Copyright 1905 by G. Barrie & Sons

A GENTLEMEN'S DINNER AT DEFFIEUX'S

"Now, then, messieurs, as one should never be ungrateful, as one should bestow at least a single thought on those who have made one happy, I drink to my mistresses, messieurs, to whom I bid a last farewell to-day!"

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME V
FRÉDÉRIQUE
VOL. I

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons.
FRÉDÉRIQUE

I
A GENTLEMEN'S DINNER AT DEFFIEUX'S

"A lady said to me one day:

"'Monsieur Rochebrune, would it be possible for you to love two women at once?'

"'I give you my word, madame,' I answered, frankly, 'that I could love half a dozen, and perhaps more; for it has often happened that I have loved more than two at the same time.'

"My reply called forth, on the part of the lady in question, a gesture in which there was something very like indignation, and she said, in a decidedly sarcastic tone:

"'For my part, monsieur, I assure you that I would not be content with a sixth of the heart of a man whom I had distinguished by my favor; and if I were foolish enough to feel the slightest inclination for him, I should very soon be cured of it when I saw that his love was such a commonplace sentiment.'

"Well, messieurs, you would never believe how much injury my frankness did me, not only with that lady—I had no designs upon her, although she was young and pretty; but in society, in the houses which she frequents, and at which I myself visit, she repeated what I had said to her; and many ladies, to whom I would gladly have paid court, received me so coldly at the first compliment that I saw very plainly that they had an unfavorable opinion of me—all because, instead of being a hypocrite and dissembler, I said plainly what I thought. I tell you, messieurs, it's a great mistake to say what you think, in society. I have repented more than once of having given vent to those outpourings of the heart which we should confide only to those who know us well enough to judge us fairly; but, as society is always disposed to believe in evil rather than in good, if we have a failing, it is magnified into a vice; if we confess to a foible, we are supposed to have dangerous passions. Therefore, it is much better to lie; and yet, it seems to me, that, if I were a woman, I should prefer a lover who frankly confessed his infidelities, to one who tried to deceive me."

"If I were a woman, I should prefer a man who loved nobody but me, and would be faithful to me."

"Oh! parbleu! what an idea! It isn't certain, by any means, that all women would prefer such a man. There are faithful lovers who are so tiresome!"

"And inconstant ones who are so attractive!"

"I go even further, myself, and maintain that the very fact that a man is faithful more than a little while makes him a terrible bore. He drives his mistress mad with his sighs, his protestations of love; he caresses her too much; he thinks of nothing but kissing her. There's nothing that women get so tired of as of being kissed."

"Oho! do you think so, my little Balloquet? That simply proves that you're a bad kisser, or that you're not popular. On the contrary, women adore caressing men; I know what I'm talking about."

"Oh! what a conceited creature this Fouvenard is! Think of it, messieurs! he would make us believe that the women adore him!"

"Well! why not?"

"Your nose is too much turned up; women like Roman noses. You can never look sentimental with a nose like a trumpet."

"So you think that a man must have a languorous, melancholy air, in order to make conquests, do you? Balloquet, you make me tired!"

"I'll give you points at that game whenever you choose, Fouvenard. We will take these gentlemen for judges. Tell the waiter to bring up six women,—of any condition and from any quarter, I don't care what one,—and we'll see which of us two they will prefer. What do you say?"

Young Balloquet's proposal aroused general laughter, and a gentleman who sat beside me observed to me:

"It might well be that the ladies wouldn't have anything to say to either of them. What do you think?"

"I think that any ladies who would consent to grace our dessert, at the behest of a waiter, would do it only on one condition; and men don't make a conquest of such women, as they give themselves to everybody."

"Parbleu! messieurs, it is very amiable of us to listen to this discussion between Fouvenard and Balloquet as to which of them a woman would think the uglier; for my part, I prefer to demand an explanation of what Rochebrune said just now. He talked a long while, and I've no doubt he said some very nice things; but as I didn't quite understand him, I request an explanation of the picture, or the key to the riddle, if there is one."

"Yes, yes, the key; for I didn't understand him, either."

"Well, I did; I followed his reasoning: he says that a man can love a dozen women at once."

"A dozen! why not thirty-six? What Turks you are, messieurs! Rochebrune didn't say that."

"Yes, I did. Isn't it true?"

"Messieurs, I desire the floor."

"You may talk in a minute, Montricourt—after Rochebrune."

"A toast first of all, messieurs!"

"Oh! of course! When the host proposes a toast, we should be boors if we refused to honor it.—Fill the cups, waiter!"

"This is very pretty, drinking champagne from cups; it recalls the banquets of antiquity—those famous feasts that Lucullus gave in the hall of Apollo, or of Mars."

"Yes! those old bucks knew how to dine; every one of his suppers cost Lucullus about thirty-nine thousand francs in our money."

"Bah! don't talk to me about your Romans, my dear fellow; I shall never take those people for models. They spent a lot of money for one repast, but that doesn't prove that they knew how to eat. In the first place, they lay on beds at the table! As if one could eat comfortably lying down! It's like eating on the grass, which is as unpleasant as can be; nobody likes eating on the grass but lovers, and they are thinking of something besides eating. As for your cups, they're pretty to look at, I agree, but they're less convenient for drinking than glasses, and the champagne doesn't foam so much in a cup; and then, you don't have the pleasure of making it foam all over again by striking your glass."

"Say what you will, Monsieur Rouffignard, the Romans knew how to live."

"Because they wore wreaths of roses at their meals, perhaps?"

"Well, it isn't so very unpleasant to have flowers on your head."

"Oh! don't talk to me, Monsieur Dumouton; let's all try wearing a wreath of roses, and you'll see what we look like—genuine buffoons, paraders, and nothing else!"

"Simply because our dress isn't suited to it, monsieur; our style of dress is very disobliging, it isn't suited to anything; with the tunic and cloak falling in graceful folds, the wreath on the head was not absurd. And the slaves who served the ambrosia—in tableau vivant costumes—weren't they attractive to the eye?"

"Oh, yes! slaves of both sexes! That was refined, and no mistake. I tell you that your Romans were infernal debauchees; they put up with—aye, cultivated all the vices! Why, monsieur, what do you say to the Senators who had the effrontery to propose a decree that Cæsar, then fifty-seven years of age, should possess all the women he desired?"

"'Ah! le joli droit! ah! le joli droit du seigneur!'"

"I would like right well to know if he made use of that right."

"Fichtre! he must have been a very great man!"

"Don't you know what used to be said of him: that he was the husband of all the women?"

"Yes, and we know the rest."

"I say, you, over there! Haven't you nearly finished talking about your Romans?"

"What about our host's toast?—Come, Dupréval, we're waiting; the guns are loaded, the matches lighted."

"Silence at the end of the table! Dupréval is going to speak! Great God! what chatterers those fellows are!"

"It's not we, messieurs, that you hear; it's the music. Hark, listen! they're dancing; there are wedding parties all about us—two or three at least."

"What is there surprising in that? Aren't there always wedding feasts going on at Deffieux's?"

"For my part, if I kept a restaurant, and had such a class of patrons, I would take for my sign: the Maid of Orléans."

"Oh! that would be very injudicious: many brides would refuse to have their wedding feasts at your place."

"Hush! Dupréval is getting up; he's going to speak."

"As you know, messieurs, this is my last dinner party as a bachelor, for I am to be married in a fortnight. Before settling down, before becoming transformed into a sedate and virtuous mortal, I determined to get you all together; I wanted to enjoy once more with you a few of those moments of freedom and folly which have—a little too often, perhaps—marked my bachelor days with a white stone. Now, then, messieurs, as one should never be ungrateful, as one should bestow at least a single thought on those who have made one happy, I drink to my mistresses, messieurs, to whom I bid a last farewell to-day!"

"Here's to Dupréval's mistresses!"

"And to our own, messieurs!"

"To the ladies in general, and to the one I love in particular!"

"To their shapely legs and little feet!"

"To their blue eyes and fair hair!"

"I prefer brunettes!"

"To their graceful figures!"

"To the Hottentot Venus!"

"To the destruction of corns on the feet!"

"Oh! of course, Balloquet has to make one of his foolish remarks!"

"Messieurs, pardon me for interrupting you, but, in proposing a toast to my mistresses, pray don't think that I mean to imply that I have several. I am no such rake as Rochebrune is, in that respect; one at a time is enough for me. I intended simply to address a parting thought to those I have had during the whole of my bachelor life. That point being settled, I now yield the floor to our friend, who, I believe, was about to reply to the questions that had been put to him, when I proposed my toast."

Thereupon the whole company turned their eyes toward me, for, I fancy, you understand that I am Rochebrune. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea for me to tell you at once what I was doing and in whose company I was at that moment, at Deffieux's. Indeed, there are people who would have begun with that, before introducing you to a dinner party at which the guests are still unknown to you; but I like to turn aside from the travelled roads—not from a desire to be original, but from taste.

What am I? Oh! not much of anything! For, after all, what does a man amount to who has not great renown, great talent, an illustrious reputation, or an immense fortune? A clown, a Liliputian, an atom lost in the crowd. But you will tell me that the world is made up in larger part of atoms than of giants, and that the main thing is not so much to fill a large space as to fill worthily such space as one does fill.

Unluckily, I was not wise enough for that. Having come into possession of a neat little fortune rather early in life,—about fifteen thousand francs a year,—but having neither father nor mother to guide and advise me, I was left my own master rather too soon, I fancy; for while the reason matures quickly in adversity, the contrary is ordinarily true in the bosom of opulence.

You see some mere boys, who are compelled to work in order to support their families, exhibit the intelligence and courage of a full-grown man. But place those same youths in the lap of Fortune, and they will do all the foolish things that come into their heads. Why? Because, no doubt, it is natural to love pleasure; and when we are prudent and virtuous, it is very rarely due to our own volition, but rather to circumstances, and, above all, to adversity. Which proves that adversity has its good side. But, with your permission, we will return to myself.

My name is Charles Rochebrune. I am no longer young, having passed my thirtieth birthday. How time flies! it is shocking! to be thirty years old and no further advanced than I am! Indeed, instead of advancing, I believe that I have fallen back. At twenty I had fifteen thousand francs a year, and now I have but eight. If I go on like this, in a few years more I shall have nothing at all. But have I not acquired some experience, some talent, in return for my money? No experience, I fancy, as I constantly fall into the same errors I used to be guilty of years ago. And talent?—very little, I assure you! because I attempted to acquire all the talents, and could never make up my mind to rely on a single one. I had a vocation for the arts; the result was that I tried them all, and know a little something of each one; which means that I know nothing at all of any value. Painter, sculptor, musician, poet, in turn, I have grazed the surface of them all, but gone to the root of none. Ah! lamentable fickleness of taste, of character! No sooner had I studied a certain thing a little while, than the fatal tendency to change, which is my second nature, caused me to turn my ambition toward some other object. I would say to myself: "I have made a mistake; it is not painting that electrifies me, that sets my soul on fire, but music."—And I would lay aside my brushes, to bang on a piano; and when I had made it shriek for an hour, I would imagine that I was a composer and could safely be employed to write an opera.

There is but one sentiment which has never varied, in my case, and that is my love for the ladies; and yet they say that in my relations with them I have retained my fondness for changing. But if one loves flowers, must one pluck only a single one? I love bouquets à la jardinière.

And, after all, who can say that I would not have been constant if I had found a woman who loved me dearly, and who continued to love me, no matter what happened? This last phrase means many things, which the ladies will readily understand. But I have one very great failing as to them. I will not confide it to you yet; you will discover it soon enough, as you become better acquainted with me.

I said a moment ago that my parents—that is to say, my father—left me some property. My mother had had two husbands, and I was the son of her second marriage. As she had nothing when she married my father, it is to him that I am indebted for the fortune which I have employed so ill hitherto.

But, after all, have I employed it so ill, if I have been happy? Ah! the fact is that I am not at all certain that I have been really happy in this life of dissipation, folly, incessant change, regrets, and hopes so often disappointed. I determined to settle down, to do what is called making an end of things, which means marrying; albeit marriage is not always the end of our follies, and is often the beginning of our troubles. I loved my fiancée; I was not madly in love with her, but I liked her, and I thought that she was fond of me. An unforeseen occurrence broke off my projected marriage, and since then I have entirely renounced all such ideas, because a similar occurrence might have a similar result. What was it? Ah! that is my secret; I am not as yet intimate enough with you to tell you everything.

I seem to have been talking a long while about myself; you must be sadly bored. I propose now to make you acquainted with most of the gentlemen who were my table companions at Deffieux's; I say "most of them," for there were fifteen of us, and I did not know them all.

Let us begin with the host, Dupréval, who was giving the dinner, as he told us, to commemorate his final adieu to his bachelorhood.

Dupréval is a solicitor; an excellent fellow, neither handsome nor ugly, but a financier, a man of figures and calculations; he is entering into marriage as one enters into any large commercial speculation. He will certainly keep his word and abandon the follies of a bachelor, or I shall be very much astonished; he is a man who will make his way in the world; he has a goal—wealth; and he marches constantly toward it, never turning aside from the path.

I admire such men, unbending in their determination, and incapable of being turned aside from the line of conduct they have marked out for themselves; I admire them, but I shall never imitate them. Chance is such a fascinating thing, and it is such good fun to trust to it!

Next to Dupréval sat a stout young man, of medium height, but heavily built, high-colored, with the bloom and brilliancy of the peach ever on his cheeks. Unluckily, that never-failing freshness of complexion was his only beauty, if, indeed, such pronounced coloring is a beauty. His face beamed with good humor and denoted a leader in merrymaking; his mouth was a considerable gulf, and his eyes were infinitesimal; but, by way of compensation for occupying so little space, they were constantly in motion and very bright, their expression being decidedly bold when they rested upon the fair sex. His head was covered with a forest of flaxen hair. Such was Monsieur Balloquet, medical student; indeed, I believe he was a full-fledged doctor; but he had little practice, or, rather, none at all; he thought only of enjoying himself, like many doctors of his age. However, I do not mean to speak ill of Balloquet; for he was a very good fellow, and we were good friends.

Next to him was a young man of medium height, very thin, and with a very yellow complexion. An enormous beard, moustache, and whiskers covered so much of his face that one could see little more than his nose, which was long and thin, and his eyes, which were sunken and overshadowed by eyebrows that threatened to spread like his beard. This gentleman had an air of excessive weariness; that was all that one could make out beneath the chestnut shrubbery that had overgrown his face. His name was Fouvenard. I believe that he was in trade; but his business, whatever it was, seemed to have worn him out. But that fact did not prevent him from talking all the time of his past conquests and his present love affairs.

At my left was a rotund old party, with an amiable expression, and a full-blown, rubicund face. It was Monsieur Rouffignard, auctioneer, who was no longer young, but held his own manfully with the young men. He did not lag behind at table; indeed, I have an idea that he did not lag behind anywhere.

The next beyond was a very good-looking young man named Montricourt. He had rather a self-sufficient air, and, if you did not know him well, you might have called him conceited; but on talking with him, you found him much more agreeable than his pretentious costume would lead you to suppose.

Next came a man of thirty-six to forty years of age, rather ugly than handsome, with a round face, smooth hair, a shifty eye, and an equivocal smile, who spoke very slowly, and always seemed to reflect upon what he was going to say. His tone was honeyed, and his manners excessively polite. He was a clerk at the Treasury, by name Monsieur Faisandé. When someone, at the beginning of the dinner, said a few words that were a trifle free in tone, I noticed that he frowned, as a lady might have done who had strayed among us by mistake. After drinking five or six different kinds of wine, he pursed his lips less; but at every loose word that escaped us,—and such things are inevitable at a men's dinner which has no diplomatic object,—Monsieur Faisandé exclaimed:

"Hum! hum! Oh! messieurs, that's a little too bad! you go too far!"

"I may be mistaken," I thought; "but I would stake my head that Monsieur Faisandé is a hypocrite. That offended modesty is, to say the least, out of place, and almost discourteous toward the rest of us; for it seems a criticism of our conversation. In heaven's name, did the man think that if he came to dinner with a party of men, most of them young, and all high livers, he would hear no broad talk? There can be nothing so insufferable at a party as one of those people who seem determined to benumb your gayety by their sullen looks and their stiff manners. When such a person does appear in a merry company, he should be courteously turned out of doors."

What would you say of a doctor who should keep crying out during a dinner:

"Don't eat so much; you'll make yourself ill; don't take any of this, it's indigestible; don't drink any of that wine, it's too strong!"

No, indeed; at table the doctor disappears, or allows you to eat and drink anything; nobody can be more accommodating, even with his patients. And if doctors are so indulgent to the caprices of the stomach, by what right does a pedant or a hypocrite undertake to put my mind on a strict diet, and reprove the freedom of my conversation? There is an old proverb that says: "We must laugh with the fools;" or, if you please: "We must howl with the wolves."—Whence I conclude that it is, to say the least, in bad taste to appear shocked by a loose word or a vulgar jest, in such a company; and this Monsieur Faisandé's virtue seemed to be all the more doubtful because of his behavior.

In my review of the guests I must not forget Monsieur Dumouton, although I only knew him then from having been once or twice in his company. He was an individual who did not seem to be universally popular. Not that he had an unattractive physique; on the contrary, he was a tall, slender man, rather well than ill looking; his face was amiable, his strongly marked features did not lack character; his bright, black eyes and high color seemed to indicate a native of the Midi, although there was no trace of such origin in his speech. But poor Monsieur Dumouton was always dressed in such strange fashion, that it was difficult, on glancing at his costume, to avoid forming a melancholy opinion of his resources.

Imagine a threadbare coat, once green, but beginning to turn yellow, and made after the style of a dozen years before—that is to say, very short in front; in truth, it was also short in the skirts, which were very scant, and hardly hid the seat of his trousers, which were olive green and only just reached to his ankles, and fitted as close about the thigh and knee as a rope dancer's tights. His boots were always innocent of blacking, but, by way of compensation, were often coated with mud. Add to all this a plaid waistcoat, double-breasted, and buttoned to the chin; a black cravat, twisted into a rope; no shirt, collar, or gloves; and a beard that was usually of about three days' growth: such was Monsieur Dumouton's ordinary costume.

You will assume, perhaps, that he had donned other clothes to dine with us; if so, you would make a mistake: it seemed that he was not fond of change. Perhaps he had his reasons for that. However, he had made some slight ameliorations: he had a false collar, and a white muslin cravat, the ends of which were tied in a large knot that stood out conspicuously against the soiled background formed by the coat and waistcoat.

I cannot tell why it was that I imagined I had seen that cravat playing the part of draw-curtain at a window; it was an unkind thought, I confess, and I did my utmost to discard it; but, as you must know, evil thoughts are more persistent than good ones; and whenever my eyes fell on the ends of that enormous cravat, it seemed to me that I was sitting by a window.

I must tell you now who this gentleman was who dressed so ill. You will be greatly surprised to learn that he was an author—yes, a "truly author," as the children say; a man who wrote his plays himself,—especially as he had not the wherewithal to buy any,—and plays which were often very pretty, and which had been acted, and were being acted still, with success.

But, you will tell me, we have passed the time when men of letters, dramatic authors, earned barely enough to keep them alive; to-day, the stage sometimes leads to wealth even; but it does not follow by any means that all the nurslings of the Muses are destined to acquire wealth. One may be unfortunate, dissipated, reckless; and once in the mire, it is hard to extricate one's self therefrom, unless one has a firm, immovable determination, unbounded courage, and a still greater capacity for work; and everybody has not these. I cannot say what had been the trouble with Monsieur Dumouton, what reverses he had had; I did not know just how he was placed at that time; but, judging from his costume, it was impossible to escape the supposition that he had known adversity. Moreover, a few words that Dupréval let fall concerning this man of letters recurred to my memory. He always said, when Dumouton was mentioned:

"Poor fellow! he has all he can do to keep body and soul together! He has plenty of intelligence, too; but he's such a careless devil!"

Whence I concluded that Dumouton was a penniless author; I do not say, a worthless author. However, I was delighted to be in his company; for he was jovial, clever, and entirely free from conceit; so what did I care for his threadbare coat? I saw around the table several handsomely dressed men, who amounted to nothing under their fine clothes.

I have introduced you now to all of my companions who were not strangers to me; as for the others—why, if they say anything that makes it worth our while to listen to them, we shall not fail to hear it.

II
THE CHAPTER OF CONFIDENCES.—THREE SOUS

I have told you that all eyes were fixed on me, and that everybody was waiting to hear what I might have to say in justification or explanation of what I had advanced on the subject of men who love several women at once. For my part, I admit that, far from thinking about what reply I should make to those gentlemen, I was busily engaged in watching Dumouton, who was stowing away the contents of all the dessert plates within his reach, although he was not eating. When he could find nothing else on the plates that were near him, he attacked one of those pasteboard structures, usually covered with candies or small cakes, which no one ever touches, because they are intended simply as decorations for the table, and one of them often does duty for several months. I saw one of the waiters glare at him furiously when he saw what he was doing, and I said to myself:

"I wonder if that poor Dumouton is in the same position as Frédérick Lemaître in Le Joueur, when he stuffs bread into his pocket, saying: 'For my family!'"

"Well, Rochebrune! are you going to speak to-day?" said Dupréval.

"What do you mean?"

"What you were going to tell us."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, messieurs! You see, the wine we have drunk has confused my memory, and I should find it hard to recall what I said to you just now. And, to tell you the truth, instead of making speeches about the best way of loving, which never prove anything, because every man loves in his own way, which is the best to his mind, it seems to me that it would be much more amusing for each of us to tell about one of his bonnes fortunes, old or new, according to his pleasure.—What do you say, messieurs?"

My suggestion was welcomed by enthusiastic plaudits; only Monsieur Faisandé made a wry face, and muttered:

"The deuce, messieurs, tell one of our bonnes fortunes! Why, that's a very delicate subject. I didn't suppose that such things were talked about, as a general rule. Discretion, messieurs, is the duty of an honorable man, and, above all, of a lady's man."

"Oh! bless my soul, Monsieur Faisandé, if you don't mention any names, there's no indiscretion; and, as we are entitled to go back to ancient history, how in the devil are you going to recognize the characters?"

"This Monsieur Faisandé is very austere and very modest," murmured my neighbor, the bulky Rouffignard. "He is very foolish to venture with ne'er-do-wells of our temper."

"Especially," said Montricourt, "as the fellow's a great nuisance."

"Well, then, messieurs, Rochebrune's suggestion being adopted, who's to begin?"

"Parbleu! yourself, Dupréval; the honor is yours."

"Very good. Then it will be my right-hand neighbor's turn, and so on around the table."

Dupréval emptied his glass, to put himself into a more suitable disposition for telling his story. Meanwhile, I watched Dumouton, who had entirely stripped one ornament and persistently kept his hands out of sight under the table. As some of the guests continued to converse, Dupréval struck his glass with his knife and cried:

"Silence, messieurs!"

Everybody ceased talking, took a drink, and prepared to listen to the host, who began thus:

"At that time, messieurs, I was a third-class clerk to a solicitor, and my pockets were seldom well lined. My father gave me six francs a week for pocket money; as you may imagine, my diversions were very few, and I often spent my whole allowance on Sunday; then I was obliged either to procure my amusement gratis during the week, or to abstain entirely; the latter alternative, I believe, is disagreeable at any age.

"One fine day—or rather, one evening—I was at the play, and found myself behind two very pretty grisettes—there were grisettes in those days; unluckily, they are now vanishing from the face of the earth, like poodles and melon raisers. For my part, I regret them exceedingly—not the melon raisers or the poodles, but the grisettes; they are replaced nowadays by lorettes, who can't hold a candle to them. Our friend Dumouton, by the way, has done a very amusing little sketch on grisettes, lorettes, and fillettes, which I will request him to repeat to you in a moment, and——"

"Question!"

"The speaker is not keeping to his subject."

"That is true, messieurs. Excuse me.—Well, I was at the play, behind two grisettes, and I had only three sous in my pocket; that was all I had left after buying my ticket, and it was Monday. Such was my plight. However, that didn't prevent me from making eyes at one of the damsels, whose saucy face attracted me. For her part, she responded promptly to my glances; the firing was well maintained on both sides, and seemed to promise a very warm engagement. I opened a conversation, and she answered. The young ladies were not prudes, by any means; they laughed heartily at every joke that I indulged in, and I indulged in a good many; I was in funds in that respect only.

"It was summer, and the theatre was very warm. Several times my grisettes had wiped their faces, crying:

"'Dieu! how hot it is!'

"'How I would like a good, cool drink!'

"'That's so; something cool and refreshing would go to the spot, pure or with water.'

"When they expressed themselves in such terms, I made a pretence of looking about the house, humming unconcernedly. With my three sous, I could have given each of them a stick of barley sugar, but that is hardly refreshing. I remember that an orange girl persisted in walking back and forth in front of us, and in holding her basket under my nose, and that I trod on her foot so hard that the poor girl turned pale and hurried away, shrieking.

"At last the play came to an end, and my grisettes went out; I went with them, still talking, but taking care to fall behind when we passed a café. They did not live together; and when I was alone with the one to whom I was particularly attentive, I obtained a rendezvous for the next day, at nightfall.

"When the next day came, I was no richer, for my office mates were, for the most part, as hard up as I. However, I was faithful to my appointment, all the same, still with my three sous in my pocket.

"My charmer was on time. I walked her about the streets at least two hours. She remarked from time to time that she was tired; but, instead of replying, I would passionately squeeze one of her hands, and the heat of my love made her forget her fatigue. Unluckily, she lived with an old relation—of which sex I don't know; I do know that that fact made it impossible for me to go to her room, and I had to leave her at her door.

"The next evening, at dusk, we met again. I had the shrewdness to take her outside the barrier; it was a superb night, and we strolled along the new boulevards. I tried to coax her out into the country; she refused, on the ground that she was tired. She expected me to suggest a cab, no doubt, but I knew better.

"The next day, another rendezvous. My grisette wanted to go to the Jardin des Plantes. When we came to Pont d'Austerlitz, I had to spend two of my three sous, and for tolls, not for refreshment; that seemed cruel, but there was no alternative. We strolled a long while around the garden, which is an admirable place for lovers, because some of the paths are always deserted; my conquest was affable and sentimental, but I replied all awry to what she said and to the questions she asked. I was haunted by a secret apprehension; I was thinking about going home, about Pont d'Austerlitz, which she would certainly insist on crossing again, as it was the shortest way to her house; and I said to myself: 'I have only five centimes left. Shall I pay for her and let her go alone? Shall I make her take another route? Or shall I run across at full speed and defy the tollman?'—Neither plan seemed to promise well, and you can imagine that my mind was in a turmoil; so that my young companion kept saying to me:

"'What on earth are you thinking about, monsieur? You don't answer my questions; you seem to be thinking about something besides me. You're not very agreeable this evening.'

"I did my utmost to be talkative, attentive, and gallant; but, in a few minutes, my preoccupation returned. At last my grisette, irritated by my behavior, declared that she wanted to go home, that she was tired of walking, that I had walked her about so much the last two or three days that her heels were swollen as badly as when she used to have chilblains. So she dragged me away toward the exit. That was the decisive moment. I began to talk about going home another way that I knew about, which was much pleasanter than the way we had come. But my grisette took her turn at not listening, and when we were out of the garden, and I tried to lead her to the left, she hung back.

"'Why, where are you going?' she cried.

"'I assure you that it's much pleasanter and shorter by the other bridge.'

"'You're joking, I suppose! the idea of going back through narrow streets instead of the boulevards! Monsieur is making fun of me!'

"I couldn't possibly prevail upon her; she dropped my arm and made straight for the bridge.

"'Well!' I said to myself, with a sigh; 'there's nothing left for me to do.'

"I followed her. When she reached the tollman, I tossed my last sou on the table and said to my charmer:

"'Go on, I will follow you.'

"She crossed the bridge, supposing that some natural cause detained me a moment. Meanwhile, I gazed at the river, considering whether I would jump in and swim to the other bank. But I'm not a fine swimmer, and I did not feel as brave as Leander, although the Seine is narrower than the Hellespont. Instead of swimming, I ran along the quays to the next bridge; when I got there, I was almost out of breath, but that did not prevent me from running across the bridge, then back along the Seine to the beginning of Boulevard Bourdon. But that is quite a long distance, and, although I ran almost all the way, it took quite a long time. I arrived at last, but I looked in vain for my inamorata; I could not find her. Tired of waiting for me, or piqued by my failure to overtake her, she had evidently gone home alone.

"The next day, I went to our usual place of meeting, but she did not come. I waited there for her several days—to no purpose; and at last I wrote to her, requesting a reply. She sent me a very laconic one: 'You made a fool of me,' she wrote; 'and after walking my legs off for four days, as if I was an omnibus horse, you left me in the middle of a bridge. I've had enough of it, monsieur; you won't take me to walk any more.'—And thus that intrigue came to an end; for I never saw my grisette again; but I haven't forgotten the adventure. Let it serve you as a lesson, messieurs, if you should ever happen to find yourselves with only three sous in your pocket."

III
BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF.—AT THE WINDOWS.—IN A BALLOON

Dupréval's tale amused the company immensely. Monsieur Dumouton, who was better able, perhaps, than any of the rest of us, to understand our friend's plight, exclaimed:

"Oh! that's true! it's very dangerous to take any chances in a lady's company, if you haven't any money in your pocket! It's a thing I always avoid."

It was young Balloquet's turn. The bulky, fair-haired man opened his mouth as if he were going to sing an operatic aria, and began:

"Dupréval has just told us of an adventure which was not a bonne fortune, messieurs, for it didn't end happily for him; I propose to tell you of one that can fairly be called a genuine A-Number-One bonne fortune. It happened at a fête champêtre given by a friend of mine at his charming country place in the outskirts of Sceaux."

"Don't name the place," Monsieur Faisandé interrupted; "there's no need of it, and it might betray the originals of your story."

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Faisandé, you seem to be terribly afraid of disclosures. Is it because you fear your excellent wife may be involved?"

The Treasury clerk turned as red as a poppy.

"I don't know why you indulge in jests of that sort, Monsieur Balloquet," he cried; "it's very bad taste, monsieur!"

"Then let me speak, monsieur, and don't keep putting your oar into our conversation; your mock-modest air doesn't deceive anybody. People who make such a show of decorum, and who are so strict in their language, are often greater libertines and rakes than those whose language they censure."

Monsieur Faisandé's cheeks changed from the hue of a poppy to that of a turnip; but he made no reply, and looked down at his plate, which led us to think that Balloquet had hit the mark. The latter resumed his story:

"As I was saying, I was at a magnificent open-air fête. There were some charming women there, and among them one with whom I had been in love a long while, but had been able to get no further than to whisper a burning word in her ear now and then; for she had a husband, who, while he was not jealous, was always at his wife's side. The dear man was very much in love with his wife, and bored her to death with his caresses. Sometimes he forgot himself so far as to kiss her before company, which was execrable form; and by dint of sentimentality and caresses he had succeeded in making himself insufferable to her. Yes, messieurs, this goes to prove what I said just now to Fouvenard: women don't like to be loved too much. Excess in any direction is a mistake. Moreover, nothing makes a man look so foolish as a superabundance of love. Well, while we were playing games and strolling about the gardens, Monsieur Three-Stars—I'll call him Three-Stars, which will not compromise anybody, I fancy—kissed his wife again before the whole company; and she flew into a rage and made a scene with him, forbidding him to come near her again during the evening. The fond husband was in despair, and cudgelled his brains to think of some means of becoming reconciled to his wife. After long consideration, he took me by the arm and said:

"'My dear Monsieur Balloquet, I believe I have found what I was looking for.'

"'Have you lost something?' said I.

"'You don't understand. I am trying to think of some way to compel my wife to let me kiss her, and it is very difficult, because she is cross with me now. But this is what I have thought of: I am going to suggest a game of blind-man's-buff, and I will ask to be it, on condition that I may kiss the person I catch, when I guess who it is. When I catch my wife, be good enough to cough, so as to let me know; in that way I shall not make a mistake, and she'll have to let me kiss her.'

"I warmly applauded Monsieur Three-Stars's plan; his idea of blind-man's-buff seemed to me very amusing. He made his proposition, it was accepted, and he was blindfolded. Now, while he groped his way about, the rest of the party thought it would be a good joke to leave him there and go to another part of the garden. I escorted Madame Three-Stars. The garden was very extensive, with grottoes and labyrinths and some extremely dark clumps of shrubbery. I will not tell you just where I took the lady, but our walk was quite long; and when we returned to our starting point, the poor husband was still groping about with the handkerchief over his eyes. When he heard us coming, he hurried toward us; I coughed,—to give him that satisfaction was the least I could do,—he named his wife and kissed her. Then, delighted with his idea, he replaced the handkerchief over his eyes, requesting to be it again. We acceded to his wish, and he was it three times in succession. That, messieurs, is what I call a bonne fortune."

"Your story is exactly after the style of Boccaccio!" laughed Montricourt.—"If this goes on, messieurs, we shall be able to publish a sequel to the Decameron."

"It's Fouvenard's turn."

The hairy gentleman passed his hand across his forehead, saying:

"I am searching my memory, messieurs. I have had so many adventures! I am afraid of mixing them up. You see, it's like calling on a man for a ballad who has written a great many; he doesn't know any, because he knows too many. I beg you to be good enough to leave me till the last; meanwhile, I will disentangle my memories and try to select something choice, with a Regency flavor."

"All right! Fouvenard passes the bank on to Monsieur Reffort.—Go on, Reffort."

Reffort was a personage who had not said four words during the dinner, but had contented himself with laughing idiotically at what the others said. He was the possessor of a more than insignificant face, and turned as red as fire when he was addressed. He rolled his eyes over the dessert, played with his knife, and murmured at last:

"Faith! messieurs, it embarrasses me to speak, because—I must admit that—on my word of honor, it has never happened to me."

"What's that, Reffort? It has never happened to you! What in the devil do you mean by that? Explain yourself."

"Can it be that Monsieur Reffort is as a man what Jeanne d'Arc was as a woman?" cried Rouffignard. "In that case, I demand that he be cast in a mould, that a statuette be made of him and sold for the benefit of the Société de Tempérance."

Roars of laughter arose on all sides. Monsieur Reffort laughed with the rest, albeit with a somewhat annoyed air, and rejoined:

"You go too far, messieurs; I didn't mean what you think, but simply that I am not a man for love intrigues. I shouldn't know how to go about it; and, faith! when my thoughts turn to love, there are priestesses of Venus, and——"

"Very good, Monsieur Reffort; we don't ask for anything more; we'll call that bonnes fortunes for cash. Next."

"Messieurs," said the gentleman who came next, in a sentimental tone, "the best day of my life was that on which I stole a garter at a wedding party, at Prés-Saint-Gervais—I made a mistake as to the leg; but I saw such a pretty one, and took it for the bride's. In fact, I didn't want to go out from under the table. Unluckily, that charming limb belonged to a lady of fifty; but she was kind enough to make me a present of her garter."

"And you have worn it on your heart ever since?"

"No; but I have kept it under glass. That's my only bonne fortune!"

"I, messieurs," said a young man, who sat next to the last speaker, "was shut up once for twelve hours in a closet full of bottles of liqueurs; and when my mistress was able at last to release me, I was dead drunk; I had tasted everything, to pass the time away. Finding me in that condition, the lady was obliged to send for a messenger, who took me on his back like a bale, and on the way downstairs let me roll down one whole flight. Since then I have had a horror of bonnes fortunes."

"Your turn, Raymond."

"I once fell in love with a lady who roomed opposite me. As you can imagine, I was always hanging out of my window. She was very pretty, but she didn't reply to my glances; indeed, she often left her window when I appeared at mine. But I wasn't discouraged by that. I followed her everywhere: in the street, in omnibuses, to the theatre; I wrote her twenty notes, but she didn't answer them, and my persistence seemed to offend her rather than to touch her heart. As I could think of nothing else to do, I determined one day to try to make her jealous. I interviewed one of the damsels to whom Monsieur Reffort alluded, and, for a consideration, she came to my rooms one afternoon. I placed her on my balcony, so that she might be in full view; I urged her to behave decently, and retired to await the result of my experiment.

"My neighbor appeared at her window. It was impossible for her not to see my damsel. I was enchanted, and said to myself: 'She sees that I am with another, and she will surely be annoyed.' Moreover, the young woman I had hired was very pretty and might pass for a creditable conquest, having, in accordance with my orders, clothed herself in a very stylish gown. But imagine my sensations when she began to smoke an enormous cigar, a genuine panetela! I tried to remonstrate; she answered that it was good form. I had become resigned to the cigar, when she suddenly called out to a young man who passed along the street: 'Monsieur Ernest, don't expect me to pose for you as Venus to-morrow. I am posing here, where I get double pay, and don't have to be all naked as I do at your studio, where I'm always catching cold in the head and other places.'

"Judge of my despair! my neighbor must have heard, for she laughed till she cried. You can imagine that I dismissed my poseuse instantly. But see what strange creatures women are! For the next few days, I was so depressed and shamefaced that I dared not show myself at my window. Well! then it was that my neighbor deigned at last to answer one of my notes, and I became the happiest of men."

"We might call that the 'window intrigue.'—Now, Roland."

Monsieur Roland was a young blade with enormous whiskers, and all the self-possession and frou-frou of a commercial traveller. He threw out his chest when he began to speak.

"I adored a lady who resisted my advances, messieurs. One day I succeeded in inducing her to go up in a balloon with me. When we were once in the air, I said to her: 'My dear love, if you continue to be cruel, I'll cut a hole in the balloon, and it will be all over with both of us.'—My charmer ceased to resist me, and I assure you, messieurs, that it's very pleasant to make love among the clouds."

"I call for an encore for that."

"And I am wondering whether Roland always has a balloon at his disposal, already inflated, to enable him to triumph over women who try to resist him."

"What, messieurs! do you doubt the truth of my story?"

"On the contrary, it is delicious," said Montricourt; "I am simply trying to think of one that would be worthy to serve as a pendant to your balloon."

"For my part, messieurs," said a tall man with blue spectacles, "as I am very near-sighted, my bonnes fortunes have almost always ended unfortunately. When I had been attentive to a young woman, if I went to see her the next day, I was sure to throw myself at her mother's knees and say sweet things to her, thinking that I was talking to the daughter. However, one day, a lady, to whom I had been paying court with marked ardor, consented to come to breakfast with me. Imagine my delight! But she said to me: 'For heaven's sake, don't keep on your spectacles, for I think you are frightfully ugly in them; I detest spectacles.'—To satisfy her, after ordering the daintiest of breakfasts and donning the most elegant costume you can imagine, I took off my spectacles and awaited the visit that was to make me the happiest of mortals. At last there was a knock at my door. I ran to open it, holding my arms in front of me, for I could see almost nothing at all, being short-sighted to the last degree; but I was certain that it was a woman who came in, because I touched her dress. I didn't give her time to speak to me—I was so madly in love! I took her in my arms; she tried to cry out, and I stifled her shrieks with my kisses. Not until it was too late did I hear her voice saying:

"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, whatever's the matter with you this morning? You must have swallowed a fulminating powder!'

"Impressed by the accent of that voice, I ran for my spectacles and put them on. Imagine my wrath! I had insulted my concierge! The excellent woman had brought me a letter from my fair one saying that it was impossible for her to come. Since then, I beg you to believe that I have never made love without my spectacles."

This tale called forth hearty laughter. Then a stout party told us at great length that his wife had been his only bonne fortune.

We all blessed that gentleman, who well deserved the Cross and our esteem.

IV
THE LOST KEY

Monsieur Faisandé's turn having arrived, he reflected, assumed a solemn expression, and held forth thus:

"Love, messieurs, is not such an entertaining, enjoyable, happy-go-lucky affair as you all seem to think. Most of you seek to enter into an intrigue solely to amuse yourselves; but the results, messieurs, all the results that may ensue from cohabitation between a man and a woman, from the carnal sin, from——"

"I was perfectly sure that Monsieur Faisandé would be more indecent than the rest of us when he began upon this subject," said Balloquet; "he has a way of preaching morality that would make a vivandière blush."

"I should be very glad to know what you consider unseemly in my language, Monsieur Balloquet?"

"Your language is excellently well chosen; it is technical; but you produce the effect of a medical book on me; they are most estimable works in themselves, but young women mustn't be allowed to read them. Pray go on, Monsieur Faisandé; I am terribly sorry that I interrupted you, you were beginning so well!"

The Treasury clerk pursed his lips and continued, emphasizing every word:

"I have never had any bonnes fortunes, messieurs; and I don't propose to begin now that I am married."

"What a hypocrite!" muttered my stout neighbor. "I don't know the fellow's wife, but I pity her; for I am convinced that she has a mighty poor fellow for a husband."

"What, Monsieur Faisandé! not even some trivial little bit of fooling to tell us? Come, search your memory, did nothing ever happen to you in the Cité? in Rue aux Fèves or Rue Saint-Éloy? There are plenty of frail damsels on those streets, they say."

This time Monsieur Faisandé turned green; he did not know which way to look, and stammered a few inaudible words. Dupréval, observing his evident discomfort, and wishing to put an end to a scene which threatened to lose its comic aspect, hastily asked Montricourt to take the floor.

The dandy smoothed the nascent beard that adorned his chin, then said in a low voice, assuming a serious air:

"What I am about to tell you, messieurs, may seem improbable to you. Understand that I have had a pair of wings made—yes, messieurs, a pair of wings as magnificent as an eagle's. I fasten them under my arms, and then, as you can imagine, I go wherever I choose. When a woman attracts me, I fly in at her window, even if she lives on the fifth floor; I carry her off, and I win her in mid-air! It's a wonderful thing!"

"I beg your pardon," said Monsieur Roland, ironically; "while you are making love in mid-air, you can't keep your wings at work; so you must fall. Look at the birds; they always light to do their billing and cooing."

"I anticipated that difficulty, my dear fellow; so, before I launch myself in the air, I always make myself fast to your balloon, which holds me up."

This witticism ranged all the laughers on Montricourt's side, and even Monsieur Roland decided to admit defeat.

It was now the turn of Monsieur Rouffignard, the corpulent bon vivant who sat next to me.

"My story won't be long," he said; "I rush my love affairs through on time; I don't like to have things drag along. I was in love with a woman who wasn't handsome, but had a fine figure; and I'm a great fellow for shape; I tell you, I set store by shape! To speak without periphrasis, I prefer what's underneath to what's outside. Well! I was making love to a lady who had little to boast of in the way of features; but such a superb bust! such well-rounded hips! I said to myself: 'If all that's only as firm and hard as a plum pudding, it will be all right; for, after all, one can't expect to find marble unless he goes to a statue.'—I would have been glad to have a chance to appraise, by means of a slight caress, more or less innocent, the real value of what I admired, but my inamorata didn't understand that sort of play; as soon as I made a motion to touch her, she'd shriek and wriggle and scratch. 'I shall never triumph over such untamed virtue as this,' I said to myself. But one fine day—that is to say, one evening, she agreed to meet me. She gave me leave to call between ten and eleven. I took good care to be prompt. Madame lived alone. She opened the door herself, and admitted me; but I was surprised to find that she had no light. I presumed that it was simply excess of modesty, and that defeat in the dark would be less trying to her; I had the more reason to think so, because she offered only a slight resistance. I began to grow audacious, but fancy my disappointment; instead of what I had hoped to find, I found nothing but cliquettes—that is to say, bones, of different degrees of sharpness. My audacity gave place to alarm; I recalled the romance of the Monk, and the story of La Nonne Sanglante; I began to be afraid that I was alone with a skeleton. But I had in my pocket one of those devices which we smokers use to obtain a light. I lighted it, without warning my fair; she shrieked when she saw the flame, and I did the same when I found that I was tête-à-tête with a beanpole. All I had admired was false. I alleged a sudden indisposition, and fled. Since then, whenever that lady meets me, she glares at me as if she would strike me dead. I am very sorry for her, but one shouldn't pretend to be a millionaire when one doesn't own a single foot of ground."

It was my turn to relate my adventures. I have had amusing ones and sad ones; but, presuming that the sentimental sort would be misplaced on that occasion, I determined on this:

"The scene is laid in the country, messieurs, in a delightful region about five leagues from Paris. I had gone there to pass a fortnight with a friend of mine who has a house in that neighborhood; he had consumption, and was living on milk exclusively; so I leave you to guess whether the establishment was a lively one. However, one should be willing sometimes to make sacrifices to friendship. And then, too, there was a house near by, occupied by several tenants, among them a charming young widow whom I had met in society in Paris. She was a blonde, with tender blue eyes and a languishing smile, and an expert coquette, I assure you! You will say that all women are; but there are gradations. I renewed my acquaintance with her; in the country, as you have lots of time to yourself, love does its work much more quickly than in town; and then, the delicious shade, the verdure, the charming retired nooks where you can hear nothing but the twittering of birds—are not all these made to incline one's heart to sentiment, to invite to love? A welcome invitation, which it is so pleasant to hear! In a word, I made such progress with my lovely widow, that nothing remained but to obtain a tête-à-tête. That, however, was not so easy as you may think. The house where my blonde lived was occupied by a lot of inquisitive, gossiping, evil-tongued people, whose greatest delight was to busy themselves about what others were doing. That is the principal occupation of fools in the country; they get up in the morning to spy on their neighbors, and do not go to bed happy if they have not done or said some spiteful thing during the day. My attentions to the pretty widow had been remarked; so they instantly passed the word around to watch us, to dog our steps; she and I could not move, without the whole province knowing it. All those bourgeois and clowns of the pumpkin family were worthy to be police-men in Paris; and I thought seriously of recommending them to monsieur le préfet.

"The result was that we had to act with great secrecy. The house where my widow lived had a large garden. All gardens have a small gate; and each tenant was supplied with a key to the little gate of the garden in question, which opened into a lovely meadow. Several times, when talking with my inamorata in the evening, I had urged her to give me her key, so that I could get into the garden. By waiting until midnight, I was certain to avoid meeting any of her fellow boarders, for all of them went to bed at ten o'clock, as a rule. My constant refrain was: 'Let me have the key; or else let me in at midnight.'

"At last, one evening when we had met at a neighbor's, as we left the house my blonde came to me, took my hand, and whispered in my ear:

"'Come to-night.'

"Imagine my joy, my ecstasy! I walked quickly away from her, lest she should change her mind. Everybody went home, myself with the rest; I longed so for the time when they should all be asleep! My friend's old cuckoo clock struck twelve. I left my room at once, stepping lightly, stole from the house, and hastened to the meadow. I sat down on the grass, a few steps from the gate, and waited impatiently until it should open to admit me to the summit of felicity.

"Half an hour passed, and the gate did not open. I said to myself: 'Someone near her has not gone to bed yet, I suppose, and she's afraid to come down; I must be patient.'—Another half-hour passed and the gate remained closed. I stood up, thinking that she might have left it unlocked so that I could go in. I ran to the gate to find out, but it was locked on the inside. I walked back and forth, I sat down and stood up, keeping my eyes always fixed on that gate, which did not open. I thought of everything that could possibly have delayed my lovely widow, or kept her from coming. One o'clock struck, then the half, then two.—'She has made a fool of me,' I said to myself; 'she won't come at all! But what object could she possibly have in keeping me waiting all night? Does my love deserve such a cruel disappointment? In fact, did she not, of her own motion, tell me to come to-night? No, it isn't possible that she purposely makes me pass such wretched hours here.'

"I could not make up my mind to go. Still hoping, I said to myself at the faintest sound: 'She's coming; here she is!'—But the sound ceased, and she did not appear. Thereupon I would walk away a few steps, but again and again I returned.

"Day broke at last, and with it my last hope vanished! For people rise very early in the country, and, when it was light, I knew very well that the lady would not risk her reputation by coming out to me. So I returned to my friend's house, with despair in my heart, swearing that I would never again address, that I would never look at, that woman who had made such a fool of me.

"But the next day, chance, or rather our own volition, brought us together. I was on the point of heaping reproaches on her, but she gave me no time; with a wrathful glance, she said to me in a voice that shook with indignation:

"'Your conduct is shameful, monsieur: the idea of making sport of me so! of making me pass a whole night in the most intense anxiety! For I had the kindness to believe that something must have happened to you; but I was mistaken. Why, in heaven's name, did you ask for a thing which you did not want? It is perfectly shocking! I detest you, and I forbid you ever to speak to me again!'

"You can imagine my amazement at this harangue. Instead of apologizing, I overwhelmed her with complaints and reproaches for the sleepless night I had passed at the garden gate. My manner was so genuine and so sincere, that the young widow interrupted me.—'What!' she exclaimed; 'you passed the night in the fields? Pray, why didn't you come in, monsieur?'

"'Come in? by what means, madame?'

"'Why, with the key to the little gate, which I myself gave you.'

"'You gave me the key?'

"'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:

"'Hélas! il a fui comme une ombre!'

And to give more expression to her song, more passion to her voice, she often holds the skimmer lovingly to her heart. But as she sings, her eyes happen to fall on her canary's cage; she hastens thither, for she remembers that she hasn't given the bird anything to eat for two days. But as she is on the point of opening the cage, it occurs to her that she would do well to think about her own breakfast; so she turns her back on the canary, to go and visit the pantry. What she finds there does not suit her; so she goes down to the fruit stall to buy some fresh eggs. But on the way, she changes her mind; she prefers preserves, so she goes into the grocer's, where she meets a young woman who has been her schoolmate. They chat, and sometimes the chance meeting carries them a long way.

"'Come with me a minute,' says her friend; 'I live close by, and I'll show you a dress my fiancé sent me from Lyon.'

"'Oh! so you've got a fiancé, have you? are you going to be married?'

"'Yes, in two months.'

"'That's funny.'

"'Why is it funny?'

"'Because they don't ever think about marrying me.'

"'You're too young.'

"'I'm only a year younger'n you. But my folks would rather keep me at home to do the housework.'

"'Come, and I'll give you some candy I got when I was a godmother.'

"'Have you been a godmother? Oh! what a lucky girl you are! you have everything!'

"It is very hard to resist the invitation of a friend who offers us candy. The fillette forgets her housework, her stew, her canary, and even her breakfast, as she chats with her old schoolmate, who has been a godmother and is engaged.

"When at last she goes home, just as she is entering the house, she is saluted, and sometimes accosted, by a young man of most respectable aspect, whom she invariably meets when she goes out. I leave you to judge at what hour the housework will be done and the soup skimmed.

"This young man is not a lover as yet, but he closely resembles a man in love, and if ill fortune sometimes be-falls the fillette, who is at fault? Is she the one to be blamed? should we not charge it rather to the parents, who so shamefully neglect those who have neither strength, nor sense, nor experience, to resist the seductions of the world?

"Paris is swarming with these fillettes, messieurs; some remain virtuous, although they live among dangers; as they have no fortune, they do not always find husbands, but pass from the fillette stage to that of an old maid, without becoming better housekeepers by the change.

"As for the grisettes, that's another story. The grisette loves pleasure; she wants it, she must have it. She has at least one lover; when she has only one, she is a most exemplary grisette. However, they do not pretend to be any better than they are; they make no parade of false virtue; they are neither prudish nor shy; they cultivate students, actors, artists, the theatre, balls,—out of doors or indoors,—promenades, dance halls, restaurants; and they do not recoil at the thought of a private dining-room.

"The grisette is a gourmand, and is almost always hungry; she is wild over truffles, but is perfectly content to stuff herself with potatoes; she adores meringues, but regales herself daily with biscuit and tarts; she would climb a greased pole for a glass of champagne, but does not refuse a mug of cider.

"You know as well as I, messieurs, that when you have treated a grisette to a dainty dinner, you must not conclude that her appetite is satisfied. On leaving the table, if you are in the country, the grisette will suggest shooting for macaroons, and will consume several dozen; then she will ask for a drink of milk, and a piece of rye bread to soak in it; then she will want some cherries, then beer and gingerbread. In Paris, you will have to supply her with barley sugar, syrups, punch, and Italian cheese.

"Let us do the grisette of Paris justice; she is active, frisky, alluring, provoking; she is not always pretty, but she has a certain—I don't know what to call it—a sort of chic, which always finds followers. She handles the simplest materials in such a way as to make herself a pretty little costume; she often wears an apron, and a cap almost always; she rarely puts anything else on her head, and she is very wise; for her face, which is captivating in a cap, loses much of its charm under a bonnet, unless it be a bibi, the front of which never extends beyond the end of her nose.

"The grisette is a milliner, or laundress, or dressmaker, or embroiderer, or burnisher, or stringer of pearls, or something else—but she has a trade. To be sure, she seldom works at it. Suggest a trip into the country, a donkey ride, a bachelor breakfast, a dinner at La Chaumière, a ticket to the play, and the shop or workroom or desk may go to the deuce.

"So long as we can afford her amusement, she will think of nothing else; but when her lover hasn't a sou, she will return to her work as cheerily as if she were going to dine at Passoir's, or to do a little cancan at the Château-Rouge; for, messieurs, you may be sure of one thing—the grisette is a philosopher, she takes things as they come, money for what it is worth, and men for what they do for her. She loves passionately for a fortnight; she believes then that it will last all her life, and proposes to her lover that they go to live on a desert island, like Crusoe, and eat raw vegetables and shell-fish. As she is very fond of radishes and oysters, she thinks that she will be able to accustom herself to that diet; but in a moment she forgets all about that scheme, and cries:

"'Ah! how I would like some roast veal, and some lettuce salad garnished with hard-boiled eggs! Take me to Asnières, Dodolphe, and we'll dine out of doors; and I'll pluck some daisies and pull off the petals and find out your real sentiments, for the daisies never lie. If it stops at passionately, I'll kiss you on the left eye; if it tells me that you don't love me at all, I'll stick pins into your legs. What better proofs of love do you want?'

"But Dodolphe finds himself sometimes on his uppers.

"'You say you haven't got any money?' cries the grisette; 'bah! what a nuisance it is that one always has to have money to live on and enjoy one's self! Wait a minute; I've got a merino dress and a winter shawl; it's summer now, so I don't need 'em. They'll be better off at my aunt's than they are in my room, for there are moths there; they'll be better taken care of, and with what I can get on 'em we'll go and have some sport.'

"The grisette carries out her plan: she puts her clothes in pawn, without regret or melancholy. If she had money, she would give it to her lover. As she often spends all that he has, it seems natural to her to spend with him all that she has: she is neither stingy, saving, nor selfish.

"A grisette's lodging is a curious place; but she hasn't always a lodging to herself; very often she simply perches here and there. She will stay a week with her lover, three weeks with a friend of her own sex, and the rest of the time with her fruiterer or her concierge. When, by any chance, she does possess a domicile and furniture of her own, the grisette's bosom swells with pride, even when the furniture in question consists of nothing more than a cot, a mirror, and one broken chair. She takes delight in saying: 'I shall stay at home this evening,' or: 'I don't expect to leave home to-morrow. I have an idea of doing my room over in color; it's all the style now, especially yellow; when it's well rubbed, it makes more effect than furniture.'

"It is she who writes on her door, with a piece of Spanish chalk, when she goes out: I am at my nabor's, down one flite.

"But the grisette is not obliged to know the rules of orthography; and if she spoke the purest French, her conversation would probably seem less amusing; there are so many people who attract by their bad qualities.

"Sometimes the grisette ventures to give an evening party. When she is in the mood, she will invite as many as seven people. On such occasions, the bed does duty as a divan, the blinds as benches, the cooking stove as a table, and the lamp from the staircase is placed on the mantel to take the place of a chandelier. Punch is brewed in a soup tureen, and tea in a saucepan; they drink from egg cups, there is one spoon for three persons, and the hostess's shawl serves as a table cloth and as a napkin for all the company; all of which does not prevent the guests from laughing and enjoying themselves; for the most genuine enjoyment is not that which costs the most. This is not a new maxim, but it is very consoling to those who are not favored by fortune."

As he said this, Dumouton glanced down at himself, with a profound sigh. But encouraged, I doubt not, by a glimpse of the ends of his cravat, by that profusion of linen, to which he was not accustomed, he speedily resumed his smiling expression and continued his discourse.

"I come now, messieurs, to the last division of my trilogy, the lorettes, who are grisettes of the front rank—the tip-toppers! By that I mean that they are sought by the fashionable lions, the dandies, the Jockey Club—in a word, by those gentry who have a liking for spending money freely with women, and who have the means to do it.

"The lorettes live in the Chaussée d'Antin, the Nouvelle-Athènes, the Champs-Élysées, the quarter of sport, of the turf, or, if you prefer, of the horse traders. They are found, too, in quite large numbers, in the new streets. When a fine house is completed—that is to say, when the stairs are in place, so that the different floors are accessible, the proprietor lets apartments to lorettes, to dry the walls, as they say. They hire dainty suites, freshly decorated; everyone knows that they won't pay their rent, but the rooms are let to them because they draw people to the house; they attract other tenants; not honest bourgeois—nay, nay!—but fashionable young men, rich old bachelors, and sometimes men with stylish carriages.

"By the way, the lorette is exceedingly frank in this respect. One of them was inspecting a beautiful suite on Rue Mazagran, when the concierge, who probably did not know whom he was dealing with, was simple enough to tell her the price, repeating several times that she could not have it for less than fifteen hundred francs. Irritated by his persistence, the lorette stared at him as if he were a monstrosity, exclaiming:

"'Look you, monsieur, who do you think you're talking to? What difference does it make to me what the rent is, when I never pay?'

"The lorette dresses stylishly and coquettishly; she leaves a trail of perfume behind her. She has magnificent bouquets, and her gloves are the object of much solicitude. At a distance, one might take her for a lady of rank and fashion; but to hear her speak is fatal, and the illusion vanishes at once, her language being infinitely less pure than the polish on her boots.

"The lorette seeks to eclipse the grisette, whom she pretends to look down upon, but to whom she is vastly inferior, none the less. She has no lover, she has keepers. And yet she is not a kept woman, for such a one sometimes remains a long while with the same monsieur, whereas the lorette is constantly changing.

"The grisette likes young men; the lorette prefers men of mature years.

"The Hippodrome and the Cirque des Champs-Élysées are the resorts which the lorettes particularly affect. In the afternoon, they go thither to admire the bold horse-men jumping fences, or the women driving chariots in the ring. The Hippodrome audience being, as a rule, frivolous, dandified, and fashionable,—especially on weekdays,—these ladies are almost certain to make their expenses.

"In the evening, they go to admire Baucher; they jump up and down in ecstasy on their benches when Auriol makes some new hair-raising plunge. The lorette is never tired of repeating to her spouse—for so she calls her friend of the moment—that she knows nothing more beautiful than a horse.

"The lorette gives evening parties, where there are always many men and very few women. All games are played there, from lotto to lansquenet. These ladies are passionately fond of gambling; but when they take their places beside a green cloth, they tell you frankly that they propose to win; it is for you to take your measures accordingly. One day, at a game of lansquenet, the banker being a pretty lorette, someone discovered that she was cheating, and she was charged with it; far from denying the charge, she began to laugh, and retorted: 'Mon Dieu! what does it matter whether I take your money this way or some other way?'

"The lorette knows nothing but money; don't continue to show yourself in her presence when your purse is empty, for her love will surely have followed your cash. She is not the woman to pawn her clothes in order to have a jollification with you.

"The lorette has handsome furniture, but she doesn't pay for it, any more than she pays her rent. If you take her to dine at a restaurant, she will begin by playing the prude. She will declare that she isn't hungry; she doesn't like this or that; one thing makes her sick, another is abhorrent to her. But in the end she gets tipsy and has indigestion.

"The proper method, in my opinion at least, is to take a lorette for a day, a grisette for a month, and a fillette for life, when you meet one who has found time during the day to dress herself and arrange her hair, to do her housework, eat her breakfast, watch her soup kettle, and tie her shoestrings; for then you will have discovered a phœnix, or the eighth wonder of the world.

"To sum up, the fillette craves sentiment, the grisette pleasure, the lorette money.

"I venture to hope, messieurs, that you will accept this superficial study of women instead of a bonne fortune; especially as it is a very long while since fortune has been kind [bonne] to me; and, unluckily, I have had no leisure to think of love making, so that I could tell you nothing worthy of a hearing after all that I have had the pleasure of listening to."

VI
MONSIEUR FOUVENARD'S BONNE FORTUNE.—THE GINGERBREAD WOMAN

Everybody had listened with pleasure to Monsieur Dumouton's study of womankind. Only Monsieur Faisandé, without a word, left his seat and disappeared while the author was talking. The disappearance of the Treasury clerk did not grieve us overmuch, nor did it interfere with our drinking and laughing and saying whatever came into our heads. But as Balloquet seemed to possess some private information concerning that modest personage, I determined to question him on the subject; for I was anxious to know whether I was mistaken in my conjectures, and whether I owed Monsieur Faisandé an apology for the evil thoughts of him that had come to my mind.

Fouvenard was the only one of the party who had not yet narrated his little adventure. Dupréval, our host, turned to that gentleman, whose features, the nose alone excepted, were buried beneath the wilderness of beard, moustache, whiskers, and eyebrows, which invaded his face and threatened to transform it into a wig.

Monsieur Fouvenard passed his hand across his forehead and ran it through his mane, as he said:

"I have been looking over my catalogue, but I haven't succeeded in disentangling anything as yet. And so, messieurs, I propose to tell you the story of my last love affair; it is still quite fresh. It is not my last bonne fortune, but it is the most entertaining, I think, of the later ones; you may judge for yourselves.

"Two or three months ago, having nothing to do one Sunday, and being unable to endure the day in Paris, which, as you all know, messieurs, is insufferable on Sunday, especially when it's fine; for then the streets and boulevards are overrun by a crowd of people with outlandish faces, walking arm in arm, four or five and sometimes six in a row, and making it as tiresome to walk as it is difficult—in a word, I jumped aboard a train in the first railway station I came to, without so much as inquiring where it would take me. I believe I would have travelled a long distance—to Belgium, perhaps—I was so disgusted with Paris that Sunday! But the train I took did not go so far; my journey was very brief, and I soon found myself in the pretty village of Sceaux. When I say village, I am wrong, for Sceaux is a small town; but the instant that I see trees and fields and green grass, I cannot believe that I am near a town.

"I left my car, or my diligence,—I am not sure which I was in,—and walked about at random. The Bal de Sceaux, once so brilliant and crowded, has lost much of its popularity. Everything has its day, messieurs! open-air balls as well as great empires, and beauty! The Vendanges de Bourgogne had ceased to exist. That lively restaurant, where so many banquets and ultra chicard balls used to be given, and where the women danced in tableau vivant costume,—a place that owed its vogue originally to its excellent sheep's trotters,—has closed its doors; let us hope that it will reopen them. And even the Méridien!—the Méridien! I will not insult you by asking you if you ever went there! Who is the man, provided he is ever so little a lady's man, who has not been to the Méridien, where the private rooms were so well arranged for congenial parties? Well, messieurs, that charming little restaurant, which, as you know, was close by here, has also closed its doors. In fact, everything has been demolished, even the Cadran Bleu. That once famous resort has vanished from Boulevard du Temple. Upon my word, it is really heartrending! Where shall we go now to dine, when we have a pretty woman to entertain? I am grieved to say it, messieurs, but suitable places are becoming very rare in Paris; one must needs go extra muros to find silence, secrecy, and all the comforts which add to the charm of a tête-à-tête; and one has not always the leisure to go out of Paris.

"Excuse me for indulging in these reflections—I return to my subject. I had been strolling about Sceaux for some time, and I noticed that those peasant girls who were dressed coquettishly and arrayed in all their finery, those, in short, who seemed disposed to dance and enjoy themselves generally, were leaving the town and going in the direction of Fontenay-aux-Roses.

"I at once made inquiries of a worthy woman who sold gingerbread, and who seemed to view with an expression of alarm the general desertion of the population. By the purchase of a huge gingerbread man for four sous, for which I paid cash, and by praising her cookery, I gained the huckster's good will.

"'Where are all these girls going in their Sunday clothes?' I inquired, bravely attacking my gingerbread man's foot.

"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, as if there was any need of asking! Pardine! they're going to Fontenay, on the pretext that there's a fête there to-day; and there'll be a little fair, and a man to tumble and play tricks, and make a fool of himself. As if it wasn't a hundred times nicer here! As if our ball wasn't a hundred times finer! But they all have the devil in 'em, and they lead each other on. There's no way to stop 'em. So you're my first customer to-day; I ain't sold two sous' worth all day long.'

"'Well, why don't you do as everybody else does? What is there to hinder you from moving your stall and your gingerbread to Fontenay-aux-Roses?'

"'Oh! monsieur, we folks don't go changing about like that. People have been used to seeing me here, on this same spot, for thirty years; and if they should miss me, especially on a Sunday, they'd say: "Why, where in the world's old Mère Giroux? She must be sick, or dead."—And it would hurt my trade if folks thought that; because, you see, monsieur, I have regular customers, although you might not think so. They're folks from Paris, who always buy stuff of me for their young ones, when they come to Sceaux. And it don't pay to put our customers out; we can't afford to lose regular ones when we have any, just to make a few more sous one day; and I have some, as I tell you.'

"I was about to leave Mère Giroux, who was so proud of having regular customers, when I saw three girls coming along, arm in arm, hopping rather than walking. Two of them had the costume and general aspect of the peasant girls of the neighborhood; they were dressed very coquettishly, in white gowns, silk aprons, little caps trimmed with lace and bows of ribbon, and even gloves, messieurs; yes, it's not a rare thing nowadays, in the outskirts of Paris, on a holiday, to see gloved peasant girls. They don't use musk as yet, thank God! but with time and railroads, I feel sure that the women of nature will soon perfume themselves like cultivated women; and, to tell the truth, it will be an agreeable change, for they don't smell very sweet as a rule. I ask Nature's pardon, but it's the truth.

"My two peasants, then, had paid much attention to their costume; but, for all that, under their fine clothes they were genuine rustics. One could see that by their arms and feet, by their manners, by their loud laughter, and by the red blotches with which their faces were covered. Moreover, those same faces, while they were not ugly, were not specially attractive, except for their extreme freshness. So that my eyes did not rest long on those young women; but it was not so with the third member of their party, although her dress was almost a counterpart of her companions'.

"You see, it isn't the cap that makes a girl pretty, but the way she puts it on and wears it; and so it is with the rest of her attire. The young person who caught my eye was some eighteen years of age; she was above middle height, slender, graceful, and willowy; for one can see that, at a glance, in the slightest motion of the body. There was nothing extraordinary about her features, but the face as a whole attracted one instantly. She was a blonde, with blue eyes and red lips; when she laughed, her mouth assumed a delicious expression, in which innocence and mischief were blended; her teeth were well arranged, and, while they could not be described as 'pearls set in rose leaves,' as it is customary to describe a pretty woman's mouth, they were beyond reproach; her hair, which was slightly tinged with gold, was arranged in little curls, in the style called, I believe, à la neige. In that respect, there was a notable difference between her and her two companions, whose hair was glued to their temples in little heartbreakers. What more can I say? There was an indefinable something about that girl which indicated that she had not always lived in the fields. There was a savor of Paris about her; for a woman who never leaves her village does not acquire the manners, the bearing, the ease, which contrast so sharply with the awkward accomplishments of the country.

"My pretty blonde wore a striped lilac and white dress. She also wore a silk apron; but hers was of a grayish purple which harmonized perfectly with her gown. Her cap was very simple, but in the best taste, and perched so daintily on the top of her head that it seemed hardly to touch it. Her shoes were black, and the feet within them were small, narrow, and gracefully arched; the leg was small, but not thin, and gave promise of excellent outlines. You will agree, messieurs, that all this was well adapted to attract my glances.

"The three girls were passing Mère Giroux, when she detained them.

"'Well, where are you girls going, I'd like to know,' she cried, 'that you're all rigged up and sail by, all three of you, proud as ortolans, without so much as bidding me good-day?'

"They stopped at that, and bade the dealer in gingerbread good-morning.

"'Bonjour, Mère Giroux!'

"'It's because we're in a hurry; we're going to Fontenay-aux-Roses.'

"'We're going to dance.'

"'We're going to see the shows, and the animals, and the monkeys.'

"'Mon Dieu! you can see all that here! It ain't worth while to go out of your way to see monkeys!'

"'Nonsense! it's going to be a lovely fête at Fontenay. You can see for yourself that everybody's going there.'

"'Everybody's just stupid enough; when one makes a spitball, the rest would rather be hung than not do as much.'

"'Oh! Mère Giroux! how spiteful you are!'

"'I say, you Dargenettes, do your parents let you go running about the country like this, without them?'

"'Pardi! nobody'll kidnap us. Besides, Mignonne's with us.'

"'Bless my soul! Mignonne's a fine dragon, ain't she? Why, she's younger'n you! and she rolls her eye the minute anyone looks at her, as if it gave her cramp in the stomach.'

"Mignonne was evidently the pretty blonde in the centre, for she answered at once with a saucy little smile, and a glance at me out of the corner of her eye; for during this conversation I was still standing near the gingerbread stall, and still munching my four-sous' purchase.

"'If I am young, Mère Giroux, that doesn't prevent my keeping an eye on these girls; for I've been in Paris, and I'm not to be caught.'

"'You, Mignonne! nonsense! You'll be caught sooner than the others, I'll bet! You're too sugary; you'll melt!'

"'Anyway,' cried the other two, 'do you suppose we're afraid of men? Why, there's nothing frightful about 'em!'

"'If they'd grow, I'd plant a field of them.'

"Whereupon they roared with laughter; but pretty Mignonne took no part in it; she pulled her companions away, crying:

"'Au revoir, Mère Giroux! Au revoir!'

"'What! ain't you going to buy as much as a stick of barley sugar, to suck on the way?'

"'By and by, when we come back; to cool us off.'

"When the girls had gone, the huckster complained more loudly than ever about the nuisance of the fêtes in the neighboring villages. For my part, I was determined to have another look at the blonde whom they called Mignonne, but I desired, first of all, to obtain some information concerning her. I began by buying a huge square of gingerbread, larded with almonds, while loudly praising what I had already eaten. Mère Giroux, flattered to the melting point, gazed at me with an expression that seemed to say:

"'Ah! if all the young men who come to Sceaux only liked gingerbread as much as this gentleman does!'

"'Mère Giroux,' I said, carefully bestowing my new purchase in my pocket, 'you seem to know those young women who went by just now?'

"'Pardi! I know everybody in the neighborhood, I do!'

"'Are they farmers' daughters?'

"'Yes, the two dark ones are, the Dargenettes. They're good enough girls, for all their talk about men; if anybody should go too far with 'em, they'd do good work with their feet and hands and nails, I'll warrant. They like to fool, but they're virtuous! And then, their father wouldn't stand any fooling. Old Dargenette's a gardener, and he ain't very pleasant every day. He fondled his wife with his rake when she didn't walk straight; and I guess he'd do the same to his daughters, if they should go astray. Country folk, monsieur, talk a little free sometimes, but you mustn't judge 'em by that.'

"'And that other girl with them, whom you called Mignonne? She carries herself as if she had lived in Paris.'

"'Yes, monsieur; so she has. Mignonne's the daughter of honest laboring people of this town; but she lost her father and mother when she was very young. Then she caught the fancy of a lady in Paris, and she took her away and said she'd give her a good education. Mignonne Landernoy had nobody left but an old aunt, who wa'n't none too rich. So she let her niece go; the child was twelve years old then. She stayed in Paris three years. I don't know just what she learned there—to read and write and do embroidery, and sew on canvas—in short, a lot of useless things that make a country girl fit for nothing. So, when she came back to her aunt, she couldn't be made to work in the fields again. Ouiche! she said it made her back ache!'

"'But why did she come back? Why did she leave the lady who took her to Paris?'

"'Because the lady died, and then, you see, her heirs didn't choose to keep the little girl from Sceaux. They began by turning her out of doors, and Mignonne was very happy to come back to her old aunt.'

"'Has she been to Paris again since?'

"'No; but I don't think it's for lack of wanting to. You can imagine that she's kept something of the manners she learned from living with city folks: a way of acting, and little tricks of speech—Oh! she's no peasant now. Why, mamzelle sets the fashions here! When the other girls want to make themselves a cap, or an apron, or a neckerchief, they say: "I'll go and ask Mignonne if this will look well on me, and how to wear it."—And it's Mignonne here, and Mignonne there! Why, you'd think she was an oracle, nothing more or less! When Mignonne says: "You mustn't wear that," or: "You mustn't walk on your toes like that," or: "You mustn't dance on that leg," you needn't be afraid they'll do it. And then, as Mamzelle Mignonne can read novels, she knows lots of stories and adventures, you see. So, when she's talking, the peasant girls prick up their ears, like my donkey does when he feels frisky. Why, those Dargenettes are as proud as peacocks because Mignonne agreed to go to Fontenay-aux-Roses with them!'

"'But what does the girl do here, as she doesn't work in the fields?'

"'Dame! she makes over dresses, and makes caps for the other girls; she's the town milliner, but her poor aunt has only just enough for the two of 'em. And what I can't forgive the girl for is refusing Claude Flaquart, a good match for her, who was willing to marry her, for all she didn't have a sou. Claude Flaquart was mad over her. You see, she's a pretty little thing—and then, her affected ways are sure to turn a fool's head.'

"'You say she refused him?'

"'Yes, monsieur! Think of refusing a man who owns a field and a vineyard, three cows, two calves, rabbits, and geese! What in God's name does she want, anyway? a lord? a potentate?'

"'What reason did she give for refusing such a fine match?'

"'Reasons! a lot she cared for reasons! She didn't like him; that's all the reason she gave! She said he was a lout, and that he was lame. As if a man with cows and calves could walk crooked!'

"'Didn't her aunt scold her?'

"'Her aunt's too good-natured—too big a fool, I should say. Claude Flaquart had his revenge: he married another girl, a head taller than Mignonne, and he did well. That's what comes o' sending girls to Paris, when they haven't got any money to set themselves up in business there. Mignonne will make a fool of herself with some fine young buck from Paris—I'd stake my head on it! and by and by she'll be sighing for Claude Flaquart's cottage.'

"'I am delighted to have bought some of your gingerbread, Mère Giroux; it's very fine. When I come to Sceaux again, you will certainly see me.'

"'You're very good, monsieur; so now you're one of my customers; that adds to my stock. You'd ought to buy some of this with citron, monsieur; you'd think you was eating oranges.'

"'I'll save that for the next time.'

"I knew enough. I bade her good-morning, and started for Fontenay-aux-Roses, which is only a quarter of a league from Sceaux."

VII
MADEMOISELLE MIGNONNE

Monsieur Fouvenard paused to take breath, and drank a glass of champagne; while we waited for him to continue his narrative, which, I confess, interested me deeply. For some unknown reason, I trembled to think of that pretty little Mignonne yielding to the seductions of the narrator, who, in truth, did not seem to me particularly seductive. But I am not a woman, and it is possible that that Capuchin beard possessed a fascination which I cannot understand.

"I soon reached Fontenay," he continued; "I had only to follow the crowd of people headed for the fête. Once there, I said to myself: 'I shall be very unlucky if I don't find Mignonne.'

"I had been strolling about for some time in front of the improvised stalls on a sort of square, when I discovered my three damsels, still arm in arm, halting in front of all the curiosities, games, and open-air shows, and giving full vent to the natural merriment of their age, intensified by Mignonne's satirical comments.

"Most of the young men bowed to them and made some jocose remark, generally vulgar and indecent, as the custom is among the country folk, whose innocence has always seemed to me largely apocryphal. The two Dargenettes replied in the same tone; but when Mignonne said anything, the young men did not retort; they sneaked away shamefaced, and I heard them more than once say to one another:

"'Oh! when Mamzelle Mignonne puts her oar in, I ain't smart enough to answer her back; she's too sharp, she is! Anyone can see that she's lived in Paris.'

"I approached the three friends and stopped at the stalls and shows at which they stopped. Mignonne noticed me, and I fancied that she blushed. One of the Dargenettes looked at me and said:

"'Look! there's that fellow that was eating Mère Giroux's gingerbread. It looks funny for a Paris gentleman, with a beard, to eat gingerbread like that.'

"I saw Mignonne nudge the speaker. Probably she told her to keep quiet, for I heard nothing more.

"I tried to exchange a word or two with them, but they pretended not to hear me, and made no reply. However, I saw that they whispered together, and from time to time looked covertly to see if I was still there. At last they came to a halt where the dancing was in progress. I was waiting for that. Dancing is not exactly my favorite pastime; but when it's a question of seducing somebody's daughter, then I become a fearless dancer. As for young women, almost all of them love dancing; indeed, there are some in whom the taste amounts to a passion; but if they had to dance without men, you may be sure that their love for dancing would soon vanish. Whence I conclude that the actual pleasure of capering is a secondary matter. But dancing gives an opportunity to show one's grace and lightness of foot, to play the flirt, to listen to soft speeches, often to passionate avowals, accompanied by a pressure of the hand, before the nose of a jealous spectator, who sees nothing, because it's a part of the figure!—Is it surprising, then, that almost all women have an inborn passion for the dance?

"I made haste to engage Mademoiselle Mignonne for a contra-dance; for the polka has not yet descended upon village fêtes. She accepted my invitation with a well-satisfied air. I at once took her hand, and, leaving her friends, led her away to our places. I say again that nothing better for lovers, in esse or in futuro, has ever been invented. I very soon entered into conversation with my partner. I was careful not to go too fast, and not to begin, like an idiot, by telling her that I adored her; she would have laughed in my face. But I did not conceal my amazement at her manner, her bearing, her language; I told her that it could not be that she was born in a village. Thereupon she told me what I already knew; but I pretended that I heard it for the first time. I did not squeeze her hand, but I manifested the deepest interest in her, and engaged her for the next contra-dance. At first, she made some objections; but I persisted, and she accepted. I saw plainly enough that it flattered her to dance with a gentleman from the city.

"When we joined her companions, who had also been dancing, they were drenched with perspiration and their cheeks were purple; but their partners had left them without offering them any refreshment. I made haste to call a waiter who was selling beer or wine, the only refreshments to be found at open-air fêtes.—Oh, yes! there are also vendors of cocoa.—The beer being brought, the two Dargenettes did not wait to be asked twice, and Mignonne saw that it would be useless to stand on ceremony.

"Thus I found myself one of their party. But I behaved with a restraint and reserve which would have edified Monsieur Faisandé. During the second contra-dance, Mademoiselle Mignonne talked even more freely; and I saw that, while she had brought back from Paris the pretty manners and the more refined language which gave her such a great advantage over the village girls, she had retained the candor and artlessness which we do not find in city maidens, even in those who have been reared most strictly. Mignonne was a strange mixture of innocence and knowledge, of frankness and coquetry, of simplicity and passion. Her stay in Paris, the people she had seen there, the reading with which she had tired her memory, had given her a feeling of distaste for the country, although her mind and her heart still retained all the primitive freshness of a virgin nature.—Agree, messieurs, that that child was a charming conquest to contemplate."

"Faith! there was no great merit in the conquest!" cried Balloquet. "The girl wouldn't have a peasant, so she was sure to fall into the first snare laid for her by a man from the city; and then, your beard must have helped you considerably in triumphing over Mademoiselle Mignonne."

"Why so?"

"Because it partly hides your face."

Fouvenard shrugged his shoulders, threw a bread ball at Balloquet, and resumed his narrative.

"After the second contra-dance, Mignonne said that she wanted to walk about. I asked leave to accompany them, and I had been so polite that they could not refuse me. Indeed, I think that they were not anxious to do so; the Dargenettes, because they liked to be treated; and Mignonne, because she was flattered to have a young Parisian for her escort.

"She declined to take my arm; but I walked beside her, as she was no longer between her friends. I paid for their admission to all the shows under canvas, of the sort that are always found at an out-of-doors fête. Mignonne tried to refuse at first, but the two peasants hurried into the strolling theatre, and the pretty blonde had to follow them in order not to be left alone with me.

"Toward the end of the evening, we were like old acquaintances. I had treated them to everything obtainable, and I had even danced with Mignonne's friends.

"We left the fête together. It was dark, and they accepted my arm. I had Mignonne on one side, and one of the peasants on the other; the second had her sister's arm, so that we walked four abreast. Country people delight in that, and it reminded me unpleasantly of Sunday strollers in Paris. I would have preferred to walk alone with Mignonne, but it was impossible.

"It seemed to me a very short walk, notwithstanding the fact that the Dargenettes sang all the way, and sang horribly false, murdering every air they tried. But Mignonne did not sing, and I began to press affectionately the arm that lay in mine.

"Chance willed that we reached the peasants' house before Mignonne's. They said good-night, and kissed one another laughingly. I heard them whispering, and could make out that I was the subject. The Dargenettes said: 'You have made a conquest of the bearded man! Look out he don't kidnap you!' and other witticisms of the same sort."

VIII
AN EXPEDIENT

"At last I was alone with that pretty girl. I need not tell you, messieurs, that I became loving, eloquent, urgent. Mademoiselle Mignonne laughed at everything I said; but it pleased her. As a general rule, when that sort of thing doesn't please a woman, she doesn't listen to the man who tries it on. As soon as we are listened to, we can be sure of triumphing. I requested an assignation. She refused; but I declared that I would come to Sceaux every day; to which she replied that she could not prevent my meeting her.

"To make a long story short, messieurs, I met Mignonne the next day, and the next, and every day that week. I spent a good deal in railroad fares; but one must be willing to sow if he would reap.

"After ten or twelve days, I had completely turned the girl's head, and I persuaded her to go with me to Paris, where I promised her a brilliant existence, pleasure by the wholesale, and, above all, a never-ending love. Mademoiselle Mignonne set great store by that, I assure you. She was a romantic maiden. But it costs us men nothing to promise, you know! I am not sure, indeed, that I didn't mention marriage; but I think not.

"It all resulted in a little fifth-floor room, under the eaves, in a house on Rue de Ménilmontant. I furnished it with whatever was necessary, nothing more, and covered the walls with paper at twelve sous the roll. I must confess that my love was not exacting; she desired neither a palace, nor a cashmere shawl, nor a carriage; my presence—that was all that was necessary to satisfy her.

"That state of affairs lasted for several months. At the end of that time, I would have been very glad to be rid of my conquest; I had had enough of her. If she had been sensible, I would have said to her, frankly:

"'My dear girl, I did love you, but I don't love you any more. It was sure to come, sooner or later; liaisons like ours never last very long; it's all the same, whether we make an end of it now, or six months hence. Make another acquaintance, or return to Sceaux, as you please; for my part, I have the honor to bid you good-day.'

"But, as I said, I had to do with a young woman who had never thoroughly understood Paris and the Parisians, but who had seen them through a miraculous prism. Moreover, she proved to have a strength of character which astonished me. She had honestly believed that I would never leave her. You will say, perhaps, that it was in my power to cease going to see her; but, unluckily, at the beginning of our liaison, I had been idiotic enough to take her to my lodgings, and to show her the shop in which I am a partner; so if I had let a day or two pass without seeing her, what would have happened? Why, she would have come after me, either at my lodgings or at my shop; and that would have led to a very annoying scene, especially as my partner is almost as ridiculous as Monsieur Faisandé, and believes me to be a perfect Cato.

"So there was nothing for me to do but break with my girl in such a way as effectually to take away the desire to hunt me up in my own quarters. A confidential disclosure which she made to me intensified my longing to put an end to the connection: she informed me that she bore a pledge of our love. Fancy me with a woman and child on my hands!—Damnation, messieurs! put yourselves in my place."

Monsieur Fouvenard paused to look at us all. But no one answered; and he continued, evidently surprised by the profound silence and the almost stern expression of his hearers:

"So I looked about for an opportunity to break with her; what I needed was a tempestuous, violent scene, for a German quarrel would not have sufficed to part us.—I had then and still have a friend, a fellow who is very enterprising with the fair sex, and almost as fascinating as myself. That is saying a good deal, perhaps, but it's true. You must have heard of him: his name is Rambertin, and he is a commercial traveller who has left Ariadnes in all the places he ever visited. I had met him several times, in the early days of my liaison with Mignonne, when I took my love to Mabille or the Château-Rouge. He had found the young lady of Sceaux much to his taste. One day, meeting me when I was alone and rather depressed, he asked me what I had done with my blondinette.

"'Parbleu!' said I; 'I would to God I had nothing more to do with her! If you could rid me of her, you would do me a very great favor.'

"'Are you speaking seriously?' cried Rambertin.

"'Most seriously.'

"'Then it's a bargain.'

"'But you don't know that Mignonne adores me; what you must do is to arrange matters so that I can break with her.'

"Rambertin began to laugh and rub his hands.

"'It seems to me,' he said, 'that I've a longer head than you; for when it's a matter of breaking off a liaison, I can always think of ten ways to do it. Of course, you go to see your fair whenever you choose; and you probably have a key to her room, so that you can go in when she's in bed?'

"'That is true.'

"'Give me your key. To-morrow I will have one like it, and the thing will go of itself.'

"The next day, Rambertin had a key like the one I had loaned him, which he returned to me, saying:

"'I know where the lady lives. It's a house where there's a concierge with five cats; but I am about your size, I'll cover my face with my cloak, and this very night I'll sleep in Mignonne's room. I fancy that she sleeps without a light. I will act so cautiously that she will not suspect that another man is occupying your place. You must come there early to-morrow morning; you have your key, so you can come in and surprise me reposing beside your charmer. I should say that you would have the right to lose your head then, call her a faithless hussy, and drop her.'

"I considered it a magnificent plan, and it was put in execution. Rambertin is audacious beyond description. Everything succeeded as we hoped. I went to Mignonne's room very early the next morning. She was still asleep beside my substitute, suspecting nothing. And Rambertin too pretended to be asleep. But I was no sooner in the room than I made a great outcry. I called Mignonne faithless, perjured—Oh! messieurs, if you could have seen the girl's amazement and horror! I assure you, it was an intensely dramatic picture. She declared that she was not guilty, that she was the victim of a detestable piece of treachery. She tried to throw herself at my feet, to force me to listen to her. But as I was not at all anxious that she should justify herself, I left the room, shouting that all was over between us.

"I confess that I was afraid that Mignonne would try to see me again, that she would waylay me somewhere, to try again to convince me of her innocence; but several days passed, and I heard nothing of her. At last, I met Rambertin.

"'Well,' I said, 'the blondinette seems to have been consoled very quickly; you couldn't have had much difficulty in making her listen to reason.'

"'You're devilishly mistaken,' he replied; 'on the contrary, your Mignonne is a young woman who refuses to be tamed. At first, being persuaded that you believed her guilty, she was determined to go after you, to dog your steps and compel you to listen to her. Faith! my dear fellow, when I saw how it was, I just simply confessed our little scheme to bring about a rupture between you two. The effect of that confession was most extraordinary. At first, the girl refused to believe me, but I proved to her that I was telling the truth: I had a little note from you, telling me at what café I could find you, to return the key of Mignonne's room. I showed her that note, and she could have no further doubt. She said just this: "The infamous villain!" Not another word about going after you. "Now," says I to myself, "she's at odds with him for good and all; I must try to obtain my pardon." And I tried to make her understand that I had loved her for a long while, and that only the intensity of my passion could have induced me to second you in that affair. But Mademoiselle Mignonne, without deigning to reply to my entreaties, pointed to the door and said:

"'"Leave this room, monsieur, and never let me see your face again, or I will go to the magistrate and tell him of your shameful conduct."

"'I tried in vain to make her understand that the night we had passed together gave me some rights over her; the fair Mignonne was immovable. I tried to steal a kiss; she shrieked so loud that the neighbors came to their windows. And so, faith! I went away; but let her do what she will, I'll bide my time, I'll seize the first favorable opportunity, and we won't stop where we are!'

"Such, messieurs, was Rambertin's story, and that is how I broke off my liaison with the damsel of Sceaux. Don't you think the method I resorted to was very ingenious? I'll wager that you'll bear it in mind, in order to make use of it on occasion!"

Monsieur Fouvenard looked at us, one after another, as if he expected compliments and congratulations; but, on the contrary, nobody spoke, and almost every face had assumed a serious expression. Indeed, there were some faces on which he seemed to detect something more than mere seriousness; for, I am happy to say, his narrative found no sympathy among us.

As for myself, I had always felt a sort of repulsion for that young man, a repulsion of the sort that one cannot describe, but that one often feels for a certain person. At that moment, I was gratified to think that I had always disliked a man capable of such dastardly, vile behavior as he boasted of in connection with that poor girl from Sceaux. The portrait he had drawn of Mignonne interested and touched me; and it seemed to me that I should like to know her, and to avenge her for the infamous way in which she had been victimized.

Dupréval, who had observed the unpleasant impression produced by the bearded man's tale, and who, presumably, was not proud of having that individual for his guest, was the first to speak.

"It has taken you a long while, Fouvenard," he said, in an almost harsh tone, "to compose the anecdote you have just told us; but, frankly, you would have done as well to keep silent instead of regaling us with that tale of seduction, the dénouement of which may be worthy of the Regency, but is not at all suited to our code of morals; for nowadays, when a man desires to leave a mistress, it is no longer necessary to degrade her, to throw her into his friend's arms. Those are old-fashioned methods, which you have read about in some old memoirs of Cardinal Dubois's time; but, I say again, you were not happy in your choice of events."

"What's that! old-fashioned methods!" cried Fouvenard, running his hands through his hair—a favorite gesture of his, especially when he desired to be impressive, to produce an effect; and it did, in fact, make him a few lines taller by making his hair stand up for the moment. "I have invented nothing, messieurs. I have told the story exactly as it happened. Anyone who doubts it has only to call on Mademoiselle Mignonne, No. 80, Rue de Ménilmontant,—that is, if she still lives there,—and it is probable that she will give him a mass of details concerning her perfidious Ernest, which I have forgotten. Ernest is my Christian name, messieurs, and that is what she always called me. It is possible that my story shocks you; but, at all events, it's all one to me. I snap my fingers at your displeasure! You make me laugh, with your long, solemn faces! I take reproofs from no one; the man who chooses to administer one has only to speak—I am ready to answer him."

"Oh! messieurs! pray beware!" cried Balloquet, with a laugh. "I warn you that Fouvenard is extremely quarrelsome in his cups. Three or four more glasses of champagne, and he's just the boy to defy us all!"

"I beg you not to make fun of me, Balloquet."

"Ah! the boar is bristling up."

"Monsieur," said I, irritated by Fouvenard's tone and manner, "if you pride yourself on your adventure with this village girl of Sceaux, I fancy that we, on our side, are at liberty to condemn it. It is quite possible that that makes no difference to you. For my own part, I declare that I have deceived many women, but I would never have resorted to such methods as yours to break with them."

"Parbleu! monsieur, perhaps you don't need to take much trouble to induce your mistresses to leave you."

"Frankly, I should prefer that to your expedients; the man who is deceived is often more interesting than the deceiver."

"And you have often been in that interesting position?"

Dupréval put an end to our dispute by rising.

"Messieurs," he said, "I beg you once more to receive my farewell greeting as a bachelor."

We all rose to shake hands with our host. I observed then that Dumouton took the longest road, for he made the circuit of the table. But he had long had his eye on some superb pears which had not been touched; and, as he passed them, he seized two, which he succeeded, not without difficulty, in stuffing into his pockets, thereby producing the effect of two miniature balloons on his hips; and as they raised the skirts of his coat, they disclosed the fact that the seat of his trousers was of a different color from the front.

We said good-night, took our hats, and prepared to leave the restaurant. But the music was still in progress, playing a captivating waltz, which was like an invitation to ask a lady to dance.

IX
THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE FRONT ROOMS

Balloquet and I were the last to leave the room in which we had dined; and, as we took our hats, we glanced at each other, beating time to the music, and I verily believe we were on the point of waltzing together, when the strains of a polka, nearer at hand, chimed in discordantly with the other music.

"Oho! there are several balls here, are there?" Balloquet asked a waiter, who was looking at us and smiling.

"Yes, messieurs; there are two wedding parties: one right below us, on the first floor, and another on the same floor, but in the salons at the rear."

"Ah! so there's a wedding going on in the rear, too?"

"To be sure, monsieur."

"What time is it now?"

"Half-past eleven, monsieur."

"The wedding parties should be at their height. Are there many guests?"

"A great many, monsieur. They are hardly able to dance, they're so crowded."

"Which is the more brilliant party?"

"They're both pretty fine, monsieur. But the one in front rather beats the other. It's a sweller affair."

"I understand. The one in the rear is more free and easy. They're probably dancing the cancan there. Sapristi! and it's only midnight! The idea of going to bed, when other people are going to pass the night enjoying themselves! when you can hear a lusty orchestra playing tunes that make your legs itch! Do you like the idea, Rochebrune? Don't you feel tempted, as I do, to go to one of these balls downstairs, where they're tripping the light fantastic?"

"I do, indeed! I would go with all my heart. This music makes me dance all over."

"Do you want to bet that I won't go to one of these balls?"

"Do you mean it? You would have the face to do it, when you don't know anyone?"

"Why not? I'll show you what a simple thing it would be. There are two balls. I go to one. If by chance some ill-bred wight sees fit to ask me who I am, whom I know, why, I have my answer all pat: 'I was invited to the other party, on the same floor; I made a mistake, that's all.'"

"Upon my word, that would be an excuse. You make me want to do the same thing."

"Bravo! It's decided: we will both go to the ball. And then, you see, we know so many people! it would be deuced strange if we didn't see some familiar face in a large party. Then we will just say in an undertone: 'You brought me here;' and our acquaintance will ask nothing better than to be our sponsor. Besides, we will dance, and dancing men are always scarce at balls; sooner or later, it will be the fashion to hire them. They'll be only too glad to have us. Come, which one do you choose; it's all one to me."

"And to me, too."

"Well, I'm a good fellow: the ball in front is more stylish; I'll let you have that one, and I'll take the one behind. Especially, as I feel in the mood for dancing a cancan, if it's a bit chicardini. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly."

"We're in patent-leathers and have new gloves. It couldn't be better.—Waiter, just whisk your napkin over our boots. That's right; now we're as refulgent as suns; patent-leather boots are a blessed invention.—Forward! I may be mistaken, but I have an idea that I shall make a good thing out of this ball; and you?"

"I haven't so much assurance as you. But, deuce take it! after all, we're not people without hearth or home. And, as you say, we might easily make a mistake in the party. Come on!"

"That's the talk: forward, to the cannon's mouth!"

We went down one flight; Balloquet humming and hopping; I, slightly flustered, but none the less determined to enjoy myself. We reached the landing between the two balls; we heard both orchestras.

"Good luck!" said Balloquet; and he entered the door at the right, while I turned to the left.

I entered the room where they were dancing. A quadrille was just beginning.

"A fourth couple here! we want a vis-à-vis!" called a gentleman close beside me.—Then he looked at me and said: "Won't you be our vis-à-vis?"

"Gladly," I replied; and glancing about, I saw a lady sitting alone on a bench. I hastened to invite her to dance. She accepted. We took our places opposite the gentleman who had no vis-à-vis; the music began and we did the same; and, lo! I was dancing already before I had had time to look about me and become acquainted with the company into which I had so audaciously thrust myself.

But a man who is dancing never has a suspicious look; nobody observes him or pays any attention to him. It seemed to me that I had taken the best possible means to become acquainted with my surroundings.

After the first figure, I began by examining my partner, whom I had chosen at random, so to speak.

Chance had served me well. My partner was a very pretty brunette; her great blue eyes were at once tender and intelligent, and I deemed them to be capable of saying many things when they chose to take the trouble. A slightly aquiline nose, an attractive mouth, beautiful teeth, which she showed often because she laughed readily, black hair falling in long curls over her neck, a mode of dressing the hair which I have always liked—all these details formed a very seductive whole, and that is what I found in my partner, who was light of foot, slender, with a shapely figure, and graceful in every movement.

Then I looked about. By the manners of the women, the costumes of the men, and the prevalent style of dancing, I saw that I had fallen upon a fashionable assemblage. There was not the slightest suggestion of the cancan; but, by way of compensation, there was a distinct odor of patchouli. I was not sure whether they were enjoying themselves much; but, at all events, they accepted boredom with infinite grace.

I saw many ugly women; in a large party, it rarely happens that they are not in the majority. That being so, is it surprising that a pretty woman makes so many conquests? If nature created more of them, beauty would receive less adulation; but as it appears only at rare intervals, it attracts more notice.

However, I saw some good-looking women; others who were rather attractive; others (and that too is common experience) who had no other attraction than their youth. But I looked in vain for anyone equal to my partner.

I concluded to open a conversation with her; if, through her, I could obtain some information concerning the bride and groom, find out something as to my hosts, it would be of advantage to me in my embarrassing position.

"I am very fortunate, madame, to have arrived just in time to find you unengaged. That must be a very rare occurrence, and chance favored me."

"But you see, monsieur, I am in less demand than you seem to think; you had only to come forward. Have you just come, monsieur? I don't remember seeing you before."

"Yes, madame, yes; I have not been here long."

"What do you think of the bride? Very pretty, is she not?"

I cast my eyes about me with an embarrassed air; I saw nobody who looked like a bride. My partner, who noticed my hesitation no doubt, continued:

"Can it be that you haven't seen her yet?"

"Faith! I have not, madame; I have just come, and I have had no time yet to look for her."

"Look! there she is over yonder, by the orchestra."

I saw a young woman in the conventional costume, with white bouquet and orange blossoms.

"Do you see her?"

"Yes, madame. But why is she not dancing?"

"Because that great lout of an Archibald trod on her foot just now, and nearly crushed it. What an awkward creature he is! Anna is obliged to rest through at least two quadrilles."

I had learned that the bride's name was Anna. That was something.

"Poor Adolphe was in despair. He wanted to fight Monsieur Archibald."

Adolphe—that must be the groom's name.

"I can well understand that," I hastened to reply. "If I had been in Adolphe's place, I would have been furious, too; for, you know, on the wedding day——"

"He's so fond of his cousin! But, after all, he could hardly pick a quarrel with the bride's brother."

The deuce! I was on the point of putting my foot in it. Cousin—brother—I didn't know where I was. So Adolphe was not the groom. I was treading on very slippery ground, and had to look carefully to my steps.

My partner, who was fond of talking, soon began again.

"As for Monsieur Dablémar, I fancy that he cares very little about it. You know the kind of man he is?"

That question embarrassed me sadly. I wondered who Monsieur Dablémar could be, and I answered, by way of subterfuge:

"Oh! to be sure; Monsieur—Dablémar probably does care very little about it. That is just what I was thinking, especially, knowing him—as I know him."

"Are you very intimate with him, monsieur?"

"Very intimate—why, not precisely, madame—but enough so—to have a—decided opinion about him."

"Do you think that he will make her happy, monsieur?"

"Whom, madame?"

My pretty partner stared at me in amazement as she exclaimed:

"What do you say? whom? Why, his wife, our dear Anna!"

So Monsieur Dablémar was the bridegroom; there was no longer any doubt.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, madame," I hastily replied. "I meant to say that she will be happy, madame, very happy. At least, that is my honest opinion."

"I love to think that you are not mistaken. I knew Anna at boarding school; I know that she has an excellent disposition; and a husband must needs be very uncongenial to induce her ever to complain of her lot. But still, to speak frankly, the other one was prettier."

Once more I was beyond my depth. Who was this other one of whom she was speaking? I turned and looked in another direction; but my partner stuck to the point.

"And yet," she continued, "they say that he did not love her, that he neglected her sadly. You must have known her, monsieur, being a friend of Monsieur Dablémar?"

"Known whom, madame?"

This time my partner looked at me in a very singular way; I was convinced that she believed that she had fallen in with a lunatic. She simply said, with a smile:

"You are absent-minded, aren't you, monsieur?"

"It should not be possible with you, madame."

This compliment changed the current of my pretty brunette's thoughts, and fully restored her amiability.—Oh! flattery! It is like calumny—some trace of it always remains.

"Your gallantry, monsieur, cannot prevent my thinking that you are absent-minded. Still, you may have reasons for not choosing to answer the questions I asked you."

"Well, madame, it is true, I have reasons—very strong ones, indeed."

"I understand."

Sapristi! she was very lucky to understand; for my part, I confess that that conversation made me much more uncomfortable than I had anticipated; for I was most anxious not to appear a lunatic in the eyes of that partner of mine, who seemed prettier to me every minute. There are people who gain by being looked at, at close range; they are not numerous, but my partner was one of them. And I was terribly afraid that my incoherent replies would give her a very contemptuous opinion of me.

"There goes Monsieur Archibald," she continued, after a moment, "trying to crush somebody else's foot; the way he capers about is perfectly horrible; I will never dance near him."

I did not know where she saw Monsieur Archibald, so I smiled without raising my eyes.

"Of course, you know the lady he is dancing with at this moment?"

"No, madame, no; I don't know her."

"But you haven't looked in their direction."

"I beg your pardon."

"Ha! ha! ha!"

My partner indulged in a burst of merriment which worried me. When she had ceased to laugh, she said:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, pray excuse me; it is very foolish of me to laugh so."

"Why, madame? laughing is most becoming to you."

"But such a strange idea passed through my head, that I couldn't possibly keep a serious face."

"If you would tell me your idea—I should be very happy to be taken for your confidant."

"Oh! I should never dare; for it was you yourself, monsieur, who made me want to laugh."

"So much the better, madame; I am delighted."

"Look you: for some reason or other, you seem to me to be very much preoccupied by something."

"Since I have had the pleasure of dancing with you, madame, there would be nothing surprising in that."

"Oh! monsieur, you are very gallant, I see; but allow me to remark that your preoccupation has no sort of connection with me!"

"Do you think so, madame?"

"What do you suppose just came into my head?"

"I can't imagine; but if you would deign to tell me——"

"You will think me very childish.—Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, madame?"

"Well, monsieur, I imagined that you had forgotten your handkerchief!"

I could not help laughing with her. Oho! so I had the aspect of a person who had forgotten his handkerchief. In truth, a man who is without that useful article is apt to have an anxious, unhappy look; yes, my partner had thought of something perfectly consistent with the contortions I must have been guilty of while she was talking to me. But, to prove to her that she was mistaken, I drew my handkerchief and blew my nose, although I had no desire to do so.

My partner made a charming little grimace, and said:

"I trust, monsieur, that you will not bear me a grudge for that jest?"

"Far from it, madame; indeed, it proves to me that you are a skilful reader of countenances."

"Ah! monsieur, that is very unkind of you!"

"No, madame, for you guessed that I was much preoccupied, and you were not mistaken; but the cause is much more serious than you supposed."

"Really? And will you tell me what it is?—that is to say, if I am not impertinent to ask you."

"Oh! I should be very glad to confide it to you; but I dare not."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because I am afraid that you would blame me; and I should be so sorry to incur your displeasure."

"Make haste; the quadrille is almost over!"

"It is—it isn't an easy thing to tell.—Do you waltz, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"May I have the first waltz?"

"I am engaged."

"Oh! what luck! If you knew, madame, what a position I am in!"

"Would you have told me your secret while we were waltzing?"

"Certainly."

"You will think that women are very inquisitive, but I accept. I was engaged by a young man whom I don't know; I'll tell him that I made a mistake and that he may have another one."

"Ah! you are extremely kind, madame!"

The quadrille came to an end, and I escorted my partner to the bench from which I had taken her. The thing for me to do now was to show a bold front in the midst of that assemblage. In vain did I look about in all directions, I did not see a familiar face. The company appeared to be quite select. It was not one of those wedding parties where the guests shriek and make a great noise in order to persuade themselves that they are merry; the men strolled quietly through the rooms, or chatted with the ladies, without any of the shouts of laughter and violent gesticulations which sometimes give to a large party the appearance of a tempestuous sea. The deuce! I found that my presence had been remarked. I met the eye of a stout young man, who had already passed me twice and scrutinized me closely. I felt ill at ease; the self-assurance born of the hearty dinner and the wine I had drunk had already abandoned me; my conversation with my partner, having aroused a most ardent desire to form a more intimate acquaintance with that lady, had instantly dissipated the exhilaration that had led me to commit that signal folly. I was beginning to reflect now, and it must have given me an extremely foolish aspect.—Suddenly I saw that a gentleman had stopped beside me and had taken his snuffbox from his pocket. He had one of those faces which resemble the turkey rather than the eagle; a face which might perhaps have been venerable, but for an enormous nose which covered a great part of it. If I could enter into conversation with him, it seemed to me that I should cut a less awkward figure.

X
A PINCH OF SNUFF.—A FAMILY TABLEAU

I stepped toward him, and, although I never take snuff, I put out my hand in the direction of his snuffbox, saying:

"With your permission?"

The gentleman was just closing the box, but he hastened to reopen it, and said to me with an expression to which he tried to impart much significance:

"Just try that, and tell me what you think of it."

I saw that he attached great importance to the quality of his snuff. Indeed, when one has a nose of such dimensions, it is natural enough to give much thought to the question of snuff. I took an enormous pinch, and resigned myself to the necessity of inhaling it with all my force. The snuff caught in my nose and throat and eyes all at once. I choked and sneezed, but I tried to dissemble my inexperience and to appear well pleased.

My friend shook his head knowingly, as he asked:

"Well! what do you think of it?"

"Excellent! delicious! I have never taken any so good."

"Parbleu! I believe you. Do you recognize it?"

"No, frankly, I do not. But, perhaps, by trying to—wait a moment."

I did what I could to prolong the conversation, for I was determined not to part with my interlocutor until the orchestra played the first measure of the waltz. Unluckily, I was not well posted on the subject of snuff.

"It's of no use for you to think," continued the man with the snuffbox. "It's a mixture that I make myself. There's robillard in it, and Belgian, and caporal."

"Ah! I thought there was some caporal. I recognized that."

"There's very little of it. When I have mixed them in just the right proportions, I add two or three drops, no more, of eau de mélisse."

"Ah! that's what it is; I said to myself: 'It seems to me that I recognize that taste.'"

"The taste is barely perceptible; but it lessens the strength of the robillard, which makes people sick sometimes."

"Fichtre! robillard is quite capable of it, especially on an empty stomach. I have known people, who—but, after all, it depends on whether you're used to it."

At that moment, I cut such an idiotic figure in my own eyes that I was tempted to laugh in my own face. Luckily, I had to do with a party who seemed to be of about the same calibre.

"Monsieur," he said, as he closed his snuffbox, "this is the result of protracted study; and yet, I never studied chemistry!"

"You astound me! I would have sworn that you were a chemist, simply on the strength of your snuff."

"That is what many people have said; but I ought to tell you that I have taken snuff ever since I was thirteen years of age."

"You are quite capable of it!"

"It was prescribed for a disease of the eyes—which, by the way, it didn't cure. I tried to make Anna take it for an ear trouble she had at seven years of age; but I couldn't do it. You can't imagine, monsieur, all of that child's devices to avoid taking snuff. In the first place, she used to hide my snuffbox, and more than once she threw it out of the window; then she filled it with very—unpleasant things; I prefer not to say what they were, but she spoiled my snuff, and she tried to disgust me with it. Ah! what a mischievous little witch! Who would believe it now, eh?"

I made no reply, for his mention of Anna reminded me that my partner had called the bride by that name. Was I conversing with some near relation of the newly married pair? The thought disturbed me, and I tried to lead the conversation back to the snuff. Once more I held out my hand, saying:

"I wonder if I might venture to ask for another pinch—it's so very good! And now that I know what it's made of, I shall relish it better."

My gentleman solemnly took his snuffbox from his pocket, and was about to open it, when a girl of fourteen or fifteen years, and very ugly, ran up to him, crying:

"Uncle Guillardin, you mustn't forget that you're going to dance with me first; I want to dance, I do, and I've missed three already."

"Yes, yes, don't worry, Joliette; I'll dance with you, as I promised."

"The next one?"

"Yes, the next one."

"Cousin Archibald invited me twice, too, and then he didn't come to get me; that was awfully mean of him. I told him I'd complain to you, and he said: 'Go and polk, and let me alone.' That was all the nastier of him, because he knows I can't polk."

Monsieur Guillardin—I knew now my snuff taker's name—opened his box and offered it to me; and paying no further heed to the little girl, who remained by his side, he said:

"One day, monsieur, when I had persisted longer than usual in trying to make Anna inhale a few grains, it occurred to her to blow into the box with all her might just as I handed it to her. You can imagine the result: the snuff filled my eyes—she had taken the precaution to close her own; I suffered horribly, and for two whole days I couldn't see. But after that, I ceased trying to give her snuff—Take a pinch."

I sacrificed myself a second time. I have no idea how I succeeded in inhaling it, but I know that my eyes smarted and that I felt strongly inclined to weep.

Mademoiselle Joliette, the inaptly named little girl, who had remained with us, roared with laughter.

"I should think monsieur was trying to be like you, uncle, when Cousin Anna blew into the snuffbox," she said.

"What! are you still here, Joliette? Go back to my daughter, for you are maid of honor, you know, and your station is beside the bride."

But Mademoiselle Joliette began to smile in a singular fashion, which raised her eyebrows—they were naturally too high—and gave to her face the effect of a mask. Her eyes were fixed upon me; she apparently had something to say, and dared not say it; my presence seemed to embarrass her. For my part, being by that time perfectly sure that the individual with the huge nose was the bride's father, I deeply regretted having addressed him, and I looked every minute in the direction of the orchestra, hoping to see the musicians take their instruments.

Monsieur Guillardin seized the opportunity to fill his own nostrils with snuff; that operation took some time, for each of them must have held half an ounce; but suddenly Mademoiselle Joliette threw up her head and began:

"Well, I don't care, uncle; I'm going to tell you why I am staying here. It's because Cousin Archibald, who was staring at monsieur, said to me just now: 'Joliette, go and ask father who that man is that he just gave a pinch of snuff to, and that he's talking to now. I don't know the man, and I don't think he's been here long. I want to find out who he is, because there are sharp fellows who sneak into wedding parties sometimes when they are not invited, so as to stuff themselves with cakes and ices. But I don't propose to have any such tricks played on us.'—That's what my cousin told me to ask you."

Imagine my plight; imagine the figure I cut while that detestable little Joliette was saying all this. I am certain that I changed color several times. However, I took the boldest course; I forced myself to laugh, and to act as if I considered the question extremely amusing. When he saw me laugh, the venerable gentleman with the huge nose deemed it fitting to do the same, murmuring:

"Ha! ha! That's a pretty good one! I recognize my son Archibald there. Oh! he's a hothead. Ha! ha! ha! why, if anyone should presume to join our party without an invitation, he'd annihilate him; he'd begin by jumping at his throat, like a bulldog. Ha! ha! it's very amusing! My dear love, just go and tell him that monsieur is—that monsieur's name is—that I am talking with——"

Monsieur Guillardin looked at me as he uttered these incomplete sentences. He was just beginning to realize that he too did not know me, and he awaited my reply with his nostrils open wider than his eyes.

I cannot describe my sensations; I felt huge drops of perspiration on my forehead, my mouth was parched. It was not stout Archibald's wrath that alarmed me; but to be treated as a suspicious character, as an intruder who had come there to get ices and punch! Ah! that thought drove me mad, and I realized all the impropriety of my conduct. I would have been glad to vanish through a trapdoor, like stage demons, and take the risk of breaking a bone or two in my descent.

At that moment the orchestra gave the signal for the waltz.—O blessed music! never didst thou seem to me so sweet, so melodious, so alluring! I bowed to the bride's father, saying:

"I beg your pardon, but I am engaged for this dance."

And I fled toward the pretty brunette, who was my last hope, my anchor of safety. Probably my face betrayed a part of the torment and anguish that I had just experienced, for the lady rose quickly and put her arm about me. We began to waltz, and she at once opened the conversation.

"What in heaven's name is the matter, monsieur? you seem much less cheerful than you were—and that secret that you were to confide to me——"

"Oh! I am going to tell you everything, madame; I shall be too happy if you deign to be indulgent to me, and to understand that this is only an escapade, reprehensible no doubt, but undeserving of—— Mon Dieu! I don't know what I am saying."

"Speak, I beg you; explain yourself."

"Of course—I believe I am treading on your foot now."

"That's of no consequence."

"First of all, madame, I must tell you that my name is Charles Rochebrune, that I was born in Paris, of respectable parents; I can easily prove what I assert."

"Great heaven! do you take me for an examining magistrate? Why do you tell me all this?"

"So that you may know that I am not a mere vagrant. I had some fortune once, and I still have about eight thousand francs a year."

"Does this mean that you desire to marry me, monsieur? It is my duty to warn you that I am married."

"No, madame, no; I don't say all this as a prelude to asking your hand; but so that you may know that I am not a nobody, a vagabond."

"Oh! I assure you, monsieur, that you haven't the look of one."

"True; but looks are so deceitful that sometimes—— Mon Dieu! now I am out of step."

"Never mind; pray finish."

"Very well! understand, then, madame, that I dined at this restaurant to-day with a number of other persons, all men. The dinner was given by Dupréval, a solicitor, who is about to marry. We celebrated his farewell to bachelorhood and drank to his approaching marriage; which is equivalent to telling you, madame, that the champagne was not spared. The dinner was prolonged to a late hour; we heard the music of this ball and of the one in the rear—for there's another wedding party there."

"I know it, monsieur. Well?"

"We were just going away, another young man and myself, who were the last to leave our dining-room, when the music, the delicious waltz they were playing, gave birth to the most insane idea."

"Ah! I believe I can guess."

"A little enlivened by the champagne, seduced by the melodious music—in short, madame, Balloquet said to me—Balloquet is my friend's name: 'Let's join the festivities, although we are not invited. Do you go to one, and I'll go to the other. If anybody notices our intrusion, if we are questioned, we'll say that we have made a mistake in the party.'—I allowed myself to be led away by Balloquet's reasoning; he went into the other ballroom, and I—I came here."

Instead of being indignant, as I feared, my partner burst into a hearty laugh, which the music hardly sufficed to drown. I allowed her to laugh freely for several seconds, then I continued:

"So you forgive me, madame?"

"Oh! absolutely, monsieur. What you have done doesn't seem to be very criminal. It's a little audacious, perhaps, but so amusing!"

"But, madame, it is most essential now that somebody should act as my sponsor; for the bride's brother, Monsieur Archibald, has noticed me; and just now, while I was conversing, unwittingly, with an immense nose, which proves to belong to the bride's father——"

"Monsieur Guillardin?"

"Even so. Well, as I was saying, a young person, instructed by this corpulent Monsieur Archibald, came and asked Monsieur Guillardin who I was. It seems that Monsieur Archibald is not always affable, and that he would probably take this pleasantry of mine badly. As for myself, madame, I realize that I have done wrong, that I have been guilty of a reckless piece of folly; but if this Monsieur Archibald tells me so in unseemly language, I swear that I am not of a temper to put up with it."

My pretty brunette had ceased to laugh.

"In truth," she murmured, "Anna's brother is the sort of fellow who doesn't understand practical jokes. He's a fool, and, being a fool, he is exceedingly sensitive; he loses his temper and quarrels over an idle word. He is very strong, it seems, and that gives him much self-assurance."

"It matters little to me how strong he is! I am no boxer, myself, and I don't fight as street porters do."

"Mon Dieu! what is to be done?"

"If you would condescend, madame, to be kind enough to say that I am an acquaintance of yours, that you invited me to come here—in a word, if you would present me?"

"I would ask nothing better if I were alone here; but my husband is with me, and he knows everything and sees everything; he's worse than the Solitaire. He would ask me instantly where I met you."

"See, madame, how they are staring at me already! Look, as we pass Monsieur Archibald, he points me out to several gentlemen standing near, and I have no doubt that he is saying to them: 'Do you know that man?' and they all say no."

"Oh! mon Dieu! you make me shudder, monsieur!"

"Look out for me when the waltz comes to an end—and I fancy that will be soon."

"But I don't want them to turn you out. You waltz so well—really, it would be a great pity."

"You are too kind, madame; however, if I am not taken under somebody's protection, it looks as if the affair would turn out badly for me."

"Mon Dieu! if only Frédérique were here! she would get you out of the scrape on the instant, I know."

"What! a lady named Frédéric?"

"Yes, monsieur—Frédéri—que."

"Ah! I understand, the feminine of Frédéric. And this lady?"

"She expected to come to Anna's wedding; she promised me she would; but she hasn't come."

"They are quickening the pace; a few turns more, and I shall be ignominiously expelled! What I shall regret most of all, madame, is you—who have been so indulgent to me, and whom it is impossible to see for an instant without ardently desiring to see you again."

"Oh! monsieur——"

"However, if Monsieur Archibald is discourteous, if he doesn't choose to accept a proper apology, I promise you that I will show him that he hasn't a dastard to deal with."

"Oh! don't talk like that! you make me tremble. If I should see my husband, I——"

My pretty partner did not finish her sentence; the music stopped, the waltz was at an end. But, almost instantly, my partner uttered a joyful exclamation and dragged me toward the outer door of the ballroom, saying in an undertone:

"Come, come; you are saved; here is Frédérique!"

XI
MADAME FRÉDÉRIQUE

I have no need to say whether I allowed myself to be guided by my pretty brunette. We forced our way through the crowd, at the expense of a number of feet which came in our way; my partner held my hand, and I pressed the protecting hand with which she held it, so that it could not escape me.

We reached the door of the ballroom just as a lady, newly arrived, was coming in. My conductress rushed to meet her, dragged her into a small room set apart for those who wished to converse, and, still without releasing my hand, led her into a window recess, apart from everybody, and said to her, laying her hand on her arm:

"Frédérique, you have arrived in the nick of time to confer a great favor on monsieur, and on myself, who—who take an interest in monsieur."

"What must I do? Tell me, my dear Armantine. I am all ready."

"Listen: you know monsieur, you invited him to come to the wedding, where he was to ask for you; but as you had not arrived when he came, he didn't know to whom to apply. Now that you are here, you must introduce him. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly! it's the simplest thing in the world! Take my hand, monsieur, if you please; for, as I am to present you, you must be my escort, for a few moments at least."

"With great pleasure, madame!"

"How lucky it is that I came without an escort, and that my husband has catarrh! It's a true saying that good fortunes never come singly."

"You will condescend, then, madame, to——"

"Why, it's all arranged; I am delighted to do anything to oblige Armantine. By the way, your name, monsieur, if you please; for, if I am to present you, I must call you by name."

"Charles Rochebrune."

"Very good! An advocate, I suppose? All the young men are advocates."

"I am not in practice; but I studied for the bar."

"That is quite enough. Now, let us go into the ballroom."

My new acquaintance passed her arm through mine and leaned on it as if we had known each other for years. I felt altogether reassured; I walked with my head erect, my face had recovered its serenity, and I was no longer afraid to look about me.

My partner left us as we entered the ballroom, and the lady on my arm asked me in an undertone:

"Do you know my name?"

"I know only that one by which she called you just now."

"I am Madame Dauberny, eight years married; I am twenty-seven years old, and my husband forty-four; he is wealthy and has no business. He doesn't care for society, balls, etc., but I go about without him. I was born at Bordeaux, and my parents were of the same province. I think that you are well enough posted now, in case anyone should talk to you about me."

"Yes, madame; thanks a thousand times!"

What I especially admired was the ease and fluency with which my companion said all this to me as we walked through the crowd; I am certain that no one who saw her talking to me would have suspected that she had never seen me until that evening. But Monsieur Guillardin and the bride came forward to meet my protectress, and I saw the stout Archibald too, walking behind his sister, and continuing to scrutinize me closely while he saluted Madame Dauberny.

"How late you are!" cried the bride, taking my companion's hand.

"We were in despair!" said the venerable proboscis; "it is half-past twelve, and we were just saying that Madame Dauberny would not come, although she had promised to."

"And here I am, you see. I never break my promises. Ah! that makes Monsieur Archibald laugh; however, it is quite true, monsieur."

"I was laughing with pleasure at seeing you, madame."

"You are too polite, monsieur. But I am the more culpable for being so late, because I have caused sad embarrassment to an unfortunate young man to whom I had said that I would be here at eleven, and that he need only ask for me and I would present him. I refer to monsieur, who has been looking for me here nearly an hour, so he tells me; and, failing to find me, he didn't know to whom to appeal. Allow me to introduce Monsieur Charles Rochebrune, a distinguished advocate—and a mighty dancer. I thought that you would readily welcome a friend of my childhood."

At that, I made a profound bow to the bride and her father, and to the hulking Archibald, who condescended to smile upon me, while Monsieur Guillardin exclaimed:

"All friends of yours are welcome, fair lady! I trust that you do not doubt it. But I have already had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of monsieur, who appreciates my snuff. But I confess that I didn't know with whom I was talking, and I was just about to ask him, when he left me, to go and waltz. If he had told us that he came at your invitation, that would have been enough to ensure him a hearty welcome."

"You are too kind, Monsieur Guillardin, but Monsieur Rochebrune is quite as well pleased to have me here;—are you not, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame," I replied, with an expression that made Madame Dauberny smile; and it seemed to me that that smile caused Monsieur Archibald to make a wry face.

"But where is Monsieur Dablémar? I don't see him anywhere."

Madame Dauberny had hardly asked the question, when a short man, dressed in good taste, but very slight and with an affected manner, came running toward us, crying:

"Ah! here she is at last, the one person we longed so to see, and of whose coming we had despaired! I must dance with you; I engage you for the next dance—that is to say, if you will deign to grant me that favor."

"We will see—later. I never dance as soon as I arrive; pray give me time to look about."

"My poor Anna has had to rest a little while; her brother trod on her foot; and he did well, too, for it is a good thing for her to rest: she was dancing too much, she——"

This gentleman, in whom I had no difficulty in discovering the bridegroom, stopped suddenly when he caught sight of me, evidently for the first time. My introductress, who had dropped my arm for a moment, took my hand and said to him:

"Monsieur Charles Rochebrune, a good friend of mine, whom I take the liberty to present to you."

Monsieur Dablémar bowed to me, as courtesy required. Thus I had been well and duly introduced to the bride and groom and the bride's kindred; I was one of the wedding party, and I could walk about fearlessly through the salons.

Having no longer anything to fear on my own account, my first pleasurable occupation was to scrutinize at my leisure the woman who had so gallantly come forward to be my buckler, and who, although she did not know me, although she had never seen me, had been willing to take my arm and to present me to a numerous assemblage as a person whom she knew intimately. I realized that she had done it at the request of a friend, to whom, as well as to me, she undoubtedly thought that she was doing an important service; but, none the less, there was a flavor of audacity in the performance that pleased and charmed me. Was it devoted friendship? was it recklessness of disposition? was it eccentricity, originality? I had no idea as yet, but I was deeply indebted to the lady, for she had extricated me from a bad scrape.

In the first few moments after my introduction, I was too excited, too preoccupied, to think of examining the person who introduced me; all that I could say was that, at first glance, she seemed to have a very becoming air of originality. Now that my embarrassment had vanished, and Madame Dauberny was talking with the bride, I could venture to examine her.

The person whom my pretty partner had called Frédérique was rather above middle height, rather slender than stout, but exceedingly well formed, with a something brusque and cavalierish in her gait and her carriage which was wonderfully becoming to her; her foot, while not remarkably small, was well formed; she carried her head erect, and slightly thrown back, and often rested one hand on her hip, like a man.

Madame Dauberny was not precisely a pretty woman; indeed, one might have passed her without noticing her; but the more you looked at her, feature by feature, her charm inevitably grew upon you; for there was a great deal of expression in her very mobile countenance. She was a brunette in the fullest acceptation of the term; her hair was of such an intense black that it was almost blue; this is not a witticism; extremely black and glossy hair sometimes has a bluish tinge; but such hair is rarely seen.

Her eyes were very dark blue, well shaped, and with abundant lashes; she fixed them uncompromisingly upon the person with whom she was talking, and they seemed to defy you to make them look down or humble themselves before anyone on earth. They denoted a woman of strong character, an energetic woman. Shall I say, a passionate woman? I think that I should err: strong natures are able to hold their passions in check, instead of allowing themselves to be dominated by them, like—— But I must finish my portrait. Gracefully arched, heavy eyebrows—but not too heavy—surmounted those expressive eyes; the nose was a little large, but straight, and the nostrils, slightly dilated, opened but little more when she smiled. She had a large mouth, and her lips were rather thin; but the teeth were very white and regular. That mouth was well adapted to raillery and persiflage; and it was most eloquent in expressing contempt and anger.

Madame Dauberny was naturally pale, and even by candle light her skin was not white. She had an oval chin and a high forehead. So much for her features; but all these details give a very insufficient idea of the general effect of that unusual face. It was necessary to see her in order to understand her; in the short time that I spent in examining her, her face changed entirely three or four times.

There was one thing that pleased me greatly, and that was her accent, in which there was a faint suggestion of the Midi, which, to my mind, is fascinating in a woman. She had a well-modulated voice, like almost all those who are born on the banks of the Garonne; it was not soft, but the accent deprived it of anything like harshness. And then, it reminded me of a fascinating Bordelaise, whom I had loved dearly, and known such a short time! On the whole, I was decidedly flattered to be considered Madame Dauberny's friend. But that did not cause me to forget my agreeable partner, to whom also I was deeply indebted. I was anxious to learn something concerning the pretty brunette. I tried to make up my mind to ask her friend Frédérique about her.

At that moment, she came toward me and whispered as she took my arm:

"Will you be my escort once more?"

"Ah, madame! I am too happy that you deign to accept me as such."

"Let us make a few turns about the room, and I will finish my task of giving you such information as you need concerning the company; then you will be free to return to Armantine."

"Armantine? Oh, yes! that is the lady who spoke to you in my behalf?"

"To be sure. You know her, do you not?"

"Not at all. I never saw her before; but I had danced a quadrille and waltzed with her."

"Well! this is a little strong! And what was the source of her deep interest in you?"

"The fact that I had told her of a mad prank I had just committed; of which I will tell you as well, with your permission."

"I not only permit it, but I insist upon it; for, after all, it is well that I should know something about the friend of my childhood."

I told Madame Dauberny the story that I had previously told her friend. She listened attentively, without moving an eyebrow. Her impassiveness frightened me. But when I had finished, she shook her head and smiled slightly, murmuring:

"It was a little risqué! So your friend is at the other ball?"

"Yes, madame."

"And your friend's name is——?"

"Balloquet."

"What does he do?"

"He is a doctor."

"There's no great crime in all this, provided that you really are, as you say, an honorable man."

"Ah, madame!—this suspicion——"

"Is fully justified, it seems to me; for, after all, monsieur, you may be a very bad character, one of those young men who cannot be received in good society. You may have said to yourself: 'I'll go and have a little sport at the expense of all those people!'—What would there be surprising in that? Oh! what a face you are making! Be careful, or people will think that I am making a scene; and when a woman makes a scene with a man, it means that she has some claim upon him. You must see that your long face is compromising to me."

I was horribly vexed; certainly she had a right to suspect me; but the mocking tone she had assumed, her manner, which denoted anything but conviction, and the expression of her face, augmented my chagrin, and I did not know what to say. How could I prove to her that I had not lied?

At that moment, a man of some forty years, stylishly dressed, and not ill-looking, but with a vague and shifty look in his eyes, stopped in front of us and paid a compliment or two to the incredulous Frédérique. I glanced at the new-comer, whose face was not unfamiliar; he caught my eye and bowed to me very affably. I cannot describe the thrill of pleasure which that bow afforded me, although I did not know who had bestowed it upon me.

"Ah! do you know Monsieur Rochebrune?" Madame Dauberny inquired.

"Yes, madame, I have met monsieur several times in company, notably at Général Traunitz's and at Madame de Saint-Albert's receptions."

"True," said I, searching my memory; "I remember very well having had the pleasure of meeting monsieur at those receptions."

"To tell the truth," rejoined Madame Dauberny, "I should have been surprised if Monsieur Sordeville had not known you, knowing all Paris as he does, and all that everyone is doing, all that takes place!"

"Oh, madame! you accredit me with much more knowledge than I possess," replied Monsieur Sordeville, smiling with what he intended for an affable expression, which accorded ill with the natural character of his face. "You are very late, madame; Armantine was distressed at your non-appearance; which, however, did not prevent her dancing. But Monsieur Rochebrune can tell you that, for I saw him waltzing with my wife, and very well, too, I assure you."

"What, monsieur! was it your wife with whom I had the pleasure of waltzing?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Why, what extraordinary mortals you are!" cried Madame Dauberny, looking from one to the other, with an ironical expression. "You know each other, and yet monsieur does not know that it was Madame Sordeville with whom he waltzed?"

"What is there so surprising in that, madame? I have met Monsieur Rochebrune at parties to which my wife did not accompany me; that happens every day. Because one is married is no reason why one should not go out sometimes without his or her spouse; and I may say that you yourself are proving the truth of that statement this very evening."

Monsieur Sordeville said this in a meaning tone. Now that I knew that he was my charming partner's husband, I examined him more closely. He was very good-looking; his features were regular, and he had rather a distinguished face; but I was not attracted by it.

Meanwhile, Madame Dauberny had not remained passive under the little shaft Monsieur Sordeville had let fly at her; but I did not hear her rejoinder, because my pretty partner came up and took her husband's arm just as her friend was speaking to him.

"My dear Armantine," said my patroness, "you do not know, do you, that your husband is acquainted with Monsieur Rochebrune, whom I took the liberty of bringing to this festivity? He's a terrible man, is your husband; if I had undertaken to introduce anyone here under a false name, he would certainly have discovered the whole intrigue."

The pretty brunette smiled and blushed slightly; then she put her arm through her friend's and led her away, but not before I had whispered in Madame Dauberny's ear:

"Well! are you convinced now that I did not lie to you?"

"I never thought that you were lying," she replied, squeezing my hand as a man would do.

Monsieur Sordeville remained with me. He seemed inclined to continue the conversation, and I asked nothing better than to become more fully acquainted with the husband of a lady who pleased me exceedingly. For if he had a face which did not attract me, I was at liberty to think of his wife while I was talking with him.

"She is an extremely agreeable person—Madame Dauberny!" Monsieur Sordeville began.

"Yes, she is very agreeable; she seems to have much wit."

"Have you never before been in a position to judge of her wit?"

I bit my lips; I had said a stupid thing; but I hastened to add, in an off-hand tone:

"What I meant to say was that she has even more wit than she allows to appear on the surface."

"Ah! do you think so? I must say that it seems to me that she doesn't hide what wit she has."

I saw that I should have difficulty in extricating myself; when one has strayed into a bad road, it's the devil and all to get back to solid ground. And then, too, that Monsieur Sordeville had an embarrassing way of making one talk. The bride's brother happened to be passing us at that moment. He stopped and said to Monsieur Sordeville:

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Madame Dauberny."

"Madame Dauberny! Oh! she's a gaillarde, she is!"

Monsieur Sordeville raised his eyebrows slightly as he replied:

"Hum! that word is a little strong!"

"Why so? I mean by gaillarde a decided character, which never bends, and does nothing except in accordance with its own desires; which takes its stand above a multitude of everyday prejudices, and snaps its fingers at what people will say. Indeed, Madame Frédérique—she prefers to be called that, you know, for she detests her husband's name—Madame Frédérique, I say, makes no bones of declaring that she does only what she pleases, and that she intends to do everything that she pleases. When a woman says that, I should say that one may well call her a gaillarde!"

Monsieur Sordeville smiled, and said simply:

"People say so many things that they don't do! Sometimes, it is to obtain a reputation for originality."

"And you, monsieur," continued Archibald, turning to me, "you, who are one of Madame Frédérique's early friends, do not you share the opinion of her which I have just expressed?"

I saw that Monsieur Sordeville was covertly watching me, and I replied, measuring my words:

"Since I have had the honor of knowing Madame Dauberny, monsieur, I have always recognized in her the possessor of many invaluable qualities, and a keen wit, slightly satirical perhaps; as for her faults, I know of none; but clever people are becoming so scarce that they may well pass for originals."

My interlocutors held their peace. Monsieur Sordeville shook his head, and Monsieur Archibald pursed his lips. The orchestra played the prelude to a quadrille. I determined to perform a noble deed, which would put me on good terms with the bride's family: I invited Mademoiselle Joliette to dance.

The ugly child accepted with unbounded delight. While we were dancing, I saw Madame Dauberny looking at me with a smile that seemed to say:

"That's a very clever thing you are doing."

For my own part, I hoped to reward myself in the next quadrille by inviting the seductive Armantine.

But while we were executing the final figure, a great uproar suddenly arose outside the door; people were shouting and quarrelling in the corridor, and I fancied that I recognized Balloquet's voice. Either he had not been so fortunate as I, or he had been guilty of some imprudence. I ran in the direction of the outcry.

XII
THE WEDDING PARTY IN THE REAR ROOM

As I stepped out into the hall which separated the two ballrooms, the dispute seemed to be growing warmer. I could distinguish Balloquet's voice perfectly, shouting:

"Once more, messieurs, I tell you it's a mistake, a simple mistake. What the devil! any man may be mistaken. I mistook one party for the other. Wedding parties are a good deal alike, as a rule, especially after the dancing begins. There's not enough harm done to whip a cat for."

The waiters did their utmost to restore peace, testifying that Balloquet had dined upstairs with some most respectable gentlemen.

I succeeded in forcing my way through the crowd. I saw a number of grotesque faces, which would not have been out of place in the Charivari's caricatures. Most of the men had retained beneath their gala dress the vulgur or stupid air which the finest coat cannot conceal. They were all very hot against poor Balloquet, who was as red as a cherry and gesticulating in the midst of them like one possessed. A stout man of some fifty years, whose eyes looked as if they were made of glass, they were so expressionless and so protruding, held him by the arm and kept repeating:

"You don't get off like this, bigre! You either belong here or you don't, that's all! Proofs! proofs! I want proofs!"

A tall, fair-haired young man, with a weak, stupid face, and hair brushed flat over his forehead almost to his eyebrows, seemed to be threatening Balloquet, as he said:

"And what did you do to my wife? tell me that! Did you or didn't you? Pétronille ain't capable of lying about it. She told me you pinched her! That's a pretty way to do—pinch the bride, when you don't belong in the party! If you'd been invited to the wedding—but that wouldn't be any excuse."

"I was dancing, monsieur le marié; my hand may have gone astray. If I did pinch her anywhere, I thought it was part of the figure, and——"

"Oh! that's a good one! that don't seem reasonable!"

"But, monsieur, you don't understand."

"You don't get off like that, bigre!" cried the fat man with the glassy eyes; "proofs! proofs! proofs!"

At that moment, to add to the uproar, a corpulent dame of at least sixty years of age, with a flat nose, smeared with snuff, her face encircled by a flaxen false front, the curls of which, artistically grouped in terraces, made her look as if she wore whiskers, and overladen with flowers, ribbons, lace, and false jewelry, appeared in the midst of the men, crying in a shrill voice:

"I don't want Pamphile to fight! I forbid him to fight! What's it all about? You shan't fight, Pamphile—I'd sooner fight myself, in my son's place. O my son, I'm your mother, or I ain't your mother! Monsieur's an intruder, a villain, a blackguard. Throw him out of doors! Call the watch!"

"No, madame, I am not a villain," retorted Balloquet, glaring savagely at the old woman, who was bedizened like a circus horse; "and I'll prove it."

"Go back to the ballroom, Madame Girie; this is no place for you; we don't need a woman's help to settle this business."

"I tell you, I don't want my son to fight!—Come, Pamphile, come back with me; don't get mixed up in this row."

"Oh! do let me alone, mamma! Go back with the other ladies."

"No! no! I don't want you to fight because monsieur pinched your wife. Mon Dieu! what a terrible thing! In the first place, Pétronille had no business to tell you of it. God! if the late Girie had fought every time anyone pinched me! But I didn't tell him! I took good care not to complain! I was too fond of my husband to do that; and he—oh! he loved his lovely blonde! You ought to hand monsieur over to the watch.—Watch! watch!"

Madame Girie persisted in shrieking: "Watch!" waving her arms, striking everybody within reach, and increasing the confusion immeasurably by trying to restore peace.

It was at that moment that I succeeded in reaching Balloquet's side, and released him from the man with the glassy eyes.

"What's all this, messieurs?" I exclaimed.—"What has happened to you, my dear Balloquet? Why are all these people so incensed with you?"

Balloquet uttered a cry of joy at sight of me, and cast a haughty glance at his adversaries, saying:

"You see that I didn't lie to you, messieurs; here's my friend, who is a guest at the other wedding and has come in search of me.—Isn't it true, Rochebrune, that you have come to fetch me, and that I am Arthur Balloquet, medical practitioner, and that I am not the sort of man to be turned out of doors?"

"Proofs! proofs! proofs!"

"I don't want my son to fight!—Listen to your mother, Pamphile!"

"You pinched Pétronille; I stick to that!"

"But I made a mistake!"

"Watch!"

"In God's name, Madame Girie, be good enough to hold your tongue!"

A small man, whom I had not yet seen, as he was hidden by the crowd, succeeded in passing his perfectly curled blonde head under Madame Girie's ear rings, and said, gesticulating freely after the manner of Mr. Punch, for he bore a strong resemblance to a marionette:

"Allow me! allow me! we must try to understand each other. Monsieur says he came to my cousin Pamphile Girie's wedding party by mistake; but a mistake like that don't last an hour, and monsieur's been with us more than an hour. I noticed him; he drank punch every minute; he made more noise than all the rest of the company, and I said to myself: 'That man's a boute-en-train![A] Oh! he's a famous boute-en-train!' But monsieur must have discovered that he didn't know us; that the bride and groom were not the ones who invited him. It seems to me that that's good, logical reasoning. I'm a logical man!"

The little automaton was not such a fool as one would have supposed at first sight. Balloquet was at a loss for a reply to his speech. I made haste to take the floor.

"Messieurs, my friend Arthur Balloquet has not deceived you; he is a most estimable physician, and incapable of offending you intentionally. He mistook the salon, that is all; you must not see anything more in the affair than there really is in it."

"And I was so comfortable where I was," said Balloquet, "that I could not make up my mind to go away."

This compliment allayed the ferocity of the vitreous-eyed gentleman. However, he was about to repeat his demand for proofs, when, on turning his head, he saw Monsieur Guillardin, who had come out to ascertain the cause of the uproar, accompanied by Madame Dauberny. She came to my side and whispered:

"I presume that your friend Balloquet has been putting his foot in it?"

As I said yes with my eyes, we heard a cry of surprise:

"Why, there's Monsieur Guillardin—my landlord!"

"Himself, Monsieur Bocal. What are you doing here, pray?"

"What am I doing? Why, I am marrying my daughter Pétronille to Monsieur Girie here.—Come forward, Girie; come, I say, and speak to my landlord, to whom I sent cards, I am sure."

The tall, fair-haired youth came forward with the loutish air that never left him, and bowed sheepishly to Monsieur Guillardin. This incident produced a fortunate diversion; attention was diverted from Balloquet, although Madame Girie continued to mutter:

"Oh! if my son should fight, I should be sick three times over! But he shan't go out, or, if he does, I'll follow him! I'm capable of anything where Pamphile's concerned. When he ain't home at eleven o'clock or twelve, I go and sit at the window, and there I sit all night, till he comes home. When I hear a horse, I says: 'There's my son.'—Sometimes I don't have anything on but three undervests and two chemises! but I don't care; I snap my fingers at the risk of catching cold!"

But nobody listened to Madame Girie. Monsieur Guillardin, having acknowledged the salutations of Monsieur Bocal and long-legged Pamphile, said to the former:

"Faith! my dear monsieur, this is a curious coincidence. I'm here for the same purpose that you are."

"I don't understand."

"I have married my daughter to-day, and we're celebrating the occasion right beside you here."

"Is that so? can it be possible? This other wedding party is yours? I mean, that you're marrying your daughter—no, giving her in marriage?"

"Yes, monsieur," interposed Madame Dauberny; "and I have been waiting a long while for Monsieur Balloquet to ask me to dance. I told him that I should be at Mademoiselle Guillardin's wedding."

Balloquet stared in amazement when that lady, whom he did not know, called him by name; but he replied at once:

"I am at your service, madame; but, you see, I was trying to explain matters to these gentlemen, and——"

"Oh! that's all over! let's not say any more about that!" cried Bocal, grasping Balloquet's hand. "If I had had any idea that you were invited to my landlord's wedding party!—Madame, messieurs, we shall be much flattered if you will honor us with your presence, if you will deign to come to our ball.—I beg you, Monsieur Guillardin, to do me that honor. Let me present Pétronille—Pamphile, go and call Pétronille.—Come, madame and messieurs, pray take a turn at our ball.—Cousin Ravinet, make our friends stand aside and make room for my landlord."

Cousin Ravinet was the little man who talked like Mr. Punch; he rushed into the room where Monsieur Girie's wedding was being celebrated, crying:

"Here comes my cousin's landlord! He's coming to our party. Bocal's bringing him.—A little music, please. I say there, you in the orchestra!"

The musicians supposed that he was calling for dance music, and they began to play a polka. Monsieur Guillardin, impelled almost by force by his tenant Monsieur Bocal, found himself in the ballroom at the rear. Madame Dauberny and I followed him, as did Balloquet, the latter being escorted almost in triumph by the bridegroom, who had taken his arm.

"You ought to have told us right off that you were a friend—a friend of friends of ours," said Girie. "Then we wouldn't have quarrelled. As you're invited to the party of my father-in-law Bocal's landlord, why, give me your hand! I must insist on your dancing the next dance with Pétronille."

"You're too kind, Monsieur Girie. As for the mistake I made in pinching your good wife——"

"Nonsense! don't say any more about that! It was a joke—just a joke! Look you, if you're a good fellow, you'll stay with us—as long as you're enjoying yourself. Now we know each other, we'll have some sport; we'll raise the deuce. It's agreed, ain't it? You stay with us; and at supper I'll take good care of you."

"What's that? you're going to have a supper?"

"Parbleu! I should say so! What does a party amount to without supper? You'll stay, won't you?"

"Faith! Monsieur Pamphile, you are so kind—your company is so lively; I'm tempted to let the landlord's party go by the board."

Madame Dauberny and I were walking behind them, and heard every word of their conversation. She had taken my arm as if we were old acquaintances, and she said in an undertone:

"It will be fortunate if your friend Balloquet stays here, for I think that he's a little exhilarated, and if he should come to Anna's ball he might say something that would compromise us by betraying our little fraud."

"You are entirely right, madame; but you need have no fear: Balloquet will stay here. He has been told of a supper to come, and he is one of those persons who never refuse a meal, even when they have had four during the day."

"That speaks well for his digestion.—Mon Dieu! just look: I believe that they propose to make us dance now. Monsieur Bocal is trying to induce his landlord to polk. It must be that the man's lease is nearing its end, and he wants to renew it."

The music had, in fact, excited Monsieur Bocal, who deemed it his duty to walk in step and was almost polking when he presented his landlord to his daughter Pétronille, who was a plump, chubby-cheeked wench, very fresh and red, with no other recommendation than her youth.

Monsieur Guillardin took out his snuffbox and offered it to the bride, who muttered:

"Snuff! Sneeze all the time I'm dancing! I guess not! And I haven't got a handkerchief, either."

"Do you polk?" Madame Frédérique asked me.

"Yes, madame."

"Very well; then let us take a turn. I prefer to make my entry dancing; it will be more amusing. Indeed, I see some faces already that make me long to laugh. Come, monsieur, they say that you waltz beautifully; let us see if you polk as well."

We started off. I was in luck that evening: after an excellent waltzer, I found myself with a partner who polked to perfection. We danced forward and backward, and turned in every direction. Our manner of dancing seemed to arouse the admiration of the company, for I heard people say as we passed:

"Look! there's a couple who dance pretty well!"

"Just look at those two; see what pretty steps they take!"

"Who are those people?"

"They belong to the party in front, the wedding party of Monsieur Bocal's landlord's daughter; Monsieur Bocal invited them."

"They polk mighty well; they must be ballet dancers at least."

"I'll bet they belong to the Opéra."

Madame Dauberny heard this last. She laughed heartily, but that did not interfere with her running comments on the wedding guests:

"Look at that couple yonder; for ten minutes they have been in the same spot; they are trying to polk, and can't go forward or back.—You will notice a tall woman in pink, in the corner at our left, with a garland of green leaves on her head; she has struck the attitude of a caryatid, and seems disposed to weep.—And see those two ladies, or demoiselles, polking together, and bumping into everybody.—And that little man hopping about with a tall partner."

"That's Cousin Ravinet."

"On my word, there are some sweet caricatures here! There are some very good-looking girls, but they look like grisettes; probably that's all they are. I am very curious to know what Monsieur Bocal's business is."

The music stopped. The heat was stifling in the ballroom.

"I have had enough of it," said Madame Dauberny; "besides, I believe that Monsieur Guillardin has returned to his daughter. Take me back to the other party; then you may return here, if you choose."

"I beg you to believe, madame, that I too prefer the company of which you are one."

"I believe you; I should be sorry for you if it were otherwise. But you must return and speak to your friend Balloquet. Balloquet! you must agree that that is a singular name for a physician. If I were ill, I would never put myself in the hands of a doctor named Balloquet!"

"So you think that the name is of some consequence, do you, madame?"

"Much, monsieur; if your name had been Balloquet, I could never have made up my mind to say that you were a friend of my girlhood."

While we talked, we had returned to the Guillardin party, of which I was now a duly accredited member. But as a quadrille was beginning just as we entered the ballroom, Madame Dauberny seated herself by the door, and I stood beside her, delighted to be able to continue my conversation with the amiable Frédérique; for to my mind she was extremely amiable, and if I had not been in love with her friend Armantine—— But it is so pleasant to be in love, even when it amounts to nothing, and vastly more so when it may amount to something. I was still in the dark as to how it would be with my new passion; but one is always at liberty to hope.

"I am under great obligations to you, madame, for what you have done for me to-night."

"Mon Dieu! you have already expressed your gratitude, monsieur! I trust that I shall hear no more of it."

"You know now, madame, that I have sometimes met Monsieur Sordeville in society; but that is not enough for me. I should be glad to make myself known to you more fully; and if you will allow me to call and pay my respects to you——"

Madame Dauberny looked at me a moment with a strange expression; I would have liked to know what was passing through her mind; but she soon replied, with her deliberate air:

"No, monsieur, no; I will not allow you to call on me; indeed, why should you do so?"

"Why, to have the pleasure of being with you, madame; and because I desire to make myself better known to you; and——"

"No; it's unnecessary, I tell you. I am entirely convinced, monsieur, of your good faith in all that you have told me; what more can you desire?"

"Nothing in that direction. But when one has once had the pleasure of being your escort, it is painful, madame, to think of the possibility of never seeing you again."

"Never! That is a word that ought to be stricken from the dictionary, monsieur, don't you think?"

"I agree with you, madame, for it is a very sad word."

"And false three-quarters of the time. However, if you really wish to see me again, don't be disturbed; you will have an opportunity."

"Where, madame?"

"At Armantine's."

"Madame Sordeville's? But I know her no better than I do you."

"True; but her husband knows you. Talk a little more with him, and I will undertake to say that he'll invite you to his house."

"Do you think so, madame?"

"Try it, and you will see. Ah! here's the terrible Archibald coming toward us. Beware, or you will make an enemy of him!"

"How so?"

"Because I am sure that he thinks you are making love to me. He is capable of believing even more than that; and you must know that he has made me a declaration of love."

"I presume that that must be a common experience with you."

"That is quite true."

"And Monsieur Archibald has simply followed a road which many men are tempted to take."

"Look you, monsieur, I agree that a man may make a declaration of love to a woman, without meaning anything in particular; that is the commonest thing in the world; and if a woman is ever so little coquettish and attractive, she can safely bet that she will extort a declaration from every man she knows. So there's no great merit in that. But because a woman is less coy than another, because she says frankly what she thinks, because she doesn't play the prude and isn't afraid to laugh at a joke, because, in a word, she has in her manners more or less unconstraint, originality, character, boldness if you will—to imagine, therefore, that that woman is likely to be an easy conquest, that a man has only to—you can divine what I do not say—— Well! monsieur, that is a very grave mistake, born either of stupidity or monumental conceit."

Did she say that for my benefit? I could not tell. Still, I had made no declaration; and although I had expressed a wish to see her again, to thank her again, it seemed to me that that was perfectly natural after the service she had rendered me. No; she simply meant to give me a warning. But in that case she must be convinced that I proposed to make love to her? She was mistaken, for I thought only of my charming partner, Madame Sordeville.

The quadrille came to an end, and I left my place, thinking that I would return for a moment to the other ball, to make sure that Balloquet would not come in search of me, and to see what he was doing as Monsieur Bocal's guest. From the glimpse I had caught of that other function, I fancied that there were likely to be some amusing sights there, and that love was probably treated there in another fashion than in the salons at the front of the house.

XIII
THE BRIDE AND GROOM AND THEIR KINSFOLK

At Mademoiselle Bocal's wedding feast, punch, mulled wine, and bischoff were circulating all the time, and the ladies partook of that species of refreshment as often as the men. From this fact it will be understood that at the Bocal ball there was an enthusiasm which threatened to develop into wild revelry. Most of the ladies were as red as poppies; some of them laughed incessantly; others, who were presumably very sentimental in their cups, rolled their eyes in a languishing way that drove you back to your entrenchments; others, whom the punch made melancholy, heaved prodigious sighs and were damp about the eyes.

As for the men, they were almost all loquacious and noisy, and I believe that I might safely say, tipsy.

When I entered the ballroom the second time, I looked about for Balloquet. I discovered him sitting beside a brunette with a headdress of roses, whose cheeks were of a brilliancy and lustre that dimmed the hue of the flowers. Their conversation was so animated that the young doctor in embryo—for to that class Balloquet belonged—did not notice me, although I had planted myself directly in front of him.

I concluded to tap him on the shoulder.

"Monsieur Balloquet," said I, "I would be glad to say a word to you, if possible."

"It isn't possible at this moment. I am engaged. I am explaining to mademoiselle the proper method of applying leeches."

And Balloquet gave me a meaning glance. I understood that his interview had reached an interesting point, and I was about to walk away, when I felt a hand on my arm. It was the little marionette named Ravinet, who was trying to make fast to me, and shouting—for everybody in the room shouted instead of speaking:

"Ah! you're one of the landlord's guests; I recognize you. You're the man who polks so well! It's very polite of you to come back to us. You'll polk again, won't you? If you want to please Aunt Chalumeau, you'll invite her; poor, dear woman, she's never polked in her life, and she's dying to. Her hair dresser told her she had the right make-up."

I had no inclination whatever to put Aunt Chalumeau's make-up to the test, and I told Cousin Ravinet, who struck me as being well primed, and persisted in hanging on my arm:

"I will tell you in confidence that I shall not polk again for some time; I am very tired."

"Oh! that's a pity. Do you belong to the Opéra?"

"I? No, indeed!"

"Are you related to my cousin's landlord?"

"No; I am a friend of his."

"And that lady who was dancing with you don't belong to the Opéra, either?"

"By no means."

"We all thought you did. You jigged it so well!"

"Monsieur Ravinet——"

"Ah! you know my name!"

"I have that honor. Do me the favor to tell me what Monsieur Bocal's business is."

"What's that! don't you know my cousin?"

"I know that he's the bride's father, and that he's Monsieur Guillardin's tenant; that's all."

"What! you don't know Bocal the distiller's shop, on Rue Montmartre? He's one of the largest distillers in Paris."

"Ah! he's a distiller, is he?"

"Why, everybody knows him!"

"I must tell you that I very rarely have dealings with distillers."

"He's the man who makes the syrup of punch—that's a famous brew! Did you ever drink it?"

"No; and I am not anxious to."

"Oh! you must take some, and tell us what you think of it.—Come here quick, Cousin Bocal! I say! here's a gentleman from your landlord's party; he's never tasted your punch."

The stout man with the glassy eyes stopped at Cousin Ravinet's summons; then he came to me and gripped my other arm, saying with an effusiveness that scorched my cheeks, for he had the unpleasant habit of speaking within an inch of your nose:

"Ah! monsieur, you're one of my landlord's guests. Surely you won't insult me by joining us without taking something?—Here, waiter!"

"You are too good, Monsieur Bocal, but——"

"The punch is made with my syrup; it's perfumed, and sweetens your breath."

"That is what I was just saying to monsieur, cousin——"

"I say there! waiter!"

"Waiter! bring some punch! My cousin is calling you!"

Cousin Ravinet was determined to do his part. The two men held me so that I could not escape. A waiter arrived with a salver. I realized that I should get into serious difficulty if I refused; it would be quite likely to draw down upon me the wrath of Madame Girie, whom I spied in a corner, whispering with some other women. So I swallowed the glass of punch, hoping that I should be set free; but I was disappointed. Monsieur Bocal led me away toward his daughter Pétronille, saying:

"You must dance with the bride."

"It's a very great honor, but——"

"Oh! you must dance with her. My landlord refused to dance, but he's an elderly man. But a famous dancer, a zephyr, like you, can't refuse."

I did not know how to evade the honors with which I was overwhelmed. Monsieur Bocal had already said to his daughter:

"Pétronille, you're going to dance with monsieur—my landlord's friend."

"But, papa, I am going to dance with Freluchon."

"What do I care for Freluchon! I tell you, Pétronille, you're going to dance with monsieur; and you'll see how he dances. All you've got to do is stand straight——"

"But I promised poor Freluchon two hours ago, and he's gone to wash his hands on purpose, because he's lost his gloves; he'll be mad."

"For heaven's sake, Monsieur Bocal," said I, "don't let me interfere with your daughter's plans! I will dance with her later; I should be very sorry to offend anyone."

"On the contrary, monsieur, it will give me much pleasure," said Bocal. "I don't care a snap of my finger whether Freluchon's angry or not. The idea of putting ourselves out for him! Not much! You shall dance this dance with the bride. Hark! there goes the orchestra; take your places quick!"

Escape was impossible. What had I tumbled into? Those people were as obstinate as mules, and a refusal on my part would irritate them; people of little education are always extremely sensitive with fashionable persons, for they feel their inferiority; they are afraid of being laughed at, when no one has any idea of laughing at them.

I made the best of it and took my place beside the bride, who did not act as if she were overjoyed to dance with me and probably regretted Freluchon.

"Who's going to dance opposite the bride?" shouted Monsieur Bocal, in stentorian tones.

"I am! I am! here I am!"

And a tall, thin, bald-headed old man appeared, leading by the hand a girl of seven or eight. There was a vîs-à-vîs which would not afford me any distraction! I heard a muttering behind me, then groans, then Monsieur Bocal's voice above all the rest. It was probably Monsieur Freluchon, indignant to find that he had washed his hands for nothing.

The quadrille began. The bride went into it with all her heart; she was a buxom wench, who had made up her mind to let herself go on her wedding day, and was determined to do what she had set out to do. If only I did not get in the way of her feet, I felt that I should be lucky. The tall old man, who stood opposite her, danced with a zeal deserving of the greatest praise; he persisted in taking all the little steps and even essayed some leaps and bounds; the perspiration rolled down his face after the second figure, but he did not omit a step. He was a conscientious dancer, and would have been in great demand under the Empire. The little girl hopped about in every direction, and made a mess of every figure; she was always behind me when she should have been in front; but I was indifferent and let her wander about at her pleasure.

I was convinced that Cousin Ravinet had spread the information that I was a famous dancer, for there was a crowd about our set. The good people must have been sadly disappointed, as I did nothing but walk through the figures. Indeed, I heard some voices muttering:

"Bah! it wasn't worth while to put ourselves out; I can dance better than that. Ravinet must have seen double; he don't even know how to do the basque step!"

I felt called upon to try to talk with the bride.

"You must be tired, madame?"

"Tired? why?"

"You have probably been dancing a long while."

"Dame! if the bride didn't dance, it would be a pretty wedding! The men have to ask me to dance; that's what they were invited for."

I bit my lip, as I rejoined:

"This is a very happy day for you, madame, is it not?"

"A happy day! Oh! it's rather amusing just now; but I've found it pretty stupid all day!"

"Ah! is that so? But I presume that you love the man you have married?"

"Oh, yes! well enough, as far as that goes; not too much; but it'll come; pa said it would come."

"Would it be impertinent of me to ask what your husband's business is?"

"My husband's? He sells sponges, at wholesale; we're going to keep a sponge shop."

"That must be a good business."

"Dame! I don't know anything about it. I shan't like it very much to be among sponges all the time. But we won't have any dog, anyway; that was one of the first conditions I made."

"Ah! you don't want a dog; I judge that you dislike dogs?"

"Mon Dieu! no, I like all kinds of animals. But it's on account of the song."

"Ah! is there a song about dogs?"

"About the Sponge Man's Dog! Don't you know that song?"

"No; I must admit that it is entirely unknown to me."

"It's a comic song; every verse ends like this: 'And it was the sponge man's dog.'—Everybody knows that refrain, and pa says to Pamphile: 'If you had a dog, people would always sing that song when they saw him. That might injure your business.'—And Pamphile says: 'I'll never have a dog, I swear,' and I married him. Pa did well, didn't he?"

"I admire Monsieur Bocal's foresight."

"He insisted, too, that my mother-in-law shouldn't live with us."

"In that respect I applaud him; for mothers-in-law seldom agree with their daughters-in-law."

"Especially as Madame Girie—— Why, she's a woman that would set mountains to fighting if she could; and yet, she says she adores her children! it's amazing how happy they've been with her! Pamphile's younger brother was very delicate, so she said; she insisted on his purging himself all the time, taking cathartics and enemas. When he came home at night after dining out, Madame Girie was always waiting for him on the stairs, with a syringe. If he refused to have an enema, she'd chase him through all the rooms. The next day, she'd purge him without telling him, by putting something in his coffee. In fact, she pestered the poor boy so with what she called her little attentions, that one fine morning he went off and enlisted in the dragoons; he preferred that to being syringed."

"Faith! I believe that I would have done the same if I had been in his place."

"Madame Girie said he was an ingrate. She didn't want her other son, Pamphile, to marry, so's he could stay with her. You can see that that prospect didn't tempt him, especially as Madame Girie wanted to run the business, and as she found a way to quarrel with all the customers. One day, she refused to sell a man sponges, because he didn't bow to her when he came in; another time, it was a woman who spoke to her as if she was a servant. In fact, if she'd stayed with Pamphile a while longer, it would have been all up with his business; for no one would come there to buy. Well! here we are married. We make Madame Girie an allowance, but it won't be enough for her, you see! she's never had any idea how to take care of money, she always runs right through it.—Ah! it's our turn, monsieur; this is the poule."

When the poule figure was at an end, the bride said to me, with an ironical air:

"It don't seem to me that there's any need of my holding myself so straight to dance with you. They said you were such a fine dancer!"

"Cousin Ravinet was mistaken, madame, in saying that I danced well."

"Oh! as to that, if you were dancing with the lady you had a little while ago, you'd jump higher, I suppose."

"I beg you to believe that no partner could induce me to jump any higher."

"Freluchon dances mighty well, I tell you; he bounds like a rubber ball."

"That is a gift of nature, and I would not contend with the gentleman. Is he a relation of yours?"

"Freluchon? No; he's head salesman in pa's shop. He cried when he heard I was going to be married."

"The deuce! was it with pleasure?"

"Well, I guess not! it was with something else. But I consoled him; I told him I'd be his friend as long as we live, and that he could kiss me every Sunday."

"I can imagine, madame, that such a prospect dried his tears."

"It's our turn! it's our turn!"

The quadrille was over at last. I escorted the bride to her place, and dodged the glasses of mulled wine that were circulating in all directions. Someone seized my arm; I jumped back in dismay, fearing that it was either Monsieur Bocal again or little Ravinet.

But it was Balloquet, who led me to a corner of the room, where we sat down upon an unoccupied bench. My medical friend seemed to be in very high spirits. He began to laugh before he spoke to me.

"Well! my dear Rochebrune, I should say that we had succeeded in our undertakings, eh? What an excellent idea it was of mine, that we should join these wedding parties!"

"True; but suppose I hadn't appeared with Monsieur Bocal's landlord—what then? It seems to me that you were in for a bad quarter of an hour! What the devil had you been doing?"

"Nothing; it was just a joke. The little woman I was talking with just now had excited me; and then, the way they drink here is something terrific. Faith! while I was dancing with the bride, my hand went astray. That idiot of a Pamphile did nothing but say to us: 'I've married an apple! My wife's as solid as one!' And I just wanted to see if it was true. I give you my word that he flatters himself. But that's all gone by now; the husband adores me. What do you think of this party?"

"I prefer the one I belong to."

"How did you arrange your affair?"

"I was sorely embarrassed; but two charming women took me under their protection. Afterward, I found a gentleman there who knew me. But, for all that, my dear Balloquet, don't be imprudent enough to come into the other ballroom. The company is very different from this; you might be questioned, and——"

"Never fear; I'm very well off here, and I shall stay. In the first place, there's to be a supper, and I have always had a weakness for that sort of amusement. And, secondly, I have my hands full: I am at work on a brunette—the one I was colloguing with just now. I like her immensely; I propose to give her my custom. She's a Madame Satiné, Boulevard des Italiens; a fashionable quarter, where gloves are very dear. She says she's a widow; all the attractions at once. She's no light-footed nymph, but good, solid flesh and blood, and no prude, either. We dine together to-morrow; that's already arranged."

"I congratulate you; you do business promptly."

"And you—have you found anything to make it worth your while?"

"I have made the acquaintance of a charming woman; but I don't know yet whether it will go any further."

"The one who came here with you?"

"No; that was my second protectress."

"Do you know that she has a regular—military air. Bigre! how she looked at me!"

"Yes, there is a touch of decision in her manners. She is clever and original; but she's not the one I am making up to."

"I say! who in the devil is this old woman standing in front of us and making faces?"

I looked up and recognized Madame Girie, who had halted in front of Balloquet and myself and had her eyes fixed upon us, raising her eyebrows, smiling—in a word, indulging in a pantomime which was certainly intended to compel us to speak to her.

There was no way of escaping her; for, as soon as I raised my eyes, Madame Girie made a minuet courtesy and stepped forward, saying in a tone in which she clearly intended to announce the mistress of the feast:

"Have you had some punch, monsieur, or some bischoff? Have you taken anything?"

"Yes, madame; I am infinitely obliged to you, I have taken many things."

"You see, Monsieur Bocal is so heedless! He talks a great deal and makes a lot of noise, and acts as if he wanted to manage everything; but, as a matter of fact, he don't do anything at all; and if I wasn't here to look after things—— I am the bridegroom's mother, monsieur."

"You are quite capable of being, madame," said Balloquet, rising and bowing to Madame Girie; then he walked away and left me to my fate. I would have been glad to follow Balloquet's example; but Madame Girie at once took his seat by my side and seemed disposed to remain there. I felt a cold perspiration break out all over me. The bridegroom's mother turned toward me and continued the conversation:

"Yes, monsieur, I am the bridegroom's mother. That magnificent boy is my son; he looks like me, don't he, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame; he has your expression."

"My expression—that's it exactly; you've struck it! He wanted to marry. I wanted to be everything to him. 'Stay with your mother,' I says; 'you'll be much happier! What more do you need?'"

"But, madame, it seems to me that a mother can hardly take the place of a wife; and I imagined that a mother's greatest happiness was to live again in her grandchildren."

Madame Girie took from her pocket a handkerchief redolent of snuff, and rejoined:

"Oh! certainly, monsieur, a man can marry; but he'd ought to make a good choice, and that's so hard!"

"Do you mean that you are not satisfied with the choice your son has made?"

"Hum! hum! I don't want to speak unkind of my daughter-in-law, monsieur; I ain't capable of it; but if I was inclined to! In the first place, she's as stupid as a pot, that little Pétronille is. But you've been dancing with her, and you must have found it out."

"Why, no, madame; I found her naïve and natural."

"Ha! ha! silly [niaise] enough, ain't she? You're frank, you are! However, Pamphile was cracked over her, and I don't know why; for she ain't pretty."

"She's very fresh."

"Dame! if a girl wasn't fresh at her age! But she's running to fat, and I won't give her three years before she's a sight. And then, she's been brought up in such a curious way! Having no mother, she's done just as she chose, you see. Alone all day long with the clerks; young men, too—I actually believe she went down into the cellar with 'em! Fie! fie! what actions! catch me choosing that hussy for my son's wife! But he wouldn't listen to me, when I says to him: 'You'll repent of your bargain.'—You just wait a little while, monsieur, and you'll see. There's a certain Freluchon,—one of Monsieur Bocal's clerks,—who was dead in love with Pétronille. Everybody knows that; why, she didn't conceal it herself, but just laughed about it!—a modest girl doesn't laugh at such a thing.—This Freluchon taught her to swim—do you hear, monsieur?—to swim, in the river; she went into deep water with him! Fine doings! And Pamphile thinks that's all right. 'Look out what you're doing!' I says to him.—Oh, monsieur! what fools men are when they're in love!"

"That is a profound truth, madame; but it does little honor to your sex; if women really were what men suppose them to be when they're in love, men wouldn't be such fools to love them."

Madame Girie pursed up her lips, shook her head, and smiled, as she said:

"Thank God! all women ain't Pétronilles!"

"And all mothers-in-law aren't like you, madame!"

I don't know whether Madame Girie took that for a compliment, but she bowed low. For my part, I had had quite enough of the excellent dame's chatter, so I left my seat and the ballroom, where the odor of mulled wine and punch was beginning to be insufferable.

XIV
A YOUNG DANDY.—A DELIGHTFUL HUSBAND

Returning to the Dablémar function, I drew a long breath of delight; a pleasant odor of patchouli and muslin replaced the fumes of mulled wine, which were intensified on the other side of the corridor by a multitude of other emanations. The temperature, too, was endurable, and the faces of the guests did not glisten with drunkenness and perspiration, which impart to the countenance a gloss that does not embellish it.

My first care was to look about for Madame Sordeville. I discovered her talking with her friend Frédérique, and with them was a young man whom I had not yet seen.

This new personage was twenty-eight to thirty years of age, and was dressed in the height of fashion. He was very dark, and his hair, artistically parted and curled, was beautifully glossy. A long, pale face, regular features, black eyes somewhat sunken, a small, tightly closed mouth, a slight, carefully trimmed moustache, made him a very good-looking fellow; but a self-sufficient, conceited air, which almost amounted to impertinence—that too I observed in my scrutiny of that young man, who, at the very outset, and for some reason which I could not explain, made a most unpleasant impression on me.

We often feel sympathies or antipathies for persons we do not know; and when we are in a position to become better acquainted with such persons, it rarely happens that the instinctive prevision of our hearts is not justified. So that we must have a sort of second-sight, of the heart, which warns us when we are in presence of a friend or an enemy.

This gentleman was talking with the two ladies, with a familiarity that seemed to denote a close intimacy. Was he probably the lover of one or the other? Suppose he were of both? Such things have been seen. One thing was certain, and that was that there was no trace of the discreet lover about him.

You will consider that I have a low opinion of women. It is not of women alone, but of the world in general that I have such an opinion. It is not my fault; why has it so often given me reason to think ill of it?

I did not approach them, for the presence of that handsome dandy annoyed me; but I watched them. I must have been very dull-witted not to discover with which of the two ladies he was on most intimate terms. There are many little nothings by which people always betray themselves, unless they are constantly on their guard; and even then!

Ah! my mind was made up! A hand placed a little too familiarly on the fellow's knee, a long glance, which said things that are not said in public, told me that he was intimately associated with Madame Dauberny. I was conscious of a joyful thrill, for I had feared for a moment that it was with my charming partner, and, frankly, that would have distressed me. Therefore, I was certainly in love with her.

I walked toward the group, and spoke to Madame Sordeville, who replied with her usual affability. But while I was talking with her I noticed that my fine gentleman with the moustache eyed me from head to foot with something very like impertinence! I wondered how long that would last.