Part 11

"While she was breakfasting, your neighbor, Madame Saint-Edmond, came to ask me if I'd seen her poodle; she wanted also to speak to monsieur about a matter that she said was important. She came in, and the two of them waited a long while for you."

"What! were they here together?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Gad! that must have been amusing!"

"Amusing, if you choose to call it so! I was afraid for a minute that it was going to be serious."

"Oh! you see the dark side of everything."

"I assure you, monsieur, that those ladies didn't look at the bright side, either of 'em. They went away at last. Mademoiselle Virginie went to see an Englishman, who is to buy a linen-draper's shop for her."

"Bertrand, you're a slanderer."

"I am simply repeating what she said, monsieur."

"I will go up to-night and see Léonie. What next?"

"Monsieur Destival came to see you; he seemed full of business."

"Oh, yes! he has spoken to me very often lately about an excellent investment in which I can get ten per cent for my money."

"I advise you to get as large a per cent as you can, monsieur; for we are running through the funds pretty fast."

"That is true; I must put my affairs in a better condition."

"Yes, that wouldn't be a bad idea."

"I have been obliged to sell a farm already."

"Poor farm! When I think of it, it makes me feel sad."

"Don't be alarmed, Bertrand, I propose to cut down my expenses after this. I will see Destival, and if he can still find a profitable investment for my money, I shall recover what I have thrown away. Come, my old comrade, no moping; it does no good. I am young and rich. You must agree that I have no reason to despair as yet."

"That is so, lieutenant; that's what I said to myself when Schtrack and I were inspecting the cellar, to make sure that everything was all right."

"You did very well, Bertrand; inspect, superintend, manage everything to suit yourself. I am going to change my clothes; then I will go up to see my neighbor; and to-morrow I will attend to more serious affairs."

"Excellent young man!" said Bertrand, following Auguste with his eyes. "He leaves me in control here. But tasting his wines isn't the whole thing; that isn't enough; I propose to make myself useful to him in spite of him, and I will go down and have a talk with Madame Schtrack about the little man who goes up to our neighbor's room."

Madame Saint-Edmond greeted Auguste with an offended air; she was melancholy, her eyes were red, she still held her handkerchief in her hand. It is true that, as she had learned of Auguste's return, she was expecting a call from him. Dalville inquired sympathetically what the cause of her depression might be; she refused to confide in him; but she let drop a word or two concerning the woman she had met in his rooms; these words were followed by stifled sighs and sarcastic laughter, and Madame Saint-Edmond added to each of her comments:

"You are entirely at liberty, monsieur, to receive whomever you choose."

Auguste, touched by Léonie's apparent suffering, succeeded in tranquillizing the pretty blonde, who consented at last to make peace with her neighbor on condition that she should never again meet in his rooms that woman who had made impertinent speeches to her, and the mere sight of whom would throw her into hysterics. Auguste promised; in love, as in politics, one always makes more promises than one intends to keep.

But Léonie was still pensive and preoccupied.

"Something is troubling you," said Auguste.

"No; oh, no! nothing, I assure you," replied the pretty blonde, in a tone which meant the exact opposite.

"But it is perfectly evident to me that you are concealing something from me."

"Why, no, you are mistaken; at all events it doesn't concern you at all."

As we are always anxious to know what does not concern us, Auguste became more insistent; he demanded that she should tell him all, whereupon Madame Saint-Edmond confessed in a low, silvery voice that a milliner, to whom she had owed two thousand francs for a long time, had forced her to give him a note; that that note would come due in two days, and that she was sorely embarrassed about paying it.

Auguste regretted that he had been so inquisitive; but it was too late to retreat; besides, he was too fond of obliging his friends not to come to his neighbor's assistance.

"Send the holder of the note to my apartment," he said; "Bertrand will pay it."

Léonie refused; she was afraid of inconveniencing Auguste; she would be terribly distressed to have him think that her selfish interests had any influence upon the sentiment he aroused in her. But Auguste insisted, he did not choose that she should have recourse to others; and Léonie consented at last to allow herself to be accommodated, on condition that it should be considered a loan, which she would repay to her friend.

Bertrand leaped backward when Auguste said to him next day:

"You will pay Madame Saint-Edmond's note for two thousand francs which the holder will present here."

"Two thousand francs for that little minx!" cried the ex-corporal, beating his brow in desperation. "Ah! lieutenant, if this is the way you put your affairs in order!"

"No comments, Bertrand; I am only lending Léonie the money, and if I ever find myself in difficulties, I am sure that there is no sacrifice of which that woman would not be capable, to oblige me."

"You may believe that, monsieur, but I----"

"You will pay the note, Bertrand."

"I will pay it, lieutenant."

Auguste went out singing, and Bertrand went down to his friend Schtrack's, to question his wife.

Bertrand paid the note and Léonie was more loving than ever with Auguste. But one morning, when she did not expect him, Dalville found in his neighbor's room a little man, who instantly took his leave with a very low bow, which Madame Saint-Edmond barely acknowledged, dismissing her gentleman in a very curt tone.

"Who is that man?" Auguste inquired when the stranger had gone.

"Mon Dieu! that is a very ridiculous individual, whom one of my aunts sent to me. He is fresh from the provinces and is seeking employment. But, as he is a terrible bore to me, I receive him in such fashion that he soon brings his visits to an end. He's as stupid as he is ugly."

"Why, he didn't strike me as being so very ugly."

"Bah! how did you look at him? He is horrible! A hideous nose and sunken eyes, and such an awkward, ridiculous figure! Oh! I can't endure the man."

Auguste pushed his questions no farther and said no more about the little man; but he was secretly vexed to hear her speak so ill of him, because he knew the tactics of ladies of her stamp, who often employ that method to conceal their intimacy with a person.

On returning to his own rooms, Auguste noticed that Bertrand looked at him with a sly expression, and hovered about him as if he were seeking an opportunity to speak to him.

"You want to tell me or ask me something, I see, Bertrand," said Auguste, stopping in front of the corporal. "Speak, for heaven's sake, instead of prowling about me in this way. You have no comprehension, my old friend, of the little wiles of the ladies, who, when they have anything to say to us, have the art to force us to question them."

"True, lieutenant, you're right; it's better to go straight to the point without countermarching. You must have met a certain little man at the neighbor's, for I saw him come down just after you went up."

"Well, yes, I did see a gentleman there; what of it?"

"What of it! Is this the first time you've met him?"

"Yes."

"He goes there often, however."

"Who told you that?"

"Madame Schtrack, the concierge."

"What, Bertrand! do you chatter and talk gossip with a concierge?"

"Gossip! no, lieutenant; ten thousand cartridges! I! gossip! Do you call what I've just told you gossip, lieutenant?"

"Why, pretty nearly. Is not Madame de Saint-Edmond at liberty to receive visits? Does she owe me an account of all her callers? What right have I to set spies on her acts? and if anyone should give her a faithful report of mine, do you think that she would have no reason to reproach me?"

"True, lieutenant; I am in the wrong. I'll go on drinking with Schtrack, but I won't talk with his wife any more, because I don't want it said that an old moustache like me talks gossip."

Although he had scolded Bertrand, Auguste remembered Madame Schtrack's statement; and, when he thought of the abuse Léonie had heaped upon the little man, he could not avoid conceiving some suspicions. We may agree that we do not deserve a faithful mistress, but we can never forgive her for her infidelity.

"Léonie must be horribly false, horribly treacherous!" said Auguste to himself. "Why need she pretend to love me, unless she retains her hold on me for selfish reasons, or unless she loves two men at once? Such things have been known."

As he walked down Boulevard Montmartre, Auguste felt a light touch on his arm. He turned; Mademoiselle Virginie stood before him.

"I am very lucky to meet you, monsieur," she said, looking at Auguste with a certain expression in which there was something most seductive; indeed, Mademoiselle Virginie made many conquests, because she had adopted the habit of imparting that alluring expression to her eyes; and although Auguste knew her glances by heart, he still took delight in looking at her, especially when it was a long time since her lovely black eyes had been fastened upon him.

"Oh! although you look at me with a smile," she continued, "that doesn't prevent me from being horribly angry with you."

"Really? you are angry with me?"

"Monsieur, I beg you not to address me so familiarly! Have we ever been on intimate terms?"

As she spoke, Mademoiselle Virginie burst into a roar of laughter that caused several passers-by to turn their heads; for in Paris very little is required to attract the attention of the passers-by. In fact, there was one man who stopped, and who, presumably because he had never in his life heard anyone laugh, was about to ask Virginie what the matter was; but a glance from Auguste led him to walk on.

"You make me laugh, when I haven't the slightest inclination to," said Virginie, suddenly assuming a most serious air.

"What's the matter with you? Come, tell me your troubles; you know very well that I am your friend."

"My friend! oh, yes! You are just nothing at all! A pretty friend, to go two months without seeing me!"

"It wasn't my fault--I have been busy."

"Indeed! busy, eh? I know what kind of business. The blonde of the third floor, and the lady in the country, and this one, and the other one! It's no use talking, you're a thorough scamp, you're not a bit agreeable any more! You used to be agreeable to me now and then."

"Why didn't you come to see me?"

"Oh! I say! do you think I haven't anything else to do but that? Don't I have to work?"

"Ah! you work, do you?"

"Indeed I do; I have reformed now, I never go out."

"Do you still live in the same place?"

"No, I have moved."

"Why, you do nothing but move."

"Really, my dear, I have sold my furniture."

"Sold your furniture? What a pity!"

"Listen to me; I couldn't live on nut shells, could I?"

"No, they wouldn't be good for the stomach; but as you are working----"

"Oh, yes! it's very amusing; work a whole day to earn fifteen sous! Mon Dieu! how I wish I were a man!"

"What for?"

"So as not to be a woman. I know that there are some women who are happy, who swim in pleasure, who have feathers and velvet caps! Ah! a velvet cap's becoming to me; I tried one on at a friend's. I propose to have one this winter, all velvet, with gold tassels."

"With your fifteen sous a day?"

"Go on! No, but I sold my furniture because I owed some money; I was four terms behind with my rent, and I had to pay."

"Why, I should say that, the term before the last, I----"

"No, I used that for something else. I am living with a friend until I get more furniture. Oh! you can't imagine----"

"What, pray?"

"I am going to be married."

"Nonsense! really?"

"Faith, yes! It's a man who's mad over me; he adores me; he's turning yellow with it."

"Try to marry him before he gets too dark."

"No, I was joking; but really, joking aside, he's a very good match--a magnificent man!"

"How old?"

"Forty."

"What does he do?"

"He's a government clerk; he has a very fine place."

"Well, my dear girl, marry at once; it seems to me that that is the very best thing that you can do."

"Ah! how happy I would make that man, if I married him!"

"Well said; that purpose does you honor."

"Oh, no! that's not it; you don't understand me. I mean that he would be enchanted if I would consent to take him for my husband."

"Ah! that makes a difference. But what deters you?"

"The trouble is that I don't love him."

"What's that? such a magnificent man!"

"Yes, but his legs are a little bowed."

"You must make him wear a frock coat."

"And then he has a nose of such length--my dear, you can't conceive what it is! His nose frightens me."

"I never knew you to be so timid."

"The fact is, I don't want to marry. Later, we'll see about it. Do you know, I am strongly inclined to go on the stage?"

"Ah! that's something new."

"Tell me, do you think I'd be very bad? You see, I have a good voice when I choose. Do you know that I'm as pretty as a love, on the stage?"

"You have no need to be on the stage for that, madame."

"Dieu! how genteel! But really, no joking, rouge and the bright light and the footlights--all those things make me a dazzling sight. I have tried on Iphigénie's costume, and it's surprising how becoming it is. I had an offer to go into the chorus at the Vaudeville, but that didn't tempt me much."

"Not to play Iphigénie?"

"No; how stupid you are! It was to get accustomed to the boards and the audience, as they say, and to looking into the auditorium. What do you advise me to do?"

"I? nothing; do what you choose; but, if you really have a chance to marry, that would be much better than going on the stage."

"Bless my soul! you talk like my aunt. But it's true that I could never be an actress; if I went on the stage and saw all those faces looking at me, I know that I should laugh like a lunatic. But I say, are we going to stand on this same spot till to-morrow? People will take us for spies. Where are you going?"

"I am going to Monsieur Destival's on a matter of business."

"He is that tall, lanky, ugly creature I've seen you with sometimes in a carriage?"

"It is quite possible."

"Ah! what a funny face he has! That man reminds me of one of Séraphin's marionettes--you know, the one that sings _tire lon pha_ in _Le Pont Cassé_."

"You will always be the same, won't you?"

"Why, a body must laugh once in a while. Look you, Auguste, you can go to your Monsieur Destival's another day; to-day I don't propose to leave you."

"But, really, I have some business."

"So much the worse! It makes you very unhappy to think of passing a day with me, don't it?"

"No, of course not; but there is to be a musical party at Madame de la Thomassinière's this evening, and I promised to be there."

"You can sing when you get up to-morrow, if you like music so much; but to-day, monsieur, you stay with me; we will go into the country to dinner, and to-night you will take me to the theatre; you've been promising me this for a long while."

It was impossible to resist Mademoiselle Virginie, and Auguste yielded with a good grace.

"We will take a cab," he said, "and go wherever you choose in the country."

"Why not take your cabriolet? why go in a cab with wretched nags, when you have a lovely horse that goes like the wind?"

Auguste, who chose to remain incognito with Virginie, preferred a cab, in which he would not be seen. There was a stand nearby; he helped his companion in, saying:

"Where shall we go?"

"Where you please."

"It makes no difference to me."

"Nor to me."

"But we must decide. Shall it be the Champs-Elysées?"

"Oh! there are too many people there."

"Vincennes?"

"Too far."

"Vaugirard?"

"A pretty kind of country, with not a tree anywhere about!"

"Sceaux?"

"Too fashionable! I am not dressed."

"Montmartre?"

"To look at quarries and donkeys?"

"Saint-Denis?"

"There's nothing nice there but cheese-cakes, and I prefer the ones in the Passage des Panoramas."

"Belleville?"

"That's a little vulgar, but it's amusing; besides, I have a decided penchant for Prés Saint-Gervais and Romainville wood."

"Belleville it is, then. Off we go, driver!"

The cabman lashed his horse. Virginie was in a merry mood; with her the annoyances of yesterday, the cares of to-morrow vanished before the enjoyment of the moment. For his part, Auguste was not sorry to have his mind diverted from the thoughts that disturbed him concerning Madame Saint-Edmond, whom he had told that he expected to pass the evening at Monsieur de la Thomassinière's.

They reached the Belleville barrier; it took the cabman half an hour to drive his nags up the hill, and when they reached the Ile d'Amour, they refused to go any farther. But Virginie was very glad to walk in the fields, so they alighted, dismissed the cab, and took a narrow road to the left, which led to Prés Saint-Gervais.

The sight of the green grass and trees made Virginie sentimental; she sighed as they strolled along the avenues of lilacs, where several cottages had recently been built.

"How ridiculous," she cried, "to build houses everywhere, even in the fields! you might as well go to walk in your bedroom. It used to be so pretty here! We lunched on fresh eggs over there once--do you remember? We drank beer under that arbor. And that restaurant, in the woods, just beyond the keeper's, where we went several times--the one where they have private rooms."

"Oh, yes! the Tournebride."

"The Tournebride, that's it. Ungrateful wretch! doesn't that name recall any memories?"

"Yes, it reminds me of a certain fowl that we could not succeed in carving."

"Indeed! it reminds you of nothing but a fowl! You are not at all romantic to-day."

"Do you want to dine there?"

"I not only want to, but I insist upon it. It's rather far away, but the walk will give us an appetite."

"Besides, we can rest on the way."

"Oh! since people have built everywhere, there are no nice places to rest."

They ran along, throwing leaves and grass at each other and plucking an occasional wild flower. At last they reached the sandy soil of the woods, and Virginie sighed again when she saw that the trees had been felled on large tracts, and that building was in progress there also.

"These people seem to have determined on the destruction of Romainville forest!" she said.

"It will grow again, my dear."

"Oh, yes! but meanwhile we shan't grow again. How indifferent men are! they don't get attached to anything. Think of the love ciphers that we carved with a knife on the bark of an oak tree; I looked forward to seeing them again. There was an A and a V intertwined in a heart."

"They probably served to warm some old annuitant's feet, or to boil the kettle for some respectable family."

"That's it--make soup with my heart; that's very pleasant to think of! I shan't cut any more letters on trees.--Ah! here's the Tournebride luckily; I was afraid they'd cut that down too."

The Tournebride was the most famous restaurant in Romainville forest; but for all that, it would not have been safe to order a charlotte russe there, or a _karik à l'Indienne_, because the landlord would have thought that you were talking Tartar, or making fun of him, and would tell you to go to Noisy-le-Sec for your dinner. But if you confined your ambition to a bill-of-fare dainty enough for the worthy bourgeois of Rue Saint-Denis, and very popular among the young work-girls who came to Romainville with their sweethearts, you might be certain of being satisfied at the Tournebride, which is only three gun-shots from the keeper's lodge, on the road leading to Romainville village.

Auguste and Virginie entered the inn, and, as is usual in country restaurants, they went through the kitchen to reach the salons and the private rooms. They enjoyed the sight of veal-stews, cutlets, and beef _piqué_; and as such restaurants had no printed bill-of-fare, the kitchen took the place of one. When you walked through, you saw all the saucepans, and you inhaled the combined odors of five or six ragouts, which might stand you instead of soup, but which was less agreeable after you had dined.

The host welcomed his guests with a smiling face, his cotton cap over his ear; as he answered questions he ran from one saucepan to another, and spitted a pigeon as he extolled his beefsteak.

"Let's make up our minds at once what we'll have," said Virginie, who was accustomed to country restaurants. "Is the beefsteak tender?"

"Oh! delicious, madame."

"With kidneys, eh, my friend?"

"Yes, they are essential.--Have you any kidneys, monsieur l'hôte?"

"Here, monsieur, just smell this," said the landlord, holding a saucepan under Auguste's nose. "I won't tell you, as my confrères in Paris do, that they're stewed in champagne, but I'll swear it's white wine, and delicious."

"Very good."

"And a pigeon pie, if you please, delicious also."

"Some asparagus and lettuce."

"If monsieur would like a fine omelette soufflée?"

"Ah, yes! I remember very well that you make very good ones."

"Yes, monsieur; they puff up like a cotton nightcap."

"Let us have an omelette soufflée then. Give us a private room, please."

"Take monsieur and madame to the unoccupied room on the first floor."

A waiter, who was no longer young, but who smiled all the time, escorted the newcomers to a room that looked on the forest.

"Why not give us the room opposite?" asked Virginie; "the outlook is better, we can see the road."

"There is somebody there, madame--a party."

"In that case, let us stay here," said Auguste.

The waiter laid the table, then left the room, saying:

"I will go and see to the dinner; if monsieur wants anything before it is ready, he can call."

That meant that he would not come up unless he was called. Such people are almost as cunning in the country as in Paris.

Auguste did not call for some time, because they felt that they must rest before dinner, and moreover the private rooms of the Tournebride made Mademoiselle Virginie very romantic; at all events, that is what she told Auguste, laughing like a madcap, which, by the way, is not romantic; but Mademoiselle Virginie had a way of her own of being romantic.

At last the stomach made itself heard; and in face of that domineering master, all illusions vanish. The most romantic of mortals, standing in rapt admiration before a rushing torrent or a waterfall, is compelled to make an end when the dinner-bell rings. Virginie and Auguste were admiring neither a torrent nor a waterfall; I am not certain that they were absorbed in admiration of anything; but I know that they opened their door and beat a tattoo upon it with knife handles--a method of attracting attention which makes bells unnecessary.

The waiter brought up the dinner, to which they did justice; the beefsteak and kidneys were in truth delicious, and they had no ground for complaint. While the waiter was present, Mademoiselle Virginie, who was reasonably curious, expressed surprise that the party opposite should be so silent that they did not hear voices, whereas, ordinarily, the guests at country restaurants are very noisy. The young woman concluded her remarks by asking the waiter:

"Isn't it a large party?"

The old waiter replied, smiling so as to show the whole of his three remaining teeth:

"It's no larger than yours."

"Oho! a party of two, is it?"

"Yes, madame."

"A man and a woman?"

"Yes, madame."

"They seem to be even more romantic than we are; they have forgotten about dinner."

"Oh! the dinner's all ordered, it's coming up directly. I know their ways; they're regulars."