert to the lady in question; he presumed that she had been the mistress of his sister's seducer, and he wondered what she could have to say to him. The thought disturbed and worried him, and he had a feeling of something like terror as he entered the house, which he recognized perfectly.

Mademoiselle Rosa showed the messenger into her mistress's apartment, instead of leaving him, as usual, in the anteroom; in the small salon, she pointed to a chair and said:

"Sit down and wait; madame will come directly."

When the maid had left him, Sans-Cravate looked about in surprise; he was exceedingly curious to know what this lady, who made him wait in a salon, could possibly have to say to him. Soon a door opened, and Madame Baldimer appeared.

She was handsomely dressed, as always, but her face was paler than usual, and her mind seemed to be absorbed by unpleasant thoughts. Having made sure that all the doors were closed, she walked toward Sans-Cravate, and, motioning to him to remain seated, took a chair and placed it in front of him.

The messenger was confounded; he hardly dared to raise his eyes to the beautiful woman's face, but waited for her to explain herself. She speedily broke the silence.

"You are Sans-Cravate?"

"Yes, madame."

"But that name is only a sobriquet which your comrades have given you; your true name is Étienne Renaud, and you are of Auvergne?"

"Yes, madame."

"You have a sister, of whom a lady at Clermont took charge, and that sister, who is now seventeen years old and very pretty, a young man from Paris fell in love with; he seduced her, ran away with her----"

"What, madame!--you know?"

"I know everything; I know all about Albert's conduct. Keep your seat, and listen to me. For a long time past, led by motives which you cannot understand, I have had Albert's every movement watched. I knew of his return to Paris a little more than two months ago; and of your sister's residence on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and of her removal. Lastly, I know of your interview on Rue Grange-aux-Belles."

"But who can have told you--unless it was my sister--or Monsieur Albert?"

"Neither the one nor the other! Mon Dieu! you are a messenger, and yet you do not know that by the free use of money one can be informed of every act of a person whom one chooses to have watched! Now, listen to me: you flattered yourself that Albert would keep the promise he made your sister, that he would repair the wrong he had done her, by marrying her. He will do nothing of the sort. Albert is like most young men, inconstant and unfaithful. Possession very soon extinguishes his love. He was very much in love with your sister when he abducted her, but now he would cry out at the idea of being faithful to her; as for marrying her, he never dreamed of it; and since he has learned that Adeline is the sister of a messenger, he can't understand how anyone else can dream of such a marriage."

"The coward! the sneak!"

"And now, what do you suppose he has done, after travelling with your sister for two months, regretting his liberty and the pleasures of Paris every day, and cursing his folly?"

"Finish, madame, finish!"

"He has hired a little cottage at Lagny for the poor girl, and, after giving her a sum of money and promising to return, he has left her there, fully determined never to see her again."

"Great God! the villain! Ah! if that was true!"

"It is all true, and it rests only with you to be with your sister in a very short time. Here is her address at Lagny, on this paper; if you need money, take this purse. Take it; I am not offering you alms, but assisting you to avenge your sister, because your revenge is mine as well; because, if you have an outrage to wipe out, I have a crime, an infamous crime, to punish, and I have sworn a solemn oath to attain my object."

"I shall attain mine too, but I don't need money for that, madame," replied Sans-Cravate, pushing away the purse.

"At all events, you will not refuse these pistols; I fancy that they may be necessary to you."

As she spoke, Madame Baldimer took from her belt a magnificent pair of pistols and offered them to the messenger, fastening her eyes upon him, already aflame with the hope of vengeance.

Sans-Cravate pounced upon the weapons, crying:

"Ah! yes, madame; yes, these are what I want most of all! But where is he? where is he hiding? you must know that too. Oh! I mustn't let him escape me now!"

"Never fear; trust to me to bring you together. At this moment he is prowling about the outskirts of Paris; but he is likely to return at any time, for he is terribly bored to have to stay away. Wait until he is in Paris; I will let you know of his arrival. But go at once to your sister. Remember that she is alone, abandoned, and that she dares not appeal to you now."

"Ah! you are right, madame; poor Liline! I will go to her at once, and bring her back with me; this time she shan't leave me, I promise you."

"I anticipated your answer. Take this paper; at this address you will find a man with a carriage. I have engaged him for you, and he will take you to Lagny and bring you back with your sister."

"Thanks, madame, thanks a thousand times! I am off. My little Liline, who believed so fully in his promises! But you will surely let me know, madame, as soon as he's in Paris?"

"You cannot doubt it."

"If I'm not at my stand, I live on Rue Saint-Lazare, corner of Rue Saint-Georges."

"I know where you live; and I tell you again that, as soon as Albert is in Paris, I will send you word."

"I count on it, madame; now, I will hurry off and get my sister; after that, I will find a way to avenge her."

Sans-Cravate put the pistols in his pocket; Madame Baldimer handed him the address, and he ran at full speed to the place indicated, where he found a carriage waiting; he jumped in, and shouted to the driver:

"To Lagny! you have been notified, engaged for me. Go at full speed, kill your horses; I am going after my poor sister, and then I'm going to kill the blackguard who seduced her, unless he consents to marry her."

The driver seemed indifferent to all this; but as he had been well paid, he drove rapidly and hardly stopped on the road; so that Sans-Cravate arrived at Lagny in a very short time.

He glanced at the address Madame Baldimer had given him, and inquired of a village woman, who directed him to "The Poplars," which was the name of the cottage he sought. He pointed out an inn and said to the driver:

"Go there and feed your horses; but do it at once and take what you want yourself in a hurry, for I shall return soon with my sister, and you must take us back to Paris on the run."

Sans-Cravate followed the directions he had received, and soon discovered a pretty little cottage surrounded by tall poplar trees, whose topmost branches waved back and forth over the roof. It had the aspect of a bourgeois residence; the shutters were painted green, there was a pretty gate, and flowering plants were in profusion on all sides.

"He was bound to give her a pretty cage, the villain!" thought Sans-Cravate, as he drew near to the house, "hoping that she would like it and keep quiet. Ah! he forgot that she had a brother, and that that brother is Sans-Cravate!"

The messenger rang at the gate, and a peasant girl answered the bell.

"Where is my sister? take me to my sister!" cried Sans-Cravate, pushing the girl roughly before him. She stared at him with a terrified expression; she thought that she had to do with a robber, and she was on the point of shrieking and calling for help. But Adeline had already appeared in the doorway, for, whenever the bell rang, she flattered herself that Albert had returned; she ran forward when she saw that it was a man; then fell into Sans-Cravate's arms, murmuring in a voice stifled by joy and tears:

"It is my brother! Oh! he will not abandon me!"

Sans-Cravate gazed at his sister, whose pale, thin face had undergone so great a change in two months that he would have hesitated before recognizing her.

Adeline led him into a room on the ground floor, and there, gazing at him anew, with her eyes full of tears, she said:

"You are angry with me, of course; the last time I saw you, you made me promise to wait for you, and, in spite of that, I went away. But he came back--and when he learned that I had found you, and that you had gone to beg his father to forgive us, he cried out that that was ridiculous, that his father would be furious, that he would separate us or prevent him from seeing me, and that there was nothing for us to do but leave Paris at once; I believed him--he urged me so hard--and I went with him. We travelled a long time; I kept imploring him to write to you to find out if you had been successful with his father, but he told me we must wait. At last, about a week ago, he brought me here, to this house, told me that I should have everything I desired, left me a lot of money, and went away, saying that he would return soon; so I am always expecting him, and when you rang I thought it was he."

"Poor sister!" said Sans-Cravate, gazing mournfully at the girl, who tried to banish the traces of her tears with a smile; "you will wait for him in vain; he won't come back, the dastard! he has abandoned you, because he don't mean to repair his crime."

"O my God! can it be possible that Albert doesn't love me? It can't be true!"

"Oh! you had guessed it already, I am sure; your pale face, the terrible change in your features since our last meeting, your eyes all red from crying. Oh! you've been unhappy, you've been grieving a long time--that's easy to see."

"Well! yes, brother; I admit that I have noticed for some time that Albert was not so pleasant and loving with me; in fact, he no longer seemed happy, but I thought he was afraid of his father's anger."

"His father! why, he has consented to your marriage."

"Can that be true? what happiness!"

"No, no, my poor Liline, don't be happy too soon! for it is your seducer himself who refuses to wipe out his crime and make you his wife."

"He refuses--Albert! Oh! no, my dear brother, that is impossible; at all events, when he knows--and I haven't dared to tell him that yet--I hoped to make him very happy when he came back, with such a pleasant surprise--ah! brother, when he knows that I am going to be a mother, do you think he will refuse to give a name to his child?"

As she spoke, Adeline hid her face on her brother's shoulder, and he held her for a moment in his arms.

"A mother!" he murmured; "you, a mother! Ah! yes, he must be hard-hearted indeed to abandon you if that is so; and yet--the young men of these days care as little about leaving a poor girl in trouble as they do about changing a coat. Never mind; I'll see this gentleman, I'll speak to him, and, sacrebleu! if he has any decent feelings left, I'll rake 'em up from the bottom of his heart. But meanwhile you must go with me; we must start this very minute."

"I must leave here--but suppose Albert should come back?"

"Don't you be alarmed! he'll be in Paris before long, and Paris is where I'm going to take you. Remember that you must trust me, believe what I say, and obey me. You know perfectly well that I won't deceive you; you know that your happiness and the honor of our family are what I care most about."

"Oh! yes, I do know it, brother."

"Then do what I tell you. Make haste and get together what things belong to you. But leave all the money and jewels that man has given you; for we'll show him that he's mistaken if he thinks he can pay for your dishonor with them. If he deserts you, you will stay with me; I have strong arms, and I'm no longer the sot and loafer I used to be. No, no; I've had troubles of my own, you see; and trouble is like lead--it makes your head heavy. I'll tell you about it some day; meanwhile, I'll work to support you--and your child--and what I give you won't make you blush, at any rate. Go and do what I say, and be quick; there's a carriage waiting for us."

Adeline made no reply, but hastened to do her brother's bidding; she very soon got her things together and made a package of them, which Sans-Cravate took under one arm; he supported his sister with the other and said to the peasant, who stared at them with a stupefied expression:

"If the gentleman comes back and asks for the young lady he brought here, tell him that she went away with her brother--her brother, do you hear? As for her money and jewelry, he'll find them upstairs;--for you haven't taken any of 'em, have you, Liline?"

"No, brother," replied the girl, putting her hand to her breast; "nothing, except this little souvenir, with some of his hair in it."

As she spoke, she showed him a small glass locket, set in gold, in which there was a lock of hair. But Sans-Cravate put out his hand to take it, crying:

"No, no; keep nothing that came from him! What do you want of this souvenir?"

"Oh! brother, let me keep it, I beg you!" faltered the girl, falling on her knees; "for if he casts me off, it will be the only thing I shall have to give my child; he will have nothing else that belongs to his father!"

Sans-Cravate raised his sister, and turned his head aside so that she might not see the tears which he wiped away with his sleeve.

"All right! keep it," he said; "but let us go," and he led his sister away.

They soon reached the place where the carriage awaited them. Sans-Cravate helped his sister in, took his place beside her, and said to the driver:

"Now for Paris, corner of Rue Saint-Lazare and Rue Saint-Georges; a magnificent house, between a fruiterer and a grocer. If you go fast, I'll pay for a good big drink for you."

It was dark, and the journey was melancholy enough; for the brother and sister, both of whom were suffering the same torments, did not choose to talk about them, each for fear of increasing the other's unhappiness.

They arrived at last; Sans-Cravate kept his promise to the driver, and would have given him money too; but he declined it, for he was paid in advance. He drove away with his carriage, and the messenger, taking his sister's hand, said to her:

"Follow me, and we'll climb up to my diggings. Look you: don't expect to find anything very fine, and you'll be less surprised."

Sans-Cravate's lodging would have made an excellent pendant for Bastringuette's: it was under the eaves, like hers, and consisted of a bedroom and a closet; there was just the same amount of furniture, not a piece more; yet there was a vast difference between them, and they had not the same aspect at all: Sans-Cravate's quarters were as dirty and disordered as the flower girl's were clean and neat.

Having procured a light, the messenger said to his sister, who was looking sadly about:

"_Dame!_ this is pretty bad, eh? you don't find any nice furniture here, like what your seducer gave you. But you're in your brother's room, and you can give your address without blushing."

"Mon Dieu! dear brother," replied the girl, seizing the messenger's hand, "you are mistaken if you think that I regret the luxurious life I have been leading. What do I care whether my furniture is walnut or mahogany? I never placed any value on that. Ah! the most beautiful apartment is the one to which one brings a joyful heart!"

"You are right, Liline. When the heart is satisfied, everything seems beautiful! But, still, it didn't use to be so bad here--because it was neat and clean and well dusted; there was a person who undertook to take care of my room, but--that person don't come any more, and since then I haven't had the heart to look after it--so it ain't surprising that it looks the way it does!"

"Well! I'll take that person's place, my dear, and you will see that I too know something about keeping house."

Sans-Cravate kissed his sister and installed her in his room; he gave her his bed, reserving for himself the closet, where he meant to throw a few bundles of straw on the floor; he was not hard to suit, and, so long as his sister could sleep tranquilly, he would be comfortable anywhere.

After a night which seemed very long to them both, because grief and anxiety banished sleep from their eyelids, Sans-Cravate left his closet on tiptoe and listened: his sister had fallen into a doze. He walked softly, in order not to rouse her, and placed on the table beside the bed all the money he possessed.

"There's enough for a little while," he thought; "our expenses won't be very large. I've put a few pieces away, thank God! since I've stopped going to the wine shop, and with Jean Ficelle; I'm mighty proud to have 'em to give her to-day. I'm beginning to think that it ain't the drinking men that have the most fun, but that the pleasures that work affords a man are the best and last the longest."

Sans-Cravate went to his usual place, where he sat down and waited.

"She promised to send me word," he said to himself, "as soon as he's back in Paris, and I'm sure she'll keep her word; for that woman looks to me like a hussy who has thought a long while about what she intended to do, and who won't falter on the road."

The day passed, and brought no change in the situation of the messenger and his sister. After sawing a cord of wood and doing several errands, Sans-Cravate returned to his sister and gave her the money he had earned.

"Here," he said, "this is what I'll do every day, and you must look after the food."

"And Albert?" queried the girl, sadly.

"No news. Patience. We must wait."

"But his father--why haven't you been to see him?"

"I have no business with the father now, but with the son; the father ain't the one who's got to marry you! He's given his consent, that's all we can ask of him; he can't force the young man."

"Force him! Oh! I don't want him to be forced, if he no longer loves me; he would be unhappy after he married me."

"Don't you worry, and don't you bother your head any more about it. It's my business now."

Liline wept and held her peace. Sans-Cravate let her weep, because his own experience taught him that there are griefs which admit of no consolation.

The next day, Sans-Cravate had been at his stand less than an hour when he saw Madame Baldimer's maid coming toward him. His heart gave a leap under his waistcoat, because he felt that he was about to learn something of importance.

Rosa went up to him and handed him a folded paper.

"My mistress told me to give you this," she said.

"Thanks, mamzelle," replied Sans-Cravate, taking the paper with a trembling hand.

The maid walked away, while the messenger unfolded the paper and read these words:

"He arrived last night; he is at home."

"At last!" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, crumpling the paper in his fingers; then he sprang to his feet, folded his _crochets_, and strode away toward Albert's residence. He was intensely excited, although he exerted himself to the utmost to control his emotion. He felt that his sister's future was about to be decided, and it was for her that he trembled.

Under the porte cochère he stopped, uncertain whether he ought not to call first upon Monsieur Vermoncey. But he reflected that, if Albert's father were warned of his intention, he would have his son watched and would prevent him from giving him satisfaction; and the result of his reflections was that he ought now to deal with Albert alone.

Sans-Cravate went rapidly up to the young man's apartment. He rang, and a new servant opened the door.

"I wish to speak to Monsieur Albert," said Sans-Cravate.

"Monsieur Albert is not in," replied the servant, in an almost insolent tone.

"He must be, for me."

"But my master returned from travelling last night. He is tired, and cannot receive anyone."

"He will receive me, for I must speak to him. Go and tell him that Sans-Cravate is here, and that I won't leave the house without seeing him. He must know that we have got to have an interview, and it's better to have it now. Go, my boy. I know that there's two entrances, but I've got my eye on the courtyard; and if your master should try to skip, I'll jump through the window and land on his shoulders; that would interfere with his running."

The servant stared at Sans-Cravate in amazement, but went and told his master. He returned in a very short time, beckoned to Sans-Cravate to follow him, and ushered him into Albert's bedroom.

Young Vermoncey had just risen; he was dressed in a robe de chambre, and was lying back carelessly in a capacious easy-chair. His face was slightly pale when Sans-Cravate entered the room; but he seemed perfectly placid, and said, with an unembarrassed manner, and with something very like a smile:

"Is it you, Sans-Cravate? I expected a call from you. Come and sit down, and let us have a talk."

Surprised at this reception, which aroused the most cheering hopes in his heart, Sans-Cravate seated himself on the edge of the chair that the young man indicated, and stammered:

"Yes--yes, Monsieur Albert, it's me. You certainly had good reason to think I would come; for, you see, this thing's got to be settled! And I love my sister, my poor Liline, so dearly! But I hope that you still love her, too?"

Albert threw himself back in his chair and held his feet to the fire, as he replied:

"Yes, my dear Sans-Cravate; your sister is fascinating--and as gentle and sweet as an angel. I loved her dearly, and I still love her. So I mean her to be happy--that is my most earnest desire."

"Oh! then it's all right, monsieur!" cried the messenger, joyfully; "you mean to make my sister happy--that is to say, you will keep the promise you made to her when you took her away from Auvergne. Ah! you make me very happy, too, and you are an excellent young man."

"When I say that I want to see your sister happy, Sans-Cravate," rejoined Albert, balancing himself in his chair, "I mean that, to atone for my thoughtlessness, I propose to assure her comfort, her future. If I made promises, they were mere words, such as all young men say to pretty girls, which do not bind one to anything."

Sans-Cravate pushed his chair away; he turned pale, but fastened his eyes on Albert, and exclaimed, without a trace of his former hesitation:

"We have got to a point where we don't agree, but, _sacrédié!_ we must settle on something. Monsieur Albert, didn't you seduce my sister, a simple, innocent maid, who had no idea of love? Will you deny that you abused her innocence, and that you induced her to leave her home and her patroness, only by swearing that you would marry her?"

"Mon Dieu! I won't deny anything! I have told you already that I admit all that. But, once more, every young man takes fifty such oaths; so much the worse for those who believe them!"

"Then you don't intend to marry my sister?"

Albert threw himself back in his chair again and began to laugh.

"Marry your sister!" he exclaimed. "Nonsense, Sans-Cravate! Why, you can't think of such a thing! Would such a marriage be well-assorted? Come, be reasonable; you are an excellent fellow--I have no doubt of that; but what would people say if I should make you my brother-in-law? They would say that I'd gone crazy!"

"Take care, monsieur!" said Sans-Cravate, struggling to control his anger. "Don't throw insults in my face. Messenger as I am, I'm a better man than you are at this moment!"

"But, for God's sake, Sans-Cravate, listen to me! Is it possible for a young man to marry all the women he makes love to? Since when have your morals been so severe? Haven't you been in the habit of carrying my love letters for me? haven't you been in the secret of all my intrigues? You knew that I had three or four mistresses at once, and, far from blaming me, you were the first to laugh about it."

"True--you are right, monsieur. I did your dirty work for you. I was wrong--and there was someone who told me so at the time. And yet, that same someone deceived me."

"I tell you again, Sans-Cravate, that I am sorry I ever spoke to your sister, who was an innocent, virtuous girl. But still we must have mercy on all sinners. Once more, I will settle a handsome allowance on her, and----"

Sans-Cravate rose and stamped on the floor, crying:

"Ten thousand devils! Don't talk about money! You fine gentlemen think you have done everything, when you have undone the strings of your purse. I tell you that marriage, and nothing else, can undo the wrong you have done. Your father felt it, for he gave his consent to the marriage. So you see, monsieur, there's nothing to prevent it."

"Yes," said Albert, with some irritation, "I know that you have seen my father and extorted his consent; furthermore, I will not deny that, when I came home last night, after embracing me, he told me of the promise he had given you; but I told him what my intentions were, and swore that nothing would induce me to change them."

"Nothing!" muttered Sans-Cravate; "nothing! Not even if I should tell you that you are a father--that my sister is carrying a child--that she implores you to give it its father's name? and that is the truth!"

Albert lowered his eyes; he was deeply moved, and tried in vain to conceal his emotion. Sans-Cravate walked toward him.

"Well! will you cast off that innocent creature?"

Albert was silent for some moments. At last he replied, in a low voice:

"I will provide for the child as well as the mother. But I cannot--it is impossible for me to marry Adeline, for such a marriage would cover me with ridicule."

"That is your last word, monsieur?"

"Yes, Sans-Cravate."

The messenger took from his pocket the pistols Madame Baldimer had given him, and called Albert's attention to them.

"Then this is my last word," he said. "I am ready when you are."

The young man seemed more surprised than alarmed.

"What's this? do you want to fight me, Sans-Cravate?" he said, glancing at the weapons.

"That surprises you, does it? You thought that I would allow myself to be dishonored and say nothing; that I would be satisfied with your excuses? No, no, I must have something more than that. Come, I am waiting for you, monsieur."

"I am sorry, Sans-Cravate, that I cannot give you the satisfaction you ask; but it is out of the question. A young man in my position doesn't fight duels with a messenger!"

"Then a man of your position is content to be a coward and a blackguard. Then he prefers to be struck and beaten and strangled; and that's what I'll do to you, if you refuse to fight me."

As he spoke, Sans-Cravate, beside himself with rage, sprang at Albert, seized him by the collar, shook him violently, and struck him across the face with the butt of one of his pistols. The young man turned purple, and shouted:

"I will fight you, monsieur; yes, you are right; we must fight."

"Ah! that's very lucky!" said the messenger, relaxing his grasp. "Shall it be right away? I'm in a hurry, you see!"

"One always has some arrangements to make before fighting, monsieur."

"I haven't got any."

"I will be ready in two hours. It isn't nine o'clock yet; at eleven, at the latest, be----"

"Behind Romainville Forest, on the slope from Pantin; there are some quarries near there, and we shan't be disturbed."

"Very good; I will be there. Shall you have a second?"

"What for?"

"True; between us, seconds are unnecessary. I shall come in a carriage, with my servant only."

"As you choose. I will go and wait for you, monsieur, and I hope you won't let me take cold."

Sans-Cravate left the house and started at once for the rendezvous. He walked less quickly now, knowing that he had plenty of time before him. Moreover, he was less excited; the certainty that his vengeance was near at hand appeased his anger. He reflected profoundly. At the moment one is about to risk his life he remembers the persons whom it would be most painful to him to leave forever; and, in spite of himself, Sans-Cravate found that Bastringuette's face often forced its way in among his recollections.

It was hardly half-past ten when the messenger reached the spot agreed upon. He sat on the ground and waited. He was on the slope of Romainville Forest; at his feet were plaster kilns and a brick kiln; in front of him was the village of Pantin; but the road in that direction, bordered with high hedges enclosing gardens, was silent and deserted. To the right were the low hills upon which stands the fortress that commands the whole plain; and in the hollow at the left, four rows of poplar trees, forming a rectangle, seemed to indicate a private estate or a promenade: it was the Pantin cemetery.

Sans-Cravate let his eyes wander in all directions, but frequently turned them toward Pantin, for that was the only direction from which a carriage could reach the rendezvous; so he presumed that Albert would come that way. He took his pistols from his pocket, made sure that they were properly loaded, and heaved a profound sigh.

The weather was fine, but cold. The trees were without leaves, and few people passed through the wood; now and then, a peasant went down the hill toward Pantin, a quarryman appeared at the door of his hut, or a soldier on the fortifications; but none of them paid any attention to the messenger.

But as he looked about, Sans-Cravate saw a woman come out of the wood and walk slowly down toward the cemetery. She was a long distance from him, but he could tell by her dress and her bearing that she was not a peasant. A large hat, over which a veil was thrown, made it impossible to distinguish her features; and still Sans-Cravate said to himself as he looked after her:

"It seems to me that I know that woman."

While he was trying to think who it could be, he heard the sound of carriage wheels in the direction of Pantin; and in a moment a cab appeared on the village street, and stopped as near as possible to the foot of the hill leading to the wood.

Sans-Cravate paid no further attention to the woman; he hurried down the slope and soon found himself face to face with Albert, who had left his carriage.

The young man greeted the messenger with a friendly nod, in which there was no trace of resentment or anger, and said, pointing to the cemetery:

"Let us go there; nobody but the men working in the brick kiln can see us, and they will not think of interfering with us; on the contrary, they will be grateful to us for affording them such an entertaining spectacle."

Sans-Cravate made no reply, but went with Albert; the servant walked behind, carrying a case of pistols.

When they reached the road that skirted the cemetery, Albert said:

"I see no reason why we should go any farther.--Give me my pistols, Joseph."

The servant opened the case and, trembling like a leaf, handed the pistols to his master. Meanwhile, the messenger, who had taken his from his pocket, offered them to his adversary, saying:

"Would you prefer to take one of these and give me one of yours? It shall be as you choose."

Albert glanced at Sans-Cravate's weapons, and exclaimed:

"The devil! you have some very handsome pistols there, Sans-Cravate! It's a strange thing, but the more I examine them, the more certain I feel that I know them, that I have seen them somewhere."

"It's quite possible, monsieur, for I got them from an acquaintance of yours. It was Madame Baldimer who gave them to me."

"Baldimer!" ejaculated Albert. "Ah! yes, it was in her hands that I saw them. I can remember her saying to me laughingly, more than once: 'I mean to kill you with these pistols.'--It seems that she did not say it in jest. Clearly that woman has a bitter grudge against me.--Keep your own weapons, and I will keep mine, and let us take our places."

Albert walked away some fifteen paces, then asked:

"Is this satisfactory to you?"

"Yes, monsieur," Sans-Cravate replied, in a trembling voice.

"Pull yourself together, my poor Sans-Cravate; you seem agitated."

"It's true, monsieur, I am trembling; though you may be sure that it ain't with fear. I've never fought with anything but fists, you see. A man gets hurt that way, but not killed. At all events, I never tried to fight unfair. And when I think that with this little steel tube I may kill you---- Look you, monsieur--if you would--it rests with you----"

"Enough! enough, Sans-Cravate! let's not continue our conversation of this morning. You are the insulted party--fire first."

"No, monsieur; I won't begin."

"It's your right."

"I insulted you this morning, by shaking you; it's your place to begin."

"Listen: my servant will clap his hands three times, and at the third we will fire together."

"That's all right."

Albert told his servant what he was to do. He clapped his hands, turning his head so that he could not see the combatants. At the third signal, Sans-Cravate fired; there was no second report, but Albert fell in the road.

Sans-Cravate ran to the young man, who had received the bullet in his side and was bleeding freely. He threw himself on his knees, weeping; but Albert held out his hand to him and tried to smile.

"You have done your duty--don't be cut up. If I die, you will see that I haven't forgotten your sister."

"Oh! you won't die, I hope. This wound may not be fatal----"

"Take me to the carriage, and tell them to take me back to my father."

Albert had no strength to say more; he lost consciousness. Sans-Cravate raised him from the ground, and two plasterers, attracted by the report of the pistol, helped him to carry the wounded man to the carriage. Sans-Cravate tried to stop the flow of blood by tying his handkerchief over the wound. Joseph entered the carriage, and seated himself so that he could support his master. Sans-Cravate thought of going with them, but he felt that he lacked courage to take Albert back to his father, so he allowed the carriage to drive away without him.

Two hours had passed since the duel, and Sans-Cravate was still wandering about the fields, uncertain what to do, and praying fervently that Albert would not die of his wound. At last, he decided to return to Paris. But when he reached the city, he dared not go to his sister; for he feared that when she saw him she would divine what had happened, and he did not wish to confess that he had fought with her seducer, until he had some definite information as to the wounded man's condition. To go to his usual stand and remain there quietly would have been impossible to him, so he wandered through the streets at random.

When it began to grow dark, Sans-Cravate could restrain his impatience no longer; he felt that he must know in what condition Albert was, so he bent his steps toward his house.

"The doctors must have given their opinions of his wound before now," he thought; "I'll ask someone, and I won't go back to my sister till I am satisfied about his condition."

Having determined upon this course, Sans-Cravate was soon in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's house on Rue Caumartin. The porte cochère was still open; he went in, and stopped at the concierge's lodge, but found nobody there; whereupon he decided to go upstairs and question the servants. When he came to the door of Albert's apartment, it was not closed, and he saw several lights in the anteroom; but he saw no person, although the other doors were open; that solitude and confusion froze his heart, for in it all there was a something silent and depressing which seemed to denote the presence of death.

The messenger did not know what to do, but he realized that he must decide upon something. He entered the apartment, but walked very softly and carefully, as if he were afraid of waking someone. He passed through the room adjoining the anteroom, and was about to enter another room, the door of which was open, when he heard a sound as of sobbing. He put his head forward and saw Monsieur Vermoncey sitting in a chair, with his face buried in his hands, and apparently in the throes of utter despair.

Sans-Cravate had no strength either to go forward or to retreat; his legs gave way under him, he sank on a couch, and sat there, completely overwhelmed; for he divined only too readily the cause of that wretched father's grief.

At that moment another door leading into the room where Monsieur Vermoncey was, on the opposite side from Sans-Cravate, was suddenly thrown open, and a woman appeared. The messenger recognized the figure and the hat that had attracted his attention just before the duel. The woman walked up to Monsieur Vermoncey, with a haughty air, threw aside her hat and veil, and asked:

"Do you recognize me, monsieur?"

Sans-Cravate was petrified when he saw that it was Madame Baldimer. Monsieur Vermoncey raised his eyes, which were filled with tears, and seemed terror-stricken when they fell upon the person who stood before him.

"You are the woman, madame, who swore to accomplish my son's ruin, and you have come doubtless to gloat over my despair; for my poor Albert is dead! he breathed his last in my arms, only a moment after he was brought home. But what had that unhappy boy done to you that you should be so bent upon his destruction?"

"He, monsieur--he had done nothing. Indeed, I could have loved him well, if he had not been your son; but by depriving you of this last child, the remaining fruit of your marriage, I have avenged my sister--my poor Marie!"

"Marie!"

"Yes, monsieur; Marie Delbart, the young seamstress whom you seduced before your marriage. She had a sister, ten years younger than herself, whom a distant relative had taken with him to America."

"Yes--I think I remember."

"Marie must sometimes have spoken to you of that young sister, who loved her as a daughter loves her mother, and who wept bitterly when she was forced to leave her. Well, monsieur, before she died, Marie wrote me a letter in which she told me the story of her misfortunes, begging me, if I ever returned to France, to do my utmost to find her child and avenge her on her unworthy seducer. That letter was not delivered to me until I had attained my majority; that was in accordance with Marie's wish; but I was then married to a wealthy planter, Monsieur Baldimer, who was much older than I, but had raised me to a position I had never dared to hope for. I should have liked to return to France at once, to carry out my sister's wishes, but my husband was unwilling to take the journey, and I had to wait. About fifteen months ago, Monsieur Baldimer died; I turned all my property into cash and returned to France, my native land, having taken an oath to fulfil Marie's last wishes. But to find her child was almost impossible. She had remembered, however, the name of the midwife who attended her when she became a mother, and who must have aided you to carry out your shameful determination to send your son to the Foundling Hospital. By dint of careful searching, I succeeded some time ago in finding that woman, who is now very old."

Monsieur Vermoncey gazed at Madame Baldimer with an anxious expression, and faltered:

"You have found her! Ah! I have sought her in vain! Well, madame--go on--that unfortunate child?----"

"She remembered all the details of the affair. My sister was then living at Saint-Cloud. When she carried the child away, ostensibly to a nurse, but really in accordance with your orders, to Paris, to be brought up with all those unhappy creatures who have no family, that woman, thinking that there ought to be some way of recognizing the child, if you should ever want to see him again, burned a little cross on his left forearm, and wrote on a slip of paper: 'His name is Paul de Saint-Cloud.'"

At those words, Sans-Cravate started in surprise and muttered:

"Great God! is it possible?"

But his movement and his exclamation were not heard, and Madame Baldimer continued:

"Armed with this information, I went to the asylum. After many inquiries, I found out that the child who bore that name had been taken away, ten years before, by a respectable tradesman, who had adopted him. But the tradesman's name was half effaced, and it was impossible for me to learn anything more definite.--As for you, monsieur, it was easy enough for me to learn all about you. I learned that, after having a numerous family, you had lost your wife and three of your children, and that you had only one son left, on whom all your love was lavished; and I said to myself that divine justice, which had already taken away three of your children, ought not to leave you this last one, since you had cast off the one my poor sister gave you. You see, monsieur, I was justified in relying upon divine justice."

"Enough! enough, madame!" murmured Monsieur Vermoncey, covering his face with his hands. "Ah! I am severely punished for a fault of my youth. My Albert is no more. I am alone in the world, for I shall never succeed in finding the child that Marie gave me, whom I would be only too happy now to call my son! Ah! there is nothing left for me but to die, too."

Monsieur Vermoncey's voice grew fainter, and as he finished speaking he succumbed to his grief and swooned. Madame Baldimer pulled the bellrope and called for help; several servants hurried to the spot, and passed Sans-Cravate on their way to their master.

The messenger took advantage of the confusion to leave the room where he was; and he went forth from the apartment and the house without attracting attention. He walked slowly homeward; but as he was about to enter his sister's presence, he stopped, for he realized that what he had to tell her would deal her a cruel blow. He knew that he could conceal the fact of Albert's death from her for some time, but sooner or later she must be told, and Sans-Cravate reflected that it was never well to postpone the news of a disaster; for then one always has before one the prospect of a distressing scene to come; whereas, when once the tears are shed, one can at least hope that time will dry them.

Adeline was anxious about her brother, whom she had not seen since the morning. When she heard him come in, she uttered a little cry of joy, and would have run into his arms; but when she saw his pale, distressed face, she paused and began to tremble, for she saw tears in his eyes as well.

"What has happened, in heaven's name?" she asked. "Have you seen Albert? does he still refuse to see me?"

"Yes," murmured her brother, looking at the floor. "He cast you off, he spoke contemptuously of you--and I have punished him for it."

"O mon Dieu! what do you mean?"

"That you have no one but me to support you now; but I will never fail you."

Adeline was completely crushed; sobs choked her utterance; but at last the tears came in torrents.

"That is right," said her brother; "cry, my poor Liline, shed tears for the fate of that young man who had more courage than honorable feeling; and for me too, for I was compelled to punish him, and I shall always have that terrible sight before my eyes. But remember that you are a mother, and that you must live for your child."

Despite his profound sorrow over Albert's death, Sans-Cravate's mind constantly recurred to what he had learned concerning Paul, his former comrade.

"He's the man," he thought; "there's no doubt of it--he's Monsieur Vermoncey's son, and it rests with me to give him the name and rank and fortune that belong to him. But he deceived me shamefully; he took Bastringuette away from me--the woman I loved--yes, and love still! He's with her now, for I met him leaning on the faithless hussy's arm; and if I helped him to a fortune, he'd enjoy it with her! No, no! _sacrédié!_ that shan't be. I ain't virtuous enough to return good for evil, and I'll keep my secret!"

XXIX

A REPUTATION

Monsieur Vermoncey, wholly absorbed by his grief, lived in strict retirement and saw no one; but, as he did not wish it known that his son had been killed by a messenger,--for the knowledge might have led to a disclosure of the duel, and would have reflected little credit on his son's memory,--Monsieur Vermoncey, knowing that Albert's servant was the only witness of that fatal event, had given Joseph a considerable sum and sent him back to his province, after causing him to spread the report through the neighborhood, and among his confrères, that his young master had fought with one of his friends, after a quarrel of which he did not know the subject. And no one had doubted the truth of the story, because it was much more probable than that Albert had fought a duel with a messenger.

Nearly a month had passed since the events that resulted in Albert's death, when a short, stout young man, dressed with ostentatious elegance, alighted from a cabriolet one morning in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's residence, and, having inserted his monocle in his eye to make sure that he had made no mistake, entered the house and called out to the concierge:

"I am going up to see my friend Monsieur Albert Vermoncey; I believe he has returned from his trip to Normandie, and I have a thousand things to say to him."

The concierge ran after Tobie Pigeonnier,--for it was he, transformed into a showy and self-confident _lion_,--and stopped him at the foot of the stairs, saying:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, don't go so fast; it's no use. Don't you know what has happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Poor Monsieur Albert is dead."

"Dead! Great God!"

"Yes, monsieur; he was killed in a duel."

"Killed in a duel?"

Tobie looked at the concierge with a doubtful expression, and tried to read in the man's eyes whether he was making fun of him.

"Look you, concierge," he continued; "are you quite sure of what you say? Once before, there was a report that Albert had been killed in a duel, and I know that was a lie."

"Alas! monsieur, I am only too sure."

"How long has he been dead?"

"A month, the day after to-morrow, monsieur. I remember that fatal day perfectly well; they brought the poor fellow home in a cab, with a bullet in his side; I went for the doctor; and when he tried to take out the bullet, the wounded man shut his eyes--and it was all over."

"Albert had returned to Paris, then?"

"Yes, monsieur; he came back first after he'd been gone quite a long while, but he only stayed about a week and then went off again. When he fought this duel, he'd only come home the night before."

"Whom did he fight with? what was it about?"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, nobody knows; the poor young man died so soon; he wasn't able to say anything; he didn't take anybody with him for a second but Joseph, his servant, who told us that his master fought a duel with pistols near Pantin, with a young man he, Joseph, didn't know, and who didn't have any second. You see, he hadn't been in Monsieur Albert's service long. As to the cause of the quarrel, he didn't know anything about it. I remember seeing a messenger go up to Monsieur Albert's rooms that day; I suppose he came to bring the challenge. That's all I know."

"It's all very obscure. Where is this Joseph? I should like to talk with him."

"He's gone back to his province. As Monsieur Albert was dead, Monsieur Vermoncey didn't keep him. Ah! that poor man--he's terribly broken up; he don't go out, nor see anyone. But, if you'd like to try to see him, monsieur----"

"No, no, it's not necessary; I have no desire to disturb his grief.--Well, as poor Albert is dead, there's nothing for me to do but go away."

Tobie Pigeonnier returned to his cabriolet, reflecting profoundly on what he had learned. He alighted on Boulevard des Italiens, and stalked proudly into Tortoni's, where he found Mouillot and Balivan, the two loyal habitués.

The young men exclaimed in surprise when they saw Tobie smilingly draw near, take a seat at their table, and order chocolate, rolls and butter, with the air of a man who is not afraid to spend his money.

"Oh, heaven! oh, heaven! can I believe my eyes?" sang Mouillot; "'tis he! 'tis he in very truth! he has not gone to Russia or the Marquesas, as we supposed!"

"And he is dressed like several milords," observed Balivan.

"And he has come to withdraw his olive from circulation."

"Yes, messieurs," rejoined Tobie; "I am rich--very rich; my aunt is dead--that respectable lady of whom I have often spoken to you, and with whom I expected to go into partnership. She is dead, and I am her heir; she left me a magnificent business."

"In what line?"

"In all lines. I may go on with the business; I have not decided yet. As for that unlucky olive, it isn't my fault that I haven't redeemed it sooner; I don't know Monsieur Varinet's address."

"You ought to have asked us."

"I never meet you anywhere."

"Bah! what a flimsy excuse! we are at this café every morning. But, never mind; if you are anxious to pay Varinet, he is to join us here soon."

"Oh! then I'll wait for him."

"And do you know that poor Albert----"

"Is dead; yes, I know it."

"Killed in a duel--and no one knows by whom! Isn't it a most extraordinary thing?"

Tobie pursed his lips, frowned, and gazed at the ceiling, murmuring:

"Ah! things happen sometimes in the world that one can't talk about; but people always end by discovering the truth! You surely can understand that the man who killed Albert is not likely to go about boasting of it, because he is probably much affected himself."

And Tobie took out his handkerchief and blew his nose several times, trying to make them think that he was weeping.

Mouillot and Balivan stared at each other in amazement; and the former muttered, under his breath:

"Nonsense! it isn't possible!"

Tobie was only at his fifth roll, when Monsieur Varinet arrived with Dupétrain. The first bowed very coolly to Pigeonnier, but that gentleman made haste to say to him:

"I owe you no end of apologies, monsieur, for remaining in your debt so long; but chance seemed to have determined to keep us apart; however, as I have found you at last, I will, with your permission, settle my account with you."

Varinet lost no time in taking out his purse, overjoyed to be rid of the olive stone, which he produced and handed to Tobie, saying:

"Here is your fetich, monsieur."

"I don't recognize it," said Tobie, scrutinizing the olive.

"You have left it in my hands so long, monsieur," retorted the young man with the white eyelashes, with some asperity, "that it has had ample time to change. If you had redeemed it the next day, as the custom is with gambling debts, it wouldn't have shrunk to its present size."

Tobie had nothing to say; he took out his wallet, and opened it in such a way that they could all see a number of banknotes, one of which he handed to Varinet, saying:

"One more or less doesn't make much show when you have plenty."

"That wallet of yours would put Célestin to rights just now," said Mouillot.

"Why so?"

"Because he's in prison for debt--yes, been there two months."

"No, really? in prison for debt! poor Célestin! I'll go and see him; and I'll see that he's released."

Having said this with a swagger of importance, Tobie bade his friends adieu and left the café; but he had not walked thirty yards on the boulevard, when he was overtaken by Monsieur Dupétrain, who passed his arm through his, saying:

"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I have something very important to tell you--a warning--in fact, something that it is well you should know, so that you may be on your guard."

"What does this mean?" cried Tobie, taking alarm at once; "does anyone think of robbing me? Somebody has found out that I have come into my aunt's property, and means to rob me, I suppose?"

"It isn't that at all; in the first place, it's hardly probable that anyone who meant to rob you would have taken me into his confidence."

"No, that is true; but you tell me to be on my guard."

"You see, I take an interest in you, Monsieur Pigeonnier, for you believe in magnetism, and I remember that, the last time we dined together, I was going to tell you a very interesting anecdote concerning the extraordinary effects of somnambulism; it was this: A lady, whose husband was travelling, desired to know whether----"

Tobie abruptly dropped Monsieur Dupétrain's arm, and exclaimed impatiently:

"Was it because you proposed to tell me that, that you warned me to be on my guard?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon--I didn't tell you, did I? This is what it is: I met Monsieur Plays not long ago, at an evening party; you know Monsieur Plays, Madame Plays's husband?"

"Yes," Tobie replied, with a fatuous air, "an excellent sort of man; but I know his wife much better. Well! what did our dear Plays say to you?"

"Our dear Plays--as it pleases you to call him so--asked me, in the course of conversation, if I knew you; and, on my replying in the affirmative, urged me, if I should happen to see you, to beg you to avoid him, inasmuch as his wife has ordered him to kill you, because, it seems, you insulted and deceived her shamefully; that is all Plays chose to tell me."

Tobie roared with laughter.

"Gad! that is charming! delicious! Ah! she employs her husband to kill me, now! I can guess why. Poor husband! luckily, he is good enough to warn me. I thank you for your warning, my dear Monsieur Dupétrain, but I assure you that Monsieur Plays doesn't worry me at all; he's no duellist, and, besides, I shall only have to say a single word to him to---- Alas! I would to God I had no duel to reproach myself for!"

Again Tobie drew his handkerchief, as if deeply moved.

"I am delighted that this affair doesn't worry you," rejoined Dupétrain; "in that case, we can return to that anecdote that I didn't have time to finish: A young lady, whose husband----"

"Excuse me, Monsieur Dupétrain, but I have an important appointment; I will listen to it some other time, by your leave."

Two days after this conversation, Tobie, who had become a constant attendant at balls, receptions, concerts, and the theatre, since he had inherited his Aunt Abraham's property, found himself face to face with Monsieur Plays and his wife in the foyer of the Opéra.

Madame Plays stopped, cast a withering glance at Tobie, and nudged her husband.

"There he is," she said.

"Who?" queried Monsieur Plays.

"The insolent wretch who amused himself at my expense, and whom you must punish!"

Monsieur Plays turned pale as death, and clung to his wife's arm, muttering:

"My corns hurt me terribly! the weather will change to-morrow; it's a sure sign of rain!"

"I'm not talking about your corns, monsieur; there's the young man who was responsible for my carrying a cigar in my bosom two months, and I must have satisfaction, monsieur. I will sit here on this bench, and I shan't lose sight of you. Go and challenge Monsieur Pigeonnier; if you don't, never hope to enter my boudoir again! you understand, monsieur; now, go!"

The superb Herminie seated herself at one end of the foyer, sustaining with much self-possession the glances bestowed upon her by the men who were walking back and forth there during the entr'acte. As for Monsieur Plays, who was compelled to go and pick a quarrel with a fellow creature--he would have preferred, at that moment, to be at Algiers, or on the railroad.

Tobie had recognized the happy couple; and he continued to stroll about the foyer, looking at himself in the mirrors, and trying to keep his monocle in his eye. Suddenly a timid voice addressed him; he turned, and saw Monsieur Plays, whose manner was anything but provocative, and who saluted him very courteously, saying:

"Have I the honor of speaking to Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier?"

"Why, it's Monsieur Plays! Delighted to meet you! How's your health, Monsieur Plays?"

"Very good, thanks; but I am suffering a good deal with my corns. My boots hurt me. Have you any?"

"Boots?"

"No, corns."

"That species of discomfort is entirely unknown to me."

"Ah! you are very lucky!"

At this point, Monsieur Plays turned, and saw his wife looking daggers at him; he remembered what she demanded of him, and continued in an undertone:

"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I must tell you that my wife has sent me to you, because she thinks you--you made sport of her when you told her that you had killed Monsieur Albert Vermoncey in a duel. Women take offence at trifles, you know; and Herminie is very sensitive. You gave her a cigar, too. In short, she's furious with you. So far as I am concerned, I am sure that you had no intention to be disrespectful to her, but she insists that I shall demand satisfaction. It's perfect nonsense; we must arrange it somehow----"

Tobie assumed a most solemn air, and interrupted Monsieur Plays.

"Your excellent wife is right, perfectly right, and I am not surprised that she has told you to kill me. Indeed, I agree with her."

Monsieur Plays shifted from one leg to the other, and looked uneasily at the little man, faltering:

"What! you--you want--to fight?"

"Hush, and listen to me! I tell you again that I should deserve all her anger and yours, if I had acted as she thinks. But it is not so; and now she is only too thoroughly revenged on poor Albert! In our first affair, I thought I had killed him, but I was mistaken. Later, I had my revenge. When I learned of Albert's return to Paris, a month ago, I instantly sent him a challenge by a messenger, and he accepted it. Ah! he was a man of the nicest honor. We fought with pistols, near Pantin. I wounded Albert in the side, and he breathed his last the same day. Tell me, monsieur, if your good wife has any reason now to complain of me, when I have fought twice for her, when to avenge her I have killed one of my most intimate friends?"

"You are a brave fellow!" said Monsieur Plays, shaking Tobie's hand; "I never doubted it. So poor Albert is really dead this time?"

"Yes, unfortunately; for I will confess to you that it grieves me deeply."

"I believe it, oh! I believe it. Adieu, Monsieur Pigeonnier! It is my turn now to apologize to you."

"Your obedient servant, Monsieur Plays!"

Tobie sauntered away, and Herminie's spouse returned to his better half and repeated all that the young man had just told him. Madame Plays listened impatiently, then exclaimed:

"It isn't true. He has made a fool of you again. Albert isn't dead."

"But, my dear love, he seemed to be deeply moved, and then he gave me all those details."

"Lies! However, we will soon know the truth; and woe to you, monsieur, if you have allowed yourself to be hoodwinked! Come! Come!"

"Where, madame?"

"To Monsieur Vermoncey's house. Oh! I won't be deceived this time."

Herminie seized her husband's arm, dragged him away from the Opéra, made him take a cab with her, and soon arrived at the house in which Albert formerly lived. There she questioned the concierge and learned that young Vermoncey had, in fact, been killed in a duel a month before; and all the details of the melancholy event that were given her agreed perfectly with what Tobie had said.

Thereupon Madame Plays made a great outcry, sobbed, wept, tore her handkerchief, had an attack of hysteria, writhed on the floor of the concierge's lodge, and called Tobie a monster and an assassin.

Monsieur Plays succeeded, not without difficulty, in taking his wife home, and all the way she kept asking him if he knew what she had done with the piece of a cigar that had belonged to Albert; she declared that she would give a thousand francs to anybody who would find it for her.

During the next few days, Madame Plays told everybody she saw that it was Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier who had killed young Albert Vermoncey in a duel; and as nobody contradicted the story, and as he who was reported to be the victor was the first to confirm it, it soon came to be regarded as authentic; and in society little Tobie was looked upon as a duellist whom it was not prudent to provoke.

XXX

AN OLD LADY

Adeline was still as melancholy as ever, but she had ceased to weep, before her brother at all events, for she realized that it added to his sorrow and regret that, for her sake, he had been obliged to do something which filled his heart with remorse, even while he told himself that he could not have acted differently.

Sans-Cravate worked with the greatest zeal and courage; he was not the same man as before. Since his duel he had become as gentle as a child, and, far from seeking a quarrel with anyone, he was always the first to try to compose the disputes that arose in his presence. Instead of getting tipsy, as he used frequently to do, he avoided the temptation to drink, never entered a wine shop, and ate all his meals with his sister, to whom he carried faithfully each day all the money he had earned.

In accordance with her brother's advice, Adeline had written to her father, confessing her fault and telling him frankly the whole story of her conduct, as well as the events that had resulted from it. She had not long to wait for a reply; old Père Renaud wrote his daughter that he forgave her, and that his arms would always be open to her whenever she chose to come back to him.

"When your child is born," said Sans-Cravate, "and you are strong enough to stand the journey, we will go back to the province; I will settle down there, too; I won't leave you any more, for a strong man with plenty of courage can work anywhere, and I've had quite enough of Paris! When you no longer have a friend or a woman you care for in a place, you leave it without regret."

A few days after Albert's death, a messenger from Monsieur Vermoncey came to the humble apartment occupied by the brother and sister. He brought a letter addressed to Adeline, which contained these words:

"MADEMOISELLE:

"My unfortunate son did not forget you before he died; as he was going out to fight, he wrote a few lines leaving you the unexpended portion of the property he inherited from his mother, and recommending you to my generosity. It is my purpose to carry out my poor son's last wishes. He had less than twelve hundred francs a year remaining; but from this day I settle an income of six thousand francs upon you, as a charge upon my own estate; the first year's will be paid to you at any time.

"VERMONCEY."

After reading the letter, Adeline handed it to Sans-Cravate, who read it in his turn, then looked his sister in the eye. They understood each other without a word, and Adeline immediately wrote to Albert's father the following reply:

"I am grateful for your kindness, monsieur, but I do not desire nor can I accept anything from you. What I desired was Albert's love, and his name for my child. Heaven has denied me these, and the money you offer me now would seem to be the price of my dishonor."

Adeline gave the letter to her brother to read.

"Well done!" he cried; "sacrebleu! I couldn't have done it better myself."

Monsieur Vermoncey's messenger went away with the letter, and since then they had heard nothing more from him.

Sans-Cravate did his utmost to cheer his sister, to bring an occasional smile to her lips; but his task was the more difficult because he himself was oppressed by a burden of grief which he could not succeed in dislodging.

At night, when he went home to Adeline, and sat down with her, intending to divert her by describing some incidents that he had witnessed during the day, his thoughts would go back to the past; after he had said a few words, he would fall into a profound reverie, and seem to forget that his sister was by his side.

One evening, when he had been for a long time lost in thought, Adeline went to him, laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and said:

"You too have troubles, my dear, besides those I have caused you. I remember what you said to me, coming from Lagny: 'I have troubles of my own, and I'll tell you about them some day.'--Has not that day come? I can't promise to comfort you, but I shall understand your suffering, and it is something to have a friend who understands what we feel."

Sans-Cravate gazed sadly at his sister, kissed her on the forehead, ran his hands through his hair, and said:

"_Sacrédié!_ you are right. I will tell you the story. It's a very simple story, however, and won't take long.--I loved a woman, and my love was returned, at least I thought so. At all events, Bastringuette was mine, as you were Monsieur Albert's--except that I did not seduce her; because, you see, in Paris, a girl knows well enough what she's doing when she gives her heart away; you may please her, but you don't seduce her. Bastringuette was a good girl, a little free in her manners, and a little bold in her talk; but I loved her as she was, and she--she loved me as I was, and yet I must admit that I didn't live the kind of life then that I do now. I gambled and drank and got drunk, and fought for a word, for nothing at all; and I spent in one day all I'd earn in a week; but she forgave my foolishness, and she took care of my room, and my linen--and all without a trace of selfishness, for sometimes she had to give me money for my dinner, although she had none too much for herself; she was a _marchande des quatre saisons_, and didn't always earn in a week as much as I'd spend in one evening with Jean Ficelle and other tipplers."

"Poor girl!" said Adeline; "she loved you dearly!"

"You think so! and I thought so too. But you'll see in a minute that I was mistaken. I had a friend too, a comrade, younger than me; his name was Paul, he was a messenger, like me, and his stand was alongside of mine. This Paul had such a sweet, gentle way with him--and such manners--something that attracted you right away. And with it all, a hard worker--never loafed, never got drunk, and never gave me anything but good advice. So I looked on him as my brother; I'd have fought for him or jumped into the fire for him! Well, Bastringuette left me, to go with Paul; and he, swearing all the time that he never saw her, that he loved another woman, made assignations with Bastringuette--met her in a different quarter, where they didn't think they'd be seen."

"Are you quite sure of that, brother?"

"Ah! if anyone had told me, I wouldn't have believed it! but I saw 'em--saw 'em with my own eyes! and then I couldn't doubt it any longer. I intended at first to be content with despising 'em, but one day--I had been off with Jean Ficelle, and I was a little light-headed--I saw Paul on a street corner with my faithless wench. Gad! I couldn't hold myself back; I insisted on fighting; I jumped at him, and he didn't defend himself----"

"O mon Dieu! did you kill him?"

"No, no; he was only wounded, and that by a mere chance: he fell on a paving stone. But he's been well a long while. Luckily, I never see him now; he's taken another stand, near Rue Taitbout, I think."

"But if you should see him, my dear, you wouldn't fight with him again, I hope; once is quite enough--ah! sometimes it's too much."

Adeline put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Sans-Cravate replied:

"Oh, no, no! I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again. But heaven has--oh! it's a very strange thing!"

"What is, my dear brother?"

"Just imagine that, by the merest chance, I discovered, not long ago, a secret which would give this Paul a name, a father, and a great fortune, if he knew it; for he's a foundling, who don't know anything about his family; and it's only me that knows it; I should only have to say a word to make him happy and rich and distinguished."

"Well, brother?"

"Well! I won't say it!"

"Ah! that is very wrong, my dear, to deprive anyone of his rightful fortune, and, what is much worse, of his father's caresses! Look you, brother; I am sure that in the bottom of your heart this troubles you, because you feel that you are doing wrong!"

"That may be; but that don't prevent me from keeping my secret. He'd give Bastringuette hats and shawls and jewelry; he'd take her about in a carriage, and they'd play the swell at restaurants, and she'd be all the more pleased that she threw me over for him. No, sacrebleu! no! I won't have that!"

"But, brother----"

"That's enough; don't say anything more about it, don't ever mention it again! you can't change my determination, and you would simply make me furious with myself and them and everybody else, that's all!"

More than three weeks had passed since this conversation, and had brought about no change in the condition of the brother and sister, when, on a fine winter's morning, Sans-Cravate--who was alone at his stand, Jean Ficelle having failed to appear there for more than a week--saw an elderly woman coming toward him, looking from side to side as if she were not perfectly sure where she wanted to go.

She was a small, thin, pale-faced woman, somewhat over sixty, evidently in feeble health. Her dress was very simple and modest, but of bourgeois cut; it did not denote poverty, but pointed to an economical habit not far removed therefrom. Despite that, she carried herself with distinction; and the amiability of her expression and manner imparted to her person that general aspect of gentility which is apparent beneath the humblest garments, and which the most fashionable and gorgeous costume cannot give to those who have not received it from nature or by education.

This lady, having at last decided to address Sans-Cravate, walked up to him and said:

"I wonder if you could tell me, monsieur? You see, I am not quite sure--I don't quite know how to explain it to you."

"Are you looking for somebody, or for some address in this quarter, madame? I have had my stand here for a long time, and I can probably tell you what you want to know."

"It isn't an address, but a certain person whom I would like to obtain some information about; in fact, to find out something that interests me very deeply. First of all, monsieur, tell me this: are you the only messenger on this street?"

"No, madame; there's Jean Ficelle--but he don't happen to be here now; in fact, he hasn't been to work for several days; I suppose he's tippling somewhere."

"What sort of looking man is this Jean Ficelle?"

"Oh! he ain't handsome--a little, short, thin man, near thirty years old."

"He's not the man I want. The one I am looking for is only twenty-three, and looks less than that; you would hardly think he was twenty; he has a graceful figure and a fine face, and his voice is as sweet as his eyes."

Sans-Cravate frowned slightly as he replied:

"Ah! you are talking about a man named Paul."

"Paul!" cried the old woman; "that's the name. Do you know him?"

"I should say so! as he used to stand here alongside of me. It ain't so very long since he went somewhere else to stand."

"He is a messenger! it is all true, then! poor boy! he did it for me, I am sure of it!"

Tears prevented the old lady from going on. Sans-Cravate was obliged to support her until her emotion had subsided. At last, having recovered herself to some extent, she grasped Sans-Cravate's hand and said:

"Thanks, monsieur, thanks. If you knew what a fine fellow you had for your comrade, if you knew what a noble heart he has, and of all he has done for me! But I must tell you, monsieur, for I want everybody to know it; such noble conduct deserves to be known, if for nothing else than to lead others to imitate it.--My name is Desroches; my husband was a tradesman, deservedly esteemed as well for his kindly nature as for his strict probity in business. One day--we were well off, then--my husband, happening to see the procession of the poor children who had been abandoned by their families, was deeply touched and interested by the face of one of them; it was young Paul, who was then ten years old at most. We had no children; our happiness was perfect but for that fact; my husband offered to take charge of that child, and his offer was readily accepted."

"I knew all this, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "Paul has told me how he was taken into Monsieur Desroches's family, and became his clerk; and then how your husband was crushed by misfortunes and bankruptcies, and died--of grief, perhaps, because he was obliged to break his engagements."

"Yes, monsieur; yes, that is all true, still it isn't all; but it's all you know, I am sure; for Paul would not have told you of his noble conduct."

"No; I have told you all I know."

"Well, monsieur, Paul, who was eighteen and a half when I lost my husband, said to me then: 'Don't be distressed, my dear mother; not only will I take care of you, but I propose that my benefactor's memory shall be respected; I propose to pay all that he owed, and by working hard I can do it.'--And, sure enough, the poor boy called my husband's creditors together, and promised to pay them if they would give him time. They were so moved by his self-sacrificing spirit, that they told him to arrange his own terms. The debts amounted to only eight thousand francs. Paul asked for five years in which to pay the whole; then he told me not to worry about myself, that he would provide for all my needs--and he left me, to seek employment. I didn't see him for several days; at last he came and told me that he was employed in a business house in Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and that he was obliged to live near by, but that he would come to see me at least twice a week, and would keep his agreement with my husband's creditors. And from that time on, monsieur, every three months he paid the amount he had promised, and brought me the receipts. 'Take these, my dear mother,' he would say; 'I am as happy as can be, because through me my benefactor's name is respected;'--and I, monsieur, never had a suspicion that the poor boy hadn't found any employment, but had become a messenger in order to fulfil his engagements; and that he worked without rest, and took no pleasure at all, so that he could put aside for me, for my husband's honor, all the money he earned!"

Again Madame Desroches could not hold back her tears; she drew her handkerchief, and paused a moment to wipe her eyes.

Sans-Cravate, for his part, tried in vain to avoid being moved; despite his grimaces, despite the churlish manner which he struggled to maintain, and although he twisted his mouth and bit his lips, two great tears escaped from his eyes, while he muttered between his teeth:

"By all that's good! It was well done of him, all the same! that's what I call honor! And to think that a man will get ugly and lose a friend, just for a wink of a woman's eye, for an infernal petticoat and what's underneath it! Bah! what a fool! Well, I can't stand it, I must let the cat out of the bag!--How did you find out that Paul was a messenger?" he asked aloud, after pretending to blow his nose in order to wipe his eyes unobserved.

"In this way, monsieur. Four or five months ago, I was sick, and Paul stayed with me and nursed me; he did not go to work at all. 'Don't you worry,' he'd say; 'there's another clerk, who has promised to take my place and do my work.'--I must tell you, monsieur, that I live on Vieille Rue du Temple, near Rue Barbette----"

"Near Rue Barbette!" cried Sans-Cravate; "a very high house, with a passageway, and a grocery on the street floor?"

"Yes, monsieur; that's the house."

"Go on, madame, go on."

"Well! one morning, when I had been getting better for some days, Paul, who had gone back to his office,--at least, so he told me,--came to make sure that I was still improving. He had been with me a little while, when a tall girl came in with some fruit I had ordered of my regular fruit dealer, on Rue Barbette.--But what's the matter, monsieur? you seem agitated."

"It's nothing, madame; I'll tell you in a minute. Go on, please, and finish your story."

"This tall girl gave a cry of surprise when she saw Paul; I saw that she knew him and that she was astonished to find him dressed so well. I noticed that Paul whispered a few words to her, but I found out nothing then. But when Bastringuette--that was the girl's name--came again to bring something from the fruit woman, who is her cousin, she cried out: 'Ah! madame, that's a mighty fine fellow, that Monsieur Paul!' And--but why are you weeping, monsieur?"

"Go on--pray go on, madame."

"Well, monsieur, some little time ago, Paul ceased to come as usual; I was anxious and worried, when Bastringuette appeared and brought me the money Paul was to pay that day to one of the creditors; she told me that he had been obliged to take a short journey, and would come to see me when he returned. To cut the story short, monsieur, time passed and Paul did not come, but Bastringuette continued to bring me money from him. I questioned her; she was embarrassed and confused in her answers, and I thought that I understood that Paul no longer owned his good clothes, and that he would not come to see me in his jacket for fear I should discover his occupation. I caught the word _messenger_, and several times she mentioned the name of this street----"

"Enough, enough, madame!--Ah! Paul! my poor Paul! So it is true, after all! You never deceived me; it wasn't to see Bastringuette that you went to that house!"

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"What do I mean: that I am a beggarly brute--a cur! that I struck Paul and wounded him, because I thought he was living with my mistress, when he was thinking of nobody but you and of his benefactor's good name! Damnation! but I will make up for it all; I will make him as happy as he deserves to be."

"What do you mean, monsieur?"

"Oh! let us go and find him first; I long to embrace him--if only he'll forgive me. Come, my good woman, come along; if you can't run, I'll carry you; but let's make haste, for I can't hold in any longer!"

Sans-Cravate seized Madame Desroches's arm and dragged her away. To keep pace with the messenger, who said that it was in his power to make her adopted son happy, the old lady seemed to have recovered the strength and agility of youth.

They reached Paul's new stand, and found him seated on a stone bench, lost in thought. Sans-Cravate dropped Madame Desroches's arm, ran to Paul, threw his arms about him, and kissed him again and again, shedding tears, and saying in a broken voice:

"Do you forgive me--my poor Paul? I know all--I was in the wrong, and I struck you. If you don't forgive me, I'll jump into the water! Take care of my sister."

Paul was utterly at a loss to understand what had happened, until he saw Madame Desroches and divined that his conduct was known. The old lady likewise embraced the young man, weeping freely. Thereupon the passers-by and idlers began to gather about them, wondering what that young messenger had done to be embraced thus effusively; and Sans-Cravate took Madame Desroches's arm and Paul's, and led them away.

"Come away," he said; "I have something important to tell you; and all these people, who probably think that we're going to show them some tricks, are beginning to make me mad."

These three persons, who were so overjoyed to be together, soon reached Sans-Cravate's humble lodging, where poor Liline, taken by surprise by that visit, strove to do the honors of her bedroom as best she could. He presented Paul to her, saying:

"This is the man I was jealous of, sister; I have found out to-day that he never deceived me. So you can imagine how happy I shall be to put him in the way of recovering his father, his name, and his fortune!"

Paul stared at Sans-Cravate with an exclamation of surprise; he feared that he had not heard aright. Madame Desroches begged the messenger to explain himself. He asked nothing better, and, in order to make his story clearer, he began by telling of the relations of Albert with his sister, his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey, his duel with Adeline's seducer, and, lastly, what he had heard Madame Baldimer say to the elder Vermoncey--the names, the cross on the forearm, and all the corroborative circumstances.

"But my heart seems to have divined the truth," said Paul, joyfully; "and Monsieur Vermoncey himself--he showed so much friendship and interest."

"Does he know you?" asked Sans-Cravate.

Paul gave the particulars of his visit to Monsieur Vermoncey; whereupon Sans-Cravate clapped his hands, jumped up and down, swore, wept, and shouted:

"Let us go, my friends, let us go at once to Monsieur Vermoncey; he has suffered and groaned long enough; we must hurry up and give him a son to comfort him a little for the loss of his other children. Madame Desroches must come with us; it will be better for her to be there, to confirm what I say.--You stay here, sister, and wait for me. I shall soon be back, and with good news, I am sure."

Sans-Cravate whispered to his sister, who smiled and promised to obey; then he ran out to fetch a cab, into which he put Madame Desroches and Paul, got in after them, and ordered the driver to take them to Monsieur Vermoncey's house.

"You must let me speak first," he said to them on the way; "the sight of me will be painful to him at the outset, but afterward, I trust, he won't be sorry that he's seen me again."

When they reached the house, Sans-Cravate took the servant by storm, and compelled him to usher him into his master's study.

Monsieur Vermoncey started back in surprise; his eyes assumed an expression of hopeless melancholy when he saw Sans-Cravate, but he motioned to him to come forward.

"Your sister has reflected on my offer, no doubt," he said. "I am still prepared to abide by it, for I should be very glad to repair my son's wrong-doing."

"Let us say nothing about that, monsieur," replied Sans-Cravate; "if your son did wrong, heaven has attended to the expiation, and that--event made me as wretched as it did you. But I have come to-day to make you happy, and it is the least I can do after causing you so much sorrow."

Monsieur Vermoncey stared at the messenger in amazement, but Sans-Cravate went on:

"Monsieur, chance made me acquainted with the whole story of a misstep of your younger days, for which that Madame Baldimer was so bent on punishing you. Well! the child you had at that time by a poor girl named Marie Delbart, that--abandoned child I have found, and I have brought him back to you!"

"Is it possible?" faltered Monsieur Vermoncey, rising and going to Sans-Cravate's side. "Oh! monsieur, is this true? are you quite sure of what you say?"

"Sacrebleu! yes, I am sure of my facts, sure of what I say!"

"You are aware of his existence--where is he?"

"Oh! he ain't far away!"

And Sans-Cravate opened the door behind him, took Paul by the hand, and pushed him into his father's arms.

"I robbed you of one son," he said, "but I give you back another. That goes a little way toward reconciling me to myself."

Monsieur Vermoncey strained Paul to his heart, then gazed affectionately into his face, crying:

"I am not mistaken--it is the same young man who aroused such a deep interest in my heart. Yes, yes, he is my son, my heart divined it long ago; and the more I look at him, the more clearly I recognize the unhappy Marie's features in his."

"Yes, but we want you to be certain of the fact," said Sans-Cravate. "Here is Madame Desroches, the widow of the excellent man who took Paul away from--where he was; she will tell you what paper he had about him when they--and then you will see the cross on his left arm. You'll find that it's all just as that beautiful lady--who is so vindictive--told you the other day; and you'll find out, too, that you not only have recovered your son, but that he's the finest fellow on earth; and if they gave the cross to everyone that deserves it, it would have been shining on his breast long ago."

Monsieur Vermoncey needed no further proofs to convince him that Paul was his son; however, he listened with profound interest to good Madame Desroches, who did not fail to tell of the young messenger's noble conduct toward herself.

When the old lady had finished, Monsieur Vermoncey took his son's hand and gazed proudly at him. But in a moment he said, in a faltering tone:

"My dear son, you will not be so proud of your father as he is of you; you have every right to reproach him for his desertion of you. But I was very young, I was poor, I did not know what it is to be a father--and I have blamed myself so bitterly for that sin!"

Paul threw himself into his father's arms, begging him to say no more, and Sans-Cravate added:

"You must forget the past, and think of nothing but your present happiness."

"Yes," said Paul, pressing his former comrade's hand. "But since I am taking Albert's place here, your sister must accept now what he and my father have done for her.--Am I not carrying out your wishes in this, father?"

"Yes, my son," was the reply; "indeed, from this time forth I shall approve whatever you do."

"Shake!" said Sans-Cravate to Paul; "I will accept anything from you; if you should offer me a million, I'd take it--I must make up for my infernal stupidity with regard to you. But my sister's waiting for us--and--and----"

Sans-Cravate whispered the name of Elina. Paul instantly asked his father's permission to leave him a moment; and Monsieur Vermoncey gave it, on the condition that he would bring Adeline to him, whom he desired to embrace, and that Madame Desroches would remain and talk with him at greater length about his son. The old lady asked nothing better.

In a very few minutes, Sans-Cravate and Paul were with Adeline, who, in accordance with her brother's suggestion, had gone to see little Elina and had told her of the great change in Paul's position. When the two friends arrived, they found the little dressmaker weeping bitterly, because she was persuaded that her lover, now that he had become rich, would no longer think of marrying her.

Paul hastened to console Elina, and Sans-Cravate said:

"You must strike while the iron's hot, and present your sweetheart to your father right away; at this moment, he can't refuse you anything--later, nobody knows."

Paul approved this suggestion; but Elina was afraid to go to Monsieur Vermoncey's; she trembled at the thought, and refused; it required all her lover's eloquence, all the entreaties of Adeline and her brother, to induce her to accompany them. They succeeded at last in allaying her terror, and ere long the two girls stood before Monsieur Vermoncey.

Sans-Cravate presented his sister, whose sad, sweet face and lovely eyes brimming with tears aroused Monsieur Vermoncey's most affectionate interest; he embraced her and called her his daughter. Then he fixed his eyes on little Elina, who was trying to hide behind a curtain, and said, with a smile:

"But who is this other young lady?"

Paul stepped forward, blushing, and told his father of his love for Elina; he dwelt upon the delicacy of the girl, who loved him when he had nothing and offered to give him her little fortune; then he told of the care she had lavished on him during his illness.

Monsieur Vermoncey went behind the curtains and led her forth, as red as a cherry, into the middle of the room; he kissed her on the forehead, and said to her:

"You desired to make my son happy when he had nothing; now that he is rich, it is only fair that he should do as much for you."

"Ah! that is what I call talking!" cried Sans-Cravate. "Look you, monsieur, do you know what this comes to? why, that you've recovered all your children to-day!"

On returning home with his sister, Sans-Cravate was very gay and happy; but he glanced constantly from side to side, as if he hoped to meet someone. Adeline noticed it and smiled to herself, but said nothing. Early in the evening, someone knocked softly at the door of their room.

"Hark! who can have come to see us?" said Sans-Cravate, looking at his sister; "I don't know of any visitor we expect."

Adeline made no reply, but went to open the door, and Bastringuette stood before them.

Sans-Cravate was so agitated that he could not speak; his first impulse was to throw his arms about the tall girl's neck; but he checked himself, because he reflected that the fact that Paul was not her lover did not prove that she was not attached to somebody else.

Bastringuette remained standing in front of him; she glanced coyly at him, and finally, as if she divined his thoughts, she held out her hand, saying:

"I was a flirt--you were ugly--but I love you still, and after this you needn't be afraid, because, you see, a woman's like a saucepan: when it has once been on the fire, it's better than a new one."

Sans-Cravate threw his arms about her.

"To make sure you don't change again, I'll marry you!" he said.

"That ain't always the safest way," rejoined Bastringuette, with a smile; "but as I've been a little free before marriage, I promise you I won't be afterward."

"And I'll take you to Auvergne, to live with my father; how does that strike you?"

"To Auvergne--I should say so! I'm so fond of chestnuts."

A few weeks later, Paul led pretty Elina to the altar; she had ceased to be a dressmaker at the same time that her lover had ceased to be a messenger. And good Madame Desroches consented to live with the young couple, who treated her as their mother.

As for Madame Baldimer, she had left Paris for America immediately after Albert's death.

Albert's friends continue to stroll on the boulevards, cigar in mouth. Mouillot is still a high liver, Balivan as distraught as ever, and Dupétrain still insists on putting people to sleep. Monsieur Varinet no longer lends five hundred francs on an olive, because he is afraid of having to keep it too long in his purse, and Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir, having obtained his release from Sainte-Pélagie, bends his energies to piling up other debts.

Madame Plays continues to disregard her husband's rights; but she cannot endure the sight of Tobie; she holds him in horror, because she believes that he killed Albert. Young Pigeonnier consoles himself for the rigor of the superb Herminie with Aunt Abraham's fortune and his reputation for valor.

On the day before his departure for Auvergne with his sister and Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate saw two men in the street, handcuffed together, on their way to the Préfecture, escorted by gendarmes. He recognized Laboussole and Jean Ficelle. The latter seemed a little abashed to be seen with such an escort; but Monsieur Laboussole kept up a continual outcry of:

"It's a mistake of the gendarmes; they take us for somebody else! That trick's been played on me seven or eight times before!"

"That's how I should have ended, perhaps," thought Sans-Cravate, as he looked after them, "if I'd listened to that ne'er-do-well's advice! for there's no mistake about it, when a man keeps going on sprees, and never works, he seldom comes to a good end."

LITTLE STREAMS

I

FOUR AT THE RENDEZVOUS

It was just five o'clock in the afternoon, when a fashionably dressed young man, of comely aspect, and possessed of an attractive countenance, although his large blue eyes sometimes expressed a decided penchant for raillery, entered the café which stands, or stood, at the corner of Faubourg Poissonnière and the boulevard, on the right as you turn into the latter.

The young man looked into the first room, then into the others in succession, and at last said to himself:

"No one! not a single one of them has come! Probably not a single one of them will come! Five years is quite long enough to forget an appointment. However, I remembered it. I am sure that they are not all dead, for I met Dodichet within two months, and I saw Dubotté at the theatre less than a week ago. Lucien is the only one I haven't heard of for some time. Well, I'll wait a while. Everyone is entitled to the fifteen minutes' grace."

And the young man, whose name was Adhémar Monbrun, seated himself at a table, took up a newspaper, ordered a _petit verre_ of chartreuse, and read a review of the play which had had a successful first performance the night before, but which the newspaper critic abused because the author was not a friend of his. Which fact, luckily, was not likely to prevent the play from making its way and achieving a long run, because the public was beginning to take at their true value the articles of those aristarchs of the press, who took for their motto, generally speaking: "No one shall be allowed to have any cleverness except ourselves and our friends."

Adhémar had not been reading the paper two minutes, when a man, who had just entered the café, walked straight to the table at which he was seated, and tapped him on the shoulder, saying:

"Well, my boy, here I am, too; as prompt as the sun in pleasant weather. I didn't forget our appointment, you see. Good-afternoon, Adhémar, I am delighted to see you once more! You're well, I trust? So am I, as you see. Everybody says that I have a prosperous face. Indeed, sometimes it irritates me to hear it, because I have noticed that prosperity often has a stupid look. But I hope that mine isn't so bad as that!"

This second individual was a man of about thirty years, who looked fully as old as he was, because he was a little inclined to corpulency; rather below than above medium height, with a full, high-colored face, always wreathed in smiles, a forest of light hair which curled naturally, china-blue eyes, as round as a cat's, and large mutton-chop whiskers--such was Philémon Dubotté, who considered himself a very good-looking fellow, and paid court to all the ladies except his own wife, whom he neglected shamefully, but who, on the contrary, adored him, and was always lavishing caresses on him. But the ladies are often like that: the colder you are with them, the more ardent they are with you; perhaps I shall be told that it is because they want to warm you.

Adhémar shook hands with the new-comer.

"How are you, Philémon! come and sit down. Yes, you have a look of robust health which does one good to see!"

"I haven't the look of it only, I beg you to believe. I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis. By the way, is Porte Saint-Denis still standing?"

"Yes, to be sure!"

"I didn't know; so many things are being demolished in these days! Well, then, I repeat: I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis."

"I see that you remembered."

"Why in the devil shouldn't I?"

"In five years one forgets so many things, my friend!"

"In love, that may be; but not in friendship."

"Men forget in friendship, as well as in love. Memory is a rare thing in this world, especially memory of the heart."

"Ah! there you are! the same as ever--no confidence in anything or anybody!"

"Is it my fault, my dear fellow, if my confidence has always been betrayed? Time destroys all our illusions, and in the last five years I have lost an infernal lot of them."

"Well, I haven't lost anything at all. I still adore the fair sex, which, I venture to say, repays my adoration with interest--too earnestly, in fact. For I have a wife--you don't know my wife, I believe? I'll introduce you to her; my dear fellow, she adores me, she idolizes me! It's a genuine passion. When she goes half a day without seeing me, she's as good as dead: she doesn't eat, she pines and languishes, sometimes she weeps even. When I come home, I have to scold her. 'Éléonore,' I say--her name's Éléonore--'why, Nonore, what does this mean? What! can't I stay out a little late with friends, without finding you in tears when I come home?' And she throws her arms round my neck, and says: 'I thought you'd fallen off the top of an omnibus! I beg you, my love, don't ride in the three-sou seats. Go inside, Philémon, I implore you; ride inside; you'll make me so much happier!'--That's the kind of a woman my wife is, and I assure you it's an infernal bore to be loved like that!"

"You complain because the bride is too fair, but it won't always be so."

"I trust not--poor Nonore! If she knew how unworthy I am of such adoration--for I am a double-dyed villain: I can't see a pretty face without ogling it. Ah! I see Lucien yonder. Well, well! I really believe we shall have the whole party."

The individual who was approaching the table at which the two friends were seated was a young man of twenty-six, tall and slight, and extremely thin; his face was pale, but his features were rather fine; the expression of the eyes was very sweet, and his manners as well as his speech were calculated to inspire interest. His dress was extremely neat, but did not denote affluence; his black frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, had evidently been brushed frequently, and you would hardly have dared to detain him by grasping one of its skirts, lest it should remain in your hand. His black cravat showed only a tiny bit of collar, and his hat seemed to have been scrubbed with water; but his gray trousers were spotlessly clean; and his shoes, albeit not of patent leather, were carefully polished. The young man's name was Lucien Grischard.

As soon as he caught sight of him, Adhémar rose and extended his hand, crying out:

"How are you, Lucien, dear old Lucien! how glad I am to see you! for it's a long while--nearly two years--since I laid eyes on you."

"That is true, Monsieur Adhémar, and I am very glad to see you, too. I have been waiting impatiently for this day, which was to bring us together."

"Why on earth do you call me _monsieur_, and not Adhémar, as you used to? Am I not still your old boarding-school comrade?"

"Forgive me! but that was so long ago, and for the last five years you have had nothing but success in literary and dramatic work; you have become a celebrity! while I have remained in obscurity."

"My dear Lucien, if celebrity is to result in separating us from our friends, we ought to shrink from it instead of longing for it. I fancy that mine hasn't yet acquired such dimensions as to make me a subject of envy."

"Oh! pray don't think that I ever had a suspicion of that sentiment when I heard of your triumphs. On the contrary, I was always overjoyed, and said to myself: 'He, at least, is making his way!'"

While this third member of the party was talking with Adhémar, the sandy-haired Philémon scrutinized him with unremitting attention, and the aspect of the threadbare coat and the cleaned hat did not seem to add great zest to his friendship; however, he too shook hands with Lucien, and said to him in an almost patronizing tone:

"Good-afternoon, Lucien! how are you, my boy? Sapristi! you haven't put on much flesh since I saw you last!"

"I can't say the same for you, Philémon, for you are almost the shape of a barrel."

"Oh! a barrel; that's putting it a little strong; but, after all, I would rather resemble a barrel than the barrel of a gun."

Instead of losing his temper at this comparison, Lucien laughed heartily, while Adhémar interposed with:

"Well, well, messieurs, how's this? old schoolfellows meeting after five years, and making unkind remarks to each other! is that the way to meet after a lustrum has passed over our heads, and have you become so sensitive that you lose your tempers over a jest?"

"Oh! I am not angry in the least," replied Lucien; "far from it; Philémon's remark made me laugh, as you see."

"For my part," said Dubotté, "I confess that I can't endure being compared to a barrel; any sobriquet you please, except that. But I don't bear Lucien any ill will. Come, sit down here with us, my dear fellow, and take something."

"Thanks; but we're not all here yet: someone is missing--Dodichet."

"Oh! we can't count on him. Was Dodichet ever a man of his word? Why, he doesn't know what it is to keep a promise! He's a good fellow enough, but an erratic, rattle-brained creature, who always has a thousand schemes on hand, but never carries out one of them, and never remembers one day what he said the day before."

"The devil! you judge him rather harshly, Philémon!"

"I am simply telling the truth. However, I've seen very little of him for five years; he may have mended his ways."

"No," said Adhémar; "Dodichet is just the same; I have happened to meet him several times, and I have been sorry to see that our old friend has not grown any more sensible. He was in a position to succeed, for he's not a fool, and he inherited some money from his parents; but he thinks of nothing but enjoying life, of making _bonnes blagues_, as he expresses it; and they don't always succeed; some of them have cost him dear. I believe that he is almost ruined now; and, unfortunately, he hasn't yet decided upon any profession."

"Poor Dodichet!" said Lucien; "he must be very unhappy, then."

"He, unhappy! oh! he'll never be that. He laughs at everything, everything is _couleur de rose_ with him; and he is convinced that he will have a fine house, horses and carriages, and a hundred thousand francs a year, some day. He has a very happy disposition."

"Why, here he is, on my word!" cried Philémon; "yes, it's really he--he has remembered our appointment. Well, he has a better memory than I supposed."

Another person had, in fact, entered the café. It was a man of twenty-six or twenty-seven years, of medium height, well set up, with dark brown hair, a slightly flushed face, sharp eyes, turned-up nose, and a huge mouth--everything, in short, which denotes a jovial companion. His costume was a little eccentric: his trousers were unconscionably full in the legs and very tight at the hips; his waistcoat was of Scotch plaid with enormous squares, and his coat was so short that it barely covered half of his posterior. On his head was a gray hat of an indescribable shape, but remotely resembling a snail's shell. Lastly, he carried in his hand a light cane with an ivory head, which head he was forever stuffing into his mouth or his nose, and at times he scratched his ear with it. Such was Monsieur Fanfan Dodichet, who, on entering the café, swung his cane in such a way as to strike a newspaper out of the hands of an old habitué of the place, who was reading it as he sipped his glass of beer.

The old gentleman looked up and cast an angry glance at the person who had torn his newspaper into strips; and Dodichet, instead of apologizing for his awkwardness, laughed in his face, and remarked:

"They'll bring you the _Tintamarre_; it's much more entertaining. I am sure that you were bored by what you were reading; I saw that when I came in, and I said to myself: 'There's a man who longs to change his paper; I'll give him an opportunity.'"

Without waiting for a reply, Dodichet examined all the occupied tables; and discovering at last the persons he sought, shouted, as if he were in his own house:

"Ah! there they are! those are they! O happy fate!"

Then he began to sing:

"'Les montagnards, les montagnards, Les montagnards sont réunis!'"

"For heaven's sake, hold your tongue, Dodichet!" said Dubotté, affecting not to see the hand which the new-comer held out to him; "you will compromise us. The idea of singing like that in a café! What do you look like, anyway? These people will be giving you a sou!"

"Well! if everybody here gives me a sou, that will make a very tidy little sum; but our handsome blond is always afraid of compromising himself! He is truly superb, this Dubotté!--Do you know, Dubotté, you make me think of the sun, on my word! I can't look at you without squinting. But aren't we all here? Good-evening, messieurs! I haven't forgotten our appointment of five years ago, you see. That surprises you, doesn't it? well, it surprises me too, on my honor! Ah! there's Lucien, dear old Lucien, whom I haven't seen, I believe, since our agreement.--Give us your hand, Lucien--

"'Cette main, cette main si jolie!'"

"Good God! is he going to sing again? I'm going away, then."

"No, Phoebus, don't be alarmed, I won't sing any more--not to please you, but because I want to talk with Adhémar and Lucien.--Ah! Adhémar--there's a friend that is a friend; you can always find him when you want him. But Dubotté! his scent tells him when anyone's going to ask a favor of him, and he runs away like a stag. I said, like a stag; the simile is a little _risquée_ perhaps, as our friend is married; but, never mind! I have said it, and I won't take it back."

"Oh! I'm not offended, Dodichet. When a man has a wife like mine, he is above such jests."

"You're content with your wife, eh? so much the better, I'm glad of it.--But I say, messieurs, is that all you're going to take? For my part, the weather makes me thirsty."

"Very well! order some beer."

"Beer! oh, no! that's too vulgar; punch, rather."

"Who ever heard of drinking punch just before dinner?"

"Why not? all hours are alike to good fellows!--Punch, waiter! rum punch--and see that it's good; say it's for a connoisseur.--Won't you have a glass of punch, too, my dear Lucien? it warms you up and makes you lively!"

"No, thanks; I won't take anything; I don't need anything."

"Oh! yes, you do; pardieu! you'll take some punch with us; just remember that it is I who invite you!"

"But I'll answer for it that it won't be he who will pay," said Adhémar, in an undertone.

However, when the punch was brought, they all concluded to partake. Dodichet immediately poured out a second glass for himself, humming:

"'J'en veux goûter encore, pour en être certain.'"

But Adhémar silenced him by saying:

"Messieurs, we four, born at Troyes----"

"The home of hashed veal," said Dodichet.

"Oh! Dodichet, you are not going to keep interrupting Adhémar, are you?"

"Not I; I simply desired to confirm his statement that we were all born at Troyes.--Go on, Adhémar."

"Five years ago, we four happened to meet in this same café. I was then twenty-four years old, and I had been in Paris for some time; but Philémon Dubotté and Lucien had just arrived, and Dodichet had run through the inheritance of only one of his uncles. We were old schoolfellows. Do you know what we said when we met here?"

"Perfectly. Each one of us declared: 'I intend to succeed; to make a name and station for myself; and I ask only five years to do it in.'"

"Exactly; and we agreed then to meet again here at the end of five years, in order to find out whether we had succeeded and had reached our respective goals."

"Very good."

"Now, let each of us in turn tell where he stands, and whether he has arrived at the goal which he had in view.--Begin, Philémon."

"Oh, yes! it's Dubotté's place to begin, because he's the dean in years. Go on, fascinating blond."

"Dean in years! I'm not so sure of that."

"Pshaw! between ourselves, there's no use in prevaricating; we all knew one another's ages at school."

"True; but we're not at school now."

"Ha! ha! that's good, that is; it ought to be framed. Dubotté, you are well over thirty-one."

"Not very much; only three months."

"That makes you thirty-one and a quarter."

"You're at least twenty-eight yourself, Dodichet."

"I don't conceal my age: I am twenty-seven and a half, Adhémar twenty-nine, and Lucien twenty-six; he's the youngest of the lot. So far, so good. I move that Phoebus proceed."

"All right.--Messieurs, I have no reason to complain of destiny. Having obtained a position in the Interior Department, where my assiduity, my zeal, and my fine handwriting procured me rapid promotion, I soon married; I found a very attractive young lady, who had a good-sized dowry; I was introduced to her; she liked me and declared that she would be happy to marry a man employed in the Interior Department. Our nuptials were celebrated. I have every reason to congratulate myself: my wife adores me, she sees only through my eyes. My emoluments are respectable; I am able to live pleasantly; so that I might fairly say that I have arrived, that my position is assured; but no, messieurs, I have not yet reached the height to which I aspire. For I am ambitious: I want to be a sub-prefect, or at least the head of a bureau; but I hope to arrive before long. _Dixi._"

"Heard and noted. Now it is Adhémar's turn."

"I will be brief, messieurs: I was determined to write; I wrote novels, I wrote for the stage; my plays have had more success than I dared hope; in that respect, fortune has constantly favored me, and I earn a good deal of money. But I have been less fortunate in love; I have loved women ardently; and when they told me that they loved me alone, I believed it until I had proof to the contrary; but I have had that proof so often that I am completely disillusioned. Thereupon I set about studying the sex; I discovered that all women are coquettes, and consequently that there is no dependence to be placed on their fidelity; that made me a misanthrope, or rather a misogynist, for some time; but then I said to myself that I must take the world as it is, and content myself with forming liaisons with women which have no other end than mere sensual pleasure. However, I am sure that I was born to love truly, and that it would have made me perfectly happy to be loved truly in return. That is where I stand: I have succeeded, so far as vanity and wealth are concerned, but I have not succeeded according to the longing of my heart; and, in my opinion, a man has not arrived when he is not happy."

"Very good!" cried Dodichet; "now it's my turn. I am very different from Adhémar, messieurs, in that I am very happy; for I pass my life enjoying myself. However, I must agree that I have not as yet a well-defined position; I have followed so many trades that you might call me an all-around man. I have had places, in the government service and elsewhere; but I have kept none of them--I don't know why; yes, I ought to say, I do know why. Impelled by my irresistible tendency to jest, I was forever trying to invent some amusing trick to play. When I was a clerk in a fancy goods shop, I succeeded in mixing up all the different things, putting on one shelf what should have been put on another, so that, when customers came, nothing was ever in its place; my employers shouted and swore, and I roared with laughter. As clerk in one of the government bureaux, I had for chief a gentleman who never sat down except on one of those round leather cushions which facilitate respiration. One day, I abstracted that well-padded cushion, and substituted for it one that contained nothing but air; when my chief sank luxuriously into his easy-chair, the cushion burst and flattened out, with a very compromising explosion. This trifling peccadillo caused me to lose that place; there are people whose minds--I should say, whose behinds--are so ill-fashioned! I must confess that, during these various adventures, instead of earning money, I spent all my inheritances little by little. But I still have some wealthy kinsmen; I am going to reform; I have found my real vocation: the stage. Yes, messieurs; I am destined to shine some day on the stage. I have not yet reached that point, it is true; but you will see me there; and I propose that you come to this café, a year hence, to congratulate me on my talent and my triumphs."

"So be it," said Adhémar; "and now it is Lucien's turn to speak."

"I begin, messieurs, by telling you frankly that I have not succeeded at all; and yet I have not been enjoying myself--I have worked, worked hard, I have tried several branches of business in a small way, but I have not been successful; often, too, I have been deceived, _worked_, as they say, by persons who were supposed to be my partners, but who pocketed all the profits. But still I have not lost courage; I have just invented a new kind of pin for ladies' use; something tells me that it will be popular. I must tell you, too, that I am in love, and that the father of the woman I love will not give his daughter to any man who is not well settled in life."

"What's that! you are in love, my poor Lucien, really in love?" said Adhémar. "Ah! that is what prevents you from succeeding! I pray you, do not take that sentiment seriously, or you will be its victim in the end; it will make you sad and unhappy, and then you will be laughed at."

"I beg your pardon, Adhémar; but I don't agree with you. On the contrary, my love, far from making me unhappy, is my only comfort, my only hope; it supports me in adversity; for the woman I love loves me, and a word, a smile, from her makes me forget a whole week of gloom."

"The rascal is loved, you see," said Philémon; "he has won the girl's heart to her father's beard; I know what that is, myself!"

"Shall I kidnap your charmer for you, Lucien? shall I think up some trick to play on her daddy? Don't distress yourself--I am on hand!"

"No, Dodichet, I thank you; she is not one of the kind who allow themselves to be kidnapped. She is virtuous and well brought up. She will never give herself to anyone but her husband; and if she were different, I should not love her."

"Very good. But who is this barbarous father who refuses to approve his daughter's choice?"

"Oh! he is a miser, a curmudgeon, a man who has no regard for anything but money. You will understand, from that, that he will not give his daughter any dowry; on the contrary, he would be more likely to demand one from his son-in-law."

"What does the old skinflint do?"

"Nothing, so he says; but, between ourselves, I think that he lends money at usurious rates. He is rich, but he is always complaining of the hard times; unluckily for him, he married a second time--a woman much younger than himself, who is supposed to have brought him some money; he wouldn't have married her otherwise. But she likes to enjoy herself, to receive company now and then; and that drives Monsieur Mirotaine to despair, for he wants to avoid any expense that can possibly be avoided."

"Mirotaine, did you say, Lucien? Why, I know him; Mirotaine, formerly a bailiff, who lives now on Rue Saint-Louis, in the Marais?"

"That's the very man. So you know him, do you, Philémon? Well, is my portrait of him overdrawn?"

"No, indeed, not at all; he's an old hunks of the first order. He asked me to come to his evenings, but I learned that for refreshments, in summer, he gave cocoa."

"Delightful! And in winter?"

"In winter, it's much worse--hot cocoa. As you can imagine, that didn't attract me; so I have never been."

"Cold cocoa and hot cocoa!" cried Dodichet; "it's hard to believe that. Does the fellow deal in licorice root?"

"It's a pity, for his second wife isn't half bad; I would willingly have flirted a little with her; but I didn't feel that I had the courage to defy the cocoa!"

"And his daughter Juliette--isn't she charming?"

"I don't know her; I have never seen her."

"Her stepmother is determined to marry her. As she is a good deal of a flirt, I think that she's jealous of her stepdaughter's beauty; she is looking everywhere for a husband for her; I heard that she had gone so far as to apply to a second-hand clothes woman, who arranges marriages."

"I say! I say! What's that! Do second-hand clothes women make matches?"

"A great many, my dear Dodichet, a great many! The business pays well, as you can imagine; they stipulate that they are to furnish the presents that the groom always gives the bride. If the groom has no money to pay for them, they offer to advance it, being certain of getting their pay out of the bride's dowry."

"Do you know, that's a shrewd game! I have a mind to go into the matchmaking business myself. Do you know the name of this hymeneal procuress?"

"Madame Putiphar."

"The devil! the name is promising. I must see her and tell her to find me a millionairess, and I'll share the dowry with her.--All the same, he's a miserable old crow, is your Monsieur Miroton[P]--Mirotaine. He must smell of onions. I really must play some good practical joke on him."

"I beg you, Dodichet, do nothing of the sort; you would simply get Juliette into trouble, and that wouldn't help my business any."

"Your business! Do you really flatter yourself, Lucien, that your pins will enable you to marry the young woman?"

"If I make money, yes; but it will take a long time, and meanwhile Madame Putiphar will find some man who, fascinated by Juliette's attractions, will agree to marry her without a dowry."

"Poor Lucien! Give me your address; I'll come and see your pins, and try to give them a puff."

"I live very modestly, on the sixth floor, on Quai Jemmapes, facing the bridge, at the corner of Faubourg du Temple."

"Well, messieurs, I see that we are about to part without being able to say, any one of us, that we have reached the goal for which we set out."

"I ask a reprieve for one year, messieurs. In a year, I shall have made a name for myself on the stage. I shall have succeeded----"

"And I," said Lucien, "may have been successful in my new undertaking; in a year's time, perhaps, I shall have started a little business of my own."

"I shall be chief of a bureau or sub-prefect."

"Very good, messieurs," said Adhémar; "the reprieve for a year is granted; as for myself, I don't imagine that it will change my position at all."

Philémon Dubotté rose and left the table, saying:

"You are very pleasant companions, messieurs; but my wife expects me to dinner, and if I should be late again I should find her weeping in her soup. Au revoir, and may destiny be propitious to you!"

And the handsome blond departed.

"He goes off without paying," said Dodichet; "our friend doesn't stand on ceremony."

"He probably forgot it," said Lucien; "but we three will pay."

"Sapristi! I find that I forgot to bring my purse!" said Dodichet, feeling in his pockets.

Adhémar smiled and made haste to pay the waiter, saying:

"Allow me to be your host, messieurs; it will give me great pleasure. I believe you know my address, my dear Lucien; do come to see me sometimes."

"Thanks, my dear Adhémar; I shall not forget your invitation.--Adieu, Dodichet!"

Lucien Grischard also took his leave.

"He is proud," said Adhémar, as he and Dodichet left the café together. "He doesn't come to see me, because he is poor and doesn't choose that anyone shall help him."

"Well, then, he's wrong. I am not like that, thank you," rejoined Dodichet; "a man shouldn't be proud with his friends. And so, Adhémar, d'ye see, I don't hesitate to say to you: I have left my purse at home; pray lend me a hundred sous. I will pay you the next time I see you."

"My dear Dodichet, I like above all things to oblige my friends, but you abuse your privilege. I have lent you many hundred-sou pieces, which you are always going to repay--but you never do."

"Very good! listen: lend me ten francs, and I'll pay back a hundred sous right away."

Adhémar could not help laughing, and, on the strength of the jest, lent Dodichet a hundred sous.

II

A BURNING DRESS

Let us leave Philémon Dubotté to return to his wife, casting languishing glances at all the passably pretty women he meets on his way; let us leave Lucien Grischard to muse upon possible methods of earning money without departing from the pathway of honor; and Fanfan Dodichet to cudgel his brains to invent a practical joke to play on Monsieur Mirotaine, who regaled his company with cocoa; and let us follow Adhémar, who had no schemes in his head except that of a comedy of which he was just planning the dénouement.

Our author followed the boulevard; he walked rather slowly, paying no attention to the passers-by; but suddenly he stopped short, or rather turned and flew toward a lady a few yards away, whose dress had taken fire as she walked over a burning match which one of those gentlemen who have the noble habit of smoking while they walk had thrown away, after lighting his cigar or his pipe, without even taking the trouble to step on it and extinguish it. If our friends would do so much, they would at least relieve women from the risk of such dangerous accidents; but what does a smoker care if a dress does burn, and its wearer too? He has his smoke, and the rest is all right. In very truth, we have good reason to exclaim: _O tempora! O mores!_

The lady's dress was of some thin material; the flame rose quickly to her waist, and she had not discovered that she was on fire; but when she was suddenly conscious of being seized by two strong arms, which arrested and stifled the flames at the risk of burning themselves, the lady uttered a shriek, and demanded of the man in whose embrace she was by what right he presumed to take her in his arms. Adhémar replied by pointing to her dress, one side of which was badly burned.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I understand now," she exclaimed. "Pray forgive me! Was I really on fire?"

"Yes, madame; you must have walked over a lighted match; I happened, luckily, to be within a few steps; and although I do not always see what is taking place beside me, I did see the flame just as it was beginning to make rather rapid progress; and I hastened to your assistance without stopping to ask your permission; I thought that you would not take it ill of me."

"Ah! monsieur, I am so grateful to you! But you have burned yourself!"

"Only a little, on the left hand. It's a mere trifle."

Meanwhile, the idlers and other inquisitive folk, who always come up when the danger is over, began to collect around the lady and Adhémar.

"What is it?"

"What has happened?"

"A lady burned----"

"Throw water on her!"

"It's all out. Her dress is baked a little, that's all."

"She can buy another."

"What about the gentleman who is so close to her?"

"It was probably he who burned her--with his cigar."

"Then he ought to be arrested and taken to the police station."

"Why, no; he's the one who extinguished the lady; and got a pretty burn on his left wrist into the bargain."

"The deuce! if he plays the fiddle, that will bother him."

The hero and heroine of the adventure hastened to force their way through the crowd and to go into a pharmacy, which, luckily, was only a few steps away.

The lady sat down, and asked for a glass of orange water, to restore her strength after the shock she had received. Adhémar showed the druggist his burned wrist, which was first bathed in cold water, then covered with something guaranteed to heal the burn in a short time. But he had to submit to have his arm bandaged and to carry it in a sling for a while, for the wound was of considerable size.

While all this was being done, our two friends had time to look at each other, and--which was natural enough--tried to make out each other's individuality. The person who had nearly been burned to death was about twenty-five years of age, tall and slender and well built; her face, which usually wore a grave expression, became very attractive when she smiled; her black eyes were beautiful and very expressive, and the eyebrows which surmounted them were thin, but perfectly arched. Her hair was black, her Niobe-like nose but slightly prominent. Taken all in all, she was a very comely person; she was stylishly dressed, and her manners denoted high social position.

Adhémar discovered all this while his arm was being dressed. On her side, the lady had scrutinized the man who had rendered her such a signal service, and we know that the scrutiny could not be unfavorable to him.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I am terribly distressed. You are really badly burned," she said, while Adhémar's wrist was being bandaged.

"Oh! no, madame; it will very soon be all right."

"Yes," said the druggist, "very soon; but you will probably carry the mark of this burn to your dying day."

"Well, it will be an honorable scar!--Pray consider, madame, that you might have been seriously burned; what does this amount to, compared with the danger by which you were threatened?"

She made no direct reply, but looked down at her dress and cried:

"It is impossible for me to go out in this condition; the whole skirt of my dress is burned. Is there no way of getting a cab?"

"Surely, madame," the druggist replied; "I will send for one for you."

"I shall be greatly obliged to you, monsieur."

Adhémar, the bandaging being completed, seemed to hesitate as to what he should do; but at last he bowed, and said to his companion:

"As you have no further need of my services, madame, I will take my leave of you."

The lady blushed slightly, but she detained Adhémar, saying with some hesitation:

"Excuse me, monsieur, for keeping you longer; but I should be very glad to know the name of the gentleman who risked his--who was badly burned in my service?--Mon Dieu! I am too presumptuous--I beg your pardon."

"There is nothing presumptuous in your request, madame; on the contrary, it is most flattering to me."

And, as he spoke, Adhémar took his card from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it, looked at it eagerly, and her face assumed an expression of satisfaction.

"I know you already by name and reputation," she said, looking up at Adhémar with a smile; "I have had the pleasure of seeing most of your plays, and I congratulate myself upon this opportunity of telling the author how many pleasant moments I owe to his talent."

Adhémar could not control a feeling of pride, which showed itself on his face. What dramatic author, poet, or novelist would be entirely insensible to such praise, especially when it is uttered with a charming smile by an intelligent mouth? From the mouth of a fool a compliment sometimes has a foolish sound, and sometimes produces an absurd effect.

"I am very fortunate, madame," Adhémar replied, "if my works have afforded you any diversion; your praise almost makes me vain of my success. Do you like the theatre, madame?"

"Very much, monsieur."

"And you go often?"

"Why, yes, as often as a woman can go who is all alone in the world and must always find some friend who is willing to go with her; for a lady cannot go to the theatre alone; it is neither amusing nor proper."

"Ah! madame is--madame has no----"

"I am a widow, monsieur."

"That is what I meant to say, madame. Forgive me--I am the presumptuous one--but I should be very happy to know----"

"For whom you have risked your life and burned yourself, and whether the person was worth the trouble?"

"Oh! madame, pray believe that that is not what I was about to say. In the first place, it seems to me that every person who is in danger deserves to be assisted, whatever her appearance or her rank. But with you, madame, I could not be otherwise than flattered to have had this adventure. I see that my question was indiscreet, and I withdraw it."

"And I, monsieur, on the contrary, am determined that you shall know whom you rescued so unselfishly; I like to believe that you will not regret your action."

"It is enough to see you and talk with you, madame, to form a most favorable opinion of you, and----"

"Oh! you know that it is not safe to trust to appearances, monsieur. They are very deceitful, especially in Paris. Take this--take it, I beg you!"

As she was speaking, she had taken from a dainty little reticule the card which she offered to Adhémar; he took it at last, and put it in his pocket without glancing at it.

The messenger returned and informed the lady that her carriage was waiting. She thanked him, and was about to go, after bowing to Adhémar, when he offered her his hand, saying:

"Will you not allow me to escort you to your carriage, madame?"

"With great pleasure, monsieur."

They went out of the druggist's shop together, the lady having passed her arm through her escort's, because the sight of a gentleman leading a lady by the hand, on the boulevard, in broad daylight, would have caused all the loiterers to stop and stare; less than that is enough to attract the attention and arouse the curiosity of the Parisian, who is excessively prone to loiter, and seizes on the wing every possible opportunity to kill time.

They soon reached the carriage, which the lady entered; then she said to Adhémar:

"It may be that your injured arm will pain you if you walk, monsieur. Will you not allow me to take you home, or wherever you wish to go?"

"You are a thousand times too kind, madame; but I do not desire to cause you so much trouble, and I assure you that my hand doesn't pain me at all."

She did not insist, but pursed her lips as one does when one is annoyed. Then she bowed low to Adhémar, and said to the cabman:

"No. 40, Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière."

The cabman closed the door, mounted his box, and drove away; and Adhémar, standing on the same spot, looked after it, muttering:

"Why on earth did I refuse to let her drive me home? What a fool a man is, sometimes! You long for a thing--for it would have given me great pleasure to spend a longer time with her--and you refuse it! Why? I haven't any good reason to give myself, even. But, yes, I have one! She is good-looking, I feel certain that she would attract me, that I should speedily fall in love with her; and I do not propose to fall in love again! But does that purpose involve a resolution not to form an agreeable intimacy? And then, what right have I to assume that this lady would have listened to me?--Let us see what her name is. As for her address, I remember that; she told the cabman loud enough."

He took the card from his pocket and read:

"Nathalie Dermont--nothing more; and there's no _widow_ on the card. Why is that omitted? But still, if her husband has been dead some time, she's not bound to go on styling herself _widow_. She's an exceedingly attractive woman! A pretty face and figure, and nothing stupid about her! Ah! that is the principal thing to guard against; for a stupid woman is deadly! However, I haven't wasted my day, at all events."

III

A DEALER IN SECOND-HAND CLOTHES

Dodichet had as his mistress for the moment--or, rather, as his companion in pleasure, for, as he had money only occasionally and by chance, he rarely indulged in the luxury of a mistress--he had, we will say, for an intimate acquaintance a young woman who danced in the ballet at one of the smaller theatres, and who was always ready to accept an invitation to dinner or supper, when he was sufficiently in funds to allow him to extend such an invitation.

Dodichet betook himself to the abode of this stage artist, whose name was Boulotte, and who lived on the fifth floor of a house on Faubourg du Temple. Mademoiselle Boulotte, who was in the act of compounding a new kind of mineral rouge, with bricks pounded up in flour, uttered a cry of joy when Dodichet appeared.

"Have you come to take me to dine at the restaurant?" she said. "My word! but it comes just at the right time; I've had nothing but a sausage to-day, and that's too light."

"No, Boulotte; no, dear angel of my dreams,--when they are golden,--I have not come to invite you to dinner; because the tide is low, and I don't propose to take such a woman as you to any cheap place."

"Oh! that wouldn't make any difference to me! there are cheap places where they give you very good stewed rabbit. But still, if you haven't any money, I'll give you half of my black radish and fried potatoes, which I'm just going out to buy."

"You are a dear, good child; you share with a friend all that you possess. That isn't very much, to be sure; but it's all the more creditable of you to give away half of it. Thanks, my dear love, but I cannot accept the feast you offer me. I am on the lookout for a certain person; I saw him two days ago, but at sight of me he ran like a thief; I couldn't catch him, but I shall sooner or later!"

"Is it somebody who owes you money?"

"No; he doesn't owe me any, but he'll give me some, all the same. Oh! I'll worm it out of him, and without remorse too, as he's very rich. Then, I'll give you a regular Belshazzar, with truffles and champagne!"

"Why will this man give you money?"

"Because I know his secret."

"What sort of a secret?"

"If I should tell you, it wouldn't be a secret any longer."

"So you think I am very leaky, do you?"

"My dear little Boulotte, when I know a secret, which may be the goose with the golden eggs to me, I should be a great fool if I gave it away. But let's drop the subject; that wasn't what I came here for. Boulotte, you must do me a favor."

"One, two, three! go on, don't hesitate; for I'm quite sure you don't want to borrow money of me."

"What do you take me for? You probably know some of the women who sell second-hand clothes and such things, don't you?"

"Yes, I know several of 'em; but they have pretty poor stuff. Do you want to buy me a shawl?"

"Nonsense! do you know one named Madame Putiphar?"

"Madame Putiphar? No, I don't know her; do you want to make her acquaintance?"

"Yes, and I counted on you to find her for me."

"Oh! that's easy enough! I'll ask Sara and Clara and Cora--they know so many of those women. In two days I shall be able to give you all the information you want concerning this honest tradeswoman."

"Very well. To assist you in your investigations, you can say that she arranges marriages."

"That's very definite! they all do."

"Really! I fancy that they disarrange a good many too. No matter--do my errand; I leave you to your radish and your fried potatoes; don't eat too much. You will see me again in three days; and if I have found my man, we will have, not stewed rabbit, but a salmi of truffled partridges together."

Three days later, Dodichet called again on Mademoiselle Boulotte, and found her still at work on her mineral rouge, for which she hoped to obtain a patent. Dodichet was radiant; he waltzed into the room, and began by taking the _figurante_ in his arms and whirling her about without giving her time to put down her brick and her hammer, despite her cries:

"Let go, I say! or, at any rate, let me put down my brick!"

"Do you know the waltz from _L'Auberge des Adrets_, Boulotte--the one Frédérick used to dance so well in his picturesque costume as Robert Macaire? I can dance that waltz just a little."

"Let me put down my brick. Pshaw! there it goes, and it's all smashed!"

"Well! as long as you were going to smash it with a hammer anyway, you have so much less to do."

"That's different. I shall lose half of it on the floor! What in the world's the matter with you to-day that makes you so gay?"

"Parbleu! I have found my man--my Sicilian."

"Ah! the man with a secret?"

"Just so."

"And he's a Sicilian?"

"Yes, a Sicilian from Pontoise. Ah! what a fool I am! what did I say that for? Don't repeat that, Boulotte, I beg you. If you ever see me anywhere with a man you don't know, don't let the word Pontoise escape you--or everything's over between us!"

"What silly nonsense is this you are giving me? You act like a crazy man!"

"Let's drop that. Have you done my errand?"

"Yes, monsieur; I have done your errand. I was sure that Rosa, who knows all the second-hand clothes women in Paris, would know her; she sold her not long ago a steel comb, which she owed to the munificence of an Englishman, with two teeth broken----"

"The Englishman?"

"No, the comb!"

"Very good. Rosa's one of your companions at the theatre, isn't she? a brunette with yellow eyes, and complexion to match?"

"Yes, but never mind about her; you promised me a salmi of partridges if you found your man with the secret--you see--I didn't say, your man from Pontoise."

"Hush! imprudent girl! I was coming to the salmi in a minute, when I spoke about Rosa. Our feast will take place at her room--day after to-morrow, at noon, to give her time to tell Putiphar to come there that day about one; I shall be there, you understand, and I shall have told you and Rosa what to say to her so that my plan may succeed."

"Are you going to play a joke on someone?"

"To be sure."

"Never fear, then! we'll tell her all the foolish stuff you want."

"I have never doubted it. It's understood, then--day after to-morrow, at twelve o'clock, at Rosa's.--Does she still live on Rue de Lancry?"

"Yes."

"I promise you a breakfast of swallows' nests, like the Chinese."

"No, no, I don't want that! The idea of eating birds' nests! what a horror!"

"Then we will transform them into charlotte russe."

"All right! Order the breakfast at Lecomte's, corner of Rue de Lancry and the boulevard; that's a nice restaurant."

"Never you fear; I know the good places."

Mademoiselle Rosa, Boulotte's fellow _figurante_, occupied a small fourth-floor apartment on Rue de Lancry, very daintily furnished; for, although she had yellow eyes and complexion, she always had richer protectors than several of her companions who were far prettier than she. Why was that? I decline to tell you.

On the appointed day, about half-past twelve, Dodichet was seated at the table, between Boulotte and Rosa, in the tiny dining-room of the latter's apartment. The table was covered with dishes, upon which they had already made savage attacks, and with bottles embellished with divers seals and containing wines of different colors.

They were in very high spirits, laughing while they ate, and drinking while they laughed.

"Mesdemoiselles," said Dodichet, uncorking a bottle of champagne, "I have told you the joke--the jest--the trick, in fact, which I want to play. You have promised to help me."

"We promise again."

"I swear it by my lover's hair!" said Rosa.

"Oho! but I believe your lover's bald, isn't he?--However, never mind--you know what you're to say to Madame Putiphar when she comes?"

"Oh! we know our rôles; you'll be content with us."

"But the woman doesn't come! suppose she should go back on us?"

"No danger! I told her I wanted a brooch."

"For your kitchen?"[Q]

"Why, no; to wear at my neck. Hark--someone is ringing--I'll bet that's she!"

And, in a moment, the maid came in and said to Rosa:

"Madame Putiphar is here."

"Well, show her in; she won't keep us from eating."

Almost on the instant there appeared a short but enormously stout woman, apparently somewhat between forty and fifty years of age; who had been, perhaps, in her prime, a piquant brunette, but was now simply a brunette without the piquancy, or rather a black; for her hair, whose thick plaits almost covered her cheeks, was of such a glossy ebon blackness that, at first sight, taken with her face, which was flushed and pimply, it made her head look as if it had been varnished. She was well supplied with clothes, too well supplied, in fact, for she wore two shawls,--a large one, with a smaller one over it,--a high collarette, with a cravat twisted round it; a cap, and over it a bonnet decorated with a lot of frippery; in addition, she carried a flat box under her arm, which led Dodichet to observe:

"This woman evidently carries a large part of her stock in trade about with her."

"Good-day, Putiphar!"

"Hail, Madame Putiphar!"

"Sit down, Putiphar. When I wrote you to come, I didn't know that Monsieur Dodichet, a commission merchant in sugar, would treat Boulotte and me to this impromptu feast of champagne and truffles mixed, this morning.--But that doesn't make any difference; for you're in no hurry, I take it?"

The corpulent dame replied by repeated courtesies, accompanied by loving glances at the table, mumbling:

"Oh! mesdames, don't let me disturb you at all! It smells good here, and I'm in no hurry; I'll watch you eat."

"Won't you take a glass of champagne with us, madame?"

"Oh! monsieur is very polite----"

"Accept, Putiphar, accept; nobody ever refuses a glass of champagne!"

"I am tempted----"

"With a biscuit in it, eh?"

"I should prefer, if it's all the same to you, the chicken wing I see on that dish."

"That's all right. Draw up to the table.--Manette, a plate for Madame Putiphar.--Will you have some pâté de foie gras too?"

"You tempt me--but, really, I am ashamed of myself. Monsieur will think I'm a great glutton."

"That's not a failing, madame; it's a good quality."

Madame Putiphar took her place at the table, stuffed herself with chicken, pâté, and truffles, partook freely of claret, madeira, and champagne, and never paused for breath until the dessert was being brought on. Then she wiped her mouth, saying:

"A very pretty little feast; monsieur knows how to treat the ladies."

"Oh! Dodichet's very polite," said Boulotte; "he's eaten up a lot of money with women."

"Mon Dieu! mesdames, what is the good of money, if not to give you pleasure?"

"Ah! what a sweet sentiment! Monsieur deserves to be embalmed."

"What's that! embalmed?"

"I meant to say, turned into a statuette."

"Unfortunately, you've become very rare lately, Dodichet," said Rosa; "we hardly ever see you."

"It isn't my fault! I am not my own master since my intimate friend Count Miflorès came to Paris."

"Oh, yes! that Sicilian, who's so rich!"

"He doesn't know the amount of his fortune."

"Is he a relation of yours?"

"No; but I rendered him an important service in Sicily; he was on the point of falling into a volcano; did you know there were volcanoes in Sicily?"

"Yes, mountains that spit fire; I saw one in a play, at La Gaieté."

"My Sicilian, who is very inquisitive and very brave, had ascended Mount Ætna, and was looking into the mouth of the crater; suddenly he dropped his cane, and it fell into the fiery gulf. Count Miflorès thought a great deal of that cane, which he had inherited from his mother; he was going down into the crater to try to recover it, which would have been to go to certain destruction! Luckily, I was there--with my dog, a magnificent Newfoundland. I pointed to the hole, and to the cane, of which we could see one end, and said: 'Go, seek! go, seek!'--My dog understood me; he rushed down into the crater, and soon returned with the cane between his teeth and laid it at my feet. I gave it to the count, who was overjoyed, and who swore everlasting friendship to me from that day."

"Ah! the brave count! no, I mean the brave dog! You ought to have given him a good dinner when you got home!"

"Alas! the poor beast never got home; after a minute or two, he fell dead at my feet; he was roasted, the heat of the crater had cooked him!"

"Oh! what an idea! And still he brought back the cane, roasted as he was?"

"His devotion sustained him.--But it seems to me, mesdames, that it is high time to attack this nougat and water it with a little alicante."

"Yes, yes; let's attack it and water it!--Take some nougat, Putiphar."

"You tempt me. I would make a fool of myself for this alicante!"

"What has your Sicilian come to Paris for?"

"In the first place, to see this wonderful city, which everybody aspires to know, and which no one ever wants to leave when he has once tasted its joys. Secondly, the devil of a fellow has a curious whimsey in his head: he wants to marry."

"You call that a whimsey, monsieur? why, it's a most prevalent idea."

"Look here, you'd better not talk against marriage before Putiphar, Dodichet; she'll never forgive you."

"Oh! I'll forgive monsieur for anything--he treats the ladies so handsomely; but I would like to convert him."

"Mon Dieu! madame, although I am not thinking of marriage for myself, I assure you that I have no wish to disgust others with it; and the proof is that I'm looking for a wife for my rich Sicilian."

"A wife? You're looking for a wife for him, monsieur? Oh! in that case--I beg your pardon, a sip of alicante, if you please--I may have what you want."

"Faith! madame, if you can find me somebody suited to my friend, you would give me great pleasure; for I haven't much time to give to it. I have more orders for sugar than I can handle; I am obliged to neglect my business, and I don't like it."

"I must ask you one important question first of all, monsieur: is your count rich?"

"I think I have already told you that he doesn't know the amount of his fortune."

"Then I suppose he wants his wife to be rich, too?"

"Not at all; he cares nothing at all for money; he has enough for two."

"Really! he won't ask for any dowry?"

"A dowry! why, if the woman's father should be so ill-advised as to mention such a thing, he would be quite capable of knocking him down! He would consider it an insult."

"Phew! what a noble-minded man!--A little more alicante, please."

"And some chartreuse?"

"In a minute, Monsieur Godichet."

"Dodichet."

"That don't make any difference. For heaven's sake, what does your count want in his wife?"

"This: in the first place, he wants her to be young."

"That goes without saying."

"Good figure, pretty----"

"Those are mere trifles."

"And--she must be really unmarried; do you understand?"

"Perfectly. I have what he wants, monsieur; I have it, and everybody can't say as much!"

"Are you sure? will you guarantee it?"

"Yes, monsieur; as I'm an honest woman!--A young lady, brought up in the best way by strict parents, who never goes out alone----"

"This seems to me to fit the case to perfection.--By the way, there's one other condition: my Sicilian is particular that she shall be a Parisian; he insists on that; he thinks that no women but the Parisians can wear hoopskirts gracefully."

"My young lady is a Parisian, monsieur; born, I believe, on Rue du Pont-aux-Choux, the very centre of Paris."

"The centre of the Marais, you mean, Putiphar."

"That's all the same."

"Yes; Miflorès doesn't insist that his future wife must have been born in the Chaussée d'Antin, especially as he never heard of it. Is the family respectable? We are particular about that, you see. A Sicilian count wouldn't want to ally himself with a dealer in rabbit skins--you can understand that."

"Oh! it's a most respectable family, monsieur. Monsieur Mirotaine, the father, is an ex-bailiff."

"You are quite sure?"

"Positive, monsieur. He don't do anything now--he lives on his income. Juliette's mother--mademoiselle's name is Juliette--is dead; Monsieur Mirotaine is married again, to a woman much younger than he is; from which you can conclude that the stepmother is in a hurry to marry off her stepdaughter."

"Very good! things seem to run as smoothly as if they were on wheels."

"Now, will you allow me to take my turn and ask you a few questions, monsieur?"

"I should say so! all the questions you please, Madame Joseph--I should say, Madame Putiphar! Have some chartreuse--to drink with these damsels!"

"Yes, yes, let's take a drink!--Do you like chartreuse, Putiphar?"

"If it's green, I'm afraid of it; it's too strong."

"This is yellow, and that other green."

"In that case, I'll let you tempt me. My word! but Monsieur Godichet can brag of knowing how to do things in good shape!"

Madame Putiphar sipped the yellow chartreuse, but it did not make her forget the great stroke of business of which she had caught a glimpse.

"Will you be good enough to tell me your count's age first of all, monsieur?"

"Thirty-six; he looks forty, but it's his own doing."

"The age is all right; how about his physique?"

"That corresponds with his age: a fine figure, noble carriage, fresh as a rose; his nose is a little large, but he will fix that all right by blowing it!"

"Faith! monsieur, everything seems to harmonize on both sides. Allow me to mention your friend to the Mirotaine family to-day; and as soon as he chooses to call----"

"One moment, my dear woman; we can't go so fast as that with Miflorès. He's a peculiar fellow; he is timid and, furthermore, extremely sensitive."

"Do you want Monsieur Mirotaine to call on him?"

"No, indeed! that would spoil everything."

"What are we to do, then? Look you, I believe I'll risk a little green chartreuse; we must get accustomed to everything."

"You are quite right. I drink to the fair sex, of which you are a part, Madame Putiphar."

"I have always hoped so, monsieur. Here's to yours! Hum! this is strong, and very penetrating! Well, monsieur, how are we to go to work to arrange a match between your count and my young and innocent Juliette?"

"Listen to me carefully: I'll set you the pace. In the first place, Miflorès will never consent to present himself right away in any family, as a marrying man; he wishes to study, to examine the young lady at his ease--to know her, in short--and I shall be very careful not to tell him that she knows that it is his intention to marry her; moreover, as my friend is very timid, he always insists on my going with him. I will invent some pretext for calling on your Mirotaines; I will tell the count that I am negotiating an important transaction with the papa, and that I need a guarantor. Then he will be perfectly willing to go with me."

"All that is simple enough, monsieur; I will tell Monsieur Mirotaine that you have a great deal of influence over his prospective son-in-law."

"And you will tell no falsehood, I beg you to believe. By the way, there's another matter: my friend is in the habit of dining wherever he goes; it's a noble habit, contracted in Sicily. If he isn't asked to dinner, he has the worst possible opinion of the people to whose house I have taken him. Moreover, he's a great gourmand; an excellent dinner, with plenty of good wine and dainty dishes, will dispose him favorably."

"The deuce! that makes the thing rather harder, monsieur; for I must tell you that Monsieur Mirotaine is a little close in the matter of spending money--a little miserly, I may as well say it. He never gives a dinner party. If, by any chance, he does invite anyone, it's always on condition that he brings his own dishes."

"I can assure you that we won't bring anything at all! If that's the case, there's nothing to be done!"

"It seems to me," said Rosa, "that a man can well afford to put out a little money for once, to catch a rich noble for a son-in-law, who takes his daughter without a sou."

"I should think so!" cried Boulotte; "such a husband as that is a treasure!"

"Yes, my dear loves, you are right. We won't give it up, Monsieur Godichet; I'll just speak to the stepmother; she'll back me up, for she'll be delighted to be allied to a count. She will make her husband listen to reason, and he'll give the dinner."

"All right!"

"And if Monsieur Godichet cared to go and see Monsieur Mirotaine in the meantime?"

"There's no sort of need of it; I won't go till the day we're invited to dinner, and if it wasn't for the sake of obliging my friend I wouldn't go at all; but a man must sacrifice himself for his friends."

"I must leave you, mesdames; I can't go about this business too soon."

"Go, Putiphar, go; it's worth your while."

"As soon as I've had a day fixed for the dinner, I'll write to you, Monsieur Godichet."

"Dodichet, I tell you!"

"I beg your pardon--Dodichet. By the way, your address, if you please?"

"I live at the Grand Hôtel; but I'm never to be found there; it's so grand! Come and give these young ladies your message, and they'll send it to me at once."

"Agreed. It may take two or three days, perhaps, to bring Monsieur Mirotaine to the point of giving a dinner party; but we'll succeed. Au revoir, Monsieur--Dodichet!--I got it right that time, eh? By the way, if the marriage comes off, as I hope, I stipulate that I am to furnish the trousseau and all the presents the bridegroom gives his bride."

"You shall furnish everything, Madame Putiphar, everything; even the husband's suspenders, if he wears any that day."

"Ah! Monsieur Dodichet, you're a very agreeable man!"

"Have another little glass of the green before you go?"

"You tempt me.--Mademoiselle Rosa, we'll talk about that brooch some other day."

"Yes, yes, Putiphar; there's no hurry."

Whereupon the wardrobe dealer, whose complexion had changed to purple as a result of all that she had drunk, executed a graceful courtesy, none the less, and withdrew.

IV

TWO FRIENDS

Mademoiselle Juliette, Monsieur Mirotaine's daughter, was nearly nineteen years of age, but was such a gentle and timid young woman that one would readily have mistaken her for a schoolgirl of twelve. She trembled before her father, who always treated her harshly; and ever since she had had a stepmother, her life had been passed in doing the will of one or the other. Let us hasten to say, however, that Madame Mirotaine II was no tyrant; indeed, she was not unkind at heart; but she was anxious to get rid of her stepdaughter, because she herself was inclined to be coquettish, and Juliette was exceedingly pretty. Although her timidity made her seem like a child, physically speaking she was a lovely girl of nineteen, with a graceful figure, clear white skin, and brown hair; her mouth was beautiful, her teeth small and even, her almond-shaped eyes were charming in the softness of their expression; but she kept them almost always on the ground, at least before her parents; I like to think that she raised them sometimes when she was talking with Lucien.

Juliette was very easily moved; that could be divined from her eyes and the tones of her voice; she had listened at first with pleasure, then with love, to the declarations of young Lucien, who had long been in the habit of calling at Monsieur Mirotaine's, whose commissions and errands he was always ready to undertake. But he was not welcomed there so cordially since he had dared to ask Monsieur Mirotaine for his daughter's hand.

"My daughter has no dowry," the father had replied; "you haven't a sou, nor any place, nor any trade; so you can't marry her. Earn some money, work up a flourishing business, and I'll give you my daughter."

"Then, monsieur, promise to keep her for me till I have succeeded."

"No, indeed; that might be altogether too long. I shall marry Juliette as soon as I have found a good match for her; meanwhile I am perfectly willing that you should come to my house and do my errands when I have any, but on condition that you are never to be alone with my daughter, and that you never mention the subject of love to her."

Lucien promised; indeed, he had to promise, in order to be allowed to continue his visits to the house; but, as will be seen, the lovers were in a very melancholy plight, and they could hardly find a minute to exchange a word of love in secret.

Luckily for Juliette, she had a friend upon whose bosom she could pour out her heart, to whom she told all her troubles and her hopes--in short, everything that took place in her heart and in her mind.

She was a boarding-school friend, but was six years older than Juliette; they were in perfect accord, however, in their views, their feelings, and their sentiments. The friend had married immediately upon leaving school; she had not been able to obtain permission for Juliette, who was then only fourteen, to come to her wedding; but Juliette's father had consented to her receiving her friend's visits. Knowing that she was rich, Monsieur Mirotaine thought that she could not be an undesirable acquaintance for his daughter.

It is needless to say that when Juliette fell in love with Lucien her passion was confided to her tender-hearted friend, as well as the disappointments of the lovers, their hopes, and their plans for the future. Meanwhile, the friend had lost her husband; but as she had not married for love, it is probable that she shed very few tears on her young friend's breast.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon; Juliette was alone in her chamber and even more melancholy than usual; we shall soon know the reason. She had at least the satisfaction of having a chamber to herself, where she could weep at her ease; a narrow corridor led to it from the reception-room, so that to reach it one was not obliged to pass the whole suite. Hence, the girl might, in an emergency, have received a secret visit from Lucien; he might have slipped into her room from the dining-room. But Juliette would not allow it; she felt that it would be wrong to receive a young man secretly in her bedroom; she did not wish to expose herself to her stepmother's remonstrances and her father's anger. But Juliette was unhappy; she sighed, and sometimes wept a large part of the day.

It was with a cry of joy, therefore, and a feeling of the utmost satisfaction that she saw that friend enter her room, to whom alone she could pour out her heart.

"Ah! Nathalie, at last!" said Juliette, running to meet the young widow, who began by kissing her. "What a long time since you came to see me! fie, madame! it is wicked of you to neglect me so, when I have no other friend, no other consolation, but you! Come, sit down here with me this minute. Oh! how happy it makes me to see you!"

"Don't scold me, my dear Juliette; the reason that I haven't been to see you for some time is that I haven't been very well."

"Oh, dear! that was all that was wanting--that you should be sick! You ought to have written to me; I would have shown father your letter, and he couldn't have refused to let me go to see you and nurse you."

"It wasn't worth while; it's all over now, as you see."

"Why, no--no, you are a little pale."

"I always am. But you have a pair of red eyes; what does that mean? You have been crying; is there anything new? doesn't Lucien love you any more?"

"Oh, yes! poor boy--I see in his eyes that he still loves me; he can't tell me so except with his eyes, but I can understand what they say."

"What is the matter, then?"

"Oh! mon Dieu! the matter is that they are still bent on marrying me, especially my stepmother, who wants to get rid of me; and this time it seems that they have found a husband for me. It's that infernal second-hand dealer, Madame Putiphar, who has planned it all. She promised my stepmother to bear me in mind. And now they say she's found a superb match for me: a Neapolitan or Sicilian count--or some kind of an Italian nobleman, immensely rich, who doesn't want a dowry!--do you hear? no dowry! That is what captivates father."

"Have you seen this count?"

"No, not yet, thank God! but it appears that I am to see him soon; we're to give a dinner for him and one of his friends, who always accompanies him."

"Your father is going to give a dinner party? it isn't possible!"

"Oh! he didn't want to; but it seems that this count is in the habit of dining in every house he goes to--he and his friend; my stepmother Aldegonde brought my father to the point. 'You must give this dinner,' she said, 'and let it be a handsome one; a rich and noble son-in-law is well worth going to some little expense.'--Father swore, but he yielded--and the day is fixed: the day after to-morrow, my prospective husband is to dine with us. And that is why I am crying! why I am so unhappy! And I saw in Lucien's eyes that he knew all about it; Aldegonde probably told him, just to be nasty."

"Come, come, my poor Juliette, don't get so excited; this marriage hasn't come off yet. You are very pretty, but perhaps your style of beauty won't please this Italian."

"Oh! I'll make faces at him."

"A thousand things may happen to prevent it. Has your father made any inquiries about the man?"

"I don't think so; he relies on Madame Putiphar's word, and she praises him in the highest terms, as well as his friend, who's a commission merchant in something or other."

"A commission merchant in marriages, I should say! However, I prefer to believe that your father wouldn't marry you to a man without knowing something about him. And, do you know, there's one thing in all this that seems so perfectly absurd to me--that is, the idea of this rich nobleman absolutely insisting on being invited out to dinner--he and his friend! That has every appearance of a joke, do you know!"

"That is so. You are right! It doesn't seem altogether natural."

"I don't know why, but I suspect some sort of a scheme in all this. There are so many schemers in Paris! Look you, my dear, this marriage isn't made yet, and something tells me that it never will be."

"Bless you, my dear Nathalie! you renew my hopes, you bring back joy to my heart! Ah! how good it was of you to come!"

"Yes, and you have no idea that you came very near never seeing me again; that I have been in great danger."

"Mon Dieu! how you frighten me! what has happened, in heaven's name?"

"My dress caught fire, my love; it was all ablaze, and I never suspected it!"

"Oh! heaven!"

"Don't be alarmed; the danger must have passed, as I am here."

"Was it long ago?"

"Not more than a week.--I was walking on the boulevard; it seems that my dress came in contact with a lighted match, which our gentlemanly friends are in the habit of strewing along their path, presumably to gratify themselves by roasting us alive! My dress was on fire, and I had no idea of it, when suddenly I felt two strong arms surround me--yes, hug me; I started to cry out, I thought that it was an insult--my dear, my life had been saved! A young man, at the risk of burning himself to death, had sacrificed himself in order to extinguish the fire, and he did it very adroitly, but at the cost of quite a bad burn on his wrist."

"Oh! the poor fellow! I wish I could thank him. Was he a workingman?"

"No; a very elegant young man--and very good-looking. We were surrounded in a moment; you know how inquisitive everybody is in Paris. Luckily, there was a druggist's shop within a few steps, and we took refuge there; and while my rescuer's arm was being dressed, we talked a little. You can understand that I was anxious to know who it was to whom I was so deeply indebted; I asked him his name, and he gave me his card; he was Monsieur Adhémar Monbrun--a dramatist who writes delightful plays. You don't know him, poor darling, for they never take you to the theatre!"

"No, but I know the name through Lucien. This Adhémar Monbrun is a friend of his; he has often spoken to me about him, and he speaks very highly of him."

"Really? Monsieur Lucien knows him, and speaks very highly of him?"

"Yes; he says that he is a very generous man, always ready to help his friends. Indeed, he has said to me more than once: 'If I wanted money, I am very sure that Adhémar would lend me some; but, in my opinion, a man ought not to borrow when he doesn't know how he can repay the loan.'--But finish your story."

"Oh! it's almost finished.--When he gave me his card, I thought it best to give him mine; for I didn't want him to think he had rescued a lorette, or a bitch--as they call prostitutes now. Then I sent for a cab, for I couldn't walk home with my dress all burned. The cab came, and Monsieur Adhémar escorted me to it; I offered to drive him home, for he had to carry his arm in a sling. That was natural enough, wasn't it?"

"Surely. Poor fellow! is he badly burned?"

"Yes, on the wrist; it will not be serious; but he will probably retain the mark. He declined my offer, and left me."

"Ah! and was that all?"

"Yes."

"It's a pity!"

"What a child you are! Oh! there was something else, though."

"What was it? what was it? I had a shrewd idea that it wasn't finished."

"I thought that it would be discourteous of me, knowing his address, not to send to inquire how his burn was getting along; for, you see, it was for me, it was in assisting me, that he was injured."

"Why, of course; and it was your duty to inquire."

"Still, I hesitated a long while."

"Why so?"

"Oh! because--I don't know--I was afraid it would seem as if I wanted to force that young man to think about me."

"Really? was that the reason?"

"Dear me! how spiteful you are this morning!--At last, I concluded to do it; and three days ago I sent my servant to inquire about the burn. She saw him, and he told her that it was almost well, that he thanked me very much for the interest I was good enough to take in him, and that he should have the honor of coming himself to thank me."

"Oho! so he has been to see you, has he?"

"No; that was three days ago, and he hasn't been yet. He probably said it to be polite; he won't come."

"I'll bet that he will."

"He may come or not, as he pleases; after all, it makes no difference to me."

"Oh! what a lie!"

"Juliette!"

"Yes, that's a lie; it does make a difference to you! Tell me, Nathalie, am I not to be your confidante, as you are mine? You have often said to me: 'I made a marriage of reason; I have never known what it is to love; but it must be a very pleasant thing. I am bored sometimes when I am alone; if I loved somebody, it seems to me that I should never be bored.'"

"Yes, I have said all that to you; what then?"

"Well--let me look into your eyes. Come, I'll bet that you are never bored now."

"What an idea, Juliette! You will have it that I am in love with a man whom I hardly know, who has never spoken to me but once, and who has no desire to see me again--as you see!"

"Mon Dieu! I don't say that you love him; but I think that he attracted you--that you might have fallen in love with him."

"Well, yes! yes, my dear friend; yes, he did attract me; yes---- I don't know whether it is gratitude for the great service he rendered me, or---- Oh! I won't conceal anything from you! Ever since that day, I don't know what has been the matter with me: I have been nervous and sad; everything irritates me; I keep wanting to cry; I think of him all the time; I tell myself that I am a fool, that I lack common sense. But I am not bored any more--no, no, I am never bored now!"

And Nathalie threw her arms about her friend; her heart had longed for a vent, and it was relieved as of a burden. Then she continued:

"And Lucien knows him? Oh! how I would like to see Lucien! I would ask him a thousand questions. But you say he speaks highly of him?"

"Yes, very.--By the way, I remember----"

"What?"

"No, I won't tell you that."

"Is it something concerning Monsieur Adhémar? I insist upon your telling me, and telling me instantly!"

"Well, Lucien said: 'It's a pity that Adhémar will never believe that anyone loves him; it is true that he has been deceived so often by his mistresses that it may well have made him distrustful; but he carries it too far now; he has sworn never to love any woman again.'"

"That's a drunken man's oath, my dear love," said Nathalie, with a smile; "and that young man isn't old enough to keep it."

"But tell me, my dear, is there anything new? Have you had no news?"

"Of whom?"

"You know to whom I refer."

"Oh! yes, I understand; but, really, my adventure with Monsieur Adhémar has made me entirely forget the person you speak of. No, thank heaven, I haven't seen him again!"

"I am so glad! when I think of him, do you know, I am always afraid for you."

"What a child you are!"

At that moment, Madame Mirotaine II entered the room.

"Your father's asking for you, Juliette," she said.--"Ah! your servant, madame! excuse me for disturbing you."

"Not at all, madame; I was just going when you came in; in any event, I would not keep Juliette from obeying her father's summons.--Au revoir, dear girl!"

As Nathalie kissed her, Juliette whispered in her ear:

"Come to see me after the famous dinner; I will tell you the result."

"Very well; and I will tell you if--I have seen him again."

"Madame, I have the honor to salute you."

"Present my compliments to Monsieur Mirotaine, if you please!"

"I will not fail, madame."

V

SMALL DISHES IN LARGE ONES

The day of the famous dinner party had arrived, and everything was in confusion at Monsieur Mirotaine's, where the entertainment of strangers was a most extraordinary thing. From ten o'clock in the morning, the master of the house had been parading his apartments, going constantly from the dining-room to the kitchen and back, and heaving profound sighs at sight of the preparations for the repast. Seeing Goth, his young maid-servant, take something from the sideboard, he stopped her, saying:

"What's that you're taking?"

"Pepper, monsieur."

"What for?"

"To put in the sauce piquante I am making."

"What's the use of a sauce piquante?"

"Why, it's to eat with your joint, monsieur,--your rib of beef. A fillet would have been tenderer, but monsieur wouldn't have that."

"Why not ortolans, and have done with it? You people have sworn to ruin me to-day! Mon Dieu! such profusion, such waste! Leave the pepper there--you don't need it."

At this point, Madame Mirotaine appeared on the scene.

"What's the matter with you, my dear?" she asked.

"Monsieur won't let me have the pepper," said Goth; "but I must have some for my sauces."

"What are you thinking about, my dear? Don't you want anything to be good?"

"I want--I want you to stop throwing my money out of the window. Every minute this girl has to have something new--salt or pepper. It's enough to break a man's heart!"

"Well, monsieur, I'd like to know why I don't have a supply of such things in my kitchen, like the cooks do in all decent houses?--And, madame, I must have some pickles too, and some capers for the white sauce for the fish."

"We must send out for some."

"Not by any means; it's all unnecessary. What's the good of capers? You have plenty of mustard here."

"But, monsieur, you don't put mustard in a white sauce."

"Make it red, then."

"My dear, if you don't let us have what we need for dinner, everything will be horrid; and then you will certainly have spent money uselessly, instead of doing yourself credit."

Monsieur Mirotaine took an old bandanna handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes, muttering:

"You make me do crazy things, Aldegonde!--What are you going to have for dinner, anyhow?"

"In the first place, we have a julienne soup."

"What does _julienne_ mean?"

"Vegetables cut fine."

"Oho! vegetables at the very beginning! What next?"

"There will be butter and radishes on the table."

"That makes two courses."

"No, those are hors-d'oeuvre; they don't count."

"_Don't count_ is good! they have to be paid for, all the same!"

"The next course to the soup is always fish."

"Are you sure that you couldn't possibly have the soup without it?"

"It's customary. We have a pike; salmon would have been better, but as the very smallest ones are worth from fifteen to twenty francs----"

"What an outrage! And to think that there are people who eat salmon!"

"So I had a pike instead, and for that we must have a caper sauce."

"Why can't it be eaten without sauce?"

"It wouldn't be good.--Flanking the fish we shall have cutlets with peas and a _tourte aux boulettes_."

"The twenty-four-sou kind, I trust?"

"For eleven people! the idea! The two-franc size, and that will be very scant!"

"Well, I hope that that's all."

"I should think not! that's only the first course. Now we come to the second."

"Great God!"

"For your joint, you have ribs of beef; then, for vegetables, on one side string beans, on the other spinach."

"Why need you have more vegetables? You have served them already with your julienne, you told me, so you don't want them again."

"Julienne is a soup, not a meat course. Then----"

"What! is there something more?"

"Macaroni; and as it is always necessary to have sweets----"

"Take my head at once!"

"No, my dear; that wouldn't be good. We shall have a _crême à la vanille_. You must give me some sugar; I haven't any left."

"Nor I, either!"

"Well, there's plenty at the grocer's."

"No, I still have a few pieces of candied sugar."

"Give them to Goth.--For dessert, such fruit as is in season."

"Prunes?"

"This is summer time, and you don't give your guests dried fruit. Then cheese----"

"Marolles--that's the best."

"Nonsense! your marolles smells up the whole room. Roquefort, and biscuit."

"Enough! enough! you may as well kill me!"

"Oh! you forgot the salad, madame."

Monsieur Mirotaine, in a rage, aimed a kick at Goth, shouting:

"There's salad for you! That will teach you to ask for something else!"

Goth began to cry, and demanded her wages. Madame Mirotaine succeeded in pacifying her, and sent her off to her kitchen; then she berated her husband for giving way so to his temper, and told him that she would leave him if he interfered again in the details of housekeeping. Monsieur Mirotaine, who set great store by his wife for the very reason that she led him by the nose, begged her pardon and added, with a sigh:

"It's this dinner that irritates me, and makes a brute of me!"

"Just remember that you are going to get rid of your daughter--to marry her to a millionaire Italian count, Count Miflorès, who will give us some superb presents, I am sure, when he gives her her wedding gift."

"You think that he'll give us something?"

"Madame Putiphar feels sure of it."

"Then it's all right!"

"It is well worth a dinner.--By the way, monsieur, have you thought about the wine?"

"The wine! why, I have some in the cellar."

"Yes, our regular table wine, which is very bad."

"The more water you put in it, the better it is."

"But we must have claret with the second course, and champagne at dessert; everybody does."

"That's it: everybody does! Luckily, I know a man who makes champagne at one franc twenty-five the bottle."

"It must be perfectly awful stuff!"

"He assured me that it was delicious and foamed like beer."

"As for claret, somebody sent you a basket of twenty-five bottles, either in payment of a debt, or as a present; but I know that it's excellent."

"Yes; but I am keeping it for some time when I may be sick."

"You will give me two bottles of it, monsieur; you must."

"Two bottles! isn't one enough?"

"No; we shall be eleven at table."

"As many as that?"

"When you entertain strangers, you don't give them just a family dinner; that's too informal. I have invited all the Brid'oisons; we have dined there several times, and this was a good opportunity to return their courtesy; besides, you have business relations with Monsieur Brid'oison."

"Oh! he finds me a borrower now and then. Will they bring their son?"

"Of course; they are mad over him, as you know. Naturally, we shall have Madame Putiphar; it is she who is arranging the match; and then, she knows the count's intimate friend, a very jovial young man, so it seems. Then I have invited your sister, Madame Trichon; she's an excellent woman."

"Yes, and a widow, without any children, whose heir I should be, if she should happen to die. But she's very hearty--she eats a lot!"

"To offset her, I have invited Monsieur Callé; he's a very distinguished young man, and he eats almost nothing."

"Do you really mean it? But what is the explanation of your inviting him?"

Aldegonde bit her lips for a second, trying to think of a reply. At last she found one:

"He is a very good musician; he sings well, and plays the flageolet. In the evening it will be pleasant to have a little music."

"Does the young man accompany himself on the flageolet when he sings?"

"No, but he can play for the dancing; I have invited several more people to come in in the evening; and if they want to dance----"

"Whom have you invited?"

"The Boulard ladies, your friend Dubotté and his wife----"

"Oh! he never comes!"

"He said that he would try to come this time. Then the brothers Bridoux. There'll be quite a lot of us. But we shall have to pass round refreshments during the evening."

"Very well; you can give them cocoa."

"No, monsieur, no! Cocoa does well enough when we have nobody but your sister and Monsieur Callé, who is very abstemious; but for this Italian count we must have something else."

"Well, lemonade, then. Squeeze a lemon in two or three quarts of water; it's very refreshing."

"That's my affair, monsieur; I will think it over, and find a way to provide what is right. You will dress, monsieur, I trust?"

"Ain't I all right as I am?"

"No, certainly not; your linen is soiled, and your waistcoat all covered with spots. You must put on a black coat."

"I don't own such a thing."

"You don't own a black coat?"

"What's the use, when I never wear one? But I have a black overcoat that I've only had five years; it's the same as new."

"Well, monsieur, dress as well as you can. I have told your daughter to beautify herself, too; she must make a favorable impression on this Monsieur Miflorès!"

"Oh! young girls are always coquettish enough."

"As for myself, I shall try to make myself presentable and to do you credit. I must now see how things are going in the kitchen."

Monsieur Mirotaine, being left alone, heaved a prodigious sigh; then, after reflecting for some time, he went hastily down into his cellar with a pitcher full of water; he took several bottles of wine and drew the corks, then filled some empty bottles with two parts of wine, and one of water from his pitcher. Having thus manipulated four bottles, he took them upstairs, chuckling over what he had done. Then he took two bottles of the Château-Léoville which had been given him, and was about to doctor them in the same way; but he heard footsteps; it was Aldegonde returning; she took possession of the two bottles which she saw on the table, and the generous wine escaped the baptism which awaited it.

While Monsieur Mirotaine was making up his mind to dress, and madame was devoting all her attention to her toilet, Juliette, who had been dressed for a long time, and who would gladly have disfigured herself in order to create an unfavorable impression on this guest in search of a wife, but who was as pretty as ever, because, even when a woman wants to make herself look ugly, she always dresses so that she does not look so--Juliette was busy setting the table, the cook having too much to do about her saucepans to find time to lay the cloth. The girl sighed as she arranged the plates, and said to herself:

"If this dinner were to celebrate my engagement to Lucien, what a difference it would make! how happy I should be! But they haven't even invited poor Lucien; and yet, only last night, father sent him from the Barrière du Trône to Passy, and didn't even pay for a seat on top of an omnibus!"

Madame Mirotaine came to look at the table; she held in her hand divers small slips of paper, on which the names of the guests were written.

"We must arrange these carefully," said Aldegonde.

"What are you going to do with those slips of paper, madame?"

"They are to show each person the seat he or she is to take at table."

"Why, can't they sit wherever they choose?"

"No; it is good form to put each guest's name at his place beforehand; that makes it more convenient about taking seats."

"Then I beg you, madame, not to put me beside this stranger, this Italian count."

"On the contrary, Juliette, you must sit beside him. As he is coming here for the purpose of meeting you, he must be able to talk with you."

"You know that I never talk, madame; put him beside you, he will be much better pleased."

"But, Juliette, I am not the one whom this gentleman wants to marry."

"That's a great pity!"

"What a child it is! The best I can do is to place the count between us, at my left; at my right, I shall put the man who deals in sugar, who is very agreeable, so Madame Putiphar assures me. Whom shall I put next to him? It's very embarrassing! It's a regular science to arrange your company right."

"Put Monsieur Brid'oison there."

"No, we must have a lady next to a man; the sexes should be mingled as much as possible. Ah! Madame Putiphar; this gentleman knows her, and he will be very glad to talk with her. And then--great heavens! what a puzzle! Ah! Monsieur Callé--that will do; Monsieur Callé, then Madame Brid'oison, Monsieur Mirotaine, Madame Trichon, and Monsieur Brid'oison. There! it's all done."

"But that makes only ten, and there are eleven plates. You have forgotten to write a slip for one guest."

"Pshaw! whom have I forgotten?"

"Artaban--young Brid'oison."

"Oh! to be sure; he's not a pleasant neighbor, that urchin; his father makes him do gymnastic exercises, and he's always thrashing about to show his limberness and strength; he keeps kicking you if you're near him."

"Put him next to me; I don't care."

"No; we'll put him between his father and Madame Trichon; they will make him keep quiet. Now, it's arranged as well as possible. I must run and finish dressing; for it's after four o'clock. And you, Juliette?"

"I am all ready, madame."

"But your hair is done very badly; and not an ornament in it--not a flower!"

"What's the use?"

"What do you say? what's the use? when it's a matter of marrying a millionaire count!"

"You know perfectly well that I love Lucien."

"Oh! bless my soul! love your Lucien all you please, but marry the count; that's all we ask of you."

Aldegonde returned to her room to finish dressing; and Juliette to hers, still cursing the second-hand clothes woman; while Monsieur Mirotaine, who had completed his toilet, appeared in the dining-room and walked around the table, carefully scrutinizing everything that was on it.

"What an array! what a feast! what fuss and feathers! Three glasses at each plate!--why three glasses? Are they supposed to drink three times at once? Ah! these are champagne glasses! How lucky I was to find some champagne for one franc twenty-five! What are all these things? radishes, butter, little onions! What profusion!"

Monsieur Mirotaine began to count the pickles:

"Nine, ten, twelve pickles! and they're big ones, too! That's much too many."

He took away four and put them in his pocket.

"That leaves quite enough. Now for the onions! there are too many of them too."

He took a handful of pickled onions, which he also stuffed into his coat pocket. Then it was the radishes' turn; as there were a great many of them in the dish, he took out two large handfuls, which went to join the onions and pickles. The only thing left for him to reckon with was the butter; he stopped in front of it and reflected as to how much he could safely put aside; but at that moment the bell rang, and Monsieur Mirotaine had barely time to lick his fingers, with which he had seized the butter.

VI

YOUNG ARTABAN'S GYMNASTICS

The Brid'oison family arrived first of the guests. Monsieur Brid'oison: a tall, gaunt man, with the face of a fox, somewhat softened in outline by frequent use of the juice of the grape; but still austere in manner when he was sober. Madame: a tall, yellow-skinned woman, with a face like an axe, red-eyed, and addicted to long, corkscrew curls which hung down to her shoulders. And, lastly, their son Artaban, eight years of age, with curly hair, a flat nose, a long, pointed chin, hands always black with dirt, and an impudent manner; he constantly walked with his head near the ground and his legs in the air, and made his father's bosom swell with pride by so doing.

"Here we are!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "we have come early, but I don't like to keep people waiting; there are those who claim that it's good form, but I call it the worst kind of form. How are you, Mirotaine! where are the ladies?"

"Still at their toilet, I presume; women are never done, you know, when they set out to dress."

"Oh! for my part, it don't take me long," said Madame Brid'oison; "five minutes is enough for me."

"Yes, I started my wife right. 'Égilde,' I said to her, 'if you are not dressed in five minutes, I warn you that I won't wait; I'll start without you.'--I tell you, I'm a martinet for being on time!"

"That made me awfully unhappy at first. One day, we were going to dine out; Brid'oison called up to me: 'I'm all ready' and I hadn't put on my garters! I went without 'em, but it bothered me all the time."

"Here's my son Artaban, who's as good a gymnast as Auriol already.--Walk on your head, Artaban, to show what you can do."

The little fellow instantly put his hands on the floor, with his head down and his legs in the air, and made the circuit of the salon in that fashion; but when he put his feet down, he struck the legs of a small table on which the coffee cups had been set out; the shock knocked two of them to the floor, and they were broken. Monsieur Mirotaine made a great outcry:

"The devil take you with your gymnastics! There's two cups smashed! What sort of a crazy idea is it--to make a child walk on his head; and in a salon, too!"

"Bless my soul! don't lose your temper over two cups; and see, here's one of them that has only the handle broken."

"It takes away all its value, none the less."

"I'll give you two others."

"Oh, yes! people say that, but no one ever replaces anything. Do you propose sending your son to the circus, that you make him do such tricks as that?"

"No; I am going to make a lawyer of him."

"Do you expect him to try cases, walking on his hands?"

"My dear friend, gymnastics is always a good thing, in every station of life. A lawyer may have occasion to show how a thief went to work to climb into a window; he'll make a poor fist at it if he doesn't know anything about gymnastics."

The ladies appeared in the salon, accompanied by Madame Trichon.

"What has happened?" inquired Aldegonde; "I heard my husband shouting."

"Nothing, dear madame, a trifle!"

"He calls two handsome cups nothing, which his son broke while he was walking on his head."

"Does your son walk on his head? Dear me! I should have liked to see that."

"He can do it again."

"No, no, I don't want him to do it again--he'll smash all the china we've got!"

"Very well; something else, then--to show you how strong the lad is already.--Artaban, hold out a chair at arm's length.--That won't endanger your cups, Mirotaine.--Come, Artaban, pick out a chair."

The boy took one of the salon chairs, and, although he did not actually hold it at arm's length, kept it in the air for some time; and then, as he felt tired, instead of putting it down on the floor, he suddenly threw it over his shoulder, so that the legs struck Madame Trichon, who was standing behind him, in the face.

"Oh! I am wounded!" she cried, putting her hand to her face; "my nose is broken!"

"No, no, madame; it's nothing at all!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "your nose is still in place; just a little scratch, that's all!"

"Water! cold water, I entreat you! so that I can bathe my face."

"Your son's gymnastics is very pretty, indeed; I congratulate you!" said Monsieur Mirotaine; "but I hope that he won't give us any more of it!"

"It was because you were in his way; if it hadn't been for that, he'd have put the chair down in front of him. Never mind, he's going to be a fine, strong man; I'm very glad I named him Artaban; he'll have a right to be proud."

Madame Putiphar was the next to arrive, then Monsieur Callé. The latter was a young man of twenty-five, who resembled the heads that hair dressers put in their windows; he was combed and perfumed like a waiter; his chestnut hair was divided by a parting that started from the nape of the neck. He was an exceedingly stupid youth in appearance, and his language accorded perfectly with the expression of his face, which always wore a surprised look; he never entered a salon except sidewise, and never knew what to do with his hat.

This young man glanced furtively at Aldegonde and turned crimson as he shook hands with her husband. Madame hastened to put him at his ease by relieving him of his hat. Monsieur Callé bowed to everyone, including little Artaban, who acknowledged his courtesy by executing a handspring. As for Madame Putiphar--she made herself quite at home at the Mirotaines', and, after making a courtesy, she lost no time in asking:

"Haven't they come yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Well, it's only half-past five, and I said that you didn't dine till six; they're not late."

"Do you expect other guests?" Monsieur Brid'oison asked the host.

"Yes, two gentlemen--whom I don't know."

"What! you ask people to dinner whom you don't know?"

"They come on some--family business."

"And, you see, I know the gentlemen," interposed Madame Putiphar, "and I answer for them. First, there's Monsieur Dodichet, a commission merchant in sugar, a delightful young man, of the best tone, and as gallant as any knight; and his intimate friend, Count Miflorès, an Italian, rich as an English lord, who is looking for a young lady to marry--without any dowry."

"Ah! very good; I see--we understand.--You understand, Égilde, don't you?"

Madame Brid'oison was intent on fastening back one of the corkscrew curls, which persisted in trying to get into her mouth; so she contented herself with an affirmative smile. The dealer in wardrobes added, in an undertone, taking care to move away from Juliette:

"We mustn't act as if we knew the count's intentions, for he wouldn't like it. He thinks that we don't know them, and that he is invited solely because he's Monsieur Dodichet's friend; in that way, you see, he can talk with Juliette and not be embarrassed."

"Very well; still, you did well to warn us. I wouldn't mind a drop of absinthe while we're waiting for dinner--in some water; that opens up the appetite."

"My dear friend, if you want to drink absinthe, you may go down to the café at the corner of the street; don't hesitate."

"Why? haven't you any here?"

"What! absinthe?--a rank poison!"

"Poison when you take it pure; but with plenty of water----"

"There's no doubt but what it's the fashion nowadays," said Madame Putiphar.

"And the count may ask for it, you think?" queried Aldegonde.

"He or his friend Dodichet."

"Then we must send out for some."

Monsieur Mirotaine stamped the floor angrily, as he cried:

"Plague take Brid'oison with his absinthe! Why need he have asked for it? I refuse to buy any! If these gentlemen ask for it, you must say that we've just broken the bottle.--Do you drink absinthe, Monsieur Callé?"

"Oh! no, indeed! never, monsieur."

"Good! that proves that you have a good stomach, which does not need any stimulants to help digestion."

"All right! everyone to his own opinion! When Artaban's twelve years old, I shall have him drink absinthe before his gymnastics."

"That will cap the climax!"

VII

A MIXED DINNER PARTY

At five minutes to six, the bell rang loudly.

"Here they are!" said Madame Putiphar.

Thereupon each one of the company assumed an air worthy of the occasion. Aldegonde's face took on an amiable expression, Monsieur Mirotaine did his best to smile, Madame Trichon wiped her nose, and the others looked exceedingly curious. Juliette alone did not put herself out; she was depressed; she had hoped that they would not come.

Goth announced: "Monsieur le Comte Mimiflorès and Monsieur Beaubrochet." Maid-servants almost always have the knack of murdering the names that are given them. Dodichet entered the room as jauntily as if it were a tavern, leading his intimate friend by the hand. The friend in question was a man of about thirty-five, of medium height, rather stout than thin, who strove to conceal his utter nullity and stupidity beneath an imposing manner; he had one of those faces which tell absolutely nothing; but he tried so hard to impart some expression to his eyes that he almost made them haggard. His dress was irreproachable, even stylish; but he wore his clothes awkwardly, and carried himself in a way to make people think that he was uncomfortable in them.

Dodichet saluted on all sides, almost laughing outright; he took Monsieur Mirotaine's hand, shook it violently before that worthy had had time to respond to his salutation, and hastened to say in a loud tone:

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Mirotaine; I have long desired an opportunity, and when it presented itself I grasped it. We shall do some business together, Monsieur Miroton--I beg pardon, Mirotaine--and I am a sharp customer and never meddle with anything that isn't sure."

"Monsieur--I certainly----"

"Allow me to introduce my intimate friend, Count Miflorès, a wealthy Italian, who would stand behind me if necessary.--He is anxious to marry, you know," continued Dodichet, in an undertone, "and doesn't want any dowry."

"Yes, monsieur; I was told----"

"Sh! enough! you mustn't seem to know.--Come, Miflorès, and let me present you to these ladies. You are bashful, I know, but that shouldn't keep you from offering the fair sex all the homage that is due them."

Dodichet's assurance, his loquacity and his fine phrases, had the effect that they usually have upon people with little or no wit; everybody considered him delightful, and especially Juliette, to whom he whispered, as he introduced Miflorès:

"Don't be alarmed; he won't marry you. I am a friend of Lucien!"

Juliette could not restrain a faint cry of delight.

"What's the matter?" Aldegonde inquired.

"Nothing!" Dodichet replied; "my foot involuntarily struck mademoiselle's.--I didn't hurt you, I trust?"

"Oh, no! monsieur, you didn't hurt me."

"Then all is for the best, as Voltaire says in _Candide_. But is it in _Candide_? Faith! I am not sure; I have read so much in my life that I am all mixed up; I confuse my authors. Somebody asked me lately who wrote _Le Mariage de Figaro_, and I said Monsieur d'Ennery. I was wrong."

"My friend Brid'oison here bears the name of one of the characters in that play," said Monsieur Mirotaine.

"Ah! monsieur's name is Brid'oison? A fine name! a pretty name! which recalls a very--intellectual character."

"I try to be worthy of my name," said Monsieur Brid'oison, with dignity.

"You are quite capable of it, monsieur. Do you stutter?"

"No, indeed."

"That's a pity; but it may come in time."

"And this is my son Artaban, who is already very strong in gymnastics."

"Is that so? Well, I am not surprised; the little fellow has Hercules written all over his face."

"Do you think so?"

And Monsieur Brid'oison, pleased beyond words, patted his son on the cheek and said to him:

"Do you hear? you resemble Hercules!"

"In what way, papa?"

"I don't know, but in some way."

The supposititious marrying man stood perfectly stiff in the middle of the salon, at a loss what attitude to assume, but scratching his nose very often to keep himself in countenance. He had not said a word as yet, but had contented himself with bowing.

"Monsieur le comte doesn't say anything," whispered Madame Putiphar to Dodichet. "Why on earth doesn't he open his mouth?"

"Never you fear; he'll open it at dinner time."

"He seems very proud."

"That will pass away at the table."

"Ask him what he thinks of Juliette."

"Fascinating! he told me when he came in."

"How did he know which was she?"

"What a question! she's the only girl here; all the other women have worn breeches--have seen fire, I mean."

Goth announced dinner, whereupon Monsieur Miflorès exclaimed:

"Good enough!"

"It would seem that the count is hungry!" muttered Monsieur Mirotaine.

"I agree with him perfectly," said Monsieur Brid'oison.

Dodichet nudged his friend, to signify that he must offer his arm to the hostess. Meanwhile, he offered his own to Juliette, and on the way to the dining-room found time to say a few words in her ear which caused her face to glow with happiness.

They took their seats. Madame Trichon grumbled and made a wry face when she found herself beside little Artaban. Monsieur Brid'oison, offended because she dreaded his son's proximity, insisted that her seat should be changed; but Aldegonde objected, and Madame Trichon held her peace. The soup was served. While it was being passed to her guests, Aldegonde happened to glance at the dishes of hors-d'oeuvre, and called to her servant:

"Goth, didn't you put on the table all the pickles and pickled onions I gave you?"

"Why, yes, madame, every one."

"Well, I certainly had many more than that; it's very strange!"

"Does madame think I ate any of 'em? Madame knows very well that I never take anything--especially as everything's kept locked up in this house!"

"Enough! enough!"

"This soup is delicious!" cried young Callé, who had his programme by heart, and knew that he must find everything excellent.

"And the radishes too!" muttered Aldegonde; "my servant has certainly been helping herself!"

"We must all live," said Dodichet. "May I ask you to drink a glass of wine with me?"

After drinking, Dodichet made a wry face.

"Excellent burgundy!" cried Callé.

"But terribly weak!" rejoined Dodichet. "However, perhaps this bottle wasn't well corked."

Monsieur Miflorès ate and drank, and still did not say a word. Meanwhile Juliette, whose fears were all done away with by Dodichet's confidential communication, spoke to her neighbor occasionally, as she offered him something. The soi-disant count contented himself with bowing as he took what she offered, but did not speak.

"Your friend is very silent," Aldegonde observed to Dodichet; "he hasn't a word to say to my stepdaughter, although she seems to be very amiable to him--which is a great surprise to me, I must confess."

"She probably finds monsieur le comte to her liking," said Madame Putiphar; "he's a very fine-looking man, and no mistake."

"I venture to hope that he will talk at dessert."

Dodichet leaned back and struck his friend on the shoulder.

"Well, Miflorès," he said, "haven't you anything to say to your neighbors? they're surprised at your silence."

"I don't like to talk when I'm eating," replied the person addressed, whose mouth was, in fact, full.

"Oh! what exquisite fish!" cried Callé, who had just been served with pike.

"It's a pity it has so many bones," said Dodichet.

At that moment, Madame Brid'oison began to cough as if she were strangling.

"Well! well! my wife has swallowed a bone!" said Brid'oison.

But Égilde informed him by signs that it was not that which made her cough, but one of her corkscrew curls which had got into her mouth.

"Oh! in that case, I've no sympathy for you. What an absurd idea it is for women to wear their hair so long!"

Monsieur Mirotaine passed his time offering everybody water. Monsieur Callé was the only man who accepted it, the result being that the host looked kindly upon him. Young Artaban, who had been very quiet thus far, began to toss his knife and fork in the air, to the great displeasure of Madame Trichon, who said to him:

"That's not the way to behave in company, my boy; at the table you should sit very still, and not play with the knives and forks."

Monsieur Brid'oison, who admired his son's skill, answered for him:

"Artaban isn't playing, madame; he is juggling at this moment like the East Indians; they call it juggling. They have balls which they toss in the air with great dexterity; having no balls, Artaban uses his knife and fork; it's harder, and more dangerous. But don't be alarmed; Artaban is too skilful to hurt himself."

"That may be, but he'll hurt me! he'll throw his fork in my face, and the chair was quite enough for me!"

"But, madame, I will answer for my son. He's as light-fingered as a monkey!"

Monsieur Brid'oison had hardly finished the sentence, when the fork, badly aimed by Artaban, struck Madame Trichon on the chin, just on a level with her teeth. She gave a loud shriek and sprang to her feet in a rage.

"It's outrageous! it's shameful!" she cried; "he has sworn to disfigure me! I insist on sitting at a small table; I will not sit by this little blackguard any longer!"

Monsieur Brid'oison turned scarlet when he heard his son called a blackguard; he mumbled something between his teeth, which, luckily, was drowned by the crash of several plates which the maid dropped, thereby driving Monsieur Mirotaine to despair. Meanwhile, at a sign from Aldegonde, Monsieur Callé had risen and changed seats with Madame Trichon. Thereupon peace was restored, albeit Monsieur Brid'oison continued to mutter:

"Blackguard! call my son Artaban a blackguard! If that woman was a man, she'd have had to give me satisfaction for that!"

The two bottles of Château-Léoville were brought, and Dodichet, having tasted it, exclaimed with the liveliest satisfaction:

"Good! this can fairly be called wine; and it's delicious, too! an intoxicating bouquet!"

"Will you have some water in it?" said Monsieur Mirotaine, offering him a carafe.

"Water in such wine as this? why, it would be downright profanation! I most earnestly hope that no one will think of spoiling it with water.--Miflorès, my dear count, just taste this wine! It will make you eloquent."

"If it does make him eloquent, it will surprise me greatly," said Monsieur Brid'oison to Callé, who was ogling Aldegonde, who was scrutinizing Miflorès, who was gazing in admiration at his brimming glass.

"How they do eat and drink!" thought Monsieur Mirotaine, stifling a sigh; "but I don't see that this supposed marrying man tries to get acquainted with my daughter. To make up for it, the commission merchant in sugar is very loquacious; he impresses me more or less as a _blagueur_. Mon Dieu! suppose that my dinner is thrown away!"

Dodichet kept the claret in circulation, but was always careful to help himself first. Monsieur Miflorès succeeded at last in saying:

"Yes, it's a very good wine."

Callé outdid all the rest by exclaiming:

"This wine is perfect nectar!"

The two bottles were soon emptied.

"Give us some more, Monsieur Mirotaine," said Dodichet; "you see how we honor it."

"I haven't any more," Mirotaine replied, "those were my last two bottles."

"Oh! what a pity!"

"But you will have some champagne in a moment."

"If it's as good in its way as the claret, it will be ambrosia."

The champagne arrived with a _crême à la vanille_, which Goth proudly placed on the table.

"Ah! now for the sweets!" cried Dodichet.

"It's a _crême à la vanille_," said Aldegonde.

Whereupon Miflorès spoke for the second time.

"So much the better!" he cried.

"He has spoken!" said Madame Putiphar.

"Yes, but not to Juliette."

"That will come with the champagne, no doubt."

Aldegonde served everybody with cream, and everybody made haste to taste it; but, in a moment, exclamations rose on all sides:

"Bah! what on earth is this?"

"What an extraordinary taste!"

"Mon Dieu! how nasty it is!"

"In the first place, it isn't sweetened at all!"

"If that was all! But the taste and the smell! I know that taste, but I can't remember what it is."

Aldegonde summoned the cook, who appeared at once.

"What did you put in your cream, Goth? it has a most peculiar taste."

"I put in what I always do, madame: milk, whites of eggs, a little of vanilla--I didn't have much of that to put in, my word!"

"And sugar?"

"Yes, the candied sugar monsieur gave me wrapped up in paper; I put it all in."

"Ah! I know what it smells of!" cried Dodichet; "it's camphor; your cream is flavored with camphor!"

"What does this mean, Monsieur Mirotaine?" said Aldegonde, looking sternly at her husband; "was it camphor you gave Goth, instead of sugar?"

"If it was, I must have taken the wrong package," said Mirotaine, slightly embarrassed. "As a matter of fact, I have several packages of camphor in my desk--and I must have mixed them with the sugar."

"There is no further doubt, monsieur, that it was camphor you gave the servant."

"Luckily, we know that it isn't injurious," said Dodichet. "Come on! let's open the champagne; that will help us to forget the camphor."

One and all eagerly held out their glasses; the champagne foamed--but only for a moment; and when everybody had tasted it, there was a profound silence; a silence that was most unpleasant, under such circumstances, and was equivalent to a general "Sh!" as on the stage. At last, Dodichet, who was always outspoken, exclaimed:

"Sapristi! this champagne isn't as good as your claret! The man who sold this to you, Monsieur Mirotaine, sold you too."

"What do you say? Sold me! Why, it's Cliquot, Cliquot _crémant_."

"That stuff, _crémant!_ as much as I'm a bishop! I'll get you to give me your dealer's address, so that I may avoid him."

The champagne having proved a flat failure, and Aldegonde having no other wine to offer, the dessert came to grief; and they soon left the table, to take their coffee in the salon.

VIII

DRAMATIC SCENES

The guests were not in that vivacious frame of mind which generally signalizes the end of a dinner. To be sure, they had not had much to warm them up; the vin ordinaire was watered, the champagne resembled vinegar; the claret alone had made a success, but two bottles were a very small allowance for eleven people, especially when one of them appropriated half of it.

Madame Trichon was still brooding over the blow from a fork on her chin, and from a chair on her head. Monsieur Brid'oison was sulking because his son had been called a blackguard; his wife continued to swallow her hair; Madame Putiphar and Aldegonde were disturbed by the Italian count's silence with Juliette; the last-named alone was in a charming mood, and was ably seconded by Dodichet, who, from time to time, hid his face in order to laugh at Miflorès.

The coffee had just been brought, and Aldegonde was filling the cups, when Monsieur Brid'oison offered Monsieur Mirotaine his snuffbox, saying:

"Try this, and tell me what you think of it."

"Why, you know perfectly well that I don't take snuff."

"This brand is well worth departing from your habit."

Monsieur Mirotaine took a pinch and stuffed it into his nose, with a sign of approbation. But the pungent powder soon produced its inevitable effect upon one who was unaccustomed to its use: Monsieur Mirotaine sneezed twice in rapid succession, and the second time the effect was of such a nature that he was obliged to resort to his handkerchief in hot haste, in order to wipe his nose. So he thrust his hand hurriedly into his pocket, and pulled out his handkerchief so quickly that with it he sent pickles, radishes, and onions flying about the room.

Everybody was dumfounded; they gazed in amazement at the hors-d'oeuvre strewn about the floor and on the furniture. Madame Trichon alone uttered a cry of pain; the poor woman had no luck; she had received an onion in the eye, and, as it was pickled, it caused the delicate spot it had struck to smart vigorously.

"How is this, monsieur? is it possible that you put some of the hors-d'oeuvre in your pocket?" said Aldegonde. "And to think that I suspected poor Goth! Fie, monsieur, for shame! that is unpardonable!"

Instead of asking his wife's forgiveness, Monsieur Mirotaine was on his hands and knees, picking up the delicacies he had unwittingly taken from his pocket. As for Madame Trichon, she went off to weep by herself in a corner, declaring that there was a conspiracy to disfigure her.

While they were taking their coffee, Dodichet said to his friend:

"Come, Miflorès, for heaven's sake talk a little! try to make yourself agreeable to the ladies. You act like an oyster, my dear fellow."

"I didn't ask you to bring me here; it was you who insisted on my coming, saying that it would inspire confidence in the master of the house, with whom you hoped to do a big business."

"That is true, perfectly true; that is why I passed you off for an Italian count."

"Oh! I don't care about that."

"Lying a little more or less doesn't matter; and you are lying by calling yourself Miflorès, when your real name is Seringat; a pretty name, by the way, which reminds one of a canary [_serin_], a flower [_syringa_], and a syringe [_seringue_]. Miflorès isn't your name."

"It was my mother's, so I have a right to take it."

"At all events, you don't want these people to know your real name, and what happened to you, do you?"

"No, no! never! I would rather--I--don't know what."

"Well, I know the whole story."

"But you promised to keep it secret, my good, kind friend."

"Yes; but on condition that you'll be obliging, that you'll do everything for me that I ask you to do."

"That's agreed. Do you want more money? Tell me."

"Not now; but try to be amiable, amusing, polite, while you are here; that's all I ask of you at present."

"I will try right away."

Whereupon my gentleman went to the hostess, took her hand, and kissed it several times.

"What does that mean; does he expect to marry my wife?" thought Monsieur Mirotaine.

But Aldegonde did not find that pantomime unpleasant; she smiled at Miflorès, thinking that he was about to ask for her stepdaughter's hand; but he simply bowed and said:

"There's another pickle under that chair."

Monsieur Callé hastened to pick it up and carry it to Mirotaine, who put it in his pocket, saying to Monsieur Callé:

"You don't let things lie round; you'll make your way."

Dodichet tried hard to enliven the company, and to that end resorted frequently to the decanter containing brandy, the only liqueur that was offered the guests; he helped himself to several glasses, and even went so far as to offer some to the others. Monsieur Mirotaine witnessed this procedure with impatience.

"That fellow makes too free with my brandy," he muttered; "that's the third time he's gone back to it; he pours it out as if he were in his own house! Very bad manners, I call it! I must try to take the decanter away without my wife's seeing me."

The arrival of several of the guests invited for the evening enabled Monsieur Mirotaine to carry out his plan.

Goth announced "Mesdames Boulard," and three middle-aged women appeared, dressed with much coquetry, with little caps that hardly covered the tops of their heads, from beneath which escaped _chignons_ resembling muffs. Their hoopskirts were so vast that the upper part of their bodies seemed to be poised on balloons; the door of the salon was scarcely wide enough to allow them to pass through.

At sight of this trio, who promised to occupy so much space in the salon, Dodichet said to Brid'oison:

"Your young Artaban ought to perform some of his gymnastics on those balloons, to flatten them out a little."

"You are right. The fact is that women are getting to be ridiculous! before long, one woman alone will fill a whole room! Just look at my wife--what a difference! I have forbidden her to wear hoops; so that she can go anywhere; she's a regular knitting needle."

After the Boulards came the brothers Bridoux. They did not assume to fill much space. They were blowing their noses when they came in, they continued to hold their noses when they bowed; and when they decided to release their hold, exhibited faces of that inane, expressionless type which we see everywhere, and with which we are not tempted to enter into conversation.

One of the Bridoux concealed himself behind the balloon of one of the Boulards. The other exclaimed:

"Why, I don't see Mirotaine; where in the world is our dear Mirotaine?"

Dear Mirotaine had gone to put his decanter of brandy in a safe place. Meanwhile, Madame Putiphar took Dodichet aside and said to him:

"Well, monsieur, how's our business coming on? How does monsieur le comte like our Juliette? he hasn't said a single pleasant word to her. What does it mean? don't she take his fancy? We must know what to expect, you see."

"Don't you be alarmed, Madame de la Toilette; my friend is delighted with your young lady; he finds her full of intellect and altogether to his taste."

"How can he judge her intellect? he hasn't opened his mouth to her!"

"No; but he has heard her talk, which amounts to the same thing. Indeed, she passed him a dish several times and said: 'Will you have some of this, monsieur?'--And the way she said those simple words enabled him to detect her merit."

"Well, when will your count make his proposal?"

"To-morrow, probably; you can understand that he isn't likely to do it to-night, before all these people."

"Then I can tell Monsieur Mirotaine that, and begin to look after the wedding presents?"

"You must look after them at the earliest possible moment, and see that they are worthy of a sultan."

The Putiphar woman walked away, delighted, and was on the point of repeating this conversation to Aldegonde, when Monsieur Dubotté and his wife were announced.

Madame Éléonore Dubotté was a short, plump woman of twenty-five, fair-haired and white-skinned, with a round, fresh face, and exceedingly tender blue eyes, which were fixed upon her husband almost all the time. You will remember that he complained of being loved too well by his wife.

Dubotté went to pay his respects to Aldegonde, having with much difficulty induced his wife to release his arm. Then he shook hands with Mirotaine, who had reappeared without his decanter, and who seemed much flattered because Dubotté had at last accepted an invitation to his house.

But, at sight of Dubotté, Dodichet had made a most amusing grimace.

"The deuce!" he murmured; "here's a contretemps I didn't expect. But, damn the odds! Phoebus has a very nice little wife; I must pay my court to her. Let's get over the recognition."

He went straight up to Dubotté, who was already making eyes at Aldegonde, and cried:

"Halloo! Dubotté, my dear old friend! By Jove! what a pleasant surprise! How are you, Dubotté? is this your good wife you have brought with you? Pray present me to her, my dear friend, so that I may congratulate her on her husband."

Philémon Dubotté uttered an exclamation of surprise when he recognized Dodichet, who had already seized his hand and was shaking it violently.

"By what chance are you here?" he asked.--"How did you ever come to know this scamp of a Dodichet, my dear Mirotaine?"

"What's that? Scamp? I advise you to talk, my fair-haired Phoebus! If your wife wasn't here, I could tell some fine tales about you!"

Monsieur Mirotaine glanced from one to the other of the two friends with a disturbed expression, and seemed to be waiting for Dubotté to explain himself more definitely concerning the so-called commission merchant in sugar, whose free and easy manners were not at all agreeable to him. But Philémon suddenly spied between two hoopskirts the gentleman who had been introduced as a wealthy Italian count. He rushed up to him, crying:

"Well, well! I seem to be in a land of old acquaintances! Here's Monsieur Seringat the druggist, too, whom I had the pleasure of seeing at Pontoise a year ago.--Good-evening, Monsieur Seringat! how is your charming wife?"

When he heard himself called by his real name, Seringat turned pale, then purple; he put his hand to his head with a despairing gesture, and said in a faltering voice:

"No, that isn't true. I am Miflorès; I don't want to be anything but Miflorès! Let me alone; I don't know you!"

With that, he pushed aside the two balloons that encompassed him, as well as all the people who happened to be in his path, hurried from the salon, seized the first hat he saw in the reception-room, and disappeared, leaving the whole party speechless with surprise, except Dodichet, who dropped into a chair and laughed heartily at the effect of that recognition.

Monsieur Mirotaine was the first who recovered the use of his tongue.

"What does this mean?" he cried. "What! this man who was introduced to me as a wealthy Italian count, who was looking for a young lady without a dowry to marry, is a druggist from Pontoise, and married already? Why, then, I have been made a fool of! There has been an attempt to cheat me!--Answer, monsieur the commission merchant in sugar, and you, Madame Putiphar, who undertake to arrange marriages! What have you to say?"

The wardrobe dealer was sorely confused; she pointed to Dodichet, muttering:

"Why, it was monsieur who told me that he had a friend--who was very rich--who wanted a wife.--Come, monsieur, didn't you tell me that?"

"Yes, I did," Dodichet replied; "I told you so because I thought so. That rascal of a Miflorès deceived me too, and I am in despair.--But, after all, Monsieur Mirotaine, I don't see that there's any occasion for you to fly into such a rage. This mistake has afforded you an opportunity to give your friends a dinner party; you certainly can't be sorry for that. And as for myself, it has given me the pleasure of making your acquaintance, which I hope to cultivate. I will bring you some specimens of sugar and molasses, first quality. Meanwhile, I must run after this Miflorès, who has deceived me shamefully. He will have my life, or I his; but I prefer to have his.--Mesdames, I lay my homage at your feet!"

And Dodichet disappeared almost as abruptly as Seringat.

"Do you suppose that he will really fight with that pretended count?" Monsieur Mirotaine asked Dubotté.

"He, fight with the other one! It's easy to see that you don't know Dodichet! He's a _blagueur_ of the first order, and all this is only a practical joke that he undertook to play on you."

Monsieur Mirotaine fell into a chair, utterly overwhelmed.

"A dinner of eleven covers!" he murmured. "Oh! my fine claret!"

"And your pretended count has carried off my hat!" shouted Monsieur Brid'oison, prowling around the dining-room.

"Cheer up, my dear," said his wife; "the one he has left behind is much newer than yours!"

IX

HOW IT BEGAN

Madame Dermont occupied a pretty little apartment on Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière; she had only one servant, but that was enough for a woman who lived alone, received little company, and was happier in her own home than at the most fashionable social assemblages. She had about eight thousand francs a year; that would have been very little for one who desired to follow all the fashions and to live a life of luxury and dissipation; it was quite sufficient for one who, like her, did not seek to cut a figure in the world, and who loved to think.

Nathalie was in her salon, seated at her piano and looking at the music. But her fingers were motionless on the keys; it is probable, therefore, that the young woman was thinking of something different from what was before her. It was two hours after her visit to her young friend Juliette.

She was roused from her reverie by the bell. The sound made her start; and yet, she no longer expected anyone--at least, she no longer expected the person of whom she was thinking.

The servant announced Monsieur Adhémar Monbrun. At that name, Nathalie trembled and the blood rose to her cheeks; she struggled to conceal her emotion, cast a glance at her dress, and told the maid to admit the visitor.

Adhémar entered with the ease of manner which is due to familiarity with good society, and is the especial attribute of men of letters and artists.

"I have come rather tardily, madame," he said, "to thank you for your kindness in sending to inquire about the trifling burn on my hand. You must have considered me very discourteous for not coming at once to offer you my acknowledgments, did you not, madame?"

"Why, no, monsieur; not at all. You had burned yourself in my cause; surely, the least I could do was to inquire concerning the condition of your burn; it was my duty; whereas there was no sort of obligation on you, monsieur, to put yourself out and waste your time by calling upon me."

"Oh! madame, allow me to believe that you do not think so ill of me as to deem it possible that it could put me out to come to see you. I should be a very unfortunate mortal if it were not a pleasure to me. But my reason for not coming was----"

"Well, monsieur, it was----?"

"Mon Dieu! madame, I don't know just how to say it. I am embarrassed----"

"You, monsieur, embarrassed with a lady! Oh! I can't believe it--unless, indeed, you have something very disagreeable to say to her; in that case, I can imagine that it comes hard to you."

"Ah! it seems to me that one could never willingly be disagreeable to you--and yet----"

"Well! you haven't told me yet why you didn't come before."

"Well, madame, it was because I thought that when a man had the good fortune to be received by you, he must inevitably feel a desire to come often--yes, very often--and that that might offend you."

Nathalie lowered her eyes, and murmured:

"Really? was that why you didn't come?"

"Yes. You know, madame, there is a proverb that warns us against playing with fire; and, to me, you are the fire at this moment."

"You have already proved to my satisfaction that you are not afraid of it. Do all women cause you such terror? Frankly, monsieur, I do not believe it!"

"Oh, no, madame! there are some with whom one cannot encounter anything more dangerous than an _ignis fatuus_--and that is not to be feared."

"A truce to jesting, Monsieur Adhémar; I want to see your wrist, and satisfy myself that it is really well."

Adhémar pulled up his sleeve and showed her the wrist that had been burned. The better to examine it, Nathalie must needs take the hand which was held out, and draw it toward her; and that hand, when she touched it, presumed to press hers very tenderly, thereby causing keen emotion to the young woman, who faltered:

"It is cured, but you have a great scar there. Mon Dieu! shall you always have it?"

"I hope so!"

"What do you say? you hope so? Why?"

"Because it will remind me of the day when I had the good fortune to be of some little service to you."

"Some little service! Why do you say a little, when it is quite possible that you saved my life?"

"Ah! if you really do owe me anything, it depends only on you to pay the debt."

"How, pray?"

"You cannot guess, madame?"

"No, monsieur; I am not good at guessing."

"Oh! I beg your pardon--but you should be better able than any other to divine the thoughts that come from the heart."

"Why I, more than another?"

"Because there is a something in your eyes which indicates their perspicacity."

"If my eyes have such a peculiar expression, I shall not dare to raise them again."

"Oh! do not deprive me of the pleasure of looking at them; that would be a punishment."

"Come, come, monsieur, don't talk to me in this way; you are in the habit of making pretty speeches to all women, no matter how little they may deserve them; but, as a general rule, they are accustomed to your language, to your flatteries, and they laugh at them because they know that they must not take too seriously the gallant speeches of a man to whom love is only a pleasant pastime. But I am not one of those women, monsieur! I go into society very little, and the life that artists lead is entirely unfamiliar to me. You will agree, will you not, that if I should take what you have said to me as being said in earnest, if I should place any reliance on your words, I should make a great mistake and should very soon have reason to repent?"

Adhémar was silent for a few moments; but he looked at Nathalie, and his expression was almost sad. At last he said, with a sigh:

"Ah! madame, if I had the good fortune to be loved, I should be too happy! But, no; women are all inconstant, they never love truly; they want to be adored, but they reserve the right to love us only in accordance with their caprice."

Nathalie could not restrain a smile, as she replied:

"You have a very singular way of paying court to one of them!"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, madame, I beg your pardon; I didn't mean that to apply to you!"

"But you were speaking of women in general?"

"True; but, of course, there are exceptions."

"Have you never met any of the exceptions?"

"No, I have not had that good fortune."

"And that is what has given you such a bad opinion of all women?"

"Oh! I am wrong, no doubt; for, after all, the fact that no one has ever loved me doesn't prove that they may not have loved others."

"Do you say that no one has ever loved you, monsieur?"

"Never really, madame."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Only too sure, alas!"

"But, monsieur, have you, who think that no one has ever really loved you, have you yourself ever loved in that way?"

Adhémar did not reply for some seconds, then murmured:

"Why, I think so----"

"Ah! you are not perfectly sure!"

"When one is inclined to love passionately, madame, if he sees that his passion is not reciprocated, don't you think that that should suffice to lessen his ardor?"

"No, monsieur, I do not think so; I think that when one is really in love, it is not so easy to banish from one's heart the object of one's love. In short, it is my opinion that love is not to be reasoned with, and that when you come to the point where you begin to reason you have ceased to love. But, upon my word, this is a strange conversation; one would think that we had to write an essay on the proper way to love.--Have you produced a new play or written a new novel since I saw you?"

"No, madame, no; I have done nothing."

"You have been lazy, eh? Fie! that's very bad!"

"No, I haven't been lazy; but I have been preoccupied--which is by no means the same thing, and is a much greater hindrance to work."

"You know Monsieur Lucien Grischard, do you not, monsieur?"

"I do, madame; but how did you know?"

"Oh! in the most natural way; this Monsieur Lucien knows--indeed, I may say that he is courting a young lady who is my most intimate friend, Mademoiselle Juliette Mirotaine."

"Yes, he is very much in love with her, and would like to marry her; he has told me that."

"And Juliette has no secrets from me; she is very fond of this Lucien, whom her father refuses to allow her to marry. She has told me all her sorrows."

"Very good; but I don't quite see where I come in."

Nathalie blushed, hesitated, and finally replied:

"If my friend tells me everything that interests her, do you not think, monsieur, that I should do as much? That accident of mine--which, but for you, might have been so disastrous to me--I told her about that, and naturally I told her the name of the person who had--burned himself in his efforts to put out the fire. When she heard your name, which is so well known, she cried: 'That gentleman is a friend of Lucien!'--And that is how I knew that you know him. Is that explanation satisfactory, monsieur?"

"Ah! madame, it is a thousand times too kind of you to give it to me; my reason for asking was to find out whether you had remembered me."

"It would have been very ungrateful on my part to forget you so soon."

"Mon Dieu! madame, a very clever man has said: 'Ingratitude is independence of the heart!'--That is rather sad, but it is more or less true."

"No, monsieur; ingratitude simply proves that one has no heart."

The conversation was prolonged to a great length between those two, who understood each other so well even when they were silent. But Adhémar was afraid of presuming too far, as it was his first visit; so he took his leave of Madame Dermont at last, saying:

"Will you allow me to come to see you again?"

Nathalie accorded him that permission with such a pleasant smile that it was impossible to doubt the pleasure it afforded her to give it.

As he left the pretty widow's presence, Adhémar said to himself:

"That is a most charming woman; I feel that I should soon love her dearly. Perhaps it would be wiser for me not to see her again; for, if I yield to the temptation to love her in good earnest, she will do like the rest, she will deceive me and make me unhappy. But I am arguing as if she were already my mistress! What right have I to think that she will love me, that she will yield to me? But something tells me that she will. Well, after all, why should I be afraid to be happy when the opportunity offers? 'We must love!' said Jean-Jacques; 'we must love!' said Voltaire.--That is the only subject, I fancy, on which those two famous men agreed. So we must not repulse love when it tries to steal into our hearts; and even though it should cause us more pain than pleasure, that is better than not to love at all."

Madame Dermont did not say all that to herself, but she yielded to the impulse of her heart, which disposed her to love Adhémar; his personality attracted her, and even before she knew him she loved him for what he had written. Now that she knew him, it gave her pleasure to hear him talk; a secret sympathy drew her toward him, and, despite his low opinion of women, she did not try to combat the love which was taking possession of her heart; she hoped to compel him in the end to do justice to her sex; for, as she was not fickle in her tastes, she could not understand how all women could be frivolous and inconstant.

It caused her great joy, therefore, to hear Adhémar ask permission to call upon her again; and if she was unable to conceal the pleasure that request afforded her, it was because she was not a coquette and did not attempt to hide her real feelings beneath a feigned indifference.

X

THE DUBOTTÉ HOUSEHOLD

It is time for us to turn our attention to that husband whom his wife adored--a state of affairs which is sometimes seen, but which is of uncommon occurrence none the less. And instead of manifesting his gratitude for that conjugal adoration, and for the loving caresses which his wife lavished upon him, by graceful little attentions and amiable behavior, the husband in question seemed, on the contrary, fatigued, annoyed, bored, by madame's caresses; indeed, he sometimes evaded them on the most frivolous pretexts. For men are made that way; and if their wives deceived them, they would fall in love with them again. Poor, weak mortals! who complain when you possess, and complain even more loudly when you have ceased to possess! You are never content, and it is so with everything! As for myself, ever since I was born, I have constantly heard men complain of their plight in love, in politics, and in business; I have always found people discontented; and, at all periods of time, and under all governments, I have heard merchants and tradesmen say: "Everything is at a standstill; there's nothing doing; business is wretched!" and other complaints of the same sort, which do not prevent business from going on as usual--some making their fortunes, others becoming insolvent, as in all times.

After the hurried exit of the false Italian count and the commission merchant in sugar, the remainder of Monsieur Mirotaine's guests were, as may be imagined, in a state of much confusion and excitement; those who had been present at the dinner, and were aware of its object, looked at one another without speaking; but those who had come for only the evening plied the host and his wife with innumerable questions; while they as persistently questioned Dubotté, who had laid bare the fraud.

"But are you quite sure, my dear Dubotté," said Mirotaine, "that this pretended Count Miflorès is really one Seringat?"

"Perfectly sure; Seringat, apothecary at Pontoise. I passed nearly two months in that city, where I went to receive a legacy.--You remember, Nonore?"

"Oh! I should say so! I was unhappy enough while you were away; I did nothing but cry!"

"You cry far too much when I am away, my dear love; you must cure yourself of that habit, or it will make your eyes as red as a rabbit's.--As I was saying, during my stay at Pontoise I met Monsieur Seringat in society several times."

"And he is married?"

"Very well married; to a very pretty woman, who, I am sure, does not amuse herself weeping when her husband is away. I had the pleasure of dancing with her at a party given by the notary of the town."

"Ah! you bad man! you danced when I wasn't there!"

"My dear love, if when a man is married he is debarred from tripping the light fantastic except with his wife, it would be enough to disgust men with marriage forever! You absolutely refuse to realize that although a man has a wife he is none the less bound to be always polite and agreeable to other women. I have told you that a hundred times!"

"And what about his wife?"

"Parbleu! his wife has the same rights! And, above all things, she ought not to do as you do--keep herself in her husband's pocket all the time. Why, it's beastly form; it's as vulgar as the devil! You really must cure yourself of that; I don't want you to be vulgar."

"But," continued Monsieur Mirotaine, "I cannot see what motive this Monsieur Seringat can have had to present himself in a respectable house, under a name which doesn't belong to him, and as a man who desires to marry?"

"He told you that he desired to marry?"

"He didn't breathe a word of it," said Aldegonde, "and he didn't make a single effort to talk with Juliette."

"Then why do you say that he wants to marry; for, unless his wife is dead--and that seems to me most improbable, as she was young, and as fresh as a rose----"

"You noticed that, Philémon?"

"Oh! my dear love, don't comment in this way on every word I say, I beg you! I have noticed many other women since."

"Ah! you villain! And what about me?"

"You! why, you are my wife, and that ought to satisfy you; it seems to me that that's something to say!--To cut it short, my dear Mirotaine, I tell you again, this whole business is probably a joke invented by my friend Dodichet, who passes his time looking about for somebody to make a fool of. And so, although he's an old schoolmate of mine, I have never asked him to my house; not that I am afraid of his nonsense; I have a wife, thank God! with whom I can sleep with both eyes shut!"

"And that is just what you do, my dear; you always sleep when you're with me."

"Hush, Nonore! These domestic details are never talked about in company."

"Why not, my dear?"

"Why, because----"

Monsieur Mirotaine was as savage as a bulldog because he had given a dinner party to no purpose. Aldegonde was annoyed at being deceived by her dealer in wardrobes, who had gone away in dire confusion at having made a mess of it. The rest of the company soon followed Madame Putiphar's example; the three balloons withdrew, constantly colliding with one another; Monsieur Brid'oison, in the hat which had been left in place of his; Artaban, climbing on his father's shoulders; Madame Trichon, rubbing the eye which had received the pickled onion; and young Callé, looking longingly at Aldegonde, who did not look at him because she was angry. Juliette alone was happy, but she dared not show it.

Lastly, Dubotté and his wife took leave of the host and hostess.

"This party has been a failure," said Philémon to young Callé, who put on his gloves as he went downstairs. "It's only ten o'clock--what in the deuce can we do now?"

"Seven minutes past ten!" said the young spark, looking at his watch; "I agree with the Treasury."

"Never mind; a fellow can't go home to bed at seven minutes after ten; for my part, I hate to go to bed early."

"True--it's bad form."

"But you always want me to go to bed early, my dear."

"Yes--because it's very healthy for women; they need more sleep than we do.--Which way are you going, Monsieur Callé?"

"Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, No. 8, monsieur."

"Indeed! and we live on Rue Bleue, within a few steps. By the way, Monsieur Callé, are you related to a Callé of Lyon, wholesale dealer in silks?"

"He's my cousin, monsieur."

"Pardieu! he's one of my best friends. When we were bachelors, he used to come to Paris often; we've had many a spree together!"

"What, my dear! did you ever go on sprees?"

"I was speaking to Monsieur Callé, Nonore; it doesn't concern you.--So you are Édouard Callé's cousin?"

"I have that honor."

"Sapristi! what a bore it is to go home at ten o'clock!"

"If you want to take me anywhere, my dear, I am all ready."

"Why, no, madame, no; I don't care to take you anywhere to-night. It's too late to go to the theatre--so there's nowhere to go but a café, and men don't take their wives to a café; it's very bad form. Besides, women don't enjoy it, and they're terribly in the way."

"But you go there a great deal!"

"I go to my club--a most excellent club, where one can always have a game of cards; and I confess that I am strongly inclined to go there and play a game of whist."

"Well! take me to your club."

"Upon my word! as if women were ever admitted! Women at a club! Why, we couldn't hear ourselves talk! I feel just like going there to-night, but it's in an entirely different direction from my house. It just occurs to me that as Monsieur Callé lives in our quarter, it would not inconvenience him very much to leave you at our door; in that way, I could go to my club."

"I am entirely at your service, monsieur, and it will give me great pleasure to escort madame."

"What! you are going to leave me, Philémon? you are going to send me home with monsieur, whom I hardly know?"

"Why, bless my soul, Nonore! I don't see that monsieur has a very terrifying aspect. Besides, he is a friend of Mirotaine, and the cousin of a man with whom I am very intimate; so he isn't a stranger to me."

"I don't care for that; you know very well that I am not in the habit of taking any man's arm but yours."

"Exactly; and it's a most absurd idea, of which you must cure yourself."

With that, the fair-haired beau took his wife's arm from within his own and turned it over to the young man, who was modestly waiting.

"My dear Monsieur Callé," he said, "I intrust my wife to you, and my mind is entirely at ease; I am convinced that you won't lose her."

"Oh! no, monsieur; I will not leave madame until she is safely inside her door."

"Thanks.--Au revoir, Nonore! go right to bed; I shan't be late."

"Philémon! Philémon! you are going away without kissing me!"

But Philémon was already at some distance; delighted to be rid of his wife, he had fairly taken to his heels. The loving Éléonore heaved a profound sigh, and decided at last to take the arm which young Callé offered her. They walked away, the little woman still sighing, her escort cudgelling his brain to think of something to say to console her.

"If madame thinks that we are walking too fast," he faltered at last, "we can walk more slowly."

"Oh! this is all right, monsieur."

And they walked on in silence. In a moment, the little woman, who was rather fond of talking, opened the conversation.

"You are not married, are you, monsieur?"

"No, madame; I am a bachelor."

"When you are married, shall you send your wife home under the escort of some acquaintance?"

"Mon Dieu! madame, I must confess that I don't know what I shall do."

"Shall you be displeased if your wife always wants to go out with you?"

"Oh! I think not, madame."

"Will it annoy you, if she comes to you often for a kiss?"

"Oh! certainly not; far from it! especially if--especially if she--no, it wouldn't annoy me."

Monsieur Callé had tried to pay a compliment to the lady on his arm, but it would not come out.

"Well," continued Éléonore, "my husband often pushes me away when I take a fancy to kiss him."

"He does it in joke, of course?"

"No, monsieur; sometimes he even scolds me; he declares that my manners are vulgar; that only workingmen's wives kiss their husbands like that. Is that true?"

"Oh! I can't tell you, madame."

"If it is, I am sorry my husband isn't a workingman; because then I could kiss him when I wanted to, and he wouldn't think I was ridiculous."

Callé made no reply, but he thought:

"It seems that this lady is very fond of kissing. If I were her husband, I wouldn't object. She isn't such a beautiful woman as Madame Mirotaine, but her manner is gentler--and then, she seems to be very caressing."

In due time they arrived at Dubotté's abode. Éléonore thanked her escort, who bowed respectfully and tried again to make some complimentary remark, but with no better success, although his efforts were rewarded by a courtesy.

"That gentleman is very polite," said Madame Dubotté to herself, as she entered the house; "but he doesn't talk enough."

Monsieur Dubotté, who returned home very late that night, because he had been elsewhere than to his club, did his utmost to get into bed without waking his wife; a manoeuvre which he often executed, and in which he was very skilful. The next morning, while he was dressing, he said to madame:

"Well, my dear love, were you content with your escort? You got home without accident, I fancy?"

"Oh! yes, he's a very nice young man; he brought me to the door."

"Pardieu! did you suppose he would drop you half-way? You asked him to come to see us, I hope?"

"No, I didn't; why should I ask him?"

"You should have done so; it would have been no more than polite. Do you know, I like that little Callé; I should be very glad to have him visit us. He's a young man to whom one can safely intrust his wife."

"Why, my dear, do you expect to send me about with another man often?"

"I don't say that; but there are unforeseen circumstances. For instance: we have tickets to the theatre; I often have them, you know, through my connection with the actors. Well, I can't go; or, at least, I can't go till very late; then what do I do? I ask Callé to escort you to the theatre, and I join you there when I have finished my business; do you see?"

"What! you would let me go to the theatre with another man? O Philémon!"

"But if I come and join you there, it's precisely the same thing as if I went with you! That sort of thing is done every day."

"Well, I simply shouldn't enjoy it without you."

"Don't you understand that I would come, too--later?"

"That isn't the same thing."

"Oh! how far behind the times you are, my dear love! Luckily, I know that young man's address; he told us what it was: No. 8, Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne."

"And you mean to go to see him?"

"His cousin was my intimate friend, and he can tell me something about him. Stay! I have an idea: I'll invite him to dinner; the fellow's all right socially, so that we can afford to receive him; he isn't like that scamp Dodichet--there's a man I will never invite! That was a neat trick he played on Mirotaine. But why is this Seringat, this Pontoise druggist, in Paris under an assumed name? What can he have done with his wife? If I had time, I'd go to Pontoise and find out."

"You'd take me with you, wouldn't you?"

"Oh! there you are again! how amusing that would be! To stuff my wife in my pocket for a little trip of twenty-four hours, and double, yes, treble the expense! That would be downright idiocy. But, don't worry; I haven't the time to go to Pontoise."

XI

DUBOTTÉ ATTEMPTS TO TRAIN HIS WIFE

A few days later, Dubotté said to his wife:

"My dear love, we shall have two people to dinner to-morrow; tell the cook to be careful with the dinner, and, above all things, don't forget the sweets; I don't enjoy my dinner, you know, unless I have sweets."

"Yes, you have a very sweet tooth."

"Every man who loves women must love sweet things."

"Ah! you love them too well, you bad boy!"

"Sweet things?"

"No, women! If you loved only your own wife, it would be all right."

"My dear love, I might retort: I love _crême au chocolat_! But if you should always give me that for dinner, I might get tired of it."

"What does that mean? that you care no more for me than you do for a _crême au chocolat_?"

"That was a little joke. Think about your dinner for to-morrow."

"Whom have you asked? My two dear friends, Madame Lambert and her sister, I am sure."

"No, I haven't asked your friends. Madame Lambert takes snuff, and I consider it a detestable habit in a woman. Let her smoke, if she wants to; I can stand that; there are some very pretty women who smoke, nowadays. But to carry a snuff-box! horror! When she takes out her handkerchief, you would think you were in a porter's lodge. With her sister it's something else: whenever you look at her, she throws her head to one side and shakes it and blinks her eyes."

"That isn't her fault; it's a nervous trouble."

"I don't say it is her fault, but I don't dare to look at people who have that sort of trouble; I am always afraid that I shall do just what they do. I have asked two gentlemen to dinner; that will be livelier, not so strait-laced; we can laugh and enjoy ourselves. There'll be Bruneau, one of my fellow clerks in the department----"

"Oh! I don't like your friend Bruneau; he's good for nothing but to smoke and drink beer, and doesn't enjoy himself anywhere except in cafés. As soon as dinner's over, he'll want to go to the café, of course. So polite to me! If he would only go alone, I wouldn't care a rap; but he always takes you with him!"

"Oh! no, not always; only once in a while, to play a four-handed game of dominoes; he's very strong at it."

"And who's the other?"

"The other--can't you guess? It's the young man who was obliging enough to escort you home the other evening--Monsieur Callé."

"Have you been to his house?"

"I was on my way there when I met him. He told me all about his cousin, and we had quite a long talk; he seems a very pleasant fellow."

"That's funny, for he hardly spoke a word to me."

"He looks as if he was very bashful. However, I asked him to come to dinner to-morrow, and he seemed much flattered by the invitation."

"What's the sense of having him to dinner?"

"My dear love, we must have a little company, deuce take it! we can't live like bears!"

"You never ask _my_ friends!"

"If there were any pretty women among them, I'd invite them fast enough, never fear! but they vie with one another in ugliness."

"That does not prevent their being agreeable!"

"For my part, I find them mortally tiresome."

Young Callé, who was deeply touched by Dubotté's invitation, did not fail to appear promptly, after taking the most minute pains with his costume; for his bashfulness did not prevent his being a good deal of a dandy. Éléonore greeted her quondam cavalier graciously enough, although he could not succeed in uttering the compliment he tried to address to her; the little woman felt more at ease with a bashful young man, and she liked him much better than Monsieur Bruneau, the frequenter of cafés.

The latter was a man of forty years, neither handsome nor ugly, but always carelessly dressed. There was always a certain disorder in his costume, although his clothes themselves were as fine as other men's. But, generally speaking, it is the way clothes are worn that makes all the difference, and we see men very well dressed who never look so, while others, even in the simplest costume, seem to be dressed with the greatest elegance. Monsieur Bruneau never wore gloves, he had a sort of dirty aspect, and smelt of tobacco a mile away. He passed all the time he was not employed at the department in playing dominoes and drinking beer or absinthe. To his mind, women were of less importance than the double-blank. But Dubotté was much attached to Bruneau, because when he desired to keep an appointment with one of the fair sex he had only to make a sign to his friend, who never failed to say:

"Just come to the café for a few moments; those domino fiends are waiting for us; we'll play the best two games in three, then you can come back to your wife."

Dubotté would assent, promise Éléonore to return very soon, and pass the whole evening away from her. It was small wonder, therefore, that such friends were not at all welcome to madame, and that she preferred to them a young man who was so bashful that he stumbled over a compliment.

Dubotté received Callé as if he had known him for years; he shook hands with him effusively; a little more, and he would have embraced him. Dinner was served, and, in the midst of the conversation, Dubotté exclaimed:

"Pardieu! I know now why Dodichet played that joke on poor Mirotaine; it has just come back to me. One of our mutual friends, a poor fellow named Lucien, is in love with Mademoiselle Mirotaine.--Did you know that, Monsieur Callé?"

"Yes, monsieur; I have heard Madame Mirotaine say so; but as the young man has nothing, they refuse to give him Mademoiselle Juliette."

"Exactly; Lucien told us about it not long ago; he was afraid that some rich man would marry the girl, who has no dowry, but who is very pretty.--Don't you think she's pretty, Nonore?"

"Oh, yes! to those who like brunettes."

"And I remember that Dodichet said to Lucien: 'Don't you want me to help along your love affair by playing some good practical joke on your old skinflint of a Mirotaine?'--He called him an old skinflint, because he's very close-fisted, very miserly; you must have noticed that?"

"I have never paid any attention to that, monsieur."

"Well, he didn't miss fire."

"Oh! but that was a very scurvy trick for him to play--to get himself and his friend invited to dinner!"

"And by Mirotaine! For my part, I think it was very clever! Dodichet is really much cleverer than I supposed."

"What does he do?"

"Mon Dieu! nothing at all. He has run through all his property, making sport of everybody all the while! But what will it bring him to? Starvation!--for, in this world, we all have to do something in order to succeed--to make a good position for ourselves;--eh, Bruneau?"

"How's that? what?"

"Pshaw! he never attends to the conversation!"

"Give me something to drink; I like that better."

"I was saying that everyone has his goal here on earth; I know what mine is, and I shall get there!--You must have a goal, too, Monsieur Callé--you, too, want to arrive, eh?"

"Arrive where, monsieur?"

"I have no idea. What is your business?"

"I haven't any, monsieur; I don't do anything. I have ten thousand francs a year."

"That makes a difference--you have arrived!"

"I," said Monsieur Bruneau, "am one of the strongest domino players in Paris; and that was the point I wanted to arrive at.--Do you play dominoes, monsieur?"

"No, monsieur; I don't know how to play anything but bézique."

"Ah! do you play bézique?" cried Dubotté. "That's my wife's favorite game; she adores bézique.--Isn't that so, Nonore? aren't you very fond of the game?"

"Yes, my dear, I like to play with you."

"True; but you'd enjoy it much more to play with somebody else; for when you and I play, whether the stakes are two sous or ten, we never pay; how exciting that is! With anybody else, you stake your money in earnest, and defend it, which is always much more interesting."

After dinner, Dubotté immediately prepared a card table and said to Callé:

"You and my wife must play a game of bézique; she plays very well."

"With pleasure, monsieur; I will do whatever you wish."

"It would be much better for you to play with monsieur, my dear; you play much better than I."

"Not by any means! I tell you that you know the game perfectly."

"But what will you do while we play?"

"I will look over you, or talk with Bruneau; don't worry about me."

The little woman concluded to take the cards, solely to obey her husband, for she had a shrewd suspicion that he would not stay long to watch the game. Young Callé, who was ready to do whatever was wanted, seated himself opposite Éléonore, and said:

"How much does madame wish to play for?"

"I don't care at all."

"With how many packs?"

"I don't know."

"How much shall we play for?"

"Whatever you choose."

"Come, come, my dear love, don't be such a fool! Sapristi! you play with four packs, ten sous the game of two thousand; we make the five hundred and the fifteen hundred with treble bézique--that's how we always play.--Is that satisfactory to you, Callé?"

"Oh! anything suits me, monsieur."

The game began. Dubotté stood by the table at first, watching the game, and exclaiming from time to time:

"Bravo, Nonore, bravo! you play superbly; you will certainly win.--I think my wife will beat you, Callé!"

"I trust so, monsieur."

When the game was well under way, Dubotté made a sign to Bruneau, who said:

"I promised Durand to meet him at the café this evening; I must go."

"Ah! will Durand be at the café? I have a matter of business to talk over with him."

"Very well; come down there for a moment with me."

"I think I will, as it's only a step. I'll just go and say two words to him."

Seeing Dubotté take his hat, his wife cried:

"What, Philémon! are you going out?"

"For ten minutes only; I will come right back."

"And monsieur here?"

"Pardieu! I don't stand on ceremony with Monsieur Callé. He will certainly excuse me if I go out for a moment."

"Oh! as long as you choose, monsieur; don't mind me."

"Besides, you're playing cards with him. Play on! play on! make double bézique! I am coming right back."

"But, Philémon----"

"I shall be here in ten minutes."

And the fair-haired beau vanished with his confederate, Bruneau. Nonore sighed, but continued to play. She vanquished her opponent, who lost every game. Did he do it as a matter of courtesy, or was luck constantly on the young woman's side? She kept saying to him:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, it must vex you to lose all the time!"

"No, madame; far from it."

"When you have had enough, we will stop."

"Oh! I never have enough, when I have the pleasure--when I am playing with--a person----Four aces, madame."

"Mark them, monsieur."

Midnight found Callé still at bézique with Madame Dubotté, who had won four francs, but was beginning to yawn. When the clock struck twelve, she said:

"You see, monsieur; this is what my husband means by ten minutes!"

"He must have been detained, madame, or his watch has stopped."

"No, monsieur; but it's always this way when he goes out alone, and it makes me very unhappy! It is midnight, monsieur, and I must not impose upon your good nature any longer. We have played enough. My husband is far from polite, I must say! He asks you to dinner, and then goes out----"

"Oh! madame--I assure you that--I much prefer--I did not care--especially as----"

"Good-night, Monsieur Callé!"

"Madame, I have the honor to salute you!"

And the young man took his leave without finishing his compliment.

XII

EXPEL THE NATURAL INSTINCTS, AND THEY RETURN AT THE GALLOP

A month had passed since Adhémar paid his first visit to Madame Dermont. In the week following their conversation, he had called every other day, and since then had not let a single day pass without seeing her. What had happened between them that their intimacy had become so close? It seems to me that you should be able to guess.

Nathalie had made an instant conquest of Adhémar's heart; she was the woman whom he was seeking, whom he desired to meet, whom he ardently longed to have for his mistress, and, above all, by whom he aspired to be loved; she possessed all that he wished to find in a sweetheart; and still he had tried for some time--not for long--to struggle against the inclination of his heart; for the more strongly he felt that he really loved Nathalie, the stronger was his foreboding that he should be unhappy if he could not succeed in inspiring something more than a mere passing sentiment in return for a sincere passion.

Nathalie, on the other hand, had not tried to combat the sentiments which Adhémar aroused in her heart. Being a widow, and absolute mistress of her acts, why should she have spurned the love which she read in his eyes, and which he expressed so well? A coquettish woman would, perhaps, have postponed the moment of surrender; a woman who is really in love offers only a weak resistance, for she shares the happiness she gives.

Adhémar often asked Nathalie now:

"Is it really true that you love me?"

"Ah! my dear, how can you ask me that? What fresh proof do you want me to give you of my love?"

"Forgive me! that isn't what I meant. I only feared--for I am not agreeable every day--I dreaded that--that you might cease to love me."

"How ill you judge me! Do you take me for one of those women to whom love is a mere whim and never a real sentiment?"

"No, no, I don't think so; I was wrong; I am often unjust."

"You are afraid that I shall not always find you agreeable?--what nonsense! When you are with me, I am happy, and that is enough for me. Be thoughtful, abstracted--serious even! I see you and am with you; I ask nothing more. I say to myself: 'He is thinking about his work, about some new plot, perhaps. I mustn't disturb him. In a moment, he will come back to me; he will see that I am by his side.'"

"Ah! Nathalie! I love you so dearly! Do you know, it seems to me sometimes that I love you too much!"

"One never loves too much, my dear, when he inspires as much love as he gives. Believe me, you do not go ahead of me!"

And, on leaving her, Adhémar said to himself:

"Yes, she really loves me; for, if she doesn't, why should she pretend to? What motive has she to deceive me? She certainly is not guided by any selfish interest, for she refuses to receive the slightest present from me; she told me in the most positive terms that she would be seriously angry with me if I gave her anything but flowers!--'I have the wherewithal to satisfy all my tastes and fancies,' she said; 'I want nothing from you but love; the best gift from you would offend me, for I should say to myself that you thought it was necessary to make me love you!'--I had no choice but to obey her.--Upon my word, I believe I have found a woman who will not deceive me! it's a miracle!"

In return for her affection, Madame Dermont demanded from her lover nothing but entire confidence; she would not admit the possibility of his being jealous, and often said to him:

"To suspect the woman you love is an insult to her; as you are perfectly sure that I love you, you should never dream for an instant that I am deceiving you."

Adhémar thought that Nathalie was perfectly right; but jealousy is a sentiment that does not come and go at the word of command; some people are born jealous, just as some are born quarrelsome, petulant, or cowardly. Education may teach us to disguise our failings, but it does not eradicate them.

One morning, calling at Madame Dermont's a little earlier than usual, Adhémar found her with a clouded brow; and although she received him with her accustomed cordiality, it seemed to him that she was distraught and that her smile was not so frank and open as usual. He fixed his eyes on hers and asked:

"Has anything gone wrong with you this morning?"

"With me, my dear? Why, no! nothing, I assure you."

"You seem preoccupied, however; is nothing troubling you?"

"What do you suppose can be troubling me?"

"Nothing, I trust! But I ask you the question."

"My dear, so long as you love me, nothing will ever trouble me."

"So much the better; in that case, nothing ever will. I was thinking that, as we are not always together--that is to say, in my absence you might have had visitors."

"You are mistaken, my dear; for me, you are never absent; you are constantly in my thoughts."

Adhémar put his mistress's hand to his lips. But in a few minutes his brow darkened anew; he drew a long breath, then exclaimed:

"This is very strange!"

"What is, my dear?"

"It smells of tobacco smoke here."

"Do you think so? I don't smell anything."

"Oh! that's because you don't choose to. It smells of tobacco, and of poor tobacco, too! I should think that someone had been smoking a pipe here."

Madame Dermont turned her head away as she replied:

"It may have been the water carrier who brought the smell here."

"The water carrier? I didn't suppose that he came into your bedroom, and your kitchen is some distance away. That was not a happy reply."

"Mon Dieu! my dear, what do you mean by that? Not a happy reply! Do you mean to say that you attach any importance to such a trifle?"

"A trifle! You know, madame, the proverb says that there's no smoke without some fire; and, in like manner, there's no smell of tobacco smoke without a smoker. I came too early to-day, probably!"

"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"

"I mean--it's easy enough to understand! You have had some visitor who was smoking. The devil! a man must be on very familiar terms with a lady to smoke in her bedroom! Who has been here to see you so early?"

Nathalie paced the floor impatiently, murmuring:

"What a lot of questions about a smell that may have come from the neighbor's!"

"Oh, no! you have no neighbor on this side."

"So this is your confidence in me, Adhémar?--'I shall never be jealous,' you said."

"Women are the most astonishing creatures! When you ask them a question, they answer with another, which is a very clever way of not answering at all. Will you tell me who has been here this morning, who has had the presumption to smoke a pipe in your apartment, or, at all events, to poison the air with the smell of a pipe?"

"No one, monsieur."

"Very well, madame; I came too early to-day; that will teach me a lesson for another time."

And Adhémar seized his hat and rushed from the room; while Nathalie, having at first started to detain him, overcame the impulse to do so.

"She has certainly had a visitor who smoked," said Adhémar to himself, as he went away, "but she won't admit it. I don't claim that she shouldn't receive anyone at all; but if that was an innocent visit, she wouldn't have denied it. So she evidently has mysteries--secrets from me. Therefore, she deceives me; she's no better than the rest. Ah, me! I ought to have expected it! It's all over; I will never go to her house again!"

All day long, the jealous wretch kept repeating those words: "I will never go to her house again!" And he rushed hither and thither, to cafés and theatres and parties; did all that he could to divert his thoughts, and did not succeed. The next day he was very much depressed, and said to himself as he went out:

"I will not go to see her, that is sure! What a shame! I loved her so dearly--more than I have ever before loved a woman! That makes her treachery the more outrageous. Ah! I was very wise to make up my mind that I would never care for any woman again."

Musing thus as he walked, Adhémar arrived in front of the house where Madame Dermont lived.

"So much for habit!" he thought. "I came here without knowing it. But I won't go in. Still, I may as well walk in this neighborhood as anywhere. I'll look at her windows; that will give me something to think about."

For two hours he walked up and down in front of the house, gazing at Nathalie's windows, walking rapidly away when he fancied that he saw someone through the glass, and sighing when he saw no one. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder; it was one of his colleagues, who said to him:

"What on earth are you doing here, Adhémar? Are you on the lookout for a scene or a dénouement?"

"Faith! yes; I was thinking over a new subject."

"Come with me; you can tell me your plan as we walk."

"I'll go with you gladly; but I won't tell you anything, because you would want to be in the play."

"Well! I would do my share."

"Thanks, I know you! you hang around, you make absurd remarks, you abuse your confrères, you find fault with everything that others do, and never produce anything yourself. That's the way you do your share!"

"You are very polite this morning! I am in several plays, nevertheless, which have had some success."

"Yes, I am well aware that you are; but that doesn't prove that you had anything to do with them. We know how it's worked on the stage nowadays, all the scheming and jobbing that go on there!"

"You are in a savage mood to-day! Do you know that I should be justified in demanding satisfaction for what you have said?"

"Oh! I'm at your service. Do you want to fight? I ask nothing better."

"And I haven't the slightest desire to do it! You're in a bad temper, and I am not. You're looking for a quarrel, and I am looking for sport. Adieu!"

"He is right," Adhémar reflected, when he was alone again. "I am ugly, because she has made me unhappy. It's always the women who make us what we are!"

The next day, after long hesitation, Adhémar surrendered; he could not resist his ardent longing to see her whom he had tried in vain to forget.

"The idea," he thought, "of losing my temper, of quarrelling over a smell of tobacco smoke, which may have come from the neighbor's after all! Pshaw! there's no sense in that!"

He flew rather than ran to Madame Dermont's, and did not give the servant time to warn her mistress, but rushed into her room. Nathalie was alone, but her eyes were red and tears were still standing in them. Adhémar threw himself at her feet, seized her hands, and covered them with kisses.

"Forgive me! forgive me! I have made you unhappy. In pity's name, forgive me!"

"Three days without coming to see me! Ah! my friend, is this your love for me?"

"Why, yes, yes, I adore you, and that is why I am so jealous."

"I forbade you to be jealous, and you promised. Have you ceased to believe in my love?"

"I am a guilty wretch--I am, indeed--since I have made you shed tears."

"I thought it was all over, that you would never come again."

"As if that would be possible! As if I could exist without you! But let us forget this storm; you forgive me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. But, I beg you, my dear, don't give way to these transports of jealousy. Suspicion wounds the most loving heart."

"It is all over. I am cured."

Peace was concluded, and once more the most perfect harmony reigned between those two, who were so well suited to each other. A fortnight had passed since the reconciliation, when the ill-fated odor of tobacco was once more perceptible in Madame Dermont's apartments when her lover came to see her during the day. Adhémar said nothing. He even determined not to show that he noticed the smell. He tried to be as amiable and lively as usual; but, in spite of his efforts, he was distraught and often replied at random to what Nathalie said to him. She too, probably suspecting the cause of his preoccupation, was decidedly embarrassed.

Adhémar prolonged his visit, however, and had been with his mistress a considerable time, when, as he glanced aimlessly about the room, he spied something on the floor, close against the long window curtains, which partially covered it. That object, which was of peculiar shape, aroused our author's curiosity, and, seizing a moment when Nathalie was arranging some flowers, he walked quickly across the room and picked up what he had seen. He examined it at close quarters and was stupefied to see that it was a pipe case.

"You can't tell me now that you do not receive visits from a smoker!" cried Adhémar, well-nigh speechless with rage.

"What is it now, my friend?" replied Nathalie, leaving her flowers.

"What is it! Mon Dieu! madame, the veriest trifle. See! this is what I just picked up, over by your window, where you hoped, no doubt, that it was well hidden."

"What is it, monsieur?"

"Don't you know what it is, madame?"

"No, I give you my word that I haven't an idea."

"Well, it's a pipe case--a filthy pipe case, which smells pestiferous. The pipe isn't inside; probably the person to whom it belongs was smoking when he went away."

Nathalie blushed and frowned slightly, but said nothing. Adhémar's wrath waxed hotter; he scrutinized the case anew, then handed it to the young woman.

"Here, madame--pray take it; you can return it to the man who owns it. Ah! so I was not mistaken the other day in thinking that you had received a visitor who smoked?"

"Well, monsieur, suppose it were true? All men smoke, nowadays."

"All men? Aha! so you admit now that you have received a man--and in your bedroom! Who is he? where did he come from? what did he come here for? How long has he been coming here? Answer me, madame!"

"No, monsieur, no; I will not answer when I am questioned as you question me!"

"Oh, yes! that's an excellent scheme, I see! When you women can't think up a lie on the spur of the moment, you fall back on your dignity. That does very well with simpletons, but I hoped that you wouldn't treat me as one of them. I had too much self-esteem!"

"Adhémar, this is a very brutal way to talk to me! Is this how you keep your promises?"

"Madame, a man is never jealous without some reason. I was right before; I have the proof of it to-day. You must have intrigues, since you conceal from me the visits you receive. And when a woman has intrigues, when she receives men in secret--why, everybody knows what that means!"

"Ah! monsieur----"

"You deceive me just as all the others have! I ought to have expected it. And yet, I thought that I had had better fortune this time. Ah! these women! But it is all over now, all over! I will never be their dupe again!"

And Adhémar dashed the pipe case, which he still held, on the floor, and rushed from the room, frantic with rage, without looking at Nathalie.

XIII

A YOUNG MAN WHO DID NOT SMOKE

You will remember that after the famous dinner given by Mirotaine, at which Dubotté had recognized in the soi-disant Italian count an apothecary of Pontoise, the latter had instantly left the company; and that, very shortly thereafter, Dodichet had done the same, declaring his purpose to challenge Miflorès, who had deceived him by holding himself out as a bachelor. But he had no sooner left the Mirotaine abode than, instead of pursuing Seringat, whom he was certain of finding at home the next day, Dodichet betook himself to the address given by Lucien, to whom he was anxious to relate all that he had done in the interest of his love affair.

Having arrived on Quai Jemmapes, by way of Pont du Faubourg du Temple, Dodichet said to himself:

"I wonder which corner it is--the right or the left? I forgot to ask him that. I'll go to both. On the left, I was told, used to stand the famous Vendanges de Bourgogne--a restaurant which was noted for its sheep's feet, and used to be a great place for weddings and banquets. _Sic transit gloria mundi._ On the right, there used to be nothing but swamps, I believe. I'll begin at the left. I can't be too sure of finding Lucien at home. A bachelor doesn't stay in his room in the evening; indeed, he often goes out during the day, and sometimes sleeps out. Never mind; perhaps they can tell me what café he usually goes to for his cigar; for he must smoke somewhere."

In the first house at which Dodichet asked for Lucien Grischard, the reply was:

"This is the place, monsieur."

"Ah! is it, indeed? Excellent! Where am I likely to find him in the evening?"

"Why, in his room, monsieur."

"What! does he stay at home in the evening? doesn't he ever go out?"

"Very rarely, monsieur."

"Then he is in now?"

"Go up to the sixth floor--the door at the left; you'll find him in."

"What a strange mortal!" thought Dodichet, as he climbed up the stairs; "to stay at home in the evening! To be sure, if he received visits from ladies! But that is not probable."

When he reached the sixth floor, Dodichet tapped on the left-hand door, and a voice called out:

"Come in; the door is unlocked."

Dodichet turned the knob, and found himself in a tiny room with a very sloping roof. A bed without curtains, a large table used as a desk, two chairs and a mirror, were substantially all the furniture the room contained; and yet it seemed well furnished, because shelves were nailed to the wall on all sides, containing, instead of books, small pasteboard boxes, all of uniform size. There were many of them on the table too, but those were empty; and at that moment Lucien was seated at the table, engaged in filling the boxes with long black pins, of which he had an enormous quantity before him. By way of robe de chambre, he wore a long flannel jacket, patched in several places, and on his head was a sort of cap which had lost its visor. The room was but dimly lighted by a small lamp; however, Lucien recognized his visitor at once.

"Halloo, Dodichet!" he cried. "To what chance do I owe the pleasure of seeing you at my quarters? I assure you that I wasn't expecting you!"

"I am sure of that. But I am very fond of going where I am not expected. Is this where you live?"

"Yes, my friend."

"And there's only this one room; is this all?"

"Absolutely all. It's quite enough for a single man."

"Quite enough! You're not hard to suit. Where am I to sit down, pray?"

"Where you please."

"Where I please? But I don't see any chair."

"Why, yes, I have two. Wait a moment; the other one is covered with my clothes; I used it as a commode; I'll clear it for you."

Lucien removed his clothes from the chair to the bed, then returned to his occupation, saying to his visitor:

"Now, sit down and tell me what brings you here. I must go on working, because I am in a hurry."

"Oh! don't mind me! It's infernally cramped here, all the same! What the devil are you doing there?"

"As you see, I am putting these pins in boxes. I have to arrange them carefully and see that there's the same number in every box."

"How does this business of yours come on?"

"Not so badly; it rather looks as if it were going to take. I tell you, my fortune would be made, if I had been able to discover, as Rozière of Romainville did, all that can be done with Panama!"

"With Panama! why, they make straw hats with it, I thought."

"But Rozière made soap with it that cleanses perfectly, and many other things too."

Having seated himself, Dodichet said:

"First of all, before I tell you what brings me here, just lend me your _bouffarde_, will you; I want to have a puff."

"My _bouffarde_?"

"Yes; or your pipe, if you like that better."

"But I haven't any pipe."

"No pipe? you surprise me! It's less expensive than cigars. Well, then, give me a cigar--as dry a one as you can."

"I haven't any cigars either."

"The devil! I seem to have caught you at low tide. In that case, pass me your tobacco pouch and I'll make a cigarette."

"I am distressed, my dear Dodichet, to be obliged to refuse you again; but I haven't a particle of tobacco here."

"No tobacco! you haven't any tobacco! That is a good one! Do you smoke straw, then? For, of course, you must smoke something?"

"Why so? as a matter of fact, I don't smoke at all. I have neither the time nor the inclination; and, frankly, I don't see the necessity."

"You don't smoke--at your age! You poor devil! you must be horribly bored!"

"That's where you are mistaken; I am never bored, for I am always at work. Why do so many men smoke? Because they have nothing to do, and don't know how to employ their time, which seems to them murderously long; so they smoke and imagine that they're doing something, that they are busy. That is a wretched occupation which serves only to encourage indolence!"

"I say, Lucien, do you know that you tire me with your moral reflections about smokers?"

"Well, my dear friend, you shouldn't call me a poor devil because I don't smoke; I just answered you, that's all; I will add that I should apply the same term to those young men who smoke all the time, who always have a pipe or cigar in their mouths. In the first place, they smell detestable; secondly, they ruin their lungs; and, lastly, they spend a great deal of money; it doesn't seem much, because it's only a little at a time; but the smallest sum, when you keep putting it out every minute or two, amounts to a good round sum at the end of a year. To workingmen especially, this habit of smoking is disastrous, and it has impoverished more than one family."

"Do you expect with your sermons to cure smokers of smoking? If you do, you're devilishly mistaken!"

"Oh! I have no idea of curing anybody. I simply tell you my opinion--opinions are free."

"But you see, Lucien, when you have once acquired the habit of smoking, that's the end of it; you can't give it up."

"I beg your pardon, my dear friend, but a man can break himself of any habit; all you need is a firm will; if you could make me believe otherwise, it would amount to convincing me that all men are maniacs, machines, automata which are obliged to do the same things over and over again; and that would make me grieve for mankind! I haven't mentioned all the fires and accidents caused by the carelessness of smokers. Why, Mademoiselle Juliette Mirotaine has a friend who had her dress all burned on the boulevard by a match which someone had thrown on the sidewalk without taking the trouble to step on it."

"I always step on mine!--But let's drop the subject. You're sure that you haven't so much as a pinch of tobacco in your pouch?"

"I haven't a pouch even. What the devil should I do with one?"

"He has no pouch! you hear him, great God, and you don't blast him!--Well, when I leave you, I am going to see some ladies--ladies, do you hear?--and I am very sure that they'll have some tobacco for me."

"That is possible, as there are some ladies who smoke nowadays."

"Yes, my dear friend. Oh! you needn't shrug your shoulders! The fair sex is for tobacco."

"There are ladies and ladies!"

"Well, let's drop it.--I will be brief: my dear friend, I have just done you a very great service."

"You have! how so?"

"I have just come from Monsieur Mirotaine's, where I dined."

"Mon Dieu! you make me shudder!"

"Nay, rather rejoice! I had seen the wardrobe dealer, and told her that I had a very rich count who wanted to marry and who would not ask for any dowry."

"I asked you not to play any wretched practical joke."

"True; but I didn't listen to you, and it's well I didn't; for everything went off as if it was on wheels."

"Whom did you present as the man who wanted a wife?"

"Someone who can't refuse me anything, who plays whatever part I assign to him, because I know a certain secret. Ha! ha! ha! Poor Miflorès-Seringat! or Seringat-Miflorès!--There's a pigeon whom Providence placed in my hand most opportunely!"

"Go on! what happened at Monsieur Mirotaine's?"

"We had a fairly good dinner, except for the vin ordinaire, which was only too plentiful, the champagne, which tasted like Rogé's purgative lemonade, and the _crême à la vanille_, which was sweetened with camphor. My false count didn't say a word, but confined himself to eating; as I had said, however, that he wanted a chance to study the young lady before he proposed, everything went well; but, after dinner, while we were in the salon, picking up radishes and pickles which Mirotaine had in reserve in his pocket, lo and behold! Dubotté arrived with his wife--a pretty little blonde, on my word!--Would you believe that Dubotté recognized my pseudo-count, and said to him: 'How are you, Seringat? how's your good wife?'--You can imagine the sensation!--Papa Mirotaine was furious, the wardrobe woman confused, the guests stared at one another in amazement,--and my soi-disant marrying man took his legs in his hand, after consigning to the devil the man who had asked him about his wife. In the midst of all that confusion, I had great difficulty in keeping from roaring with laughter.--Monsieur Mirotaine questioned me; he undertook to be wrathful, but I mounted a higher horse than he; I declared that Miflorès had fooled and deceived me, and that I was going to demand satisfaction from him. I came away, and here I am!--Well, what do you say to that?"

"I say that you did wrong to play this farce, and I am afraid that it will do me more harm than good."

"Why, no, it won't; the old miser, disgusted with the idea of prospective husbands he doesn't know, will refuse to receive any more of them, and will consent to give you his daughter."

"I have no hope that things will turn out so."

"You're an ungrateful wretch!--Try to oblige your friends, and this is the reward you get! And he can't even give me a bit of tobacco!"

"You intended to be useful to me, my dear Dodichet, and I thank you for it; but, I say again, I am not at all at ease as to the results of your ill-timed jest."

"If you smoked, you wouldn't be so timid! Adieu, virtuous man, prudent man, indefatigable worker! Adieu, O most extraordinary man--who doesn't smoke! You are not of your epoch!"

"That may be! but I am perfectly sure that a time will come when Frenchmen will have become courteous and refined once more, and will be unable to understand how their ancestors could have smoked so much!"

"Adieu! I fly now in quest of my treasurer; I must see him, for the waters are low, and I want to buy a gorgeous costume for my début in the rôle of Joconde."

"At the Opéra-Comique?"

"No; at Quimper-Corentin."

Lucien returned to his boxes of pins, reflecting upon all that Dodichet had told him.

"As a matter of prudence," he thought, "I shall do well to wait a few days before appearing at Monsieur Mirotaine's; he must be very angry at having been made a dupe; I will give his anger time to subside; I will wait until he has partly forgotten to-day's occurrences, so that he cannot guess that I know anything about them."

But during the week that passed before Lucien went to Mirotaine's, Dubotté had entertained young Callé at dinner, and, as we have seen, had told his guest why Dodichet had conceived the idea of bringing forward a husband for Mademoiselle Juliette; that it was in the hope of serving his friend Lucien's interests. Young Callé, who was a great gossip, like most people who have nothing to do, did not fail to repeat to Aldegonde all that he had learned at Dubotté's, and the stepmother repeated it to her husband; whereupon the latter made a scene with his daughter.

"You were in collusion with those wretches," he cried, "those blackguards who cheated me out of a dinner! it was your Lucien who urged them to play that joke on me, of which the assize court would take cognizance! When I see him, I'll tell him what I think of him."

It was of no use for Juliette to protest, to swear that she knew nothing about it, and that Lucien was incapable of devising the malicious scheme which they had presumed to carry out--Monsieur Mirotaine was convinced of the contrary; and when, two days later, poor Lucien appeared before his love's father, humble and smiling, and inquired for his health, Monsieur Mirotaine flew into a rage and pushed him toward the door, crying:

"My health! You have the insolence to come to inquire for my health, after making a fool of me to such a point that it made me ill! You are very bold to show your face before me again!"

"Why, monsieur," stammered Lucien, in dire dismay, "what have I done that you should treat me like this?"

"What have you done? He pretends not to know! But you can't fool me, monsieur!--Think of the dinner I was forced to give--a dinner of eleven covers! three courses! and my old claret! And that Italian count--who was only an apothecary--whom Dodichet introduced as a millionaire in search of a wife--when he already had one at Pontoise! And the coffee and liqueurs! Your friend Dodichet helped himself to cognac three times! Can you deny that he's your friend, and that he invented that abominable farce in the hope of helping on your love for my daughter?"

"If Dodichet did that to do me a service, I swear to you on my honor, monsieur, that it was done against my will; that I expressly forbade him to attempt the slightest liberty with you!"

"Oh! tell that to the marines, monsieur! you admit that this Dodichet is a friend of yours, and that's enough to justify me in forbidding you to set your foot inside my doors again."

"But my intentions are absolutely pure, monsieur; as you know, my pin-making enterprise opens very well; I hope to be able to extend it very materially."

"Yes, yes! you'll have your excellent friends praise it and brag about it! But I will not be your dupe any more. Go! and don't think of showing yourself here again; you won't be admitted!"

Monsieur Mirotaine pushed the young man into the porch, and closed the door violently upon him. Whereupon Lucien walked slowly away, murmuring:

"I shan't see Juliette again; I cannot even exchange a word or two with her any more. Ah! Dodichet! what a pitiable service you have done me!"

XIV

DODICHET, TENOR

On leaving Lucien, Dodichet first of all purchased some tobacco, then called at Mademoiselle Boulotte's, where Rosa had agreed to be; for those damsels were informed of the scene which was to be played at Monsieur Mirotaine's, and, as they were very curious to know how it had gone off, Dodichet had promised to call and tell them about it the same night.

The two _figurantes_ were smoking, and drinking grog; and Boulotte's room, although much larger than Lucien's, was so filled with smoke that one could hardly see across it. Which fact did not prevent Dodichet from exclaiming in admiration at the picture before his eyes:

"Bravo! bravi! This brings me back to life! I have just left a man who is not a man--he doesn't smoke! But here, on the contrary, I find women who are equal to any trooper; this sets me up again!"

"Ah! here's Dodichet! Good-evening, Dodichet!"

"Good-evening, my young fairies of the wings! have you any cigarette papers?"

"Oh! what a question! We would as soon be without bread!"

"True! my question was unnecessary. Your education is complete. Give me a few. What are you drinking there?"

"Grog at three-six----"

"I will take several glasses. Be good enough to mix me one, Rosa, while Boulotte, who has the knack of rolling cigarettes, rolls eight or ten for me. Ah! mesdemoiselles, I am thirsty for a smoke!"

"Well, I don't see that you've anything to do but open your mouth; there's no lack of smoke here."

"You do not understand me, my gay young Andalusian; I mean that I am athirst to smoke, myself, and I have just been calling on a man who never smokes!"

"Mon Dieu! where was that bird raised?"

"He never goes out, he stays at home all the time; he is in love, he thinks of his charmer--that takes the place of a pipe."

"Has his charmer been well seasoned?"

"I didn't ask him."

"Well! tell us about the scene with the would-be husband at Monsieur Mirotaine's, the marriage _à la_ Putiphar."

"Everything went off perfectly; but in the evening, a friend of mine, Phoebus Dubotté--I call him Phoebus because he's fair-haired and conceited--Phoebus arrived with his wife. It happens that he knows the individual whom I had introduced as an Italian count."

"The man who lends you money because you know a secret that concerns him, and in whose presence we mustn't mention Pontoise?"

"The same; Boulotte, you have a memory like a creditor. But Phoebus mentioned Pontoise, and called my friend Miflorès by his true name. You can guess the effect produced by that recognition!--Pass me a cigarette.--The Mirotaines are furious, Putiphar would like an opportunity to horsewhip me. My false count ran away, and I took my leave, declaring that I proposed to run my sword through him somewhere. The dénouement of our comedy was hurried a little; but it had to come to an end some time, and I was beginning to be rather tired of the Mirotaine circle. Still, there were some excellent types there. A certain Monsieur Brid'oison, who looked on in admiration while his son performed gymnastic feats on everybody's shoulders; his wife ate her hair, and a sister of the host wept all the while because a pickled onion hit her in the eye."

"And the dinner--was that good?"

"A miser's dinner. Wretched wines! no truffles! a _crême au camphre!_"

"_Au camphre?_"

"With camphor instead of sugar; I don't advise you to try it; it isn't a satisfactory substitute. However, we did the trick; and I have just been to see Lucien, to tell him how I have helped on his love affair."

"Did he thank you?"

"On the contrary, he scolded me, and preached me a sermon on tobacco!--Pass me a cigarette.--Now, I must find my Miflorès, for I need money. I have seen a dramatic correspondent, and he tells me that I am wanted at Quimper-Corentin, where they require a tenor _jeune premier_. I am young; I have an attractive countenance and a good enough voice! I can reach high _G!_"

"_G!_ but that isn't _C!_"

"I am perfectly well aware, Mademoiselle Rosa, that _G_ is not _C_, or rather _do_, to speak more elegantly; but a chest _G_ is very neat, all the same; and, besides, if the audience isn't satisfied, I'll say: _zut!_ [you be hanged!] and they will be."

"In what rôle are you going to make your first appearance?"

"In _Joconde_. I sing: _J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde!_ as if I'd never done anything else."

"So they play comic opera at Quimper-Corentin, do they?"

"Why, my dear Rosa, where have you been? Don't you know that since the theatres were enfranchised they play all kinds everywhere? I have seen _Tartuffe_ in a barn, and _La Bataille de Pultava_ in a bedroom; the Russians hid behind a night commode, and the Swedes carried a chamber vessel with the bayonet. So there is nothing strange in their playing comic opera at Quimper. There's only one thing that makes me hesitate: the correspondent warned me that the manager doesn't furnish the costumes; and as I don't want to play Joconde in a frock-coat or an overcoat, I must buy a costume. I want it to be dazzling, gorgeous! That's why I need money, and I must find Miflorès."

"But I thought you were expecting a legacy from an old aunt?"

"Yes, I still have that legacy in prospect; and that's the last! But the old aunt persists in living. That's why I must see Miflorès."

"But by what spell do you succeed in making that man lend you money so often?"

"Ah! that is my secret!"

"But you'll tell us your secret, Dodichet, won't you? You'll confide it to us?"

"I will tell it to you, mesdemoiselles, when I no longer need to borrow money of Miflorès; when I have inherited from my aunt."

"Oh! do tell us your secret, dear old Dodichet! We'll be very close-mouthed."

"I do not doubt your discretion, mesdemoiselles! That's why I won't tell you anything more."

Dodichet drank three grogs, smoked five cigarettes, then went home, humming:

"'Mais on revient toujours A ses premières amours!'"

The next morning, quite early, Dodichet went to the hotel where the mysterious apothecary lived. He found him packing his trunks and preparing to move.

"What does this mean?" cried Dodichet; "why these preparations for going away?"

"Because I am leaving this house."

"Why, pray?"

"Because I'm afraid I shall be found here. There's your friend, that stout man, who presumed to call me Seringat last night before a whole roomful! I am very angry, monsieur! It was a mean trick that you played on me, to take me to a house where I might meet a man who knew me at Pontoise! I don't propose to lend you money so that you can treat me in such a way as that!"

"Allow me to observe, my dear friend, that at this moment you are talking like a goose! And I will prove to you in a few words that you have no common sense. I borrow money of you--which I will return, by the way, when I inherit from my aunt, you may be sure."

"Very well; I don't care about that; I'm in no hurry."

"Now, my reason for having recourse to your purse of late is that I am rather short, that I need your help. You lend me money, not to oblige me, I know that perfectly well, but because you're afraid that I will divulge what you are so anxious to conceal."

"Yes, monsieur; that's the only reason--it's not from friendship at all."

"Thanks; I appreciate that token of affection! But if I brought you face to face with someone who had known you at Pontoise, that is to say, who might disclose--what concerns you, why, it would be all over; you wouldn't lend me any more money, because everything would be known!--So you see that it is altogether against my interest that anyone should recognize you. This Dubotté came to Mirotaine's--a most miraculous thing; for he had always refused to go there, because they give their guests cocoa for refreshments--he said so himself in my presence. So it was simply an unlucky chance that he came there last night. Moreover, I had no idea that Dubotté had ever known you at Pontoise; but luckily it was before your--your event; he knows nothing about that."

"My word! if he'd mentioned that, I should have done some crazy thing!"

"I don't know what you'd have done; but you see that I could not have anticipated that meeting. Come, my little Seringat, you're not angry with me any more, are you?"

"Oh! don't call me Seringat--I don't want to be Seringat again!"

"To be sure--you are Miflorès. All right! My dear friend, I shall be obliged to resort to your purse once more. I am going to make my début at the Quimper-Corentin theatre, in _Joconde_, nothing less! And I must have a costume for the rôle, a rich and elegant costume; Joconde is Count Robert's friend, you know?"

"No, I don't know that play."

"I will reply in the words of Monsieur Prudhomme, in _La Famille Improvisée_: 'You would be wrong if you could.'--How much do I owe you now?"

"Two thousand francs, which I have lent you at four different times."

"That's right--five hundred francs each time; well, lend me a thousand at once to-day. Then I shall owe you three thousand. But my old aunt can't last much longer; and then, too, I am going to make a great success on the stage, and tenors are paid fabulous prices now! I can easily pay you three thousand francs, when I am earning fifty thousand a year."

Monsieur Seringat took his wallet from his pocket and took from it a thousand-franc note, which he handed to Dodichet, saying:

"This is for keeping my secret!"

"Thanks, my dear friend; you have unpleasant moments, but some very agreeable quarter-hours. Will you come to Quimper to see my début?"

"No, I don't want to leave Paris; one can lose one's self better here, in the crowd. I have discovered a small hotel, at the rear of a courtyard, at the farther end of Rue Saint-Jacques, and I am going to take refuge there."

"Very good; but as it is essential that I should always be able to find you, if only to repay what I owe you, I think I will accompany you to your small hotel at the rear of a courtyard--for it must be rather hard to find, courtyards ordinarily being behind the hotel. Then I will bid you farewell, and start for Bretagne to gather laurels and yellow-boys."

A cab was waiting at the door; the luggage was placed on top, Dodichet took his place inside, with Seringat, and did not leave him until he had seen him established in an old house on Rue Saint-Jacques, which resembled a hotel about as much as Suresnes wine resembles Chambertin.

Dodichet's first care was to lay in a stock of tobacco, pipes, cigars, and cigarette papers. After that, he turned his attention to his costume for the rôle of Joconde. He spent three hundred francs, but he had a gorgeous costume, which was almost new. On returning home, he tried it on, and deemed himself so handsome in it that he sent his concierge to tell Boulotte to come to see him as Joconde.

Mademoiselle Boulotte came, and uttered an admiring exclamation at sight of Dodichet in tight, white silk pantaloons, slashed with violet velvet, a tunic of velvet of the same color, a lace ruff, a velvet cap surmounted by a fine white feather, a gilt belt, and yellow turn-over top-boots. She insisted that he should go in that guise and take a glass of beer with her; but he dared not take the risk of going to a café, because it was not Carnival time. The best he could do was to send out for a dinner to the nearest restaurant, and dine with his young friend in his new costume.

Mademoiselle Boulotte was enchanted, and fancied that she was dining with a foreign nobleman. They ate and laughed, and drank freely. Dodichet sang snatches of his part between the courses; his voice had a fair range, but it had been made hoarse by the excessive use of tobacco.

"My dear boy," said Boulotte, "you mustn't smoke on the day of your début; no, nor on the day before, either."

"Pshaw! pshaw! I'm a little hoarse this evening; but if you swallow the yolk of an egg raw, your voice becomes clear again, as if by magic. Meanwhile, let's drink and smoke! I don't act to-morrow."

They smoked and drank so much that Joconde ended by rolling on the floor in his fine costume, which he found spotted and rumpled and torn the next morning. He was obliged to buy another pair of silk trousers; then he lost no time in taking the train for Bretagne, without trying on his costume again.

Arrived at Quimper-Corentin, Dodichet started off at once to find the manager of the theatre. As he had a large supply of self-assurance and cheek, he assumed the airs of one of the most talented performers of the age, and the manager was taken in by his manner of the man accustomed to winning triumphs. To make himself thoroughly agreeable to the manager and to his future comrades, Dodichet invited them all to dine at the best hotel in the town. At the table, he announced that they must not spare the claret or the champagne. The local artists were not accustomed to such treatment, and the manager himself, amazed to see a tenor who was apparently wallowing in gold, was persuaded that he had placed his hand on an Elleviou or a Tamberlick.

That same evening, the posters announced the early début of a young tenor who had already appeared with great success at the leading theatres of Russia, Germany, and Italy. As a measure of precaution, Dodichet did not include France. As his name was not very pleasant to the ear, and seemed better fitted to a comic actor than a real virtuoso, he caused himself to be announced as Signor Rouladini, which name seemed to promise an Italian artist.

"How many rehearsals do you want?" the manager asked his new recruit; who replied, with the assurance which never deserted him:

"One will be enough. I know the piece by heart, and at a pinch I could play all the parts."

But, at the rehearsal, il Signor Rouladini, who claimed to know the play by heart, did not know even his own lines, and repeatedly turned to the prompter.

"I have forgotten it a little, because I knew it too well," he said. "But to-morrow, before the audience, I shan't miss a word."

"You are still very hoarse," said the manager; "would you prefer to have your début postponed a day or two?"

"No, indeed! for my voice will be just the same later; but on the day of my début, I will swallow the yolks of two or three eggs raw, and my voice will be clear and sweet. Don't you worry at all!"

The manager did not seem to be altogether reassured, but all the artists to whom Dodichet had given a dinner declared that he must have a very sweet voice when he was not hoarse. The leading lady advised him not to smoke till after his début. But Dodichet laughed in her face, and offered to bet that he would smoke on the stage while she was singing; the manager formally forbade his débutant to make that experiment, and warned him that the audiences in that town were not very patient.

"That's because you don't know how to take them," was the reply; "I defy them to show a bad temper with me!"

The day of the début arrived. In the morning there was another rehearsal. Dodichet knew his part no better, and constantly appealed to the prompter, an obstinate old supernumerary, who insisted that the débutant was deaf. The voice was somewhat improved, thanks to the yolks of eggs; but on leaving the rehearsal, Dodichet, in order to tighten up his nerves, drank punch and treated all his comrades except the prompter, with whom he was angry; and therein he made a capital mistake: an actor should take as much pains to stand well with his prompter as a tenant with his concierge.

At dinner, Dodichet thought it best to get slightly tipsy, so that he would not be frightened when he faced the audience. Then he smoked, coughed, spat, and tried his voice: the punch had entirely destroyed the effect of the eggs, and his voice was almost inaudible. He sent out for eggs, and ate several more raw while he was dressing, so that he was horribly sick at his stomach when he went on the stage.

The sight of the crowded theatre greatly disturbed the débutant; he did not know where he was, and spying in a proscenium box a man with whom he had played dominoes the night before, he bowed and took off his cap to him. Luckily, the audience took the salute for itself. The actor who was on the stage with Dodichet motioned to him that it was his turn to speak, but he had not the faintest idea what he was to say; so he turned to the prompter and said in an undertone:

"My cue! my cue!"

"I just gave it to you," retorted the prompter, with the utmost coolness.

The audience began to murmur. The actor who was playing Count Robert came to his comrade's assistance once more; he skipped part of the scene to the prelude to Joconde's famous air: _J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde_. Thereupon there was profound silence in the hall; for everybody was curious to hear the voice of the individual who acted so wretchedly, and they were beginning to say to one another:

"That's your Italian singer all over! The dialogue is nothing to him, and the music everything."

But on that occasion the music proved to be much worse than the dialogue. The combination of eggs, punch, wine, and tobacco had given the débutant such a peculiar voice that, when he attempted to sing, he emitted a sort of unearthly sound which reminded one of a tea kettle, a duck, and a serpent all at once.

The pit roared with laughter at first. But Dodichet coughed, spat, and tried to smile at the audience, saying:

"This is nothing! it's a cat [hoarseness]!"

Then he began again:

"'J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde!'"

"Go and do it again!" cried a voice from the pit.

Dodichet began to cough again, then spat at the prompter, who stuck his head out of his box, and shouted:

"Look out what you're doing!"

Once more the débutant began his air:

"'J'ai longtemps parcouru le monde; Et l'on m'a vu, et l'on m'a vu!----'"[R]

A storm of hisses arose; this time the audience thought that he meant to mock at them, and on all sides there were shouts of:

"Down with him! put him out!"

Dodichet tried to go on:

"'Et l'on m'a vu, et l'on m'a vu!'"

"We've seen quite enough of you!" cried the pit in chorus. "Off you go!"

Dodichet pretended not to hear, and insisted on continuing his air; but the audience made a terrible uproar, and some young men in the pit threw raw potatoes and copper sous at the débutant.

"Ah! this is the way you treat me, is it?" he cried; "well, you're a pack of brazen-faced hounds!"

And with that, he turned his back on the audience, made a most contemptuous gesture, and rushed into the wings. But the gesture he had indulged in and the words he had uttered excited the wrath of the spectators to the highest pitch; they jumped down among the musicians, climbed upon the stage, and scoured it in all directions.

"We'll teach the fellow to show such disrespect to the public," they said; "it's a hiding, not hisses, that Signor Rouladini needs."

And the prompter in his hole rubbed his hands in glee.

The manager tried in vain to pacify the audience; they would not listen to him. But Dodichet's comrades, seeing that the matter was becoming serious, hustled him out of the theatre by a side door, with a policeman's cloak over his shoulders and a fireman's helmet on his head.

"Leave the town at once," they said to him. "Don't go back to your hotel, for you won't be safe there. Hurry to the station, and skip! the Bretons don't understand a joke; they might do you a serious injury."

Bewildered by what had happened to him, Dodichet found himself in the street with no clear idea how he had got there. Luckily for him, he invariably carried his purse in his belt, so that he would always be able to take something. He soon decided what course to take. Wrapping himself in the cloak they had thrown over his shoulders, and fixing the fireman's helmet firmly on his head, he made for the railway station.

"The provinces are not enlightened enough to appreciate me," he said to himself; "I will return to Paris. I have two hundred francs in my purse still, and with that I can await events."

He jumped into a carriage in which there were three women. His strange costume frightened them, and they started to change carriages; but Dodichet reassured them by saying that he had just left a fancy-dress ball, and that he had retained his disguise on a wager. But, at the first stop, he purchased other clothes, not daring to return to Paris as Joconde, a policeman, and a fireman all in one.

This change of costume was expensive, and when he arrived in Paris Dodichet had but one hundred francs left of the thousand Seringat had lent him. But, on the very day of his return, he received a letter from Troyes in an envelope with a black border.

"My poor aunt is dead!" he said to himself; "faith! I'll not play the hypocrite so far as to weep for her. Her money arrives in the nick of time. I will pay Seringat, I will buy a cashmere shawl for Boulotte, and I will weave days of gold, truffles, and champagne; for the dear aunt was rich. She must have left me more than a hundred thousand francs!"

Dodichet broke the seal; the letter did, in fact, announce the death of his aunt, who had left her whole fortune to a third or fourth cousin, as she did not choose that it should go to her scapegrace of a nephew, who had made such a wretched use of the money his other relations had left him.

Dodichet did not expect to be disinherited; he angrily crumpled the notary's letter which told him the news; and for the first time his reflections were not rose-colored.

XV

A RASCALLY BROTHER-IN-LAW

After his quarrel with Nathalie, Adhémar sought distraction and pleasure to no purpose; go where he would, he found neither. When one loves truly, it is a very painful thing to cease to see her whose presence had a never-failing charm; one tries in vain to put a brave face upon it, and to tell one's self that a lost love is readily replaced by another; in reality, we cannot tear a beloved image from our hearts so easily; we are conscious of an aching void, a brooding melancholy which follows us everywhere; and we prefer the memories of the past for which we sigh to all the pleasures that the present has to offer us.

Adhémar was unhappy, and dissatisfied with himself; and yet he strove to convince himself that he was justified in breaking off that intimacy which had so much charm for him.

"I loved her," he would say to himself; "I loved her sincerely, but she did not love me, for she deceived me. That pipe case did not belong to any woman. So that she received visits from men without telling me! and when one's mistress once has mysteries of that sort in her life, everyone knows what it means. And that smell of tobacco, which I had noticed before! That smoker must have come often to see her! Ah! Nathalie, Nathalie! you who were the woman I had dreamed of--to be loved by whom would have made me so happy! But, no, women cannot be faithful; why should she have acted differently from the others?"

On a certain day, when the young author was walking along the street in gloomy mood, thinking such thoughts as these, he suddenly found himself face to face with Lucien, who, also, was sighing dolorously.

"Ah! Lucien!"

"Adhémar!"

"Where are you going, my dear Lucien?"

"I am going--upon my word! I don't know where I am going. I am walking about at random--I am so unhappy! so desperate!"

"Really? Come, tell me your troubles, my poor Lucien. I am none too cheerful myself, by the way. So we will share our sorrows; that always helps a little. Hasn't your invention, your little business enterprise, succeeded?"

"Why, yes, it is going on very well, and that is just the reason I am in such despair."

"I don't understand you."

"As my business seemed to be prospering, I thought I might hope that Juliette's hand would be given to me at last. But, instead of that, Monsieur Mirotaine has turned me out of his house and forbidden me ever to go there again, all because Dodichet conceived the unfortunate idea of helping along my suit by introducing to the Mirotaines a pretended millionaire Italian count, who was to propose for Juliette; they got themselves invited to dinner, and Monsieur Mirotaine went to some expense to entertain them. Then Dubotté arrived and laid bare the fraud. Monsieur Mirotaine saw that they had made a fool of him, and he is convinced that I was in the plot with Dodichet; hence his anger against me, and the prohibition to go to his house again!"

"What a devil of a fellow that Dodichet is! I remember perfectly that you definitely forbade him to play one of his wretched jokes on this Mirotaine."

"He meant to do me a service, so I can't be angry with him. And yet, he is the cause of my being turned out of the house."

"That old miser's anger will cool down, if you succeed in your undertakings. His daughter will make him listen to reason."

"But meanwhile I can't see her, or have any understanding with her. When I was admitted to her father's house, we found ways of exchanging a word or two in secret. But now that I can never see her, how am I to let her know anything about me? Why, to be unable to see, even for a single minute, the woman one loves, is the cruelest kind of torture, Adhémar, I tell you!"

"To whom are you saying that?"

"Do you mean to say that you can't see the woman you love?"

"In other words, the woman I loved did not love me! or she deceived me, which amounts to the same thing. So I ceased to see her; and yet, I know perfectly well that I love her still."

"Are you quite sure that she deceived you?"

"Quite sure; as sure as a man can be when he sees that a woman has secrets from him. Tell me, Lucien, suppose you should learn that your Juliette received visits, of which she never breathed a word to you; wouldn't you think that she had some intrigue on hand? I assume, of course, that she is living in her own apartment and is mistress of her actions."

"If Juliette was her own mistress and lived in the most modest little room imaginable, it would be of no use for anyone to say to me: 'She receives other men than you;' I would not suspect her for an instant!"

"Sapristi! what confidence! And suppose you had proof that she received men secretly?"

"Why, I should consider that she must have some reason for concealing those visits from me; for she certainly has none for telling me, for swearing to me that she loves me, if she doesn't love me. When I enter the room where she is, doesn't she always receive me with the sweetest smile? can I not read in her eyes all the pleasure that my presence affords her? Ah! not until she ceased to be the same to me, should I have the slightest fear that she no longer loved me!"

"You have a happy disposition, and no mistake! You are not jealous, are you?"

"Oh, no! not at all!"

"Tell me, do you know Madame Dermont? She is a friend of Mademoiselle Juliette, I believe?"

"Madame Dermont? Yes; I met her several times at Juliette's before Monsieur Mirotaine had forbidden me to talk with his daughter. She's a most attractive woman. Juliette has no better friend. They tell each other their joys and their sorrows, and neither of them has any secrets from the other. She knows that Juliette loves me; and if she could do anything to help us, she would ask nothing better. But she hasn't the power, poor woman! She has had a heap of trouble of her own."

"Who? Nathalie?--I mean Madame Dermont. What trouble? She never mentioned it to me."

"Do you know her, then?"

"Yes, a little. I go to her house sometimes. But this trouble of hers? Tell me about it, I beg you, dear old Lucien!"

"I heard about it from Juliette, to whom, as I just told you, Madame Dermont confides all her sorrows."

"But these troubles of hers? these troubles? for God's sake, come to the point!"

Lucien looked at Adhémar with a smile, as he replied:

"How deeply interested you seem to be in anything that concerns that young woman! Can it be, by any chance----"

"Yes, yes, I love her, I adore her, I am mad over her! And these troubles?--in pity's name, my friend, tell me all you know!"

"Madame Dermont, as you know, is a widow; but her husband had a brother,--a sad scamp, by the way,--who would never do anything but drink, gamble, smoke, and haunt low resorts. When Monsieur Dermont died, Alexandre--that was the brother's name--Alexandre was frantic with rage when he found that he was not his heir, but that the whole fortune--rather a modest one, by the way--which his brother had left went to the widow. He called on his sister-in-law, made an unpleasant scene, and went so far as to threaten her; but she has a clear head and a strong character, and she turned him out of the house. Thereupon, Alexandre saw that he had gone to work in the wrong way, and that he would not obtain anything from Madame Dermont by threats; so he called on her again, and that time he did not play the swashbuckler, but wept and whined over his sad plight. The young widow did not turn him out again, but gave him five hundred francs and advised him to enlist; that was the only profession in which he could hope to make anything of himself. Alexandre promised to follow that advice; but, after a few months, he came back to his sister-in-law and told her he was dying of hunger, that he had eaten nothing since the day before; and he smelt horribly of brandy and tobacco!"

"And tobacco? He smoked, did he? Ah! now I understand. Poor woman! But why didn't she tell me all this?"

"Why? Because it is a painful thing to say that a man who is closely allied to you, who bears your name,--for Alexandre's name is Dermont,--in fact, you don't like to confess that such a ne'er-do-well, such a blackguard, is your brother, or that he has, at all events, the right to call you his sister."

"And the wretch has come again to torment Nathalie, I suppose?"

"Mon Dieu! yes; she doesn't know how to get rid of him! And yet, it is very hard to continue giving money away when it serves only to encourage vice and debauchery."

"Oh! I'll rid her of her miserable brother-in-law! Dear Nathalie! But why didn't she confide in me? No matter! I am a wretch; I am unworthy to be loved by such a sweet, dear woman!--Lucien, give me your hand. Ah! my friend, if you knew how much good you have done me! You have brought me back to life, to happiness, to love--that is to say, to her! Adieu, Lucien, adieu! I hasten--I fly to beg for forgiveness. She will grant it, won't she? she will grant it?"

Without waiting for a reply, Adhémar walked hurriedly away in the direction of Madame Dermont's; but when he drew near, and could see the house in which she lived, he slackened his pace; he began to wonder how she, whom he had left so cavalierly in consequence of his unjust suspicions, would receive him. And when he reached the door, he stopped; he dared not go in, but cudgelled his brain to find some pretext, some excuse, for calling.

He had been standing for some minutes, irresolute, before the porte cochère, when he was abruptly pushed aside by a person who said to him in a hoarse voice as he entered the house:

"Stand aside there! Don't you see that you're blocking up the door?"

The speaker was a man of about thirty, very carelessly dressed, whose hat was dented in several places; his face was prematurely old and bloated, his manner was vulgar and impertinent, he was saturated with tobacco, and seemed to be slightly tipsy.

"Where are you going, monsieur?" the concierge called to him as he passed through the porte cochère and started for the staircase, while Adhémar, who was on the point of calling him to account for the discourteous way in which he had pushed him aside, waited to hear his reply.

"Where am I going? Sacrebleu! you know well enough; this ain't the first time I've been here! I'm going up to my sister's--Madame Dermont."

"Madame Dermont is out, monsieur."

"You always say the same thing; and you know that I go up, all the same."

"I have been expressly forbidden to let you go up, monsieur, and this time you shan't go!"

"I shan't go up! is that all, old dormouse? Just think of that! Madame Dermont won't receive me! But I am Alexandre Dermont, her husband's brother, and she has no right to close her door to me; and I'm going up, all the same, and you can go hang, concierge! And my sister-in-law will have to receive me, because--because----"

Monsieur Alexandre did not finish his sentence, because someone stood before him, barring his passage, and forced him back, looking him steadily in the eye.

"Well, well!" he muttered; "what does this fellow want?--Let me pass, I say!"

"I want you--yes, you, Monsieur Alexandre Dermont."

"I don't know you--let me go upstairs!"

"You shall not go upstairs, you shall not go to your sister-in-law's, who is perfectly justified in refusing to admit a miserable wretch, a scoundrel of your stamp!"

"What! what do you say? What business is it of yours?"

"I say that you're a low-lived hound, that you call on Madame Dermont for no other purpose than to worm money out of her, which you spend in orgies and debauchery! And you are not ashamed to be guilty of such conduct! Do you think that Madame Dermont's modest fortune will serve to gratify your passions forever? No, monsieur; don't count upon it. I forbid you--do you hear?--I forbid you to show your face at your sister-in-law's again!"

"By what right, I should like to know?"

"By the right that every decent man has to protect a woman who is abused and threatened and robbed!"

"Oh! you make me tired! I propose to go up."

And Monsieur Alexandre, turning half around, tried to reach the stairway. But Adhémar overtook him, seized him by the throat, and held him against the wall, saying:

"If you make another attempt to go up those stairs, I'll smash your head against this wall!"

"You're choking me, monsieur!"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes; but let me go!"

"Will you swear never to come to Madame Dermont's again?"

"Yes, I swear; but you are murdering me! I left a pipe case at my sister's; I came to get it."

"You didn't come on any such paltry errand as that; you came to ask that lady for more money, dastard that you are!"

"You insult me, monsieur!"

"Ah! you feel that you are insulted, do you? Very well! if you have the least bit of pluck, come with me, and I'll give you satisfaction. There's a gunsmith's close by; we can go there and get pistols, and take a cab. Come!"

"I, fight! I think I see myself! no, thanks! Let me go; I've had enough! I swear I won't come here again."

"Go, then; but if you fail to keep that oath, I swear that I won't fail to shoot you!"

Monsieur Alexandre did not stay to listen to any more; he ran away as if he feared pursuit. Thereupon the concierge, who had armed himself with his broom to support Adhémar if necessary, exclaimed:

"Ah! monsieur, how lucky it is that you happened to be here to drive that miserable scamp away! He wouldn't listen to me--but you! Why, you gave him such a shaking that I warrant he'll never come again. You have done Madame Dermont a very great service, I promise you!"

"Has she really gone out?"

"No, monsieur, no; she hardly ever goes out lately; but those were my orders for that rascal. You can go up, of course; she'll be glad to see you."

Adhémar went upstairs, but paused at Nathalie's door; he was intensely excited.

"She hardly ever goes out, so the concierge said," he thought. "Has she been sick? Am I the cause of it? Oh! this infernal jealousy! How will she receive me? No matter! I will see her, and die at her feet if she doesn't forgive me."

He rang with a trembling hand; the maid opened the door, and uttered a cry of joy when she saw who it was. Servants almost always divine their mistress's secret thoughts, and this one was very sure that Adhémar's return would bring back joy and happiness to the house, which had been very gloomy since he had ceased to come.

"Ask Madame Dermont if she will see me," said Adhémar.

The servant, with a beaming face, hurried away to her mistress, and returned almost immediately to say that he might go in. Adhémar did not wait for the words to be repeated. He found Nathalie holding her embroidery frame in her hand, but not working. A glance sufficed to show him that she was pale and changed, and that her features wore an expression of profound melancholy. Adhémar could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at Nathalie's feet; he seized her hands and pressed them in his own, crying:

"Mercy! forgive me! if you could only know how I have reproached myself! but I will not offend again, I swear! I am cured. Oh! I have been so unhappy ever since I saw you last!"

"And what about me, monsieur? Do you think that I have not been unhappy? Why didn't you come back sooner? What prevented you?"

"Because--I didn't know---- Look you, Nathalie--I will not lie to you--to-day I met Lucien, and I learned from him that you had a brother-in-law who smoked----"

"And then you understood that I had no other intrigue. Bad boy! if you hadn't left me so abruptly, I would have told you the whole story; but when jealousy takes possession of you, it is impossible to make you listen to reason."

"Hereafter, my confidence in you will be absolute. You love me--you forgive me once more, do you not?"

"Yes, but this is the last time; for such scenes are too painful to me."

At that moment they heard the servant laughing uproariously. Nathalie rang for her and asked her the reason of that outburst of merriment.

"Oh! madame, hasn't monsieur told you what he did to your scamp of a brother-in-law? The concierge just told me. Monsieur took him by the throat and turned him out of the house, and promised to cut him in pieces if he ever dared to come to see you again!"

"Is this true, Adhémar?"

"Yes; did I do wrong?"

"Oh! far from it; you have done me a very great service. It seems that I am destined to be saved by you from all sorts of dangers! You see, monsieur, that you did wrong to desert me!"

Adhémar's only reply was to cover with kisses the hand she abandoned to him; and the maid returned exultantly to the kitchen, crying:

"What joy! The man with the quid of tobacco won't come here again!"

XVI

A BAIGNOIRE

After the evening when young Callé played bézique until midnight with Madame Dubotté, the clinging Éléonore said to her husband:

"Do you know, monsieur, that it was very wrong of you to leave me to pass the evening alone with a young man? and that it shows the greatest indifference on your part toward your wife? for, if I didn't love you as I do, I might revenge myself for your neglect. You expose me to the risk of receiving declarations of love!"

"My dear love, you don't look at things from the right standpoint," Philémon replied, caressing his mutton-chop whiskers, which threatened to encroach upon his cheeks. "Tell me, did Callé make a declaration?"

"Oh, no!"

"You see! Deuce take it! I know with whom I leave you: that young man is as virtuous as Voltaire's _Candide_. Do you know _Candide_?"

"No, my dear."

"I'll get it for you; for you're a little behindhand in literary matters, and I propose to train you in every way. I don't choose to have people say of my wife that she's a ninny. I won't have that, do you hear? and you must govern yourself accordingly."

"I will try, my dear."

"To return to Callé: he is more or less of a simpleton. He doesn't dare to look a woman in the face; indeed, he hardly dares to speak to one. So you see that I can safely leave you with him. If he should ever become any woman's lover, she would have to make the first overtures!"

"Do you think so, my dear?"

"I am sure of it; he would never dare to declare himself, unless he got a little help. And so, my dear love, as I know your virtue and your affection for me, I am entirely easy in my mind. I would intrust you to Callé, my dear, as I would to a keeper of the seraglio. Do you know what a keeper of the seraglio is, in Turkey?"

"No, my dear."

"Well, he's a eunuch."

"What in the world is a eunuch?"

"Why, don't you know that? I'll tell you some night--when it rains. Evidently, I have a great many things to teach you."

A few days later, Philémon said to his wife one morning:

"My dear love, I am going to make you very happy!--I know how much you like the theatre, especially the Gymnase; well, I have taken a box for you there, for to-night."

"Oh! what fun! at the Gymnase! and a box! How lovely of you, dear! Tell me what time we must start, so that I can be ready and not make you impatient."

"Oh! the play doesn't begin till half-past seven--be ready at quarter-past, that will be early enough; he won't call for you before then."

"What did you say? call for me? Am I not to go with you?"

"No; I will join you later; I have to go to an evening party given by my chief. I can't miss that, you understand. When a man wants promotion, he must always stand well with those above him."

"But, in that case, as you knew you were going somewhere else, you shouldn't have got a box for this evening."

"Why not, pray? If I am enjoying myself in one place, is it any more than fair that you should enjoy yourself, too?"

"But you used always to take me with you to your chief's parties."

"Yes, to the dancing parties and the musicales. But this is to be a--serious party; we shall talk politics and discuss the best method of dealing with the maturing obligations of a new Oriental railway; and you can see for yourself that women would be bored to death to sit and listen to all that. That's why there are to be no women."

"With whom do you propose to send me to the play, then?"

"Oh! don't worry about that; I have sent word to Callé! I saw him yesterday, and asked him if he would like to take you to the theatre to-night. He jumped for joy; he adores the theatre."

"But you impose on that young man's good nature."

"On the contrary, I make him very happy! The poor fellow, who has never been able to have a mistress of a decent sort, is delighted to be your escort.--'People will think I've made a conquest of her,' he'll say to himself."

"And you are willing people should think that I am that young man's mistress?"

"Why, no, indeed! no one will believe it! What I say is, that he will imagine that people believe it. I have to dot all my _i_'s to make you understand!"

"There's one thing that I understand very well, monsieur; and that is, that nowadays you do your utmost to avoid taking me anywhere with you. Although you think me a great fool, I beg you to believe that I can see that perfectly well."

"Oh! that's just like a woman! taking everything hind side before! A fellow does all he can to be agreeable--buys a box at the theatre, for a charming play, and says to himself: 'I can't take her to a--political gathering, but I don't want her to sit mooning all alone in her chimney corner.'--And instead of being thanked for what he has done, he is overwhelmed with reproaches, and has to listen to the most absurd reflections! Don't you be alarmed: it will be very hot when I buy another box for you!"

Monsieur Dubotté left the house in a very ill humor. Madame said nothing more, but she probably thought a good deal. When evening came, she made her toilet and took infinite pains with it. Young Callé arrived with great promptness at the appointed time. He was in full dress, and becurled and perfumed as if he were going to a wedding.

"Here's your box," said Philémon, as he handed him the ticket; "I will join you later, if it's possible for me to get away from my chief's party early enough. Try to make my wife enjoy herself; that isn't very easy, for she's not always in good humor. If you succeed in making her amiable, you'll perform a miracle."

Young Callé bowed and set off with Éléonore, who was becoming accustomed to accept his arm. Her escort suggested taking a cab, but she refused, as the Gymnase was not far away. On the way, Callé began a number of sentences concerning the pleasure it afforded him to be with such a charming person; when he could go no further, Éléonore came to his assistance by saying: "You are very good!"--and the sentence remained unfinished.

When they reached the theatre, Callé looked at the ticket and said:

"It's a baignoire."

"A baignoire? I don't know what that is; is it very high?"

"No, on the contrary, it's low; on a level with the pit."

When the box door was opened, Éléonore hesitated about going in.

"Mon Dieu! how dark it is in there!" she exclaimed. "Is this our box?"

"To be sure, madame," replied the box opener; "and it's almost opposite the stage, as you see."

"Dear me! what a strange place! Yes, we do have a good view of the stage, that is true; but we can't be seen--it is hardly worth while to take pains with one's dress. However, perhaps I shall get used to it. Do you like these boxes, Monsieur Callé?"

"So far as I am concerned, madame, I am always satisfied when--I have the--the privilege----"

"You are very good!"

Éléonore took her seat at the front of the box, and Callé modestly seated himself behind her. When she had looked for a moment into the auditorium, of which she could see only a very small part, she turned toward her escort, who returned her glance, sighed, and said nothing.

"You can't see anything from where you are, Monsieur Callé, can you? Sit here in front, beside me."

"You are very kind, madame, but I am all right here; if I sat in front, I--I should crowd you."

"Not at all."

"I can see the stage very well."

"But you can't see the audience at all."

"I don't care for that; what I do see is much more agreeable to me--to look at--and when--when one is near--near madame--then one has no wish to--one does not look elsewhere for--one----"

"You are very good!"

The play began, and they listened intently; there was much talk of love in it. Éléonore seemed deeply interested in it; the young man continued to sigh. After the first act he went out, and returned in a moment with bonbons and _fruits glacés_, which he offered to Madame Dubotté. She accepted them with a sweet smile. It was an excellent chance to tell her escort that he was very good; but she contented herself with handing him a quarter of an orange, then proceeded to stuff herself with the sweetmeats. As a general rule, women are very fond of bonbons; a man ought always to have his pockets full when he wishes to make himself agreeable to them. You may vary the menu, however, by adding truffles stewed in champagne; then your success will be even more complete.

The second play began. Now and then, in order to obtain a better view, the young man leaned forward from behind Éléonore. At such times his head brushed against the pretty blonde's shoulders; those shoulders were very white and her chest well developed. Her dress was cut low, and while looking at the shoulders one could see the base of those charming globes which, to my mind, excel in value all balloons, past, present, and to come, even Nadar's _Giant_. With them, to be sure, you cannot float through the air; but I opine that what we find on earth is worth much more than anything we can find aloft. Young Callé, therefore, was not so much of a fool as he seemed, when he sat behind Éléonore. She, upon turning suddenly, collided with the head of her escort, who was not looking at the stage at that moment; and their two faces were so near to each other that the ends of their noses touched. A man accustomed to intrigues would have seized the opportunity to kiss the young woman, but Callé hastily drew back, stammering apologies which no one demanded of him; for Éléonore, when she found those eyes absorbed by contemplation of her charms, had been on the point of saying:

"You are very good!"

The second play had quite as much to say of love as the first. After the first act, finding that her companion continued to sigh without daring to speak, Éléonore remembered that her husband had told her that he needed to be encouraged, and that without encouragement he would never venture to talk with a lady; so she began the conversation.

"I have noticed one thing, Monsieur Callé."

"What is that, madame?"

"That there's a lot about love in all plays."

"Yes, that is true; you are right; they bring it in everywhere."

"Why is it, monsieur?"

"Why, madame, it is, apparently, because the authors don't know how to talk about anything else."

"Do you think so? I have heard people say that the stage was simply a copy of what happens in real life. But in real life people don't talk about love all the time, do they, monsieur?"

"Oh, no! madame, they don't always talk about it--although often--one would like to talk about it--but one doesn't dare."

"Oho! so it's because one doesn't dare. That is a great mistake! It seems to me that it's more interesting, more entertaining, than any other subject."

Young Callé had a declaration on the tip of his tongue. But the second act began, and he said nothing more. During the act, Éléonore dropped her opera glass on the floor. Callé instantly stepped forward to pick it up; but, in order to do it, he had to go to the front of the box and stoop until he was almost on his knees, for it was very dark, and he had to feel about on the floor. Instead of the opera glass, he seized Éléonore's foot and pressed it tenderly.

"Why, that is not my opera glass that you have, Monsieur Callé; it's my foot," said the pretty blonde, laughing.

"Are you sure, madame?"

"Oh! yes, I can feel. But where are you looking, Monsieur Callé? my glass isn't there; I can feel it with my foot."

Callé decided at last, albeit with regret, to take his head from under the seat; he had the opera glass, and presented it to the young lady with a trembling hand. She was deeply moved, so much so that, in trying to take it, she dropped it again. That time it fell in her lap, however; so Callé resumed his seat; but after that, when Éléonore turned to speak to him, she sometimes leaned upon him, perhaps unconsciously; ladies often venture upon trifling familiarities like that, which give great hopes to him with whom they indulge in them. The young man was as red as a cherry, and his eyes were always somewhere else than on the stage.

The act came to an end, and Madame Dubotté, turning to her escort, asked him what he thought of the play.

"I don't know, madame," he faltered; "I didn't hear a word of it."

"What! didn't you listen?"

"I beg pardon--I listened, but I didn't hear. I was so distraught by---- Did your opera glass fall again, madame?"

"Why, no--it's here in my lap."

"Oh! that's a pity!"

"Why so? would you like it to be on the floor again?"

"Oh! yes, because I might have the pleasure of looking for it. And then--and then----"

According to his custom, the young man failed to finish the sentence; but he heaved such a prodigious sigh that Madame Dubotté asked him with concern:

"Are you ill, Monsieur Callé?"

"Oh! no, madame; far from it!"

"Why do you sigh so deeply, then?"

"That is my way of being happy."

"Ah! that's curious. So you are very happy, are you?"

"Oh! yes, madame; I always am--when I am with you!"

He actually finished his sentence that time. Éléonore thanked him with a sweet smile; and during the last act she leaned much more frequently on the young man, whose knees served to transform her seat into an armchair.

The performance came to an end. They walked home slowly, very slowly; they did not seem in any haste to arrive. Éléonore talked about the play; the young man answered _yes_ and _no_ at random, but he pressed very tenderly the arm that was passed through his, and the caress seemed in no wise to offend her to whom it was addressed.

On reaching home, Madame Dubotté invited her young escort to come soon to play bézique with her, while her husband went about without her according to his custom. Callé promised to take advantage of her invitation.

And so, during the following week, Monsieur Callé went almost every evening to play bézique with fair-haired Éléonore; and she was no longer out of temper when her husband went out without her. Indeed, she sometimes said to him:

"My dear, if you have any business on hand, don't put yourself out for me; Monsieur Callé will come and stay with me. He is very strong at bézique, and never has enough of it; he is indefatigable!"

Dubotté was enchanted.

"At last I have trained my wife!" he cried; "she is just what I wanted her to be! She isn't on my back all the time now; she leaves me entirely at liberty. That is what I wanted to bring about; I had hard work, but I have succeeded. She goes to the theatre with Callé now, without showing any temper, even when I don't go after her."

The young woman did more than that: when her husband promised to secure a box for her, she always said:

"Try to get a baignoire, my dear!"

XVII

INCORRIGIBLE

Adhémar went to see Nathalie every day; during the day, he gave her all the time which his literary labors left at his disposal, and passed all his evenings with her. He often discussed with her his ideas, his plans for new plays; and sometimes read a scene to her, or a chapter of a new novel. He consulted her and profited by her advice. If Molière consulted his maid-servant, is it not much more natural to consult one's mistress? There is this difference, however: Laforest, Molière's servant, was proud and happy to be consulted by her master; whereas, out of twenty mistresses, there will be nineteen who will not listen to you when you talk literature to them, who will yawn when you read them a page that you have just written, or who will interrupt you at the most interesting point to say:

"What color do you prefer for a dress, my dear, green or blue? I myself think that blue is more becoming to me--what do you say?"

Thereupon you see that your efforts as a reader who desires to move his audience are thrown away; you put your manuscript in your pocket, and make up your mind never to talk with your fair one about anything but dresses and fashions, as she takes no interest in anything else. But there are exceptions; there are women who are willing to listen when you do not talk to them about themselves, and who are able to talk about something besides styles and love. Nathalie was one of these exceptions; that is why Adhémar was so happy in her company; that is why they suited each other so well.

So it was that the most perfect harmony reigned between the lovers, when, on arriving at Madame Dermont's one morning much earlier than usual, Adhémar was informed by the servant that her mistress was not at home.

"What! she has gone out before noon? To do some shopping, I suppose?"

"I don't know, monsieur; but madame will certainly return very soon, for whenever she goes out in the morning like this, she always comes home before noon."

"Whenever she goes out like this!" muttered Adhémar, his heart beginning already to sink. "So Madame Dermont often goes out in the morning?"

"_Dame!_ monsieur, I can't say just how often; but she has been out several times lately."

Adhémar did not pursue his questioning any further. He threw himself into an armchair, thinking:

"I will wait for her; of course, she will tell me where she has been."

And he tried to banish the evil thoughts which were already besieging his mind. Less than five minutes had passed, when Nathalie appeared. She seemed a little surprised to find Adhémar there; but she went to him with outstretched hand, and said, smiling as usual:

"Good-morning, my dear!"

"Good-morning, madame!"

"Oho! what does that _madame_ mean? Since when have I been _madame_ to you? Is it because you didn't find me when you came, that you would call me _madame_?"

"Why, no--it was simply for a change."

"I don't like the change, myself! What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Have you been to walk?"

"Yes--that is to say, I have been to pay a visit."

"Oh! a visit. Would it be presumptuous in me to ask you to whom you pay visits--so early?"

"Why, yes, a little presumptuous, perhaps. However, as I see that you are frowning, and that you probably suspect me of treachery already----"

"Oh! upon my word!"

"No, you are incapable of it, aren't you?--Well, monsieur, I have been to see my poor friend Juliette. Are you satisfied?"

"Mon Dieu! I asked you--just for something to say."

"Yes, I understand--and to find out where I had been."

"Did you see your friend Juliette?"

"To be sure!"

"And you have been to see her often of late?"

"Why not? if I can comfort her or gratify her by listening to her confidences. If you were unhappy, wouldn't you be very glad to have a true friend come to see you and try to console you?"

"Oh! when I am unhappy, I keep it to myself, and don't go and tell other people about it."

"Women are not like men, my dear; when they have troubles--love troubles, especially--they love to pour out their hearts on a friend's breast."

"Yes, women are very fond of having secrets between themselves, of being mysterious with us."

"Oh, dear! there you go again, with your evil thoughts! Is it because I have been to see Juliette that you are so cross?"

"Cross? I am not cross!"

"As if I didn't know you! as if I couldn't read in your eyes! You promised me absolute confidence."

"It seems to me that I am proving my confidence in you at this moment."

"By making wry faces because you didn't find me when you came this morning! Come, my friend, let us reason a little; you should be logical: if I don't love you, what reason have I for pretending to, for feigning sentiments which I do not feel--for deceiving you, in a word? Come--answer me!"

Instead of answering, Adhémar rose and paced the floor, sat down at the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, began waltzes, polkas, and mazurkas; then ran to Nathalie and kissed her, saying:

"Forgive me, dear girl; I slept badly last night; I have a little headache; that is why you found me so sulky."

Nathalie pretended to believe him, and harmony was reëstablished, in appearance at least; for in the bottom of his heart Adhémar was tormented by doubt; he thought of those frequent goings-out in the morning, ostensibly to see Juliette, and said to himself:

"She used not to go out so often--or, if she did, she told me herself when she intended to go."

Several days passed; Adhémar constantly changed the hour of his visits; but Madame Dermont was always at home, and he began to feel a little more at ease. But, impelled by that jealousy which in him was the inevitable concomitant of genuine love, it happened more than once that, after he had left Nathalie, he prowled about the street a long while, or stood under a neighboring porte cochère, to see if she did not go out; but he had his trouble for his pains, to his great contentment.

One morning, about nine o'clock, it occurred to him to go and walk through the street where Madame Dermont lived.

"I won't go up to her rooms," he said to himself, "for she's not an early riser, and I might disturb her in her sleep; but I may see her servant come out, and I can give her the bouquet I am going to buy for her mistress. Nathalie will find it by her side when she wakes, and she'll surmise from whom it comes."

He dressed hurriedly, and bought a lovely bouquet on Passage Verdeau. Then he walked to Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière, to Madame Dermont's house, looked up at the windows, where all the curtains were still drawn, and strolled along the street, after looking at his watch: it was half-past nine. That was too early for a call on Nathalie, but he hoped that the servant would come out.

Ten minutes passed, and Madame Dermont's servant did not appear. Adhémar was tired of pacing the street with his flowers in his hand, and had almost concluded to go up, thinking that he could ring very softly, to avoid waking her, when he saw a cab coming rapidly toward him. It slackened its pace as it approached Madame Dermont's house. Adhémar, without pausing to weigh his reasons for so doing, stepped aside; something told him that he was interested in that cab, and he determined to see who alighted from it.

It stopped in front of Nathalie's door; a young woman alighted, paid the driver, and hurried into the house. But Adhémar had recognized her; he could not be mistaken; he had seen her features, he had recognized her dress, and the hat she wore when she went out in the morning: it was she, it was Nathalie! For an instant Adhémar thought of running after her and shouting:

"Where have you been?"

But he reflected that she might lie to him again; and a better plan occurred to him. The cab was still there, the driver preparing to return to his box. Adhémar opened the door, jumped in, and, taking ten francs from his pocket, placed them in the cabman's hand as he asked him where he wished to go.

The man was amazed at sight of the ten francs which his new passenger gave him even before hiring him.

"Oh! it's to be a long trip, eh? You want to go into the country, I take it, bourgeois?"

"The ten francs are to pay you for answering my questions briefly: a lady has just got out of your cab?"

"Yes, bourgeois; a pretty little lady--good style. I know what I'm talking about."

"Where did you take her from?"

"Where did I take her from? why, from here, bourgeois, about an hour and a quarter ago; it wasn't quite a half, but the little woman pays generous, without haggling."

"She took you by the hour, then, when she started?"

"Just so."

"Where did you go with her? Now, don't lie to me!"

"You pay too well for me to lie to you! Besides, there's no mystery about it; I took her to the Jardin des Plantes."

"To the Jardin des Plantes?"

"Yes, bourgeois; in front of the gate, on the water side. She got out there and told me to wait, and then she went into the garden."

"Alone?"

"Yes, yes, alone when she went in; but when she came out, after a quarter of an hour or more, she wasn't alone then."

"Who was with her?"

"A gentleman--a young man."

"A young man? What was he like--his dress--his features?"

"Oh! excuse me! but you don't suppose I took his photograph, do you? He was dressed, like everybody else, in a frock-coat. I thought he was rather a good-looking fellow. That's all I can tell you."

"And this man--this gentleman--this frock-coat--he came out with the lady, you say? Did she have his arm?"

"Oh! as to that, I can't say; I was on my box, and I didn't see them till they were close to my cab, and the young man helped the lady in."

"And got in with her?"

"No, no; he didn't get in--he said good-bye."

"How did he say it? Did he embrace her?--did he kiss her hand?"

"Oh! bless your heart! I was straightening out my reins, and I didn't see them embrace. The lady called out to me: 'Take me back to where you brought me from!'--The young man shut the door and went off--but, yes, I remember now that he said to her, as he went away: 'Thank you, thank you a thousand times for coming!'--Now, where'll you go, bourgeois?"

"To the Jardin des Plantes, to the same spot where that lady got out."

Adhémar's brain was on fire, his heart beat violently; he pressed his hands against his brow, saying to himself:

"It is absolutely certain now--she too deceives me--and she dared to tell me that she loved me! Ah! we don't deceive those whom we love! It is all over--yes, all over, this time! I won't see her again, for she would tell me another lie; she would invent some fable to make me believe that she is innocent! And perhaps I should be idiot enough to believe her. But, no, I do not propose to be her dupe again; I will see her no more. But that man with whom she makes assignations so early in the day--ah! if I could find out who he is, I would kill him! And yet, he is not the guilty one, for he loves her. But not as I loved her--oh, no!"

As he glanced about, Adhémar saw a handkerchief at his feet; he picked it up, examined it, and recognized Nathalie's monogram, which he had seen her embroidering with her own hands.

"She was so engrossed that she forgot it!" he muttered, twisting the handkerchief in his clenched hands. "A moment ago, she was here, on this seat, and she was thinking of another man!"

He could no longer control his grief; he sobbed bitterly, and the tears rushed from his eyes; but he felt a sort of pleasure in wiping them away with the handkerchief which belonged to her.

The cab stopped and the driver opened the door, saying:

"This is the very place where the little lady got out, bourgeois, and where I waited for her. There's the Jardin des Plantes."

Adhémar, absorbed by his reflections and memories, had no idea where he was or whither he was going. The cabman's words recalled him to himself. He jumped out of the cab and said to the man:

"You must come with me."

"Where to, bourgeois?"

"Into the Jardin des Plantes."

"Carriages ain't admitted; it's against the rules."

"I didn't say anything about your cab; I want only you. We will walk through the garden, and I want you to look closely at every man you see; and if you recognize the young man who escorted that lady back to your cab, you must point him out to me instantly."

The cabman began to laugh.

"My word! that's a good one, that is! You want me to go with you afoot, eh? And what will become of my cab and my horses in the meantime?"

"Mon Dieu! they won't fly away. Go and stand your cab over yonder where those others are."

"I can't do that, bourgeois; our orders is not to lose sight of our horses; I should be punished--discharged, perhaps."

Adhémar took ten more francs from his pocket and put them in the cabman's hand.

"Just a few times round the garden; while you're away, one of your comrades will look after your horses."

Money always produces its due effect; the cabman wavered, and at last replied:

"I'll go and ask Jérôme, who's over there, I believe, if he'll have an eye on my horses, and I'll share the ten francs with him--eh, bourgeois?"

"Yes, yes,--here, give him this five-franc piece; off with you!"

"Oh! Jérôme's a good fellow! he'll do it for me."

The driver ran to the cab stand, told his comrade what was wanted, and showed him the last five-franc piece he had received.

"We two will drink it up directly," he added.

Jérôme agreed; the cabman pocketed the hundred sous, and returned to Adhémar.

"It's all fixed," he said; "Jérôme will have an eye on my beasts."

"Come with me, then."

They entered the garden, the cab driver walking beside Adhémar, who said to him:

"Look carefully at all the men--the young men, I mean--and as soon as you see the one who was with that lady, say: 'There he is!'"

"All right, bourgeois; or, say I cough to warn you?"

"Very well."

There were few people in the garden. Adhémar walked rapidly, and his companion could hardly keep up with him.

"Sapristi!" he cried; "you travel faster than my horses!"

A young man passed them, and the cabman began to cough.

"Well!" exclaimed Adhémar, stopping abruptly.

"That's not the man, bourgeois."

"What in the devil did you cough for, then?"

"To let you know that he wasn't the one."

"You are not to cough unless you recognize him."

"Oh! all right! I understand!"

They went on again. They met a number of men, but the cabman made no sign; he simply said from time to time:

"If Jérôme should get a fare, who'd look after my cab?--By the way, monsieur," he said at last; "there's one thing perhaps I ought to tell you."

"What's that?"

"If the man you're looking for should pass us, I wouldn't know him. You see, I hardly looked at him, only just caught a glimpse of him, and I don't even know whether he was dark or light!"

Adhémar stamped impatiently, and, realizing that his search would necessarily be fruitless, decided to leave the garden. The cabman was overjoyed to find Jérôme still on the square.

"Where shall I take monsieur now?" he asked.

"Nowhere--thanks! I don't need you any longer."

In his then frame of mind, Adhémar preferred walking to riding; he craved air and exercise. He walked very rapidly, often without looking to see where he was going. However, he reached home in time, and had no sooner entered his study than he ran to his desk and seized his pen.

"I will write to her," he said to himself; "I cannot wait to tell her that I know of her treachery--and then everything will be at an end between us. I will try to forget her."

With a hand that trembled with excitement, although his thoughts caused it to move swiftly across the paper, he wrote Nathalie the following letter:

"MADAME:

"You will deceive me no more! this time I have seen--seen with my own eyes--that you devote to another the hours that I am not with you. And you told me that I was wrong to be jealous! Ah! your treachery is shameful! Why not have told me frankly that you no longer loved me? But women are never willing to be frank! It is a part of their nature to deceive. I knew it, and I should not have believed you. Adieu, madame, and this time it is really forever!"

Having signed and sealed this missive, Adhémar sent for a messenger and told him to carry it to the person to whom it was addressed, and to come away at once, without waiting for an answer.

Then, throwing himself into a chair, and resting his head on his hand, he abandoned himself to his thoughts, murmuring:

"Oh! if I could only forget her!"

XVIII

MONSIEUR SERINGAT'S SECRET

Dodichet, disinherited by his aunt, and with only a hundred francs that he could call his own, should have looked about for some occupation which would afford him a livelihood; but, instead of that, he bought more tobacco and cigars, went into a café and drank a glass of beer, then took a cab and was driven to the so-called hotel on Rue Saint-Jacques, where he had left Monsieur Seringat. He said to himself on the road:

"I must have recourse to that idiot again; it's a great pity, because I owe him a thousand crowns already, and I have no prospect of any legacy hereafter with which to pay him; but still, nobody knows, perhaps the public won't treat me as harshly everywhere as it did at Quimper-Corentin; my voice will come back; I'll take to a diet of yolks of eggs--and mulled eggs. Meanwhile, Seringat may as well lend me another thousand crowns. He's rich; if he wasn't, I wouldn't ask him for a sou, especially as he couldn't give it to me. But he told me himself, in the course of conversation, that he had twelve thousand francs a year. The idiot! he could be so happy with that! And to think that he's in hiding, that he's afraid someone will recognize him--and all because his wife---- Upon my word, it's incredible! I am perfectly sure that he hasn't his like in Paris!"

When he arrived at the old house, Dodichet dismissed the cab; he crossed the courtyard, and on the ground floor found the landlady, who was also concierge, and who supplied her guests with food; she filled a number of positions, in order to increase her profits. At that moment she was preparing snails _à la provençale_: first she took them out of the shell, which she filled with a stuffing strongly seasoned with garlic, then replaced the creature, and let the whole simmer over a slow fire.

"Gad! that smells good!" observed Dodichet; "you're cooking snails, are you, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur; and I venture to flatter myself that they'll be delicious."

"I am not mad over that animal; it seems to me that when he's cooked he becomes exactly like india rubber; but these have a seductive odor."

"They are _à la provençale_. If monsieur would like a portion, they're only six sous each; that ain't dear."

"Faith! no; and one must come to the upper end of Rue Saint-Jacques to get any sort of a dish all cooked at that price. Put one portion aside for me. I'll eat it when I come down from my friend Miflorès. For I suppose he's in, isn't he? and I'll go up."

The landlady-concierge dropped a snail which she was just preparing, looked at Dodichet with a tragic expression, and exclaimed:

"Stop, monsieur! don't go up! it's no use; you wont find Monsieur Miflorès."

"Has he gone out? Well, then I'll wait for him and eat my snails now; he won't be out long, I fancy?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I can assure you that he'll never come back."

"What do you say? he'll never come back? Has he moved again, then? What does this mean?"

"Why, don't you know what has happened, monsieur?"

"Parbleu! madame, if I did know, I wouldn't ask you."

"Well, then, monsieur, I'll tell you everything, just as it happened. But first let me pick up this snail which slipped out of my hand."

"To be sure; shall you cook it with the others?"

"Fire purifies everything, monsieur.--It was like this: just a fortnight ago, a middle-aged man, very well dressed and with a very jovial air, came into my house, followed by a porter with his luggage. He asked me for a good room, and said he expected to spend ten or twelve days in Paris; that he had come here to enjoy himself; and he told me his name, Jacques Ronflard. Very good; I put him in a room on the first floor, looking on this courtyard; he went out soon, and didn't come in till very late. The next morning, monsieur, your friend Miflorès went out as usual to take a short walk before breakfast. He'd no sooner gone than my new tenant, Monsieur Ronflard, comes downstairs and says:

"'Pardieu! you've got an acquaintance of mine here; I just saw him through the window, and I recognized him right off. I'm very glad to find him in the same hotel; he's a good friend of mine, is Seringat, and he comes from Pontoise.'

"I looks at him, and I says:

"'But you're mistaken, monsieur; I haven't got any Seringat in my house.'

"'Excuse me, madame, but I saw him go out of this house this very minute.'

"'The man you saw go out of this house is named Miflorès, and not Seringat, and he never told me that he came from Pontoise.'

"'Apparently, madame, he's concluded to change his name; but I am perfectly sure that the person who just went out is named Seringat, formerly a druggist at Pontoise. Parbleu! I know him well; I've often bought insect powder of him to kill fleas. Poor Seringat! he's had a hard time. His wife--you see what I mean? The whole town knew about it; somebody even went so far as to write a song about him. Stay! I remember one verse. It goes to the tune of the _Carillon de Dunkerque_.'--And with that, he begins to sing:

"'Ce pauvre Seringat! Il a fait tant d'éclat, Que tout Pontoise a su Qu'il était, ma foi, cornu!'

"Then he goes back to his room, saying:

"'To prove that it's him, you'll see me throw myself into his arms when he comes back. Be kind enough to let me know.'

"So he goes back to his room; and I don't deny that I didn't care much whether the other man was the hero of the song or not. In about a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Miflorès came back. As soon as I saw him, I runs and says to him:

"'Is it true, monsieur, that your name's Seringat, and that you came from Pontoise? There's a man in the house who says he recognized you. He even knows a song about you. He asked me to let him know as soon as you came in.'

"At that, I saw the poor man change color; he rolled his eyes around and clenched his fists, and he says to me:

"'Madame, I forbid you to let that man know. Make up my bill; I am going up to get my baggage and leave the house instantly.'

"It was no use for me to promise not to say anything to the other one; he wouldn't listen to me. He went up to his room, packed his valise, came down again, paid me my money, and went off. But Monsieur Ronflard had seen him through the window. So he comes running down again.

"'What!' he says; 'has he gone? didn't he wait for me? Oh! but I'll catch him!'

"And with that, he ran out to try to overtake his friend. He saw him in front of him, but the other turned and, seeing that he was being followed, began to run as if the devil was after him. Monsieur Ronflard was obstinate; he ran after him, and it seems that he kept calling to him:

"'Stop, don't run like that, Seringat! it's Ronflard; don't you know me?'

"The man from Pontoise ran all the faster. Somebody who saw them scurrying through the streets told me he thought they were running for the firemen. To cut it short, Monsieur Miflorès came to the river; he went down to the shore, saw a boatman pulling down stream, and motioned to him to take him aboard. The man rowed to the bank and laid a plank for him to come aboard. At that moment, Monsieur Ronflard came up and began to sing at the top of his lungs:

"'Ce pauvre Seringat! Il a fait tant d'éclat, Que tout Pontoise a su Qu'il était, ma foi, cornu!'

"Poor Monsieur Miflorès no sooner heard that song than he rushed onto the plank; but he made a misstep and fell into the water. The current dragged him away--it seems that he couldn't swim. And when they succeeded in fishing him up, he was dead!"

"Dead! Can it be that he is dead? Poor Seringat!--for that really was his true name.--Well! there's no doubt that your Monsieur Ronflard did a good stroke of business then!"

"Why, monsieur, he seemed to be terribly distressed; he had the jaundice on account of it, and he only left Paris yesterday.--'I must go and tell Madame Seringat she's a widow,' he says to me, when he went away; 'I feel sure that it won't make her feel so badly as I do.'"

Dodichet did not recover for several minutes from the shock he had received. Then he sat down at a table and said:

"Be kind enough to give me my plate of snails, madame, with some bread and wine; for, after all, if I don't eat them, that won't bring poor Seringat to life. That's why I prefer to eat them."

The landlady hastened to serve Dodichet, and remained with him to talk, that being her greatest enjoyment. Dodichet heaved a faint sigh from time to time, but he did not waste a mouthful.

"Does monsieur find my snails to his taste?"

"They're very good, madame, and perfectly cooked. You almost make me like the dish, and I am forgetting the loss I have suffered.--Poor Seringat!"

"Is monsieur a great loser by his death?"

"Yes, indeed! I have lost--all that I had in prospect."

"Did he owe you money?"

"No, not exactly. But it amounted to the same thing."

"You will fall back on your friend's wife--his widow, I mean--won't you?"

"No; I have no claim on her. There is nothing left for me but to dedicate one last sigh to the deceased, and think of something else.--How much do I owe you, madame?"

"Sixteen sous in all, monsieur, for the snails and wine and bread."

"Well, that's not dear, on my honor! When I want to treat my mistress, I'll bring her here; especially as I see no prospect of a dinner at Brébant's."

Dodichet paid his bill and left the old hotel of which he had formerly held such a low opinion, but which he was now very glad to know, looking upon it as a possible resource in adversity. He bent his steps toward Boulotte's abode. As the wine he had taken with his snails had not gone to his head, he reflected on his position. The two blows which he had received in rapid succession annihilated all his hopes, and made even his present very precarious. However, he would not allow himself to be cast down; his heedless nature kept him from worrying about the future. Such natures are much to be envied, so some people declare. They never borrow trouble, and everything is rose-colored in their eyes!--I am not of that opinion; heedlessness means disorder, and disorder means ruin; and that is the fate of such happy-go-lucky natures.

When Dodichet arrived at the young ballet dancer's, she was not, as usual, making mineral rouge with bricks, but was engaged in drawing a dainty little network of veins on her temples, with indigo. At sight of her lover, she threw aside her brush and ran to embrace him.

"Here you are! How glad I am! Tell me all about your début and your triumph. I am sure you had wreaths thrown to you, and made plenty of conquests! You were so handsome as Joconde! How many recalls did you have?"

"They recalled me, that's true enough," Dodichet replied, dropping into a chair, "but I didn't choose to go back; because they wanted to play a low trick on me. I had just time to escape, in a policeman's cloak and a fireman's helmet."

"What sort of a tale is this? What new practical joke have you been playing?"

"Well, it was a very poor one; the audience at Quimper-Corentin had the cheek to hiss, to send me to the devil; and I turned round and showed them my other face. At that, there were shouts and yelling and a great hullabaloo; and, as I have just told you, I had hardly time to get away."

"Is it possible? And what's become of your pretty costume?"

"I sold it, on my way back, to get a pair of trousers and a coat."

"So your début--you've got to begin again, eh?"

"Thanks, no! I have no desire to try it again in the same line. My voice won't come back."

"Oh! you smoke too much! I told you so! Luckily, your aunt's dead; a friend of yours told me."

"Yes, my aunt's dead, that's true; but she disinherited me!"

"Oh! my poor boy! what a grind! But, thank heaven! you still have your gold mine--the man who can't refuse you when you ask him for money--the man with the mystery!"

"My dear girl, the man with the mystery has followed my aunt's example; that is, he hasn't disinherited me, but he's dead."

"Oh! mon Dieu! Did someone mention Pontoise to him?"

"Better than that: someone sang him a song that was written about him at Pontoise, in which they poked fun at him about his accident; for I can tell you now what it was that that jackass was so afraid people would find out. Sieur Seringat had a very pretty wife, whom he believed to be a regular Lucretia. The fellow had the bad habit of making sport of deceived husbands, of laughing at their expense, and saying that no such misfortune would ever happen to him. But, lo and behold! one day, at an outdoor fête, our Seringat saw a veiled lady in the distance, just at dusk, slip into an isolated summer house, where, not long after, she was joined by a young officer. Feeling sure that the lady he had seen was the wife of one of the leading men of the town, Seringat got together several young men, confided his discovery to them, and guided them to the pavilion, which was not lighted, but which they entered, carrying torches, on the pretext of illuminating it. Whom did they find there? Whom but Madame Seringat, in criminal conversation with the young officer! Who was sheepish and shamefaced then? Who but Seringat; for all the husbands in Pontoise revenged themselves on him, and that same evening his misadventure was known all over the town. Seringat, in his rage and vexation at becoming one of that class at which he had always laughed, left Pontoise the next day, swearing never to return. He took the name of Miflorès, and anybody who knew him could get anything out of him by threatening to disclose his name and his adventure. In fact, he was drowned not long ago, because a man from Pontoise chased him, calling him by his real name, and singing a couplet in which he was ridiculed about his accident. In his haste to escape, Seringat, who was trying to get aboard a boat, made a misstep, fell into the river, and was drowned.--Now you know, my dear girl, how I made him lend me money. He had so much self-esteem, and was so vexed at wearing a pair of horns, that you had only to threaten to tell about it, to obtain all you wanted."

"Well, he was a Gribouille, on my word! to throw himself into the water for fear someone would know he had taken a fancy to _the yellow_! If all the husbands that happens to should run into the river, the fish would get a good fright!--And what are you going to do now, my poor Dodichet?"

"I am going to make a cigarette."

"That won't keep you alive."

"True; but to-morrow I shall go to see the theatrical agent. I'll tell him that I've changed my line, that I play the legitimate drama now, the leading rôles, Frédérick Lemaître's and Mélingue's and Dumaine's. He'll soon find me an engagement in some large town; for I don't propose to play in holes in the ground any more. I want a chance now to display my talents on a vast stage!"

"You're sure you have talents, are you?"

"Pardieu! everyone has; the only thing is to find them. A famous thinker has said: 'How many people have come into the world and left it without unpacking all their merchandise!'"

"What does that mean?"

"Don't you understand? You grieve me! That means that many people are born with talents and faculties which events, fatality or poverty, do not permit them to develop, to make manifest. Now, do you see, something tells me that I have dramatic genius in my stomach!"

"Dear me! And do you mean to force it out?"

"I mean to find my real vocation. Meanwhile, would you like me to treat you to snails? I know a place where they cook them in a way to make you lick your fingers."

"Thanks, I prefer something else!"

"After all, I still have a little money in my pocket, and I'll take you to Bonvalet's. Come, O Boulotte! On the way, I will purchase a number of dramas, and this evening I will learn the leading rôles by heart."

"I think I see you!" said Boulotte, putting on her jaunty little hat; "this evening you will smoke!"

XIX

THE END OF THE YEAR

After forming the resolution never to see Madame Dermont again, Adhémar, unable to resist successfully his intense longing to meet her, to catch a glimpse of her, even at a distance, suddenly determined to go to England. He gave himself hardly time enough to pack a valise, took plenty of money, and hurried to the railway, which took him to Boulogne, whence he soon crossed the straits. He thought that he could escape from his memories by leaving his country, and went at once to London. He passed six weeks there, which seemed to him six years, did his utmost to fall in love with an Englishwoman, and, failing miserably, returned at last to Paris.

"I believe it will be easier for me to fall in love with a Parisian," he thought; "at all events, it's all over, so far as Nathalie is concerned; I never think of her now, and she probably spends her time with the young man that she met at the Jardin des Plantes. After this, the sight of her will not make the slightest impression on me, and my heart would beat no faster if I should meet her face to face. I no longer love her!"

However, his first act, on reaching Paris, was to go and gaze at the windows of her whom he declared that he no longer loved. He walked up and down in front of her house for a long time, scrutinized everybody who went in or out, and returned home at last, saying to himself that that was simply the remains of an old habit, and that it would soon wear out.

For a week he continued his daily promenades on Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière. On the eighth day, as he was going in the same direction, he remembered that it was just a year since he and his three friends had met at the café at the corner of the boulevard and Faubourg Poissonnière, and that they had all agreed to meet at the same place at the end of a year. So he changed his direction and went to the café, being curious to see whether his friends had remembered the appointment, and at the same time ready to seize any opportunity to obtain even momentary relief from his one haunting thought.

On entering the café, Adhémar spied Philémon Dubotté taking his ease with a glass of punch and a newspaper.

"Bravo!" cried Philémon, as they shook hands; "here are two men of their word! two men with a memory! I never doubted you, my dear fellow. How are you? You look a little pale. Didn't the air of London agree with you? I understand you have been in England?"

"Yes; the London air isn't very clear. It is composed in great part of smoke and fog; but it's not unhealthy, I believe, as the neighborhood of the sea drives away the noxious vapors."

"Did you make a lot of conquests over there? But of course you did."

"On the contrary, I kept clear of all intrigues."

"You astound me! I mean to go to England for the express purpose of finding out how the English women make love."

"Be careful! they take it more seriously than our French women do."

"Meanwhile, my dear Adhémar, you see before you the happiest man in Paris. I have arrived, my dear fellow, in every sense of the word. I am chief of a bureau--the position which was the one object of my ambition; and in my family relations I have nothing left to desire. My wife used to be perfectly killing with her affection; she would have liked to be hanging on my arm all the time; I have cured her of that nonsense, and now she lets me go out without her whenever I choose; sometimes, indeed, she is the first to suggest it. There's a young man who comes to the house to play cards with her, and who takes her to the theatre and to drive. I had great difficulty in accustoming her to it; but now the thing goes all alone, and she leaves me as much liberty as I can possibly desire. Well, Adhémar, what do you say? haven't I steered my ship pretty well? Why don't you congratulate me?"

Adhémar, who had smiled in rather an equivocal way while the handsome blond boasted of his good fortune, made haste to reply:

"You have reached your goal, my dear Dubotté, and, as you are satisfied, there is nothing for me to do but congratulate you."

"Gad! I should be hard to suit if I wasn't satisfied. And you must be, too, my dear fellow, for your success is uninterrupted, and you earn a lot of money."

"Happiness doesn't always depend on money alone."

"What about the other two fellows? have you any news of them?"

"No; I have been away from Paris, you know."

"Between ourselves, I am afraid poor Dodichet has turned out badly. He amused himself by perpetrating practical jokes that were much too dangerous, sometimes. I found him one day at poor old Mirotaine's, where he had brought a supposititious marrying man. I recognized the latter as a druggist from Pontoise, with a wife of his own. The result was confusion, disillusionment, revolution! That was a very poor joke."

"I heard about that. Yes, Dodichet wastes his whole life inventing such monkey tricks, which raise a laugh for the moment, but never have a beneficial result for the man who perpetrates them."

"I am sorry, for Dodichet is a good fellow at bottom."

"A good fellow! We think we have said everything, when we remark, in speaking of a man: 'He's a good fellow.'--For my part, I consider that that epithet is almost always applied to a person with whom it is advisable to avoid any intimate connection, for the good fellow is constantly doing idiotic things: he squanders his money like a fool, and, when it's all gone, thinks it the most natural thing in the world to borrow and never pay. He owes his tailor, his shoemaker, everybody he deals with. He never has a sou in his pocket; but if you ask him to join a party of any sort, he always accepts, and you have to pay for him. Sometimes he will even invite you to dine at one of the best restaurants in Paris; he will entertain you magnificently, sparing neither truffles nor champagne; but when it comes to paying the bill, which may amount to forty francs, he will find only fifty sous in his purse and ask you to advance the rest. He will make an intimate friend of anybody he happens to meet, and sometimes finds himself playing billiards with sharpers, because he is so trustful that he calls people whose names he doesn't know his friends. He never keeps a promise; he constantly feeds on chimerical illusions, and flatters himself that he is going to win a million of money, when he hasn't a sou in his pocket. That's the kind of person a 'good fellow' is: frankly, I prefer a bad one."

As Adhémar finished, an individual, very shabbily dressed, his body encased in an old, greenish frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, with not a particle of linen in sight, with a shocking round hat, almost brimless, on his head, and patched and muddy old boots on his feet, entered the café with a very pronounced limp, and halted in front of the two friends.

"Well, well!" he cried, "don't you know me? Here I am, faithful to our appointment of last year."

"Dodichet!" cried Dubotté and Adhémar in one breath.

"Yes, messieurs; Dodichet himself: slightly the worse for wear, and exceedingly hard up, as you see; but still ready to laugh when occasion offers!"

"But you are limping, aren't you?"

"Mon Dieu! yes, I am limping, and it's for life too; I shall always limp--it's the result of a fool's trick, an experiment, which I will tell you about directly. But make room for me at your table."

"With pleasure; will you have some grog, or beer?"

"Thanks; if it's all the same to you, I prefer a beefsteak."

"Waiter, a beefsteak for monsieur."

"With an endless supply of potatoes."

The beefsteak was brought; Dodichet consumed it, together with two loaves of bread and three carafes of water; it was evident that the poor fellow needed recruiting. His two old friends respected his appetite, and asked no questions until he had finished.

"Messieurs," said Dodichet, "having been disinherited by my aunt, and that old fool of a Seringat having fallen into the water while running away from one of his friends who sang a song to him based on his conjugal misadventure, I had no choice but to decide upon some definite course of action. I told you a year ago that the stage was my vocation. I still think so; but I must confess that I was not wildly applauded as a tenor--I smoked a little too much on the day of my début; to cut it short, I was not fortunate at Quimper-Corentin. On my return to Paris, the dramatic agent, to whom I made known my desire to play Frédérick Lemaître's parts, told me to go at once to Carpentras, where the leading man had burst a blood vessel while chasing someone who owed him three francs fifty. So I went to Carpentras; I introduced myself to the manager with that self-assurance to which I am subject. He welcomed me joyfully, and said to me: 'We want to give an extra performance to-morrow, for the benefit of wet-nurses with no children to nurse; I mean to give _Trente Ans, ou la Vie d'un Joueur_, and, to end the show, I have a young man from Pithiviers, who's as good at hair-raising leaps as Léotard. Can you play Frédérick's part in _Trente Ans_?'--'I'll play it for you right away, if you want,' said I, with a laugh. 'Don't be alarmed; I have it at my finger tips.'--That wasn't quite true; but, as I had seen the play very often, I thought to myself: 'I know the entrances and exits; that's the main thing; when the lines escape me, I'll try pantomime, or else I'll think up something that will suit the situation.'--The manager was overjoyed; he announced his extra performance, as well as my début, and that of a second Léotard. The critical moment arrived; the theatre was full, and the receipts fabulously large for that place. They began _Trente Ans_, and I didn't know a single line of the rôle of Georges.--Well! I played it like an angel! The townspeople, as they didn't know the play, had no suspicion that I was substituting my own words for the author's; my fellow actors opened their eyes; but when they got confused, I pushed them so hard that they had to speak. In a word, the play came to an end amid tremendous applause; I was recalled, and acclaimed to the skies. The manager embraced me and told me that I was engaged. At that moment, a letter was handed him; it was from his acrobat, who told him that his father had summoned him to Pithiviers to help prepare an unusually large order of pies, and that he was going at once. My manager was in despair. He had promised a performance on the trapèze, and the audience expected it; if he failed to give it, they would have the right to demand their money back, and he wouldn't have given it back for anything under heaven. Seeing the manager's embarrassment, I asked him to show me what the acrobat was supposed to do. He was to run at full speed, jump through a hoop covered with paper, and come out on the other side high enough in the air to seize a rope which hung down a little beyond the hoop. 'Is that all?' I asked, with a scornful laugh; 'why, that's a mere _pons asinorum_! I do much more than that when I toy with gymnastics. Be calm; give me the tights, and I'll show you some jumping that will be quite equal to that of your Pithiviers tumbler!'--The manager leaped on my neck, informed me that he doubled my salary,--which did not compromise him much, as he had not as yet offered me anything,--then went and told the orchestra to play the Tartar March while I was dressing; after that, he would have an announcement to make to the audience. He went to the front of the stage, bowed, and announced that his acrobat had accidentally sprained a ligament, and that the artist who had just played the part of Georges would take his place. Everybody praised me to the skies. 'What a man!' they said; 'he takes Frédérick's rôles and Léotard's at the same time!'--Meanwhile, I was doing my utmost to get into the acrobat's flesh-colored tights. I had great difficulty, for they were terribly scant for my rotund form; however, I got into them at last. The three blows were struck; the orchestra played the triumphal march from _La Muette_ for me; I appeared, and was greeted with uproarious applause. To show my elasticity, I executed three handsprings before the audience; at the third, I tore my tights horribly, and showed them something besides my elasticity. However, that did not deter me; and the audience, thinking that I had another costume under my tights, and that I was making a lightning change in full view, applauded all the louder. That encouraged me, excited me! I ran onto the springboard, and jumped through the paper hoop; but, meaning to seize the rope as I came down, I jumped too high, and seized nothing but one of the wings, which came tumbling to the stage with me, and the fall dislocated my knee; that put an end to the performance.

"I must do the manager justice; I had hurt myself in order to oblige him, and he had my injury attended to; the surgeon went about it so skilfully that I shall limp all my life. Thus the theatrical career was closed to me, for you can't play Buridan or Kean with a limp. By way of compensation, the manager offered me the post of prompter. I accepted. 'Prompting isn't acting,' I thought. 'But as I can't act any more, I may as well prompt! it's a theatrical post; and although the audience doesn't see you, still you're a useful member of the cast, for you sometimes play all the parts.'--So I became prompter to the troupe; I was not discontented, for, after my accident, they gave a performance for my benefit, which was quite a success. I had passed more than a month in that position, when--I may as well confess it--my fatal passion for practical jokes attacked me with more violence than ever. We had a young fellow for the lovers' parts, who claimed that he had never made a mistake in his lines. One evening, when I was in rather a merry mood, our lover was on the stage with a princess with whom the plot required him to run away; and when she said to him, weeping bitterly: 'What are you going to do with me?' he looked at me and motioned to me to help him; so I whispered: 'Oh! how you tire me!'--and the poor devil made that reply to the princess. You can imagine the effect that produced; the audience laughed and yelled, and shouted _encore!_ and the actress who took the princess's part boxed her lover's ears, with a: 'Let that teach you not to say such things to me on the stage.'

"The _jeune premier_ succeeded, not without difficulty, in justifying himself; it was discovered that I was the only culprit, and the result was my dismissal. I returned to Paris, where I am reduced to the necessity of prompting in what used to be the suburbs.--That's my story, and this is what I have come to!"

"Pardieu! my poor Dodichet," said Dubotté, "it would seem as if this ought to have cured you, at last, of your mania for practical jokes."

"What would you have, noble Phoebus? that seems to have been my real vocation. But here comes our fourth man. Bless my soul! he must have arrived; for he has a most radiant expression, and there's a great change in his dress as well as in his face."

In truth, Lucien Grischard, who had just entered the café, was no longer the poverty-stricken youth, in a threadbare coat, with traces of grief and privation on his pinched features. To-day, his eyes were bright, and the expression of his face announced the contentment of his mind; his costume, while not dandified, denoted that its owner was in comfortable circumstances; lastly, his face wore a cordial smile, as he shook hands with the three persons whom he joined, and who had already noted with pleasure the happy change that had taken place in him.

"Good-morning, messieurs, good-morning!" he said, with a joyous intonation in his voice. "I am the last to come, but you will forgive me when you know what has detained me."

"How are you, Lucien? This much we see already, with the greatest pleasure--that your position has changed for the better; for you seem perfectly content; we can read that in your face."

"And why should I not be, messieurs! I am going to marry the woman I love. In a week, Juliette will be my wife. Monsieur Mirotaine has consented at last to call me his son-in-law. My dearest wish is fulfilled."

"How did you succeed in gaining your end? Tell us about it."

"By hard work and perseverance; my pins were a success, and I was making money; I invented something else, so that I made still more, and I succeeded in extending my business. But how was I to let Monsieur Mirotaine know that, when he had forbidden me to go to his house? That was the difficulty; it was absolutely necessary that I should see Juliette, in order to tell her all that I was doing; it was necessary to have a definite understanding with her, and to give her precise details concerning my position and prospects, so that she could say to her father: 'You can go to this place and that place, and there you will learn where Lucien stands.'--Luckily, Juliette has a friend, who came to our assistance. This friend obtained permission quite often to take Juliette out with her, sometimes to bathe, sometimes to go shopping; but, as a matter of fact, the two ladies would meet me at the Jardin des Plantes; there I could arrange with Juliette what she was to say to her father about my position."

"At the Jardin des Plantes!" interposed Adhémar; "you say those ladies used to meet you there?"

"To be sure. And one day, when I had some very good news to tell Juliette,--I wanted to tell her that I had succeeded in a new business undertaking,--as she was not very well, her friend, Madame Dermont, was kind enough to come alone to our usual place of meeting. I told her that I had succeeded, and she lost no time in going to tell Juliette the good news; and it was then that Monsieur Mirotaine, convinced at last that we were not imposing on him and that I really was able to earn money, opened his house to me again, and consented to give me his daughter's hand."

Dubotté and Dodichet congratulated Lucien. But Adhémar did not say a word to him; for what he had just heard had produced such a revolution in his whole being, that he was like one turned to stone, and had not the strength to speak.

"Well!" said Dubotté, rising and taking his hat; "it is a satisfaction to me to know that we have all arrived at the goal we had in view. Poor Dodichet alone has steadily fallen lower and lower. Though, after all, it's his own fault! He shouldn't have prompted a lover to say: 'Oh! how you tire me!'--But, no matter; you know my address, Dodichet, don't you? And when you are--cleaned out, come and dine with me; I always have a cover laid for an old friend who is in hard luck. Excuse me for leaving you, messieurs; but I must go and make sure that Callé can take my wife to the theatre to-night."

Dubotté having departed, Dodichet prepared to follow his example.

"No, indeed I wont go and dine with him!" he said. "If I should ever be too hard up, I wouldn't apply to him. There are some people whose benefactions are too heavy a load to carry. Au revoir, messieurs! I have eleven acts to prompt to-night, and I must go to my post--or my hole--it's the same thing. I sometimes am tempted to take a syringe with me and prompt with that. That would be a good joke. I think I'll wait till they play _Porceaugnac_."

"I don't ask you to dinner, Dodichet," said Lucien, "but I shall never forget that you tried to help me. If you ever find yourself without employment, come to see me; I shall always be able to find you something at which you can earn your living."

"Thanks, my boy; a little tobacco with it, and it will be all right."

"My purse is at your service, Dodichet," said Adhémar.

"I know it; I know you, my friend! But I am going to try to take care of myself. Besides, I am very fond of snails now, and they're cheap. I have a mind to raise them in my hole; that will give me something to do in the entr'actes. Au revoir, my children!"

When he and Adhémar were left alone, Lucien said:

"You haven't congratulated me on my good fortune, on my approaching marriage. You have a very unhappy look; and yet I know you too well not to be sure that you are glad for my happiness."

"Yes, Lucien; yes, I am, indeed! But if you knew what it has cost me! So it was you whom Madame Dermont went to the Jardin des Plantes to meet?"

"To be sure. Juliette wasn't able to come that day."

"Did Nathalie come in a cab?"

"Yes, she left the cab at the gate; I took her back to it and put her in, after thanking her for her kindness in coming."

"Oh! my friend, if you had only told me this sooner! I should not have suspected a woman whom I adored."

"I couldn't tell you any sooner, as you had gone to England. I couldn't go there after you! So you are at odds with Madame Dermont again, are you?"

"Yes. My infernal jealousy! I wrote her a letter--which was utterly without sense! I see it now."

"Have courage! she will forgive you."

"Oh, no! it's all over; she can't forgive me again; indeed, I feel that I don't deserve to be forgiven."

"Adieu, my dear Adhémar! excuse me for leaving you so soon. But Juliette is waiting for me, and we have so many preparations to make for our marriage."

"Go, my friend, go! Because I am unhappy, I have no wish to delay the happiness of other people."

XX

THE LITTLE STREAMS

Adhémar returned home alone. What he had learned, while it proved to him that he had wrongfully suspected Madame Dermont's loyalty, caused him more pleasure than pain, none the less; he was grieved, he was in despair, because he had broken his repeated promises and had had no confidence in Nathalie's love; but he was happy, very happy, to know that she had not deceived him, and to be able to say to himself: "She did love me!" So that, even in his grief, there was a something that made his heart beat joyously, and that allayed in some degree the bitterness of his regrets.

On reaching home, Adhémar attempted to work. But it is very difficult to write novels or plays when the heart is full, when a single thought forces itself constantly on the mind. As he reflected on what his three friends and himself had done during the past year, he thought:

"Proverbs are always right: little streams make great rivers; for the little streams act with equal effect for our good or our ruin. Philémon Dubotté had a wife who adored him, who would have liked to be always on his arm; instead of congratulating himself because he had found a phoenix, he was always on the lookout for opportunities to go about without his wife; he ridiculed her affection; he left her evening after evening alone with a young man, who was infinitely more agreeable to her than her husband was. All these ill-advised acts were the little streams which were certain to bring about the result which husbands ought, by every means, to try to avoid.

"Lucien Grischard was without means; but he had the most useful, the most reliable of all the elements of fortune: courage, perseverance, love of work. By dint of patience and privation, he succeeded in starting a small business, in making himself known, and in winning esteem by his probity; little by little, he has extended his connections and increased his business, and, insignificant as it was at first, he has made it lucrative. All these little streams have carried him on to his goal--to happiness. He has well earned it!

"Dodichet had everything that might make a man happy: sufficient means, health, and high spirits. But an unfortunate mania, an incessant inclination to make sport of others, to play practical jokes on his friends and acquaintances, led him into a path where he began by spending all that he possessed, and ended by living at the expense of other people. He was so incapable of behaving decently in any sort of position that he actually found a way to lose his place as prompter at a provincial theatre; and now he is reduced to poverty, as the result of all these follies piled one upon another, which some day will carry him off to the great river. For these _blagueurs_ who are so agreeable in society often end in that way.

"As for myself--ah, me! if I am unhappy now, I have only myself to blame for it. After many unimportant liaisons, I met such a woman as I had dreamed of, and I had the good fortune to be loved by her; at last I knew that true, genuine love, which is so sweet to the heart; that love which leaves so far behind all those mad passions of a moment in which our youth is drowned. I was happy, ah! yes, very happy! But my infernal jealousy gave me no rest. Having been deceived a hundred times by women who did not know the meaning of love, I could not persuade myself that a woman was really faithful to me. My suspicions were unjust; that was proved to me several times, and yet it did not prevent me from conceiving new ones. These insults, so often repeated, have lost me Nathalie's heart. She has forgiven me many times, but I cannot hope that she will forgive me again, after that letter, in which, in my frenzy, I did not hesitate to tell her that her treachery was shameful, when her only purpose was to ensure Juliette's and Lucien's happiness! And I went off, without seeing her, without even asking her to explain her conduct! Oh! ghastly effects of jealousy! I had promised so solemnly to mend my ways; and, instead of that, I kept repeating my offence! Oh! I did not deserve to be loved sincerely!"

And Adhémar, whose arm was resting on his desk, laid his burning head on his hand; and would perhaps have remained a long while in that position, had he not felt the touch of a little hand upon his shoulder, while a well-known voice said to him:

"And yet, she loves you still, monsieur!"

The words echoed in the depths of the poor fellow's heart. He raised his head: Nathalie was beside him, smiling at him and looking into his face as lovingly as ever.

He uttered a cry, and stammered:

"Is it possible? Can it be that you forgive me again?"

"Yes, my friend, I must. Look--at that scar--the burn on your wrist---- You see that I must forgive you always!"

"Great God! I am afraid that my happiness is a dream."

"No, monsieur. Lucien came just now and told me how sad and unhappy you were. I thought that you were punished enough, so I came. Did I do wrong?"

"Oh! how good you are! Really I do not deserve to be loved like this!"

"Are you going to begin again?"

"Oh! this time, Nathalie, I swear----"

"Don't swear! Believe me, oaths amount to nothing. It ought not to be necessary to promise, in order to do what is right."

* * * * *

And now, readers, do you wish to know what has become of the small number of persons who have played a part in this simple study of contemporary manners?

First, Dubotté has continued to be perfectly content; his wife is no longer constantly clinging to his arm, but lets him go out alone as much as he pleases. Sometimes, indeed, she refuses to go with him; she has taken a great fancy to the game of bézique, and young Callé is always ready to come and play with her.

Lucien Grischard, on becoming Juliette's husband, did not cease to love his wife and hard work; consequently, his business is flourishing, and his married life is one long honeymoon.

Dodichet, having conceived the droll idea of smoking in his prompter's hole, set the stage on fire and was found roasted, as a result of his last practical joke.

Monsieur Mirotaine, being unable at last to find anybody who cared to come to his evening parties in winter, where hot cocoa was served to the company, concluded to provide no other refreshment than that caused by opening the windows; but when he is invited to breakfast or dine at a restaurant, he never fails to empty the salt cellars and pepper boxes into little paper bags which he carries in his pocket.

Monsieur Brid'oison still goes into ecstasies over his son's skill and agility in gymnastics. Little Artaban never enters a salon without making a handspring, and his papa is confident that that fashion will soon be adopted by the fair sex.

Madame Putiphar, the dealer in second-hand clothes, still arranges marriages, in the interest, not of the young ladies concerned, but of the second-hand cashmere shawls which she slips among the wedding gifts.

Mademoiselle Boulotte is still trying to make mineral rouge with--no matter what!

We all have our inclinations, our _little streams_, which bear us on, some toward good, some toward evil. We must try to avoid the latter, and follow those whose water is pure and whose banks are bright with flowers: they are the ones that lead to good.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Ficelle_, literally, "packthread": vulgarly, a "trick," or a "trickster."

[B] _Pochetées_--that is, mellowed in the pocket.

[C] _Mistigri_, _misti_, or _misty_: in the game of bouillotte, the knave of clubs.

[D] _Cateau_, an abbreviation of Catherine, used among the common people; vulgarly, a girl of slovenly habits and loose life.

[E] There is, or was, a game called _brelan_; but the term was sometimes applied, in bouillotte, to a hand consisting of two aces and a king, when the other king of the same color was turned.

[F] Substantially a repetition, in thieves' slang, of the clause beginning: "when the secretary----"

[G] As there were but twelve arrondissements in Paris, this expression was used to denote an illicit connection.

[H] _Atelier_--usually, an artist's studio; also, workroom.

[I] A particular kind of roll.

[J] The word _marron_, in the original, has a significance here that cannot be well rendered in English. It means, variously: an interloper, a runaway, an unlicensed broker.

[K] _Cerf_, stag (in argot, cuckold); _cerf-volant_, kite (in argot, thief).

[L] A female supernumerary in a ballet.

[M] Street walkers.

[N] Much obliged.

[O] Literally, "lioness."

[P] _Miroton_ is a dish in which onions are freely used.

[Q] The same French word--_broche_--means "brooch" and "spit."

[R]

Long have I travelled the wide world o'er, And you have seen me, and you have seen me.