"'Yes, monsieur; last night, when I spoke to you, I put it in your hand.'
"Everything was explained. I remembered perfectly that when she whispered to me she had taken my hand; and that was when she gave me the key—or, rather, when she thought that I received it; but, alas! she was mistaken; the key fell noiselessly on the grass, and neither of us noticed it. You see, messieurs, what trifles happiness depends upon. I asked pardon and claimed another assignation; but with women a lost opportunity is seldom recovered.—'Try to find the key,' she said. I hastened to the place where she had spoken to me the night before. Alas! in vain did I scratch the ground and examine every tuft of grass; I did not find the key. A few days later, the pretty blonde went away, and I never saw her again."
V
FILLETTES, GRISETTES, AND LORETTES
I had performed my task; Dumouton and Fouvenard alone remained to be heard. The latter having requested the privilege of speaking last, the man of letters in the yellowish-green coat bowed gracefully and began:
"To speak of one's bonnes fortunes, messieurs, is to speak of the ladies; with me, it is to speak of fillettes, grisettes, or lorettes; for as to bourgeois dames or great ladies, married or single, I have always deemed them too virtuous to be the objects of my attachment. That is my individual opinion; opinions are free. Allow me, therefore, to indulge in a brief digression concerning fillettes, grisettes, and lorettes. I know that my colleague, Alexandre Dumas, has discussed this subject; but there are subjects that are inexhaustible—always attractive and interesting: women and love enjoy that blessed privilege.
"It has been said that Paris is the paradise of women. Ah! messieurs, he who said that can never have visited the tiny chambers, the closets, the attics, sometimes even the garrets, where that charming sex often lacks the first essentials of life; sometimes by its own fault, sometimes by the fault of destiny, or, to speak more accurately, of those cruel monsters of men, who play so important a part in the story of these young women.
"The fillettes of Paris are the daughters of honest bourgeois or artisans, whose parents, too much engrossed by their labor or by the care of their business, put them out as apprentices, or as shopgirls, or, as happens in the majority of cases, leave them at home to look after the housework and keep house.
"Imagine a girl of fourteen to sixteen years of age, taken from her school, and, all of a sudden, because her father has become a widower, or because her mother sits at a counter all day, burdened with the whole charge of the household. She has no maid to assist her; for if she had, she would be a demoiselle, not a fillette. The demoiselles have had a good education, they have had teachers who have tried to enlighten their minds and their judgment and to train their hearts; indeed, they are supposed to know a great many things; but they are entitled to do nothing at all during the day, just because they are demoiselles.
"The fillettes, on the contrary, have to do everything, and generally are taught nothing. But you should see how they manage the household that has been thrown on their hands—mere children, who were playing with their dolls yesterday. Ordinarily, they begin by sweeping, very early; but if the lodging consists only of a single room and a cabinet, the housework is never finished till the end of the day—when it is finished at all. To be sure, the fillette doesn't work long at any one thing; she is required to change her occupation every minute; indeed, it rarely happens that she dresses herself entirely. The young woman whom you meet on the street early in the morning, carelessly dressed, in shoes down at heel, with unkempt hair, dirty hands, and a modest manner, is a fillette.
"She has just begun to sweep, and suddenly she drops the broom, which sometimes falls against a pane of glass and breaks it; but the young housekeeper doesn't mind that. She starts to remove her curl papers; she removes one, she removes two—but just as she has her hand on the third, she remembers that she hasn't skimmed the stew; so she abandons her hair, runs to get the skimmer, and brandishes that utensil, humming Guido's song: