Part 22

"These good people take us for princesses."

"Well, it theemth to me that I cut a pretty good figure."

"Yes, but don't make stupid remarks at the party. For my part, I like it here very much; I would willingly spend a fortnight here."

"It thertainly wouldn't cotht much to live here."

"But if all the men are as agreeable as neighbor Mauflard, they must be a lively set of fellows."

Night came, and the regular party-goers, who had arranged to meet at Mère Fourcy's on that evening, began to arrive. One old woman brought her spinning-wheel, another her knitting; many brought nothing, because they were to tell stories, which are of no small importance at a village party. The men brought bottles and pitchers, and every one was provided with his own supper.

Virginie and Cézarine, seated in a corner of the main room, where it was not very light, despite the lamp, scrutinized the villagers and made comments which luckily they did not hear.

"Oh! what funny creatures!" said Virginie. "Don't they look countrified! I'd like to show them stars on the ceiling!"

"Oh! thethe village folkth are more knowing than they look."

"I'll bet that I play a trick on 'em and fool 'em all."

"Virginie, you mutht behave yourthelf, you know."

"That's all right, Semiramis, I know how to behave."

"Look at that tall young fellow over there--he'th a handthome man. He hath Théodore'th legth."

"He looks like a terrible fool!"

"I don't care for that--he ithn't a bit bad-looking."

When they first entered the room, the villagers did not notice the two Parisian ladies; but when they did see them, they gathered in groups and began to whisper together. Cézarine walked toward them and said with an amiable air:

"We don't wish to embarrath you, worthy villagerth; we have come to take part in your games."

"We're very fond of country life," said Virginie; "and before buying a farm, we want to know what people do on farms."

Mère Fourcy's arrival gave the villagers all the information they desired.

"They're great ladies from Paris," she told them. "They have a beautiful house, but they ain't a bit proud; they decided to pass the night here, so's to be at the party. You'll see how polite they are."

The peasants bowed low to the great ladies; some young gallants of the village, in order to win favor with the strangers at once, began to push one another and exchange fisticuffs, and yelled with delight when one of them fell to the floor.

"Our youngsters are beginning their fooling," said the old men; and Virginie remarked to her friend:

"If they begin like this, I wonder where they'll end!"

Amid the uproar, Monsieur Mauflard continued to snore in his chair; and one of the village wits exclaimed:

"Look--Père Mauflard's asleep. I say! we must put up a game on Père Mauflard. What do you say?"

"Count me in on that," said Cézarine, seating herself beside the tall, gawky youth whom she considered handsome, and who lowered his eyes and flushed to the ears when the lady from Paris looked at him.

"What shall we do to Père Mauflard?" asked a peasant.

"Take his hat."

"Oh! that ain't funny enough."

"Steal his handkerchief."

"Or his snuff-box."

"Oh! he'll guess right off that it was us who took that. That ain't a good trick."

"Do you want a good trick?" asked Cézarine; "if you do, jutht quietly take off his breecheth."

All the villagers gazed at one another in amazement, for the trick proposed by the lovely Parisian seemed rather strong to them; and Virginie trod on her friend's foot and whispered:

"Will you keep quiet? What are you thinking about? As if anyone ever did such things as that here!--My friends," Virginie continued, addressing the villagers, "my cousin said that because she assumed that Père Mauflard wears drawers."

"Oh, yes! but he don't!" said a stout woman, laughingly. Whereupon all the peasants cried:

"Oho! Fanchon knows all about it! How do you know that, eh, Fanchon? Well, on my word! it seems that Fanchon--So you know that, do you, Fanchon?"

Fanchon laughed on, and the noise finally woke Père Mauflard, who rubbed his eyes and asked what the matter was.

But Denise's aunt restored order by arranging the whole party in a circle. The seats of honor by the fireplace were offered to the two ladies. Cézarine, who had seated herself beside the tall lout, said that she was very comfortable and that the heat made her ill. Virginie sat between two old men. Denise took Coco in her lap; she alone had no share in the pleasures of the occasion, and her heart as well as her thoughts bore her far from the village.

An old woman began a tale of robbers; another told a ghost story; and as neither of them interested Cézarine, while the simple folk tremblingly huddled together, she played games with the tall youth, and chucked him under the chin, saying:

"How much he looks like Théodore!"

An old peasant took the floor and announced that he proposed to sing the lament composed on the extraordinary death of Etienne de Garlande, formerly lord of Livry, who espoused the cause of Amaury de Montfort against Louis le Gros; the lament had only seventy-two stanzas.

As each stanza, sung to a most doleful tune in the measure of _Malbrouck_, lasted nearly five minutes, Virginie rose at the second, took a candle, whispered to Mère Fourcy that she was going to bed, and vanished without diverting the peasants' attention from the dirge.

But Cézarine, who was not at all anxious to listen to the seventy-two stanzas, interrupted the peasant in the middle of the fourth, saying:

"My dear friend, your thory ith very pretty, but it will end by putting everybody to thleep like neighbor Mauflard, who hath been thnoring for an hour. If you thay tho, I'll give you a then from a tragedy. Do you know what tragedy ith, my friendth?"

"No, madame," said the villagers.

"And comedy--have you ever been to one?"

"No, madame."

"Oh! I know what it is," said one of the young blades; "I've been in Paris. It's a place where you see men and women behind a curtain that goes up; and then there's lamps, and they say silly things and wave their arms about, and you can't understand nothing at all; but it's almighty fine."

"That'th the very thing, my dear boy; you know all about it. Tho you'll be able to explain to the company what they can't grathp right away. I'm going to give you a thene from _Andromaque_. Come with me, my fine fellow, you're going to be Pyrrhuth."

Cézarine took the tall youth by the arm, placed a wooden bench at the rear of the room, unfolded her shawl and draped it round her body, and removed one of her garters, which she knotted about the young peasant's brow; he allowed himself to be thus decorated, not daring to stir. The peasants, their eyes fixed on Cézarine, waited impatiently to see what she was going to do. After removing her hat and arranging her hair on top of her head, Cézarine ordered the tall youth to stand on one end of the bench and took her own place on the other end, saying:

"Now we're going to begin. But firtht I think I ought to tell you a little about the thubject of the play. Lithen: Andromaque ith a queen whothe huthband hath been killed; Pyrrhuth here wanth to marry her, and the won't. That'th the whole of it--now you underthtand; don't you?"

"Yes, yes," said the peasants; "anyway Jean-François'll explain the rest."

"All right. I'll begin; and you, Pyrrhuth, do me the favor not to keep your eyeth on your big toe all the time, for Pyrrhuth ought not to look like a zany."

The gawky youth, in order to obey the lovely lady, at whom he dared not glance, raised his eyes and thereafter did not take them from the ceiling.

Cézarine assumed a noble pose and began:

"And what more wouldtht thou I thould thay to him? Author of all my i11th, thinktht thou he knowth them not? My lord, thee to what low ethtate thou dotht reduth me. I have theen my father dead, and our abode on fire; I have theen the liveth of my whole family in peril, And my blood-thtained huthband dragged amid the dutht."

"Poor soul! think of her seeing all that!" said the peasant women. "Is that all true, Jean-François?"

"Yes, yes! of course it's true! Don't she tell you she saw it?"

"My children," said Cézarine, "if you interrupt me, I than't be inthpired any more; a little thilence, if you pleathe."

"I breathe again, I therve; I have done more, thometimeth I have ta'en comfort Becauthe my fate hath exiled me here and not elthwhere; Becauthe, happy in my mithery, the thon of tho many kingth, Thinthe he mutht therve, hath fallen beneath your thway; I have thought that hith prithon would become hith refuge; Of yore the conquered Priam wath by Achilleth thpared; I from hith thon e'en greater kindneth did antithipate. Forgive me, Hector dear----"

"Friend Pyrrhuth, pray attend to bithneth. Are you looking for thpiderth on the theiling?"

The tall youth looked toward the door, and Cézarine resumed:

"Forgive me, Hector dear----"

"Thilenth, my children," she said, pausing again; "I beg the perthon who ith thnoring tho loud to do me the favor to go."

Cézarine was about to continue her declamation when there came another prolonged groan. All the villagers looked at one another, saying:

"Who on earth is making such a noise as that?"

"It ain't me."

"Nor me."

"Nor it ain't Père Mauflard neither."

Another groan woke the echoes of the living-room. Terror was depicted on every face, and the peasants crowded closer together.

"Great God! what can that be?" they exclaimed.

"You are frightened at nothing at all," said Cézarine; "it'th thome brute prowling round the yard."

"Oh! that ain't no brute's voice, I tell you! it's more like some dead man's soul."

"I say! perhaps it's Jacques Ledru, as died a week ago!"

"Ain't it more like to be the ghost of Mère Lucas, who was so ugly when she was living? Perhaps she's bent on tormenting us still."

To set their minds at rest, Cézarine was on the point of resuming her tirade, when the gawky youth, whose eyes were fixed on the door, uttered a horrible yell and fell from the bench, thereby causing Andromaque to fall upon him.

"What is it? what's the matter?" cried the terrified peasants in chorus.

The tall youth, who had not the strength to speak, pointed to the door; then hid his face in his hands. All the villagers looked at the place at which he pointed: the door was thrown open, disclosing in the doorway a white phantom of extraordinary size, whose eyes flashed fire.

At that horrible sight, all the women uttered heart-rending shrieks and tumbled over one another in their haste to get away from the door. Most of the men did the same, shouting: "Let's get out of this!" But, as they could not escape by the door, where the phantom stood on guard, they pushed one another toward the end of the room; and in the hurly-burly, chairs and benches were overturned, as well as the table that held the lamp, which fell to the floor and was extinguished. The sudden darkness added to the general alarm; those who had not seen the lamp fall thought that the phantom had caused that terrifying obscurity by his mere presence; the shrieks redoubled; it was impossible to see, they fell over one another, and everyone thought that it was the devil falling upon him. To add still more to their terror the phantom uttered blood-curdling grunts and piteous groans.

The confusion lasted several minutes, the peasants shrieking in terror and offering up prayers. Mademoiselle Cézarine alone was not heard to bewail her fate, although she too had fallen, with the tall youth. The latter had the courage to look toward the door, where he saw the gleaming-eyed phantom.

"It's still there!" he said under his breath; "it don't go away!"

Whereupon Mademoiselle Cézarine was heard to say in a stifled voice:

"Don't thtir, my children, and above all thingth, don't light any candleth, or the devil will come and carry uth off!"

Suddenly the barking of a dog was heard in the yard; it was soon followed by yells from the phantom, who was struggling with the beast and calling the peasants to its assistance.

"Mère Fourcy, call off your dog, for heaven's sake! What an ugly beast! he's biting my legs! Come and drive him away, Cézarine!"

That voice, which was recognized as belonging to Virginie, put an end to the terror of the peasants, who began to suspect that they had been fooled by the young ladies from Paris; to put them entirely at ease, the dog pulled off the sheet in which Virginie had enveloped herself, and took in his jaws a lantern which she had placed on her head, wrapping the sheet about it and allowing the light to shine through two small holes.

The dog raced about the room with the lantern, and the light disclosed a ridiculous tableau. The men and women were inextricably commingled, and, even without mischievous intention, the proprieties had not been altogether respected, because, when one is frightened, one conceals oneself as best one can. The position of Cézarine and the tall youth was the most equivocal; but the light of the lantern lighted the room but dimly, and there were many things which there was no time to see. They began by setting free Père Mauflard, who had a table, two benches and three nurses upon him; then the lamp was relighted and they could recognize one another. Amid the tumult Denise had remained quietly in a corner with Coco; but, on hearing Virginie's shrieks, she flew to her assistance and helped her to rid herself of the sheet in which she was entangled.

"Why! was it you playing ghost?" inquired the young girl.

"Yes, my dear, I thought I'd act a scene from a fairy pantomime for you; and if it hadn't been for your infernal dog, who jumped at--at the base of my back, while I was giving a groan, I'd have frightened you a great deal worse!"

"Oh! what a pity!" said Cézarine, with a languishing glance at the gawky youth, "it was so nithe! I'm very fond of fairy thenes."

"Your fairy scene is to blame for my being all bruised up," said Père Mauflard.

The peasants, offended because they had been made game of, refused to prolong the festivity, and left Mère Fourcy's house, saying:

"What do fine ladies like them amount to anyway! one wants to see Père Mauflard's drawers, and the other dresses up as a ghost; they act as if they was pretty gay girls!"

When the neighbors had gone, no one thought of anything but retiring. Virginie and her friend went to their chamber and to bed, and soon fell asleep, one nursing her bites, the other lisping that the tall young man had many of Théodore's attributes. Mère Fourcy and Coco went to sleep also. Denise alone could obtain no rest; she thought constantly of Auguste, of the change in his fortunes, and of what she could do for him to prove her friendship. But she no longer felt any inclination to ask the advice of the ladies from Paris, because all the foolish antics in which she had seen them indulge had somewhat lessened her esteem for them. She felt that she must be guided by her heart alone; she was sure that it would never give her any advice for which she would need to blush.

The next morning, after breakfast, the ladies, being already sadly bored in the country, where they desired at first to pass a fortnight, bade Mère Fourcy and Denise adieu and took their places in the Paris coach.

"Ah! my dear," said Virginie, "how I long to be in Paris! it seems to me that it's six months since I saw Rue Montmartre and the Ambigu-Comique."

"What do you think of me, who haven't theen Théodore for twenty-four hourth!"

"Say what you will, there's no place but Paris for fun and dress and the theatre and punch!"

"Ah! if I had to live in the country, I thould die there!"

XIX

A MAN IN A THOUSAND

After his visit to the old man on the fifth floor, Auguste had made a vow to be prudent and to profit by the lesson which the unfortunate Dorfeuil had unconsciously given him. But an old proverb says: "Drive away the natural, and it returns at a gallop;" and Auguste's nature still impelled him to do foolish things. Moreover, being unable thenceforth, by reason of an instinctive delicacy for which he cannot be blamed, to seek diversion at his window, he was driven to seek it elsewhere. From his more prosperous days Auguste had retained the habit of playing the grand seigneur, of reckoning the cost of nothing, of following only his first impulse. He was as generous to the unfortunate as to his mistresses: to confer pleasure on others is such a gratifying habit that it is very hard to abandon it. There are people, however, who have never known that gratification.

Upon examining his cash-box, Bertrand had discovered the enormous deficit consequent upon Auguste's visit to the old man. Unable to understand how his master could have spent so much money in so short a time, Bertrand concluded that they had been robbed, and made an infernal row. He proposed to go down and cudgel Schtrack and his wife, to teach them to allow thieves to enter the house; but Auguste detained him, saying:

"Don't get excited, my dear fellow, we haven't been robbed."

"Why, monsieur, we had about ten thousand francs left three days ago; now I can find only seven--and you say we haven't been robbed!"

"No, Bertrand; it was I who took the money."

"Oh! excuse me, lieutenant; if you have got it, that's different."

"I don't say that I have it; I tell you that I had a use for it."

"A thousand crowns in three days! you're doing well, lieutenant. I don't quite see why we came up to the fifth floor, for you didn't spend any more on the first."

"I met an old friend, Bertrand,--he was in destitution."

"We may very well be there, too, and it won't be long either, if we go on at this rate. Excuse me, lieutenant, I know how generous you are, I know your kind heart; but still you must remember that you haven't twenty thousand francs a year any more; and when you can't have anything but a piece of beef for dinner, it don't seem to me that it's the time to give other people partridges."

"Don't be angry, Bertrand; I am going to be prudent--yes, miserly."

"Miserly! nonsense, lieutenant! you'll never have that fault! In fact, I don't believe it would help us now."

"I am not without prospects; I am promised a place in a government office."

"Really?"

"With a salary of six thousand francs."

"Impossible!"

"Quite possible, on the contrary; but you see everything in dark colors."

"It is you who see everything in rose color, monsieur."

"If that place should fail me, it is probable that I shall go into a banking-house, as bookkeeper."

"Did you ever keep books, monsieur?"

"No; but what difference does that make? Do you suppose that one has to study for a place like that, as one would study mechanics? With a neat handwriting, familiarity with rates of exchange and mathematics, and a little intelligence, you can fill any sort of clerkship. I know that there are people who study two or three years to learn how to copy a letter, and others who consider themselves Archimedeses, Newtons or Galileos, because they pass their lives doing sums."

"It seems to me, monsieur, that when a man has a place, he ought to work."

"Very well, I will work, Bertrand; that won't trouble me any. I have done nothing, because I had nothing to do; but the moment I have employment, you will see how ardently I will go at my work. Ah! I wish I were there now!"

"So do I, monsieur; in the first place, because you would be earning money, and in the second place, because, when a man is busy, he does fewer foolish things. Who is it who is going to get these places for you?"

"For the first one, a lovely woman, who has a cousin who's very intimate with the minister's secretary. Oh! I tell you, Bertrand, these women--they're the only ones to obtain things; and, say what you will, their acquaintance isn't always a burden; when they take a person under their protection, they go about it with such zeal, such ardor, that they can't fail."

"And the other place, lieutenant--is it a woman who is going to obtain that for you, too?"

"No, it's a young man, with whom I have dined quite often--an excellent fellow, and most obliging. His uncle is partner in a bank; he has promised to speak to him about me, and the first vacant place will be given me."

"That would come in very handily, monsieur."

"But you must see that, in order to make yourself agreeable to those whose support you require, there is always more or less money to be spent: with the charming young woman, it's theatre parties and little presents; with the young man, luncheons and dinners to be given him; for it isn't fashionable to help people unless you believe them to be in comfortable circumstances."

"I understand: one must be ruined altogether before one has any resources."

"That is called sowing that you may reap."

"You've been sowing a good long time, monsieur."

"I tell you that within a fortnight I shall have employment."

"When that day comes I'll go for a walk with Schtrack."

"Give me some money, Bertrand."

"Money, monsieur?"

"Yes, Eugène is going to dine with me to-day; he's the young man whose uncle is a banker. To-night I am going to call on the charmer whose cousin is to say a good word for me. There will be cards, no doubt, and if I have the look of being hard up and of being afraid to lose a few francs, people won't condescend to look at me."

"Ah, yes, I understand; you want money, so that you can sow."

"Yes, my friend."

After filling his purse, Auguste went to meet the friend with whom he had an appointment, and whom he was to entertain at dinner, together with several others who might possibly be useful to him. Dalville took his guests to one of the very best restaurants; he would have felt ashamed to dine at a place where they would have been as comfortable and as well served at less expense, but which was not so highly considered in fashionable society. During dinner they thought of nothing but laughing and joking, and Auguste was very careful not to mention his desire for employment; that would have seemed to indicate that he was in straitened circumstances, which would produce an ill effect. Not until the dessert, while they were drinking their champagne, did Eugène say to Auguste:

"Are you still wanting something to do?"

"Why, yes; I am tired to death of idleness; I am sick of a life of pleasure."

"That's a good idea; work--it will be a little change for you, and it helps to reform wayward youth. My uncle will think so. I'll speak to him about you when I see him."

Auguste dared not say that he would like to have him make a point of seeing his uncle. The young men, having had an excellent dinner, left Auguste, making all sorts of proffers of service, and renewing their assurances of devotion; and he betook himself to the lovely woman who had promised to assist him and who was to have mentioned him to her cousin.

Ladies are beyond question better advocates than men; it certainly is easier for them to succeed, for they obtain with a smile what has been denied again and again to obscure merit, to shamefaced poverty. This fact does credit to our gallantry at least, if not to our justice, and it is in human nature to submit to be seduced by beauty.

Madame Valmont was greatly interested in Auguste, who accompanied her excellently on the piano, and sang nocturnes in her salon with excellent taste. She had kept her word by inviting her cousin that evening, in order to introduce Auguste to him. The cousin was a man of fashion, who was received in the best society; addicted to making promises freely and forgetting on the morrow what he had promised the night before; but desirous of playing the patron even when he did not patronize, and deeming himself a mortal of superior mould before whom everyone should bow.