COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
THE FREDERICK J. QUINBY COMPANY
——
All rights reserved
LOUIS E. CROSSCUP
Printer
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

THE BARBER OF PARIS
VOLUME I

CHAPTER I
The Barber's House

UPON a certain evening in the month of December, of the year one thousand six hundred and thirty-two, a man walked at a rapid pace down the Rue Saint-Honoré and directed his steps towards the Rue Bourdonnais.

The individual appeared to be forty years old or thereabouts; he was tall as to his figure and sufficiently good-looking as to his face; the expression of the latter, however, was rather austere and at times even melancholy; and in his black eyes might sometimes be noted an ironical light, which belied the suspicion of a smile.

This ungenial personage, on the occasion of which we are writing, was wrapped, one might almost say disguised, and he looked like one who would lend his personality to disguise; he was wrapped, then, in a long brown cloak which only came down just below his knees, and he wore, drawn low down over his eyes, a broad-brimmed hat, which, contrary to the fashion of the day, was ungarnished by a single feather, but which effectually protected his face from the rain which was now beginning to fall very heavily.

The Paris of that time was very different from the Paris of today. The condition of the beautiful capital was then deplorable; many of the streets were unpaved, many of them were only partly paved; heaps of rubbish and filth accumulated here and there before the houses, obstructing the course of the water and stopping the openings of the drains. These waters being without outlet, overflowed on all sides, forming puddles and filthy holes which exhaled miasmatic and fœtid odors. Then one might have alluded with truth to—

Paris, city of noise, of mud and of smoke.

The streets were unlighted. People carried lanterns, it is true; but everybody did not have these, nor were lanterns any defence against the robbers who existed in very large numbers, committing a thousand excesses, a thousand disorders, even in broad daylight, being only too well authorized in crime by the example of the pages and lackeys whose habit it was to amuse themselves each night by insulting the passers-by, abducting the girls, mocking at the watch, beating the sergeants, breaking in the doors of shops, and annoying the peace of the inhabitants in a multiplicity of ways, excesses against which parliament had in vain promulgated statutes, which were incessantly renewed, and just as incessantly violated with impunity.

The stealing of purses, and even of cloaks, was then a thing so common that the witnesses of the robbery contented themselves with laughing at the expense of the victim, without ever running after the thief. Murders were committed in broad daylight on the squares and on the walks, the criminals insulting their victims as they departed.

There were two kinds of thieves,—cut-purses and tire-laines. The first nimbly cut the strings of the purse, which it was then the habit to carry hung at the belt; the second, approaching from behind, rudely tore the passer's cloak from his shoulders.

Vainly from time to time they executed some of these criminals. These examples seemed to redouble the audacity of the vagabonds, the insolence of the pages and lackeys. Justice waxed feeble, while custom allowed each one to execute it for himself. Duels were nearly as common as robberies; it was considered a great honor to have the power to boast of having sent many people into the other world. Indubitably this was not the golden age, nor the good old times so vaunted by some poets, so regretted by those gloomy minds which admire only hoops and farthingales.

We do not pretend to write history, but we have thought it necessary to recall to the reader the state of Paris at the time in which our barber lived. Undoubtedly he has already divined, by the title alone, that the story is not of our time; for now we have in Paris many artistes in hairdressing, many coiffeurs, and many wigmakers, but we have no longer any barbers.

The individual whose portrait we have just drawn, having reached a corner of the Rue des Bourdonnais, stopped before a pretty house on which was written in big letters, "Touquet, Barber and Bathkeeper." At that time the luxury of signs was not known, and the streets of Paris did not offer to the consideration of loiterers a character from Greek or Roman history at the front of each grocer's or haberdasher's shop. The portrait of Mary Stuart did not invite one to go in and buy an ell of calico; nor did Absalom, hung by the nape, indicate to one that he was passing a hairdresser's parlors. We have made great progress in such matters.

The man who had stopped before the barber's house would have had, no doubt, much trouble in reading what was written on the front of the shop, which was shut; for the night was dark, and, as we have already said, there were no street lamps to aid those who ventured to be out in the evening in the capital. However, he seized the knocker of the smaller door, which served as an entrance, and gave a double knock without hesitating, and as one who was not afraid of making a mistake; in fact, it was the barber himself. In a few moments heavy steps were heard, and a light shone against the lattice-work above the door, which opened, and an old woman appeared, holding a candle in her hand. She nodded, saying,—

"Good God, my dear master! you have had horrible weather. You must be very wet. I have been praying to my patron saint that nothing should happen to you. Oh, if one only had a secret for preserving one's self from the rain! I'm very sure there are some people who can command the elements."

The barber made no answer, but passed toward a passage which led to a lower room in which there was a big fire. On entering the apartment he began by removing his cloak and hat, from which latter escaped a mass of black hair which fell in ringlets on his collar; he unfastened a large dagger from his belt, it being then the custom not to venture out without being armed. Touquet hung the dagger over the mantelpiece, then threw himself into a wicker armchair and placed himself before the fire.

While her master rested, the old servant came and went about the room; she placed the table beside the barber's armchair, drew from a buffet a pewter cup, some plates, a cover. She placed on the table tankards containing wine or brandy, and some dishes of meat which she had prepared for the supper.

"Has anyone been here during my absence?" said the barber, after a moment.

"Yes, monsieur; first, some pages, to know the news and adventures of the neighborhood, to talk evil about everybody, and to mock at the poor women who were weak enough to listen to them. Oh, the young men of today are wicked. How they boasted of their conquests! Some bachelors came to be shaved, then the little dandy who's delighted to wear powder, protesting that soon everybody will wear it. Perhaps they'll powder the hair likewise; still, that may preserve it from something worse. Ah, I forgot; and that big, noisy and insolent lout who, because he has a satin doublet and a velvet mantle, a hat adorned with a fine plume, and beautiful silver points, believes that he has the right to play the master over everything."

"Ah, you're speaking about Monbart?"

"Yes, of that same. He made a great shouting when he found you were not here. He said that since monsieur is rich he neglects his business."

"Why should he meddle with it?"

"That's just what I thought, monsieur. M. le Chevalier Chaudoreille also came. He fought a duel yesterday in the little Pré-aux-Clercs and killed his adversary, and he had still another duel for this evening. Blessed Holy Virgin! that men should kill each other like that, and often for some mere trifle."

"Let them fight as much as they please; it's of little importance; it's not my business. Did anybody else come?"

"Oh, the gentleman who is so droll that he makes me laugh, and whom I have sometimes seen play in the farces which everybody runs to see at his theatre in the Hôtel de Bourgogne,—M. Henry Legrand."

"Why don't you say Turlupin?"

"Well, Turlupin, since that's the name they give him at the theatre, and by which he's also known in the city. He does not make one melancholy. He came with that other who plays with him, and acts, they say, the old men, and delivers the prologues which precede the pieces."

"That's Gautier-Garguille?"

"Yes, monsieur, that's his name. He wanted to be shaved, bathed and have his hair dressed; but as you were not here, one of them played the barber and shaved his comrade; then the other took the comb and soapball and rendered him the same service. I wished at first to prevent them, but they wouldn't listen to me; if they didn't make me sit in the shop and talk downright nonsense about scent and soap. Some people who in passing had recognized Turlupin and his companion stopped before the shop; presently the crowd grew dense, and when they wanted to leave they could not find a way through; but you know Turlupin is never embarrassed, and, having uselessly begged the curious to let them pass, he went into the back shop and brought a bucketful of water, which he emptied entirely upon the crowd. Then you can imagine, monsieur, the excitement, the shouts of everybody. Turlupin and Gautier-Garguille profited by the confusion to make their escape."

"And Blanche," said the barber, who appeared to listen impatiently to old Marguerite's story,—"I hope that she was not downstairs when these merry-andrews attracted such a crowd about my house."

"No, monsieur, no; you know very well that Mademoiselle Blanche seldom comes down to the shop, and never when there is anybody there. Today, as you were away, she did not leave her room, as you had advised her."

"That's well; that's very well," said the barber.

Then he drew near the fire, supporting one of his elbows on the table, and appeared to fall again into reflection without listening to the chatter of his servant, which continued as if her master were paying the greatest attention to her.

"Mademoiselle Blanche is a charming girl; oh, yes, she is a charming child,—pretty, very pretty. I defy all your court ladies to have more beautiful eyes, or a fresher mouth, or whiter teeth; and such beautiful hair, black as jet and falling below her knees. And with all that, so sweet, so frank, without the least idea of coquetry. Ah, she is candor, innocence, itself. Of course, she's not yet sixteen years old; but there are many young girls at that age who already listen to lovers. What a pity if such a treasure as that should fall into the claws of a demon! But we shall save her from that. Yes, yes; I'm sure of it. I shall do all that's necessary for that, for it's not enough to watch over a young girl; the devil is so malicious, and all these bachelors, these students, these pages, are so enterprising, without counting the young noblemen, who make no scruple of abducting young girls and women, and for all compensation give a stroke of the sword, or cause to be whipped by their lackeys those who complain of their treatment. Good Saint Marguerite! what a time we live in! One must allow one's self to be outraged, offended, robbed even,—yes, robbed,—for if you should have taken your man in the act, if you demand justice, they will ask you if you yourself were a witness to it. If you say no, they will dismiss the guilty person, and if you say yes, they will first find out if you have the means of paying the expenses of the law, in which case you may have the pleasure of seeing the thief flogged before your door, and that will cost you a heap. But if it is someone with a title who has offended you, it's necessary for you to be silent about it, unless you wish to finish your days at the Bastile or at the Châtelet."

Marguerite was silent for some minutes, awaiting a response from her master. Receiving none, she presumed that he tacitly approved of all she was saying, and resumed her discourse.

"Finally, they pretend that it's always been thus. They hang the little ones, the bigger ones save themselves, and the biggest mock at everyone. One's ill advised to go to law now that the advocates and the attorneys drag a lawsuit along for five or six years, receiving money from all hands, so as to maintain their wives and their daughters in luxury, playing the Jew to ruin their poor clients. As to the sergeants, they run all over to find criminals; but if they arrest some thieves, they let them go very quickly, for fear that the latter will give them some money. Poor city! Don't we hear a frightful noise every night? And still we're in the best neighborhood. And that does not prevent them from committing vandalisms, robberies, murders. There are shouts, a clash of arms; what is the use of provosts, sheriffs, sergeants, archers, if the police do so badly? It's not the merchants I pity; they'll give themselves to the devil for a sou; they sell their goods for four times more than they cost; to draw customers, they allow every passer-by to go into their shops, leaving them at leisure to chat with their women, to take them by the chin, to talk soft nonsense, to make love to their face,—all that to sell a collar, some rouge, a dozen of needles. It's a shame to see everything that goes on amongst us. If I go to market to get my provisions, I'm surrounded by thieves who amuse themselves by stealing from the buyers and the sellers; they rummage in the creels and baskets, then they sing in my ears indecent and obscene songs. Good Saint Marguerite! where are we in all this? The scholars, more debauched than ever, insulting, pillaging, doing a thousand wickednesses; the young men of family who haunt the gambling-dens, the drinking-houses, always armed with daggers or swords. Ah, my dear master, Satan has taken possession of our poor city and will make us his prey."

Marguerite stopped anew and listened. The barber still kept the deepest silence, but he was not asleep. Several times he had passed his right hand over his forehead and pushed back his curls. For those who love to talk, it is much the same whether they are listened to or believe themselves to be listened to. The old servant was enjoying herself; she did not often find so good an opportunity to talk, and she began again after a short pause:—

"Thanks to Heaven, I am in a good house, and I can say with pride that, during the eight years that I have lived with monsieur, nothing has passed contrary to decency and good manners. I remember very well that when they said to me, eight years ago, 'Marguerite, M. Touquet, the barber-bathkeeper of the Rue des Bourdonnais, is looking for a servant for his house,' I considered it twice. I beg your pardon, monsieur; for bath-keepers' houses and lodging-houses don't have a very good reputation. But they said to me, 'M. Touquet is in easy circumstances now; he doesn't take lodgers; he is contented to exercise his calling in the morning, and for the rest he hardly ever sees anybody at his house, where he is carefully educating a little girl whom he's adopted.' My faith! that decided me, and I've not had cause to repent my decision. If there come in the morning to the shop a crowd of men of all professions, not one of them penetrates to the interior of the house. Monsieur does his business honorably, I am proud to say; and that which I admire above all is the interest which he bears for the orphan he has taken under his care, for I believe that monsieur has told me that she is an orphan. Yes, monsieur has told me so. She surely merits all that anyone can do for her, that dear Blanche; but I believe I have not told monsieur by what means I preserve her from the snares that wait for innocence. Oh, it's a secret, it's a marvellous secret, which I shall confide to monsieur. The neighbor opposite the silk merchant told me how to make it; it is a little skin of vellum, on which some words are written; then one signs it, and it becomes a talisman to prevent all misfortunes. Queen Catherine de Médicis had a similar one which she wore always; the talisman which I have given to Mademoiselle Blanche, very far from attracting evil spirits, should make them fly from a place and prevent the effect of all sorceries which anyone could employ to triumph over her virtue. Oh, the precious talisman, monsieur! Alas! if I had had one eight years ago!—But you don't sup, monsieur; haven't you any appetite?"

Touquet rose abruptly and went to look at a wooden timepiece which stood at the end of the room.

"Nine o'clock," said the barber impatiently; "nine o'clock, and he has not come."

"Why, are you waiting for someone, monsieur?" said the old servant in surprise.

"Yes; I'm waiting for a friend. Put another drinking-cup on the table; he will sup with me."

"I very much doubt whether he will come," said Marguerite, while executing her master's orders; "it's late and the weather is frightful; one must be very bold to risk himself in the streets at this hour."

At this moment somebody knocked violently at the door of the passageway, and the barber, smiling to himself, cried,—

"It is he!"

CHAPTER II
The Great Nobleman and the Barber

ON hearing the knock old Marguerite started affrightedly and looked at her master, as she faltered,—

"Must we open the door at this time of night, monsieur?"

"Of course, haven't I told you already that I was waiting for a friend?" replied the barber, putting some more wood on the fire, "go to the door at once."

The old servant was very fearful; she stood and hesitated; but a single look from her master decided her; she took a lamp and directed her steps towards the corridor which opened into the passageway of the house. Marguerite was sixty-eight years old; work and the weight of years had long since bent her body and deprived her limbs of their natural agility; she could only walk slowly, and the high heels of her large slippers made a uniform flapping noise which the poor old hand-maid could not prevent and of which she was, indeed, unconscious.

The good woman had shuffled as far as the middle of the passageway, when another knock, louder than the first one, shook all the windows of the house.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Marguerite; "he's in a great hurry. Which of my master's friends would allow himself to knock in that manner? There are some panes broken, I'm sure. Can it be Chaudoreille? Oh, no; he only gives a very soft little knock. Turlupin? Of course not; I should hear him sing in the street. Besides, he's not my master's friend. Ah, I'm very curious to know who it can be."

Despite her curiosity Marguerite did not advance more quickly. However, she arrived at the door, and, having mentally recommended herself to her dear patron saint, she decided to open it.

A man wrapped in a large cloak which he held against his face, his head covered with a hat ornamented on the edge with white feathers, and drawn well down over his eyes, so that no one could see them, appeared at the end of the passageway, and asked in a loud voice if this was Barber Touquet's house.

"Yes, monsieur," said Marguerite, trying, but in vain, to discover the features of the person before her. "Yes, this is it; and it's you, no doubt, for whom my master's waiting."

"In that case conduct me to him," said the stranger.

Marguerite closed the door and bade the unknown follow her. While guiding him along the passageway and the long corridor which they had to traverse, she turned often and held her lamp to the stranger, under the pretence of lighting him, but in fact to try to see something by which she could recognize the person whom she had introduced into the house. Her efforts were in vain. The stranger walked with his head down, holding his cloak against his face. Marguerite was reduced to examining his boots, which were white, with turned-over mushroom-shaped tops, and garnished with spurs. This seemed to indicate a refined dress; but many men then wore similar ones, and this part of his dress could not help Marguerite in her conjectures. They reached the lower room, and the stranger entered with a light step, while the servant said to her master,—

"Here's the person who knocked. I do not know if it is the friend you were waiting for; I was not able to see him."

The barber did not allow Marguerite time to finish her phrase. He ran toward the stranger and made him come to the fire, saying to him,—

"Thou hast arrived at last, then. I feared that the night, that the bad weather—But place thyself here; we will sup together."

"Good," said the servant to herself; "in order for him to sup it will be necessary for him to remove his mantle, and I shall at last be able to see his face. I don't know why, but I have the greatest curiosity to know this man. If it is one of my master's friends, it must be that he has come here very rarely. I did not recognize his voice; his height is ordinary,—rather tall than short; he should be young. Yes, he's not a scholar; however, I bet he's a pretty fellow; by his walk I judge him to be a military man. We shall see if I'm mistaken."

The old maid did not take her eyes from the stranger, who had thrown himself on a chair, and made no sign that he wished to relieve himself of his cloak and hat, both of which were drenched with rain.

"If monsieur desires it," said Marguerite, approaching the stranger's chair, "I will relieve him of his cloak, which is all wet; and I can dry it while he is supping."

"It is unnecessary," said the barber, putting himself precipitately between the old woman and the stranger, who had not stirred; "we have no need of your services. Leave us, and go to rest; I will shut the street door myself when my friend leaves."

Marguerite seemed petrified on receiving this order. She looked at her master, and was about to allow herself to indulge in some observations; but the barber fixed his eyes upon her, and Master Touquet's eyes had at times an expression which compelled obedience.

"Leave us," said he again to his servant; "and above all, do not come down again."

Marguerite was silent. She took her lamp, bowed to her master and turned to leave the room, throwing a last glance on the man of the mantle, who remained motionless before the fire and whose features she could not see. She was obliged to go to bed without being able to base her conjectures on facts, without knowing if she had rightly divined the age, the condition, the face of the unknown. What a punishment for the old maid! But her master pointed with his finger to the door of the room, and Marguerite went at once.

As soon as the old servant had departed, and when the sound of her steps was no longer heard, the stranger burst into a shout of laughter and threw his hat and his cloak far from him. Then one perceived a man of thirty-six years or thereabouts; his features were fine, noble and spirituel. His brown mustache was lightly outlined above his mouth, which in smiling disclosed very beautiful teeth. His expressive eyes, in turn tender, proud and passionate, denoted one who was in the habit of expressing all his sentiments; but the disgust, the weariness, which were depicted also on the pale and worn features of the stranger seemed to indicate that, having once indulged his passion, it was only with an effort that he could bring himself to experience it again.

His costume was rich and tasteful; the color of his doublet was a light blue; silver and silk were blended on the velvet which formed the foundation; superb lace bordered the collar which fell on his shoulders; a large white belt surrounded his figure, and a sword ornamented with precious stones glittered at his side.

Since the departure of his servant the barber had changed his tone toward the stranger. Respect, humility, had replaced the familiarity which Touquet had affected in Marguerite's presence.

"Deign to excuse me, monsieur le marquis," said he, bowing profoundly to his guest, "if I permitted myself to be too familiar, with my thee-ing and thou-ing; but it was only according to your orders, the better to deceive my servant and prevent her from having any suspicions as to your rank."

"That's all right, my dear Touquet," said the marquis, displaying himself before the fire; "I assure you I had the greatest trouble to maintain my gravity before the poor woman, who did not know by what ruse she could see my face, which would not have been a very great matter, for it is hardly presumable that she would have known me."

"No, monseigneur, she does not know you; I think so at least, for M. le Marquis de Villebelle has made so much talk about himself with his gallantry, his conquests, his feats of arms. His name has become so famous, his adventures have made so much noise, that the lowest classes of society know him,—the bugbear of fathers, of tutors, of husbands, of lovers even; for monseigneur knows no rival. Your name is spoken with terror by all the men, and makes all the women sigh, some with hope and the others in remembrance; besides, as monsieur le marquis sought pleasure wherever he found beauty, since he sometimes stooped to the humble middle classes, and has deigned to honor with his regards some pretty shop girl or simple villager, it would not be impossible that my old Marguerite might have served with some house where monsieur le marquis had left souvenirs. It was, therefore, much better that she should not see monseigneur when he came to my house incognito."

"Yes, certainly; I wish to remain unknown; it is necessary now that I should put more mystery into my love affairs. Be seated, Touquet; I have many things to tell you."

"Monseigneur—"

"Be seated; I wish it. Here I lay aside my rank and my grandeur; in you I see the first confidant of my loves, the clever servant of my passions, the audacious rascal for whom gold excited the imagination, and who knew no obstacle when a purse filled with pistoles was the recompense of his services. You are still the same, I am certain."

"Ah, monsieur, age makes us more reasonable. Seventeen years have passed since I had the honor of serving you for the first time; but since that time my head is steadier; I have learned to reflect."

"Do you wish to become an honest man? But it is not more than ten years ago that you were serving me; you were still a knave then. Does your conversion date from that epoch?"

"Monsieur le marquis is incessantly joking. He calls those services knaveries which I rendered to him because I was so strongly attached to him."

"Call it what you will, it matters little to me. It's not necessary with me, Master Touquet, to play the hypocrite, and man of scruples. In fact, are you disposed to be useful to me? Is your genius extinguished, and will gold no longer resuscitate it?"

"To serve you, monsieur le marquis, I shall be always the same; you need not doubt my zeal or my devotion."

"All in good time. That is all that I ask of you; be a saint with other people if that pleases you, but see that I always find you the same to me as you were formerly."

Touquet did not answer, but he turned his head and his features seemed to grow sad. However, he soon recovered himself and turned smilingly toward his guest, who was tapping the wall of the chimney with his feet, and who remained for some time silent, as if he had forgotten that he was still at the barber's. The latter waited with impatience for the marquis to resume his discourse. At the end of five minutes the noble seigneur broke the silence.

"My dear Touquet, when I recall the events of my life to my memory, I am truly astonished that I am still in the world. Why, during all this time, has not the dagger of a jealous husband or father fallen upon my head? How many men have sworn to ruin me! And the women,—if all those I have betrayed had executed their projects of vengeance! Thanks to Heaven, we are not in Italy or in Spain; and, while we have among the French some vindictive spirits, who hold rancor toward one who has betrayed them, the total is small. Inconstancy is not an unforgivable crime among these ladies, who deign sometimes to put themselves in our places and say they would not have done differently to us."

"Certainly, monseigneur, your life, at least since I have had the honor to be attached to you, has been a continued series of very spicy adventures, and some very dangerous ones. Abductions, seductions, duels, attacks with force, made openly,—nothing stopped you when you had resolved upon anything. Could you find any obstacles? Rich, noble, generous, fortune and nature have done everything for you, monsieur le marquis. You have profited by it; you have enjoyed life; many men have envied you your good fortune."

"My good fortune! Do you truly imagine that I have been happy?"

"And what should have prevented your being so, monseigneur?"

"Nothing; and that is perhaps why weariness and disgust have often attacked me in the midst of the pleasures, the voluptuousness, I have tasted. Sometimes, without doubt, I have felt happiness, but it has been so short and has fled so rapidly. The appearance of beauty has inflamed my senses and made my heart palpitate. The charming sex, which I idolize, has always exercised an absolute empire over me. At the sight of a pretty woman I love, or at least believe I love; but no sooner are my desires satisfied than my love expires, and I am obliged to seek a new object to reanimate my benumbed senses."

"Happily, this capital contains any quantity of pretty faces; the city and the court afford you sufficient to vary your pleasures."

"Sentiment and memory are alike exhausted. I fear that, having once had force to take fire, my poor heart has become like those imperfect gun flints on which the hammer strikes without effect. I am tired of the intrigues of the court, which are even easier than the others. Where do you think I could find something more spicy? There everything is done with etiquette, and everyone is so polished. We know life too well to get angry at the least infidelity; one leaves or one takes with the most profound obeisances, and this wearies one to death; courtiers have nothing new to offer one. What should I accomplish in Marion de Lorme's circle? I should see always the same faces. When the Cardinal had made her fashionable, I didn't find the woman so witty that one would wish to have anything to do with her. How different with this young and beautiful Ninon! People will long speak of her; her name will go down the centuries. But she has too much wit and too little love, for me. My heart, cold before its time, needs to come in contact with a passionate heart in order to rewarm itself. In the city one does not fare much better with the women. The little bourgeoises have become coquettes. Still, if they only knew how to be cruel; but a name, a figure, a rich cloak, seems to turn their heads. The merchants know how to rob us, and the grisettes entice us; and in the midst of all that the husbands are so kind, so complacent; they fear us as they would fire; our titles render them mute; of honor they are hopeless. If this continues, it will be necessary to make love à la turque; we should only have then to throw the handkerchief."

"Then, monsieur le marquis, one always has the resource of wisdom; and, since I have not had the honor of serving you for ten years, without doubt you have acquired that."

"My faith, yes; for it's not necessary to speak of common adventures, which are not worth the trouble of reciting. I have been in the army; I have been in battle; that afforded me much pleasure, and I would willingly have stayed there much longer; but peace is made, I have returned, I have visited my lands, and have laughed with some little peasants who were sufficiently pleasing, but so awkward, so simple. By the way, I forgot to tell you; I married."

"Married! What, monseigneur! you?"

"Undoubtedly; my marriage was very necessary; my rank, my place at the court—and then I was overloaded with debt. That didn't make me uneasy; but they had arranged this marriage; the Cardinal, the Queen herself, desired it. I married the daughter of the Count of Laroche. My wife was very good, of very sweet character; she didn't trouble herself about my intrigues; she had what was necessary to me. I loved her—very honestly, as one can love his wife; but she died two years ago and left me no heir, which is intensely disagreeable. I had an idea that I should love children very much."

"Then you are a widower, monsieur?"

"Yes; and I find myself the possessor of a considerable fortune, very well considered at court, in favor with the Cardinal, and even able to obtain, should I desire it, the most important employment."

"I conceive, then, that monsieur le marquis wishes more secrecy in his love affairs."

"Ah, my poor Touquet, I don't believe that ambition will ever have much charm for me, but nobody knows; and there are some convenances at the court which one must not break; besides, secrecy lends a charm to the most simple act. But why have you not enrolled yourself under Hymen's flag? I find that you are more thoughtful, less cheerful, less lively, than formerly."

"No, monsieur le marquis; I am still a bachelor."

"Oh, well, I believe you are better so. In your position a wife would restrain you,—you who are so clever, so discreet, in conducting an intrigue. Women are so curious; she would want to know everything, which would be troublesome for you. Besides, you have never been very gallant; you care for nothing but gold. It is your god, your idol; a well-filled purse makes you inventive, capable of working marvels. It's true that you play with it a quarter of an hour afterwards and at dice or cards soon increase the fruit of the efforts of your genius."

"Ah, monseigneur!"

"Yes, you are as big a gambler as you are a knave; I remember it very well. Perhaps in ten years you have become wiser; I almost believe so, for you appear in very easy circumstances, and this house does not indicate poverty; this servant, this supper served for you—The deuce! I must taste your wine."

"Ah, monseigneur, it is not worth offering to you."

"I always like best that which is not offered to me."

While he was saying these words the marquis filled one of the cups with wine and swallowed it at a draught.

"Really, it's not so very bad."

"Ah, monseigneur, if it were on your table—"

"Then I should find it detestable; but what will you have? Variety is the spice of life. And you have become rich, then?"

"No, not rich, but well enough off to buy this house."

"What! the house belongs to you?"

"Yes, monsieur le marquis."

"Deuce take it, Master Touquet, it must be that you have made some big hauls in order to become a proprietor."

The barber's face contracted; his black eyebrows frowned and almost met; he slowly rolled his eyes around him, and murmured with an effort,—

"Monsieur le marquis, I swear to you—"

"O mon Dieu! I do not ask you to swear, my poor Touquet," said the marquis, laughing. "You are as uneasy as if you had become a lieutenant in crime. Do you think that I came here to inquire as to the manner in which you made your fortune? But by all the devils, I do not believe that you earned this house in your barber shop."

"Monseigneur, I assure you that my economies—"

"Yes, that's all very well; let's leave all that and speak of the subject which brought me here, for, of course, I came to you for something, and I'll be damned if I remember what it was."

The barber appeared to breathe more freely; his face assumed its habitual expression, and he raised his eyes to the marquis, who seemed to throw aside his insolence to explain the motive of his nocturnal visit.

"When I saw you this morning on the Pont-Neuf, I was following a young girl, a pretty little puss; without being a perfect beauty, she was graceful and interesting in appearance, with sparkling and very intelligent eyes. I do not believe that we should have much trouble in making a conquest of her. However, she walked faster, and would not answer any of my compliments. I carefully wrapped myself in my cloak, not wishing to be recognized by our amiable profligates, who would have made sport of me for running after a grisette. The little girl stopped to listen for a moment to Tabarin's songs, and it was while she was before the quack that I saw you and recognized you immediately; you have one of those faces that nobody forgets."

"I had also recognized you, monseigneur, in spite of the cloak in which you were enveloped; for ten years have not changed your features, monsieur le marquis, and one could not easily mistake that noble figure which captivates all the belles."

"You flatter me, rascal; which means that I have aged. But let's go on. As soon as you had given me your address, I returned to the side of the little one."

"If monsieur le marquis had explained to me this morning what he was after, I would have spared him the trouble of following this young girl."

"No, I had a good opportunity of examining her further; besides, I had nothing else to do. She took the road to the city, which she entered by the Rue de la Calandre, I still talking to her; she only smiled, without answering me, but her look was not severe. At last she stopped before a perfumer's shop; I wished to go in with her, but she opposed me, saying in a very singular tone, 'Monsieur le Marquis de Villebelle is too well known for him to go into this shop with me; I should lose my reputation, and I beg monsieur le marquis not to compromise me.' Well now, my dear, Touquet, can you imagine this grisette who pretends that I should cause her to lose her reputation? As for me, I confess that I was so much surprised by finding myself known to the young girl and hearing her speak thus, that I remained like a fool in the middle of the street; meanwhile my beautiful conquest had entered, and disappeared by the back of the shop."

"As I told you, monseigneur, you are known in all classes of society; even a young girl of twelve years is as much afraid of you as she would be of Count Ory of gallant memory."

"Better and better! Women are always curious to know these men who have been pictured to them as so dangerous. Poor parents! When they tell them to fly from me, it makes them run after me. Here, Touquet; here's some gold. You will see this young girl, then; since she knows who I am, you cannot easily promise her that I will be faithful. No matter; promise her anyhow. In three days let me find her at my little house in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine; you know it."

"Yes, monseigneur; I remember it; it is the one that you formerly possessed."

"Yes; but I have made it a delightful retreat. You shall see it; pictures, mirrors, marble, alabaster, are there mingled with silk, velvet and the most precious stuffs. I have spent more than fifty thousand francs upon it. Oh, it is divine! I have had some charming suppers there with Montglas, Chavagnac, Villempré, Monteille, and some other profligates of the court."

"Was it not there, monsieur le marquis, that I led that young girl whose abduction made such an uproar? That was, I believe, our first affair of this kind; you were then a little more than nineteen years of age; and the little girl—"

"Why the devil do you recall that?" said the marquis, making an angry movement, and pressing in his hand the purse he was about to take from his belt, and on which the barber had already laid avaricious eyes.

"Pardon, monsieur le marquis," said Touquet; "but I did not think I should displease you in recalling the adventure which commenced your reputation. The young person was beautiful and good, and the father, one of King Henry's old archers, did not understand joking. His arquebus was aimed at you, the ball went through your hat; but your sword stopped the old man, and he fell at your feet, while I bore off in my arms his insensible daughter."

"Be silent, wretch," cried the marquis, suddenly rising, and looking angrily at the barber, who received his glances with perfect indifference.

The conversation was again interrupted; the marquis walked rapidly up and down the room, and appeared buried in his reflections; soon, however, broken words escaped him, but they were not addressed to Touquet. The marquis seemed violently agitated as he said in a low voice,—

"Poor Estrelle! what has become of you? She loved me—she believed me to be a simple student. I loved her also; yes, never since that time have I experienced a feeling which I can compare with the love with which she inspired me. I was young—ah, Heaven is my witness that I did not wish to fight with her father. Thanks to Heaven, his wound was very trifling and was soon cured; but Estrelle, when she learned my name and that event, cursed me. Yes, I believe I can hear her still. Then she escaped from that house where I had hidden her. I love her still. Since that time I have never heard of her; and you, Touquet,—have you never met her since?"

"Never, monseigneur; I have neither seen her nor heard her speak."

"Poor Estrelle!" said the marquis after a moment; and the barber added in a low tone,—

"She would now be thirty-four years of age, or very near that."

This remark appeared to lessen somewhat the marquis' regret.

"In fact," said he, again approaching the fire, "she would be nearly that age if she were living, and would not appear the same to me as the one I formerly knew. How time passes! Come, let's forget all that; after all, it is much the same as any other adventure,—a chapter in the history of my life."

"And did the marquis say that the young girl lived in the Rue de la Calandre in the city?"

"The young girl? What young girl?"

"The one monseigneur followed this morning."

"Yes, to be sure; I had forgotten. You will easily recognize her: her figure unconstrained, her walk brisk; twenty years or thereabouts, I presume; nut-brown hair, black eyes, beautiful teeth, her skin a little brown. I do not think she's French. Something lively in her countenance; nothing that indicates timidity or simplicity. This is all the information which I can give you."

"It is sufficient, monseigneur; in two days I hope that the young person will be at your little house."

"That's very good.—Wait; this is for your expenses, and I promise you as much more if you are successful."

While saying these words the marquis threw on the table the purse filled with gold, which he still held in his hand, and a smile escaped the lips of the barber. His guest resumed his cloak and replaced his hat on his head.

"It is late," said the marquis, wrapping himself in his mantle, "and I must go home. The day after tomorrow, toward ten o'clock, I will return to learn the result of your proceedings."

"Shall I find anybody at your little house?"

"Yes, Marcel, one of my people, a devoted servant who lives there constantly. I will warn him."

"That is enough, monseigneur, and I hope that you will be pleased with me on this occasion."

"I leave it all to your zeal; in fact, the little one is very pleasing, and ought to amuse me for some time. Come, my dear Touquet, let us follow our destiny. Gallantry, voluptuousness, pleasure,—that is my life; that is the road which I follow where my passions lead me. I should not know how to follow any other walk now; like a blind man who trusts in Providence, I do not know if this road will lead me to happiness; but I cannot turn aside from it."

The marquis turned his steps toward the door, and Touquet proposed to his distinguished guest that he should guide him to his dwelling.

"Thank you," said the marquis, "it is unnecessary; I have my sword, and I fear nothing."

While uttering these words the marquis had plunged into the street and disappeared from the barber's sight. The latter closed the door and returned to the little room. Arrived there, he hastened to take the purse which lay on the table; he counted the pieces which it contained, nor could he raise his eyes from the sight of the gold. But soon a dull, melancholy sound was heard; it was Saint-Eustache's clock striking two. The barber turned pale; his hair seemed to stand up on his head; he threw about him gloomy glances, as if he feared to perceive some frightful object; then he placed the purse in his bosom, took a lamp and went toward the door at the end of the room, murmuring in a sad voice,—

"Two o'clock! Let's go to bed. Ah, if I could only sleep!"

CHAPTER III
Blanche. A History of Sorcerers

THE welcome day had succeeded to the long and rainy night; the merchants had opened their shops, the watchmen were taking their much-needed rest after their fatiguing nocturnal duties, while the more hardy robbers of the darkness had given place to the sneaking pickpockets and thieves who exercised their calling in broad daylight in the most populous quarters. The servant maids were up and about, briskly performing their morning tasks; husbands left the nuptial couch, for then it was usual for one to sleep with his wife, at least among middle-class people, to betake themselves to their daily avocations; wives and mothers were attending to the needs of their households and their children; lovers who had dreamt of their sweethearts went to endeavor to realize some of their dreams; and the young girls who always thought of their sweethearts whether they were sleeping or waking, went, thinking of them still, to their daily work. In that time, as in this, love was the dream of youth, the distraction of the middle-aged, and the memory of the old.

The barber was always the first to rise in the house. He had no servants, although his means would well have allowed it; but when anyone asked him why he did not take a boy to help him and to watch in the shop, Touquet answered,—

"I do not need anyone; I can conduct my business alone, and I'm not fond of feeding idlers who are good for nothing but to spy on their master's actions and go and talk about them in the neighborhood."

The barber knew that Marguerite, though a little curious and somewhat of a gossip, was incapable of disobeying him in anything; she went out to buy the necessary provisions for the house, then she went upstairs again to the young girl of whom we have heard her speak, and with whom we shall soon have a better acquaintance. Marguerite went down only when her master was absent, which was rarely. Finally, the barber could not dispense with a maid since he had taken the little Blanche to grow up under his roof.

Touquet himself opened his shop; he looked up and down the street, but it was yet too early for customers to come. The barber was dreamy, preoccupied; he was thinking of the commission which had been given him by the marquis; then he returned indoors, saying,—

"Chaudoreille is late this morning; however, it's his day to be shaved."

Marguerite appeared at the entrance to the room; and, after looking about her on all sides, perhaps to assure herself that the stranger of the night before was not still there, she greeted her master respectfully, and said to him,—

"Monsieur, Mademoiselle Blanche is up and wishes to know if she may come and say good-morning to you."

The barber still threw a glance into the street; then he passed into his back shop, saying to his servant,—

"Blanche may come."

Marguerite had hardly made a sign to someone in the passage when a young girl, light as a deer and fresh as a rose, sprang into the little room where Touquet was waiting, and ran toward him with the most lovely smile, saying to him,—

"Good-morning, my good friend!"

Then she offered Touquet her candid forehead, and the barber approached her and brushed it lightly with his lips. One would have said that a painful feeling restrained him, and that he feared to wither that tender flower.

Marguerite's portrait had not flattered Blanche. The young girl was as pretty as she appeared innocent and ingenuous. Her dark hair, smoothed in bands on her forehead, fell in ringlets on her right shoulder. Powder, which the court ladies had then begun to use, had not spoiled Blanche's beautiful tresses. Her skin accorded perfectly with her name. Her mouth was fresh and tender; and her blue eyes, shaded by long lashes, had an innocent and sweet expression, as rare then as now.

What a pity that her pretty body should be imprisoned in a long corset, the bones of which seemed forcibly to compress its charms! But it was then the fashion. Today we have better taste; we wish that the figure should be in its place; we wish, above all, to be able to embrace it without being hindered by farthingales, basquines, paniers or hoops. Happily, the ladies are of our opinion, and everybody gains thereby.

Despite her long figure, straight corset, frilled sleeves, and her high-heeled shoes, Blanche was no less pretty. Beauty adorns everything that it wears, and innocence lends a more bewitching and genuine charm to beauty. Blanche had, then, every quality which could please. However, the barber did not appear to remark the attractions of the young girl; one would have said that he feared to look at her, as he had feared to touch his lips to her forehead.

"Did you have a good night?" asked Blanche of him.

"Very good, I thank you."

"Marguerite was afraid that you went to bed very late because you had one of your friends to supper with you."

"I don't know why Marguerite should make such a remark, nor what necessity there was that she should tell you I had anyone here last night."

While uttering these words Touquet looked severely at Marguerite, who dusted and wiped the furniture without daring to look at her master.

"But, my dear," answered Blanche, "is there anything bad in one's supping with one of his friends?"

"Undoubtedly not."

"What harm, then, has Marguerite done in telling me that?"

"A servant should not incessantly tell tales about everything her master does. It should be very indifferent to you, Blanche, whether anyone comes to see me in the evening or not."

"Oh, mercy, yes, since you won't let me come down, though that would amuse me much better than staying in my room."

"A young girl should not talk to everybody, and many people come here of whom I know very little."

"Yes, in the morning; but in the evening you only receive your friends."

"I receive very few visitors in the evening except Chaudoreille, whom you know."

"Oh, yes; and he makes me laugh every time I see him, for he will give me lessons in music, and I believe at the present time I know much more about it than he does. You will never let me leave my room."

"Blanche, isn't it apparent to you that that is not convenient?"

"But when you are alone I should like much better to keep you company and chat to you, than to listen to Marguerite's stories, which often make me very timorous and prevent me from going to sleep."

"You know that I'm not very chatty; after a day's work I'm tired and I like to rest."

"And Marguerite said that you didn't go to bed until very late, that you kept the light burning a long time, and that she doesn't know if you sleep one hour every night."

The old servant coughed, but unsuccessfully, to make Blanche stop talking; but the latter, not thinking that she had done anything wrong in repeating all that, paid no attention to her and continued to speak. Marguerite, in order to avoid her master's look, wiped and dusted with new ardor; but this time the voice of the barber made itself heard, and it was she whom he addressed.

"Marguerite, I said to you when you came into my house that I detested curious, indiscreet people,—servants who spy on their master. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, yes, monsieur," said the old servant, continuing to rub the top of the table.

"How do you know, then, whether I sleep late, whether I keep the light burning a long time, whether I am awake at night?—you who should be in your room at nine o'clock every evening and go to bed immediately."

"Monsieur, I beg your pardon; but at times, when the wind blows or the thunder growls, it's impossible for me to sleep; then, monsieur, I get up to pray to my patron saint, or cross my shovel and tongs, or to place a branch of boxwood on my bed. You know boxwood conjures the storm; and if they had taken some of it formerly to the Arsenal, on the Billi Tower, it would not have been entirely destroyed by lightning in the year 1537 or '38—I don't know which exactly."

"Hang it! leave your boxwood and the Billi Tower alone; answer the question I asked you."

"That's what I'm doing, monsieur; it's always the wind or the storm which makes me wakeful, and as my window faces yours (when I say faces, it's a story above), then I see your light sometimes, and it seems to me that monsieur is walking about in his room. I'm not very certain of it, for there are curtains, and the shade deceives one sometimes."

"As I wish to prevent you from having the trouble of making sure that I am asleep, this evening you will change your room, and you will sleep in that which is above my apartments."

"What, monsieur! in that room where nobody ever goes? I do not believe that it has been inhabited since I came here, and I fear—"

"That's enough; see that you obey; and take care not to spy again on my actions, or I shall be forced to send you away from the house."

"Mercy! how ashamed I am at having made you scold Marguerite!" said Blanche, again approaching the barber. "If she said that, my friend, it was because of the interest she takes in your health. You know well that she is very much attached to you; but since it makes you angry, I promise you it shall not occur again. Come, that's the last of it; you won't say any more to her about it—will you?"

Blanche's voice was so sweet, so touching, that Touquet lost his air of severity and very nearly smiled as he answered,—

"Yes, that's the last of it; let us there leave it. As to you, Blanche, continue to be good, docile."

"And you will let me go out a little—will you not? You will allow me to go to walk in the Pré-aux-Clercs or on the Place Royale?"

"We shall see; we shall see a little later. To amuse yourself, vary your employments."

"That's what I do, my dear; I often leave my needle to spin some thread; or, better still, I take my tapestry work. Oh, you shall see; I'm making something very pretty."

"I know your talent—your taste. You have a sitar; you can amuse yourself by playing on it. Chaudoreille has given you some lessons."

"Yes; now I can play as well as he can, for I believe he's not very practised on it, although he says he's a great musician. But all that hardly ever amuses me; I should like much better to sit at the window which looks on the street, but you won't let me open it."

"No, Blanche; too many people are passing in this neighborhood; you would be seen, ogled, insulted, by the bachelors, the pages, who take pleasure in annoying people."

"Well, I won't open my window. However, if you were willing I could put a mask on my face; then they could not see me."

"They would notice you none the less; besides, Blanche, only the court ladies are permitted to wear masks. I repeat to you, avoid the glances of these impertinent louts who run the streets, ogling at all the windows. You are not yet sixteen years old. In some years I shall leave Paris; I shall sell this house, and I shall retire into the country; there you can enjoy more liberty, and there you will taste pleasures which are worth more than any this city could offer you.—But someone is coming into the shop; go, Blanche, upstairs to your room."

The young girl kissed the barber and quickly regained the passage, from which a staircase led to her chamber. She sighed lightly as she entered it, and said to herself, while glancing around her,—

"Always here! Always to see the same things! No one to speak to except Marguerite! She is very good, she loves me very much; but sometimes her stories are very wearisome to me. Well, then, if I must—" and Blanche took up a piece of tapestry which she was making and sang, while working, one of the three airs which her music master had taught her. Soon the door of the room opened; Marguerite had followed the young girl, but did not arrive as soon as she, because her legs had not the vivacity of sixteen years. The old nurse pouted, for Blanche was the cause of her having to change her room, which was no small matter to Marguerite. Blanche perceived it; she ran in front of the old woman, made her sit down, and took her hands, while saying to her with a calming smile,—

"Are you vexed with me, nurse? You must have seen that I said all that without thinking that there was anything wrong in it."

Who could resist Blanche's smile? The old woman was much more sensitive to such sweet manners because people rarely used them with her; and that is why sometimes an old man loses his reason when a pretty girl casts a tender glance at him, because for a long time he has not been in the habit of receiving such glances.

"Who could remain angry with you?" said Marguerite, pressing Blanche's hand; "but for all that, it's very disagreeable to change rooms—to move at my age."

"I will help you, dear nurse; I will carry everything."

"Oh, it's not that; it's on the same landing; it's not far to carry things. But the room I've lived in for eight years, ever since I came here, was, thanks to my prayers and precautions, protected from the visits of all evil spirits. There I could defy all attempts of sorcerers and magicians; and all that I did there I shall have to do over again in the new room where I am to sleep."

"Do you believe, then, Marguerite, that sorcerers will come to visit you if you don't take all your precautions?"

"And why not, mademoiselle? Don't those people get in wherever they can penetrate? There are a great number of them in Paris. They carry away the corpses off the gibbets of Montfaucon; they commit a thousand horrors to make their sorceries successful. It is now nearly fifty years ago (it was my mother who told me that story) that a lackey, ruined by play, sold himself to the devil for ten crowns. The demon transformed himself into a serpent and took possession of the lackey, introducing himself into the latter's body by the mouth; and from that time on the unlucky man made horrible grimaces, because the devil was in his body. Some years later a watchman was carried off by a sorcerer."

"Ah, dear nurse, you are going to tell me some more of those stories which will make me timorous at night."

"I don't tell you these to make you tremble, but to prove to you that it's necessary to be on one's guard against magicians, and not to be like those incredulous people who doubt everything when we have so many examples of the power of magic. I'll not do more than cite to you the Maréchale d'Ancre and Urbain Grandier, who lodged some devils in the bodies of some pious Ursulines at Loudun; that is too frightful. But I will only tell you what happened to a magician called César Perditor; that dates seventeen years back, or thereabouts. You see, my dear child, that's not very ancient."

"But, dear nurse, aren't you going to begin your moving?" said Blanche, who did not seem very eager to hear Marguerite's story.

"We've plenty of time," answered the old servant as she drew her chair close to Blanche's, delighted to relate a story about sorcerers, although that would make her tremble also. Marguerite commenced immediately:—

"This César was, said they, very well versed in his magic art, and produced at his will both hail and thunder. He had a familiar spirit, and a dog that carried his letters and brought back the answers to him. At a quarter of a league distant from this city, on the Gentilly side, he lived in a cave, in which he caused the devil and all his infernal court to appear. Ah, my poor child; they say that at a great distance from the cave a frightful noise might be heard every night. He made love philters, and wax images, by means of which he caused the persons they represented to languish and die.

"One day—no, it must have been one night—an old man came to the cave, who appeared to be suffering and in great distress. A great lord, a libertine, a worthless fellow, had stolen away his daughter, his only child; the old man in his despair, unable to obtain justice, went to the magician to procure the means of revenging himself upon the man who had outraged him."

"Nurse, it seems to me your master is calling you," said Blanche, interrupting Marguerite.

"No, no; he did not call me. Except at meal times, what need has M. Touquet of me? But as we were saying, the old man went to seek a magician, and the latter promised him help; in fact, they heard more noise than usual in the cave that night,—so much that the lieutenant of police sent some people there, and César was taken and led to the Bastile, where soon after the devil strangled him."

"And the old man, nurse?"

"He never returned to his dwelling; without doubt the devil carried him away also, or else the great nobleman, having learned that he had gone to the magician's house. But nobody knows anything further about it. Still, that will prove to you, my dear, how dangerous it is to have anything to do with those people."

"Dear nurse, this little talisman which you gave me, that I wear,—is not that the work of a sorcerer?"

"Certainly not, darling; on the contrary, it is to preserve you from their snares that I gave it to you. It is under the protection of my patron saint; with that, my dear Blanche, you could go about, run anywhere; your innocence would not be in the slightest danger."

"Why, then, does my good friend never permit me to leave my room?"

"Ah, my dear Blanche, it is because M. Touquet does not believe in talismans; and it is very unfortunate for him."

"But you, Marguerite, who are afraid of everything,—why don't you carry a similar talisman?"

"Ah, my child, the quality of yours consists principally in preserving your virtue, and at my age one has no need of a talisman to preserve that."

"My virtue! Do magicians take virtue from young girls?"

"Not only magicians, but fascinating gallants,—finally, all the worthless fellows of whom M. Touquet was talking to you this morning."

"And what would these people do with my virtue?"

"My dear child, that is to say, they would seek to turn your head, to give you a taste for coquetry, dissipation, baubles, vanity and deceit; then you would be no longer my good, sweet Blanche."

"Ah, I understand; but, dear nurse, without a talisman I fully believe that I should never have those tastes. I would do nothing that should cause trouble to those who had taken care of me from my infancy, who have done so much for me since I lost my father."

"That's all very well, my child, but with a talisman you see I am much easier; and if M. Touquet believed about it as I do, he would give you a little more liberty. Not that I blame him for fearing for you the attempts of worthless fellows; you are growing every day so pretty."

"Dear nurse, do worthless fellows trouble pretty girls, then?"

"Alas, yes, my dearie. I have seen them often do so; and, unfortunately, the pretty girls listen willingly to the good-for-nothing fellows."

"They listen willingly to them, nurse? Is it because they speak better than other men?"

"No, not better, but they know so well how to dissemble; their speech is golden, their eyes deceptive, their manners—Ah, how glad I am that you have a talisman!"

"But, nurse, since I do not leave my room—"

"That's true, my dear; but you will not always keep your room, and under my watchful care it seems to me that one could very well allow you to take a little walk from time to time. M. Touquet is severe—very severe—to make me change my lodging because I noticed that he did not sleep at night. Is it my fault—mine—that he does not sleep?"

"He prevents me from opening my window."

"Ah, that is because it opens on the street; and if he knew you looked so often through the lattice—But no one can possibly see you; the panes are so small, so close together."

"Oh, yes; it is like a grating."

"A father could not be more strict."

"Ah, Marguerite, he stands to me in the place of mine."

"Yes, yes; I know it well; however, he is no relation—is he?"

"No, Marguerite; I believe not."

"According to what I heard in the neighborhood, before I came into his service, you are the daughter of a poor gentleman who came to Paris to follow a lawsuit about ten years ago."

"Yes, dear nurse; I was then five years and some months of age. It seems to me, however, that I still remember my father; he was very good, and he often kissed me."

"And your mother,—do you remember her?"

"Alas, no; but I believe I can still remember the time when my father and I arrived here; we had been a long time in a carriage, and came from far off."

"And M. Touquet lodged you, for then he kept lodgings; and after that?"

"I was very tired; they gave me something to eat and put me to bed in this room, and I have always occupied it since."

"And after that?"

"I did not see my father again. The next day M. Touquet told me he was dead."

"Yes; it was very unfortunate, they say. There were then, as there are very often still, fights in the night between pages and lackeys and honest men, who were often attacked by these cursed scoundrels while entering their own houses. That night they committed a thousand disorders in the streets of Paris; several persons were assassinated; and your poor father, who had gone out, was, while returning, drawn into a brawl, and perished trying to defend himself. That is all that I have learned; do you know anything further?"

"No, Marguerite; besides, you know very well that my protector does not wish me to talk about that."

"Yes, because he fears that it will give you pain."

"He has deigned to keep me near him, to educate me as his daughter and give me some accomplishments; and I have for him the most lively gratitude."

"Oh, yes; he has done very well by you. He loves you, although he is not caressing, nor does he say much; and I am very sure that he has the greatest interest in you. It seems that he does not intend himself to marry, although he is still young. He is in easy circumstances,—more so than he wishes it to appear."

"Do you believe that, Marguerite?"

"Ah, hush! If he knew that I had said that, and that I had sometimes seen him counting gold, he would send me away for it."

"You have seen him counting gold?"

"I did not say that to you, mademoiselle. No, no; I have seen nothing. Ah, mon Dieu! what a gossip I am! I had much better go and attend to my moving."

"I will go with you, dear nurse."

"Come then, if you like, Blanche."

Blanche followed Marguerite as she went up, and hastened to carry the furniture and clothing of the old servant to the opposite room. In vain Marguerite cried to her,—

"Slowly, mademoiselle; don't carry anything until I have sprinkled it with holy water."

Blanche, to spare Marguerite fatigue, had very soon finished the moving.

"You will be better here," said Blanche; "this room is more convenient, larger."

"I shall find it pretty sad," said Marguerite, casting fearful glances around her. "That large alcove, those dark hangings, those recesses—Oh, mademoiselle, do see, if you please, if there is anything in that big closet."

Blanche ran to open the closet, and, after having looked through it, brought to Marguerite a little book, thick with dust.

"That's all I've found, dear nurse," said she, presenting the book to the old woman, who put on her spectacles and said,—

"Let's see a bit what it is."

Marguerite succeeded, with no little trouble, in reading, "Conjuring-book of the Sorcerer Odoard, the Famous Tier of Tags."

"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Marguerite, letting the book fall; "I am lost if that sorcerer has slept in this room. Miséricorde! a tier of—"

"What does that mean,—a tier of tags?"

"That is to say—that is to say, mademoiselle, a very wicked man, who doesn't love his kind; a man who casts spells to make folks unlucky."

"Are there any of those sorcerers now?"

"Alas, yes, my dear child; they are always casting spells, for I have met during my life several persons who have been bewitched by them. Let us burn that; let's burn that quick."

Marguerite hurried to throw the book of sorceries on to the hearth, where she lit a fire; then she began to pray to her patron saint, and Blanche went down to her work.

CHAPTER IV
The Chevalier Chaudoreille

BLANCHE and Marguerite had no sooner taken their departure from the back room and returned to their customary avocations, than Touquet hastened to meet a man who had come into the shop, saying to him, in a friendly tone,—

"Come in, come in, my dear Chaudoreille, you've made me wait a deuce of a time and today I have something really important to say to you."

The personage who had just come into Maître Touquet's house was a man of a very striking and peculiar appearance, about thirty-five years of age, though he appeared at least forty-five, so worn was his face and so hollow his cheeks. His yellow skin was only relieved by two little scarlet spots formed on the prominence of his cheek bones, which by their brightness and their gloss betrayed their origin. His eyes were small but bright; and M. Chaudoreille rolled them continually, never, by any chance, fixing them on the person to whom he was speaking. His short snub nose contrasted with his large mouth, which was surmounted by an immense red mustache, the color of his hair; while beneath his lower lip a tuft of beard terminated in a point on his chin.

The height of the chevalier was barely five feet, and the leanness of his body was accentuated by the threadbare close jacket which enveloped it; the buttons of his doublet were missing in many places, and some ill-executed darns seemed ready to gape into holes; his breeches, being much too large, made his thighs appear of enormous size, and made the legs which issued from them appear still more lanky, for his boots, with flaring tops which drooped to his ankles, could not hide the absence of calves. These boots, of a dark yellow, had heels two inches high, and were habitually adorned with spurs; the doublet and smallclothes were of a faded rose color, and accompanied by a little cloak of the same tint, which barely covered his figure; in addition to these, he wore a very high ruff; a small hat surmounted by an old red plume, worn slanted over one eye, an old belt of green silk, a sword which was very much longer than anyone else carried, and of which the handle came up to his breast. The above is a very faithful portrait of the one who called himself the Chevalier de Chaudoreille, if we add that his slight Gascon accent denoted his origin; that he marched with his head high, his nose in the air, his hand on his hip, his legs stiff, as though ready to put himself on his guard; and that he appeared disposed to defy all passers-by.

On entering the shop Chaudoreille threw himself on a bench, like one overcome by fatigue, and placed his hat near him, crying,—

"Let us rest. By George! I well deserve to. Oh! what a night! Good God! what a night!"

"And what the devil did you do last night to make you so tired?"

"Oh, nothing more than usual for me, it's true: flogged three or four big rascals who wished to stop the chair of a countess, wounded two pages who were insulting a young girl, gave a big stroke with my sword to a student who was going to introduce himself into a house by the window, delivered over to the watch four robbers who were about to plunder a poor gentleman. That's nearly all that I did last night."

"Hang it!" said Touquet, smiling ironically, "do you know, Chaudoreille, that you yourself are worth three patrols of the watch? It seems to me that the King or Monsieur le Cardinal should recompense such fine conduct and nominate you to some important place in the police of this city, in place of leaving a man so brave, so useful, to ramble about the streets all day, and haunt the gambling-hells in order to try to borrow a crown."

"Yes," said Chaudoreille, without appearing to notice the latter part of the barber's phrase, "I know that I am very brave, and that my sword has often been very useful to the State—that is to say, to the oppressed. I work without pay; I yield to every movement of my heart; it's in the blood. Zounds! honor before everything; and in this century we do not jest. I am what somebody at court calls a 'rake of honor': an offensive twinkle of the eye, a rather cold bow, a cloak which rubs against mine, presto! my sword is in my hand; I am conscious of nothing but that; I would fight with a child of five years if he treated me with disrespect."

"I know that we live in the age when one fights for a mere trifle, but I never heard it said that your duels had caused much stir."

"What the devil, my dear Touquet! the dead cannot speak; and those who have an affair with me never return. You have heard tell of the famous Balagni, nicknamed the 'Brave,' who was killed in a duel about fifteen years ago. Well, my friend, I am his pupil and his successor."

"It's unfortunate for you that you didn't come into the world two centuries earlier; tourneys are beginning to be out of fashion, and chevaliers who right all wrongs, giant killers, one no longer sees except on the stage at plays."

"It's very certain that if I had lived in the time of the Crusades I should have brought from Palestine a thousand Saracens' ears, but my dear Rolande was there. This redoubtable sword, which came to me from a distant cousin, was the one carried by Rolande the Furious; it has sent a devil of a lot of men into the other world."

"I'm always afraid that you will fall over it; it seems to me too big for you."

"It has, however, been curtailed an inch since I have had it, and that by reason of its having been used so much. I fear that if I should continue in the same style, it will become a little dagger."

"Stop talking about your prowess, Chaudoreille; I have to speak to you of matters more interesting than that."

"If you will shave me first; I have great need of it. My beard grows twice as quickly at night when I do not sup in the evening."

"It looks as if you had dieted for some days, then."

While the barber prepared everything that was necessary for shaving Chaudoreille, the latter detached his sword. After having looked all over the shop in search of a place in which it seemed convenient to put it, he decided to keep it on his knees; he relieved himself of his cloak, then he took off the faded ruff which surrounded his neck, and abandoned his odd, lean little figure to the cares of Touquet, who came forward bearing a basin and a soapball. The barber began by taking and throwing into a corner of the shop the sword which Chaudoreille was holding on his knees. The chevalier made a movement of despair, crying,—

"What are you doing, unhappy man? You will break Rolande, the sword which Charlemagne's nephew carried."

"If it's such a good blade it won't break. How do you think I can shave you holding that great halberd on your knee?"

"It's necessary to handle it with care at least. Zounds! you are nearly as quick as I am."

"Do you want me to cut your mustaches?"

"No, no,—never. A chevalier without mustaches! What are you thinking of? Do you want people to take me for a young girl?"

"I don't think anyone could so deceive himself."

"That's all right; I especially pride myself on my mustaches, and the imperial that gives a masculine air. Ah, King Francis the First knew very well what he was doing when he wore that little pointed beard on his chin. Don't you think that I bear some resemblance to that monarch?"

"You resemble him so much, in fact, that I defy anyone, no matter who it might be, to perceive it. But let's get to my business: I wish to employ you. Your time is free?"

"Free? Yes; that is to say, for you there is nothing that I won't leave. I've only two or three amorous appointments and five or six affairs of honor; but those can be put off."

"There's some money to be earned."

"I'm a man who would put myself in the fire to make myself useful."

"The business is not positively my own."

"Yes, I understand,—a delicate mission. You know that I've already served you in many such cases."

"I hope that you'll be more adroit this time; for the manner in which you conducted yourself in the last matters in which I employed you should have prevented me from asking you to serve me again."

"Oh, my dear Touquet, don't be unjust; it seems to me that I managed them passably well. First, you desired me to carry a letter to a young lady without letting her parents know of it."

"Yes; and you positively gave the note to her mother."

"What the devil! how should I know it was her mother? That woman had rouge, flowers, laces, a corset which made her waist about as thick as my purse; I believed her to be the young lady. With their hoops, basquines and immense head-dresses, it will soon be impossible to distinguish the sexes."

"Another time I told you to feign a quarrel with one of your friends, so as to draw a crowd together in the street in order to stop the chair of a young woman to whom someone wished to speak; but after two or three blows had passed you ran away."

"Ah, my friend, but that does not detract from my bravery. I knew that the quarrel was only pretended; despite that, at the third blow I felt the blood mount to my face, and I ran away for fear of getting angry."

"This time I hope you will conduct yourself better."

"Speak, if you have need of my valor."

"No, thank God, I shan't have to put your valor to the proof; the matter is very simple and will not cost you a great effort of genius."

"So much the worse; I swear by Rolande that I feel disposed to brave every terror.—Take care, my friend; your razor almost touched my nose; you will end by taking off a piece, and that would destroy the charm of my physiognomy."

"Fear nothing, most valorous Chaudoreille; I will respect your face; it would be a pity to spoil it."

"Yes, most assuredly; it would cause tears to more than one great lady who deigns to look with favor upon your humble servant."

"Those great ladies would do well if they gave you another doublet, for yours has well earned its retirement."

"My dear fellow, love doesn't pause for such trifles; I please with or without a doublet; the figure is everything, and I'm more than a match for many a chevalier covered with tinsel and gewgaws; besides, if I wished to have some lace or cuffs or trinkets, I should not have to give more than a smile for them. Ah, by Jove!—Take care there, my brave Touquet. See! your neighbor's dog is going to take my ruff. Ah, the rogue! he's holding it in his chops."

"You must take it away from him."

"That's very easy for you to say. That cursed dog bites everybody."

Chaudoreille got up, half shaved, and ran and took his sword, which he drew from the scabbard; but during this time the dog had left the shop, carrying off the ruff, and the boastful chevalier pursued him into the street, crying,—

"My ruff! Zounds, my ruff! Stop thief!"

The shouts of Chaudoreille made the dog run more quickly, and the passers-by looked on with astonishment at the half-dressed man, with one cheek shaven and the other covered with soap, who ran, sword in hand, crying, "Stop thief!" The idlers gathered—for there were idlers as early as 1632—and followed Chaudoreille, that they might see the end of the adventure. The children stoned the dog, which redoubled its speed, passed through an alleyway and disappeared from Chaudoreille's sight. The latter, who could do no more, stopped at length, heaving a big sigh. His anger was redoubled when he saw everybody looking and laughing at him; he swore then, but so low that nobody could hear him; and, making the best of his way through the crowd which surrounded him, he sadly regained the barber's house.

"You must be a fool, to run through the street like that," said Touquet, who had grown impatient during Chaudoreille's race; "you deserve that I shouldn't finish shaving you."

"Oh, zounds! that is very easy for you to say; I have been robbed—a magnificent ruff."

"You can put on another."

"I haven't another."

"With a smile you could have as many as you wish."

"Yes, yes; but I'm not by way of smiling just now."

"Come, calm yourself. If our affair is successful, as I've no doubt it will be, I'll give you some crowns with which you can buy other collars; for ruffs are no longer in fashion."

This assurance alleviated somewhat Chaudoreille's grief, and he reseated himself, that the barber might finish shaving him.

"You will go today into the city," resumed the barber, while finishing the chevalier's toilet,—"into the Rue de la Calandre; you will go into a perfumer's shop which is about half-way down the street."

"Yes, yes, I know; that is where I supply myself."

"Better and better! It will be easier for you to obtain an entrance. You should know, then, the young girl whom I will describe to you: twenty years old, of medium height, unrestrained figure, brown hair and intelligent black eyes."

"Listen; I don't believe that I know her, seeing that it's two or three years since I bought any perfumery, because scents make me nervous."

"If you could dispense with lying to me, Chaudoreille, at every turn, you would give me great pleasure."

"What do I understand by that? I lie? By jingo! I swear to you, by Rolande—"

"Hold your tongue and listen. A great nobleman is in love with the young girl whose portrait I have just given you. This great nobleman is the Marquis de Villebelle."

"By Jove! What, the Marquis de Villebelle! He's a jolly fellow, who makes everybody talk about him. I'm delighted to work for a man of that stamp; he's as brave as he is generous. That's a profligate after my own heart. I shall be glad to give him proofs of my zeal and my genius."

"You'll have to begin by holding your tongue; remember, the least indiscretion will cost you dear. I should not have told you the name of the one who is concerned in this matter if the young girl had not known; but as she might herself tell you, it is better that you should learn it from me. Remember, you are still in my employ, and not in that of the marquis. I could myself have discharged the commission which he gave me, but I am beginning to have a reputation for probity and wisdom; it is generally thought that, turning from the errors of my youth, I no longer mix in intrigues, and I don't wish to disturb the good opinion they now have of me in this neighborhood."

"Ah, rascal, you're as mischievous as a monkey; you think of nothing but increasing your business, and your cold, severe air deceives some people. You're right, by jingo! One must dissemble; it's the essence of intrigue, and I shall try to throw off the appearance of being a libertine and a profligate in order that I may be more successful in wheedling the little innocent."

The barber shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and again approached the blade of his razor to Chaudoreille's nose. The latter's face became still paler, except the spots on his cheeks, where the color seemed immovable.

"Curse it!" cried Touquet, while holding the end of Chaudoreille's nose between his fingers, to prevent him from moving, while he plied the razor; "can't you ever keep still and refrain from trembling beneath my razor blade? You deserve to be slashed all over your face.—Come, get up; it's finished."

"Many thanks," said Chaudoreille, breathing more freely; "I am shaved like a cherubim. Oh, you have a hand as dexterous as it's nimble. That makes seventy-seven shaves that I owe you for."

"That's all right; we'll reckon that later."

"I know that you'll recall it to me; you're not like the barber who shaved one of my friends on credit, and who made a notch in him every time, to mark the shave, he said."

"Before the people come in, let us agree on what we have to do."

"Speak on; I am listening while I am washing myself."

"You will go, then, to the perfumer's shop, and while buying something—"

"Oh, yes; a collar or a ruff."

"No matter,—no matter what."

"I find that ruffs suit me better."

"Hold your tongue, cursed chatterer; there's nobody here to notice your face. You will enter into conversation with the young girl I have depicted; you will say to her that M. le Marquis is in love with her to the point of distraction."

"Yes; I shall say to her that he will stab himself before her eyes if she won't meet him."

"It's not a question of killing himself, idiot. That's a fine way to seduce a grisette!"

"I never seduced them any other way."

"Talk about presents, jewelry; they respond to that much quicker."

"Each one to his own method; as for me, I never make love that way; for the rest, I'll say everything that you wish; I'll make the marquis as generous and magnificent as a native of Gascony."

"Finally, you will demand a rendezvous, in the name of the marquis, for tomorrow evening."

"Where shall it be?"

"Wherever you like, but preferentially in an unfrequented quarter."

"Very well; and after?"

"Oh, the rest is my affair."

"A moment: if the little one doesn't grant an interview?"

"What are you thinking of? A shop girl who knows that she is pleasing to the noble Seigneur de Villebelle—I am certain that she's on tenter-hooks already because no messenger has reached her. You must beware of committing any blunder which will render you unsuccessful."

"Be easy; I'm not a clown, I flatter myself, and I wish by this affair to put myself in the good graces of the marquis."

"Yet again, it is not for him, but for me, that you are doing the business; if you should allow a single word of this adventure to escape in the town, if you should have the misfortune to mention the marquis, remember that then the blade of my razor won't leave that face whole about which you seem to make such a fuss."

The barber's eyes evinced his firm determination of keeping his promise; Chaudoreille hastened to get his sword and attach it to his side while murmuring,—

"Yes, undoubtedly I make much of my face; it is very worthy of the trouble, and has given me many happy moments. This devil of a Touquet is always joking, but between friends one should not get angry. We are both aware of our mutual bravery, and it's superfluous for us to give proofs of it. I swear to you by Rolande that I will use the greatest discretion, that I may be relied on. Our acquaintance doesn't date from today; for nearly fifteen years we have been united in friendship. We are two jolly fellows who have played our pranks. How many intrigues have we conducted by our skill, without counting our personal prowess! You, built like a Hercules, an antique figure, noble carriage,—you would have adored big women—that is to say, tall women; I, smaller but well made, with a more modern physiognomy,—I prefer them more graceful and slender. But love never troubled you much; you prefer money. Ah, money and play,—those have been your pleasures. As for me, I'm fond of gaming also; I play a very strong game of piquet. But gallantry employs a great part of my time. I can't help it; I love the women. But that's not astonishing; I am their spoilt child; they have strewn the path of my life with flowers, without counting all those that still remain for me to cull. I dedicated to them my heart and my sword. But love and valor do not always lead to fortune; you have gathered wealth quicker than I, and I compliment you upon it. While I have been following after some Venus, you have conducted without my aid some intricate intrigues; for this house did not belong to you formerly, and now you are the proprietor of it; it did not fall to you from the clouds."

"What are you meddling with?" said the barber angrily. "What does it matter to you how I acquired this house? When I've employed you haven't I paid you, and often a good deal better than you deserve? I've already told you, Chaudoreille, that if you wish that we remain friends, and if you desire through me to earn money from time to time, you had better not begin your foolish questions, nor seek to learn that which I do not judge fit to confide to you; otherwise I shall show you my door and you will never enter it again."

"Oh, not so fast. By jingo! he's a little Vesuvius,—this dear Touquet. If I gave way to my natural temper we should see some fine things; however, that's ended; silence on that subject. Now I am dressed; I lack nothing but my ruff; how can I go out without that?"

"You went out very well a minute ago, half dressed."

"But a minute ago I was sword in hand, and in those moments I see nothing but my victim. It's all right; I will pull my cloak up a little higher. Ah, I was forgetting an essential. That I may buy something in the little one's shop it's necessary that I should have some money, and my pockets are empty this morning."

"Wait; take these ten crowns, on account of what I shall give you if you fulfil my instructions correctly."

"That's well understood," said Chaudoreille, taking the money and drawing from his belt an old silk purse, which had formerly been red, in which he placed, one by one, with an air of respect, the ten pieces which the barber had given him.

"It's still too early," said Touquet, "for you to go to the perfumer's; those dames do not open their shops as early as we do ours; while waiting till the time comes for you to execute your commission couldn't you go up and see Blanche, and give her a music lesson? That will amuse her, and I notice that she does not find much to distract her in her room, where she sees no one but Marguerite."

At the name of Blanche, Chaudoreille raised his eyes to Heaven, and heaved a sigh which he stifled immediately, crying,—

"By the way, how is she, the pretty child? I was going to ask you about her, for it is a century since I have seen her."

"She's very well, but she's tired of being in the house and wishes to go out."

"What the devil! why don't you send me more often to keep her company? I can amuse her, my beautiful Blanche, and I can play something for her."

"I'm not sure that you can amuse her much. Blanche said to me that you always sang the same things, and that she now knew as much as you do of the sitar."

"These young girls are full of conceit. I confess that she's made rapid progress, and that is not astonishing; I have a way of teaching which would make a donkey capable of singing songs; besides, the little one is intelligent, but I flatter myself that I can still teach her something more."

"Chaudoreille, I have given you a great proof of my confidence in permitting you to see Blanche; you must swear to me that you will never speak of her beauty."

"Be easy; when by chance anyone asks me if I know the young girl who is under your care, I answer—since we are on the subject—that I have seen her three or four times, and that she is neither one thing nor the other,—one of those faces which people say nothing about."

"That's well; if anyone imagined that this house held one of the prettiest women in Paris, I should nevermore have a moment's peace; I should be incessantly tormented by a crowd of gallants, of profligates, of libertines; I should see this house become the rendezvous of all the worthless fellows of the neighborhood. I couldn't go away for a moment without one of them trying to introduce himself to Blanche, and Marguerite's watchfulness would be as insufficient as my own to frustrate all the enterprises of these gallants. It is to avoid all this annoyance that I withdraw Blanche from the notice of curious people."

"Oh, as far as that goes, you do very well; I quite approve your conduct; you must not let them see her, nor allow her to go out for a moment. If you wish, I can say everywhere that she's horrible,—blind of one eye, lame, and hump-backed."

"No, no; one must never overdo one's precautions and fall into a contrary excess."

"It would be so sorrowful if some miserable adventurer should carry this beautiful flower away from us."

"How? carry her away from us?"

"I should say carry her away from you; it is only by favor that I see her. She is, in truth, a jewel; she has the candor, the innocence of childhood. Ah, zounds! how happy you are, Touquet, for you are guarding this treasure for yourself, I'll wager."

"For myself?" said the barber, knitting his brows; then he was silent for a moment, while Chaudoreille, placed before a little mirror, occupied himself in studying some smiles and glances of the eye. "I have already told you that I do not like questions," responded Touquet at last; "but I see that you will be incorrigible until your shoulders have felt the weight of my arm."

"Always joking. You are really a most ironical man."

"Come, go up to Blanche's room; you can stay three-quarters of an hour. You must leave by the passageway; I don't wish the people who will be here to see you come from the interior of the house. You will go where I told you, and you will come and give me an account of the result of your enterprise."

"At your dinner hour?"

"No, this evening, at dusk."

"As you please, as you will. Ah, mon Dieu! I am thinking how I can go up to my young pupil without a ruff."

"Will that prevent you from singing?"

"No, but decency—this naked neck. Lend me a collar,—anything."

"Hang it! is it necessary to make so much fuss? Do you think that Blanche will pay much attention to your face?"

"My face! my face! It would seem, to hear you, that I am an Albino."

"Here's somebody coming; get out."

The barber pushed Chaudoreille into the passage, where the latter remained for a quarter of an hour, seeking by what manner he could hold his cloak, and deciding at last to go up to his pupil.

CHAPTER V
The Music Lesson

BLANCHE was seated at work near her window, the small, dim panes of which scarcely permitted her to distinguish anything in the street.

However, from time to time she glanced downward in that direction to distract her thoughts; not that she was at all sad, or that she had anything to trouble her, but a young girl who is nearly sixteen years of age experiences in the depths of her innocent heart certain void, vague desires which she cannot easily account for. She sighs, she becomes dreamy; a mere nothing renders her uneasy; the least noise, the sound of an unknown voice, makes her heart beat more quickly; she looks oftener in the mirror; she pays more attention to her toilet, though, as yet, there is nobody in particular whom she wishes to charm. But a secret instinct implants in her the desire to please, a sure symptom that she begins to feel the need of loving; and, for that reason, she falls into reveries and sighs without knowing why—so it was, at least, in the time of which we are speaking. As to the young girls of our own time, they dream, also, but they sigh less.

The character of the barber, the cold, serious manner which he wore before Blanche, did not invite confidence, and imposed a restraint on the young girl, whose ingenuous heart seemed to seek a friend. She respected Touquet and obeyed him; she regarded him as her benefactor, but she could not chat freely with him, for the barber's laconic answers always appeared to indicate little desire to engage in a long conversation. To make up for this, Marguerite was very chatty, and would willingly have passed the entire day in gossip; but the sole subjects of her conversation were sorcerers, magicians and robbers, and these were not at all amusing to Blanche, who preferred, to Marguerite's appalling stories, a tender love-song or a story of chivalry, the heroes of which were very strong on love; and one of that ilk had no less prowess as a paladin because he was faithful to his lady for twenty years.

Blanche was dreaming, then, when somebody rapped softly at her door; and immediately Chaudoreille's odd little head appeared between the door and the wall, and he said in mellifluous accents,—

"May one come in, interesting scholar?"

Blanche raised her eyes and burst into a fit of laughter on perceiving Chaudoreille's face, this being the effect his appearance ordinarily produced on the young girl.

"Come in, come in, my dear master," said she, rising to curtsey to Chaudoreille, who then introduced himself entirely into the room, bowing to Blanche three times, so low that each time his sword fell before him, and on rising he was obliged to put Rolande into his scabbard again.

"I am so much in the habit of drawing him," said Chaudoreille, "that he can't rest quietly in his sheath for two hours at a time.—Come, be quiet, Rolande; you know well, my dear companion, that the night never passes without my giving you some occupation."

"Why, Monsieur Chaudoreille, do you fight every day?"

"What else could you expect, beautiful angel? It is my element; I should not sleep if I had not drawn my sword, and I should fall ill if three days were to elapse without my ridding the earth of an impertinent fellow or a rival."

"O good Heavens!"

"But let us leave that subject and speak of you, delightful creature. You seem to me fresher and more beautiful than ever; it is the unfolding of the bud, it is the opening of the flower, it is the fruit which—By the way, how are you?"

"Very well. Did you come to give me a music lesson?"

"Yes, if you will permit me the pleasure. It is a long time since I had that happiness."

"I hope you're going to teach me something new."

"By Jove! I'm not at the end of my tether. Besides, were new songs lacking, your beautiful eyes would inspire me to improvise a ballad in sixteen couplets."

Blanche brought her sitar and handed it to Chaudoreille, who raised his eyes to Heaven and heaved a big sigh as he took it.

"Are you going to be ill, Monsieur Chaudoreille?" questioned the young girl, astonished at this moaning.

"No, I am not ill; however, I feel rather uneasy," answered Chaudoreille, venturing to try the effect of the glances and smiles which he had studied before the glass.

"You seem to have difficulty in breathing," responded Blanche; "perhaps your supper last night did not agree with you."

"Pardon me; I swear to you it did not trouble me in the least. I have a horror of indigestion. Out upon it! I never put myself in the way of having it."

"Sing to me the air you are going to teach me; that will make you feel better."

"She is innocence itself," said Chaudoreille to himself while tuning the sitar; "she doesn't understand what makes me sigh. Despite that, however, I can see that she's glad to see me. Patience; before long her heart will awaken, and I shall be its conqueror."

Blanche took up her work again; Chaudoreille seated himself near her, and after a quarter of an hour's tuning of the sitar, coughed, expectorated, blew his nose, turned around on his chair, arranged his cape, pursed his mouth, passed his tongue over his lips, and at last commenced in a shrill voice, which pierced the ears, an ancient ditty which Blanche had heard a hundred times before.

"I know that, my dear master," said she, interrupting Chaudoreille in the middle of a point d'orgue, which he seemed willing to prolong indefinitely; "that's one of the three you have already taught me."

"Do you think so?"

"Wait; I'll sing it for you."

Blanche took the instrument, and, gracefully accompanying herself, sang, in a melodious voice which gave a charm to the old ballad.

"That's very well, indeed," said Chaudoreille; "you sing the passages precisely in my manner; I seem to hear myself."

"Teach me another, then," said the young girl, returning the instrument to him; and Chaudoreille intoned a virelay on the great feats of Pepin the Short.

"I know that, too," said Blanche, stopping him.

"In that case I will sing you a charming villanelle."

"Mercy! that will be the third of those you have taught me. Don't you know any others?"

"Pardon me, but as a cursed dog ran off with my ruff while I was being shaved, I cannot venture a new song while my throat is naked; it would embarrass the middle notes. Nevertheless, the villanelle is always a novelty, since I ever sing it with variations."

"Well, I'll listen," said Blanche, glancing towards the street. Chaudoreille heaved another sigh, and when he had taken a position which seemed to him more favorable for displaying his graces, he commenced the villanelle, which he sang to Blanche every time that he gave her a lesson:—

At this moment some perambulating singers came into the street. They stationed themselves in front of the barber's house and, accompanying themselves on their mandolins, sang some Italian songs. Blanche listened eagerly; this music, so different from that which she heard from her master of the sitar, stirred her pulses deliciously, and approaching the window she cried,—

"Oh, how pretty that is!"

"Yes, undoubtedly it's pretty," said Chaudoreille, who believed the young girl to be speaking of the villanelle; "but it's necessary to acquire the same expression that I have given it. Notice it well, 'I have lost my turtle-dove,'—the accent tremulous with grief; raise the eyes to the ceiling, beat time with the left foot. 'And her flight I must pursue,'—a distracted air, and always the same accompaniment with the thumb and index finger. 'Is she not the one I love?'—a soft, flute-like sound, and make a movement of surprise while sustaining the falsetto. 'You regret your own fond dove,—' that demands much expression. 'You regret,'—an exquisitely performed shake,—'your own fond dove,'—inflate the sound and ascend still."

"Ah, I should be contented if I could only hear such music often," said Blanche, who had paid no attention to what Chaudoreille was saying, and had listened only to the Italians.

"I should much like to give you a lesson every day, lovely damsel; but my occupations overwhelm me—and then, Master Touquet does not often permit me the pleasure of seeing you; when far from you I sing without ceasing,—

You regret your own fond dove."

"It's a barcarolle—is it not, monsieur?"

"No, my dear girl; that's called a villanelle, the favorite song of our ancient troubadours, and of shepherds who bemoaned their shepherdesses."

"What a pity that I don't know Italian!"

"What do you require Italian for,—in order to say,

Is she not the one I love?"

"Be quiet, be quiet; they're singing in French now," said Blanche, pressing close to the window-panes, and signing with her hand to Chaudoreille not to stir.

"What's that you're saying?" cried the sitar master, rising in surprise,—"for me to be quiet! Does that noise out there disturb you too much? To the devil with the street singers who prevent you from hearing me! I hardly know how to restrain myself from going to drive them away with a few blows from my good blade Rolande!"

"If I only dared open my window for a few moments," sighed Blanche. "But no, I must not, for M. Touquet has firmly forbidden me to do so. What a pretty, pretty air! Ah, I shall easily remember that,

that's the refrain."

"No, divine Blanche, you are mistaken; these are the words,—

The singers departed. Blanche then left the casement, and, on turning, saw Chaudoreille with his neck elongated, the better to execute a note. She could not restrain a desire to laugh, which was evoked by the face of the chevalier; and the latter remained with his mouth open, not knowing how to take the young girl's laughter, when Marguerite entered the room.

"It's burned at last," said the old woman as she came in.

"What is burned," cried Chaudoreille,—"the roast?"

"Ah, yes, indeed; it's a book of witchcraft, of magic. It was very hard to get it to burn, those books are so accustomed to fire."

"What is that you say, Marguerite? You have books of magic,—you who are afraid of everything? Do you wish to enter into communication with the spirits of the other world?"

"Ah, God keep me from it, Monsieur Chaudoreille. But I'll tell you how that book came into my hands, where it didn't stay long, for it seemed to me that that cursed conjuring-book burned my fingers. My master wished me to change my room—because—but I oughtn't to tell you that."

"Try to remember what you wished to tell me."

"Well, it seems I must quit the room I've occupied, to go into one in which no one has set foot during the eight years I have been in the house; and, to judge by the look of it, no one had visited it for a long time before. It's so dark, so dismal; the window-panes, which are two inches thick with dust, hardly allow the daylight to penetrate into the room."

"I had an idea—God forgive me—that she was going to recount to me all the spiders' webs she had found there. What do you think of it, my charming pupil?"

Blanche did not answer, for she had paid no attention to what Marguerite said; she was committing to memory the sweet refrain which had appeared so pretty to her, and was repeating in a low voice,—

"I love to eternity;"

and Chaudoreille, seeing her steeped in reverie, would not disturb her, fully persuaded that the young girl could not defend her heart against the charms of the villanelle.

"It's not a question of spiders," resumed the old servant, rather ill-humoredly; "if I had not seen that which—but at the bottom of a closet Mademoiselle Blanche found a diabolical book; it was the conjuring-book of a sorcerer named Odoard. Have you ever heard tell of a sorcerer by that name?"

"No, not that I remember. If you were to ask me about a brave man, a man of spirit, a rake of honor, most certainly I should have known him; but a sorcerer! What the devil do you think I should have to do with him? These people don't fight."

"Monsieur Chaudoreille,—you who are so brave,—you must render me a service."

"What is it?" inquired Chaudoreille, paying more attention to Marguerite's words.

"Just now, after having burned the conjuring-book of that Odoard, surnamed the great Tier of Tags, I made another inspection of my room, sprinkling holy water everywhere, as you may well suppose."

"And what followed?"

"At the end of the alcove I perceived a little door,—one would never have supposed there was a door there; but, though old, I have good eyes, and, while pushing the bed, which made the wainscot creak, I saw the door."

"To the point, I beg of you," resumed Chaudoreille, whose eyes betrayed the uneasiness he tried in vain to dissemble.

"Well, now, I confess to you, monsieur, that I didn't dare open that door. It was no doubt the door of a closet; but that alcove is so gloomy, so dark. Finally, I'll be very much obliged if you'll come up with me and go first into whatever place we find there. I daren't ask M. Touquet, for he'd scoff at me."

"And he would be right, by jingo! Why, Marguerite, at your age, not to have more courage than that!"

"What can you expect? I'm afraid there may be a goblin in that closet, who will jump in my face when I open the door, which has perhaps been closed for many years; for I've never seen M. Touquet enter the room."

"Don't goblins pass through keyholes? Come, Marguerite, I blush for your cowardice."

"No one can say that sorcerers are rare in Paris. Haven't they established a Chamber at the Arsenal expressly to judge them?"

"That's true, I confess; but I don't see what makes you imagine there are any in this house?"

"Ah, Monsieur Chaudoreille, if I was to tell you all I have seen and heard—and at night the noises which—"

"What have you seen, dear nurse?" inquired Blanche, whose reverie had flown, and who had heard the last words of the old woman.

"Nothing—nothing—mademoiselle;" and the old servant added, addressing the chevalier in a low tone, "My master doesn't like me to talk of it, and he'll send me away if he learns—"

"That's enough; I don't wish to hear anything further," said Chaudoreille, rising and taking his hat. "And since Touquet has forbidden you to tell these idle stories, I beg you not to deafen my ears with them."

"But you'll come upstairs with me and look in the closet—won't you, monsieur?"

"Ah, mon Dieu! I hear ten o'clock striking; I should be in the city now; I didn't receive ten crowns for listening to your old stories; I must run. Au revoir, my interesting pupil. I am delighted that my last variations gave you pleasure. I hope before long to give you another lesson. With a master like me, you should be a virtuoso."

While saying these words Chaudoreille drew himself up, placed his left hand on his hip, arranged his right arm as though he were about to take his weapon; but, instead of drawing Rolande from the scabbard, he carried his hand to his hat and bowed respectfully to Blanche; then, passing quickly by Marguerite, who tried vainly to restrain him, he opened the door and went downstairs humming,—

CHAPTER VI
The Lovers. The Gossips.

THE barber Touquet's shop was as usual filled with a motley crowd of people of all classes. There were gathered students, shopkeepers, pages, poets, bachelors, adventurers, and even young noblemen; for the fashion of the time permitted these amiable libertines to mingle sometimes with persons in the lower classes of society, whether they sought new sensations in listening to a language which for them had all the fascinating charm of novelty, or whether it was for the purpose of playing tricks on the persons with whom they thus mixed.

Master Touquet's shop was large, and moreover furnished with benches, which latter conveniences were an almost unheard-of luxury in a time when people took their diversions standing, and when no one was seated even at the play. The barber by this means extended his custom; he attended to everything, answered everybody, and did more himself than ten hairdressers of today. His hand, which was skilful, nimble and accurate with scissors or razor, had earned him the reputation of being one of the best barbers in Paris, and drew to his shop many fops, because in the middle class one held it an honor to be able to say, while caressing one's chin, "I've been shaved by Touquet." But those whom he had served sometimes remained for a long time in conversation with the persons who were awaiting their turn, the greater part of these idlers desiring to chat for a moment on the news of the day and the adventures of the night. Towards ten o'clock in the morning there was always a numerous gathering at Master Touquet's shop.

There one saw all kinds of toilets; but then, as today, rich garments did not always betoken rank or fortune in those who wore them. The taste for luxury was becoming general, because consideration was accorded only to those who had splendid equipages and magnificent clothing. An appearance of wealth and power obtained all the honors; true merit without distinction, without renown, remained forgotten and in poverty. And one assuredly sees the same thing today.

Access to court was easy. For a parvenu to introduce himself there, often nothing more was necessary than a costume similar to those worn by courtiers,—the hat adorned by a feather, a doublet and mantle of satin or velvet, the sword at the belt, the whole enlivened by trimmings of gold or silver braid. Each sought to procure for himself the most splendid personal appearance, and many ruined themselves in order to appear wealthy.

An attempt was, however, made to arrest this tendency to luxurious habits, which could not hide the poverty of the time. By an edict of the month of November of the year 1633, it was forbidden to all subjects to wear on their shirts, cuffs, head-dresses, or on other linen, all openwork, embroideries of gold or silver thread, braids, laces or cut points, manufactured either within or without the realm.

In the following year a second edict appeared, which prohibited the employment, in habiliments, of any kind of cloth of gold or silver, real or imitation, and decreed that the richest garments should be of velvet, satin or taffetas, without other ornament than two bands of silk embroidery; it also forbade that the liveries of pages, lackeys and coachmen should be made of any other than woollen stuffs. But these laws were soon infringed; men will always have the desire to appear more than they are, and women to hide what they are.

Among the different personages assembled in the barber's shop there was one who chatted with nobody and seemed to take not the slightest interest in the relation of the scandalous adventures of the night. This was a young man who appeared about nineteen years of age or a little over, endowed with a physiognomy by no means cheerful; for one ordinarily applies that term to those round, fresh faces, red and plump, which breathe health and gayety. He had beautiful eyes, but was pale; noble features, but rather a melancholy expression; finally, he had what one calls an interesting face, and this sort are in general more fortunate in love than those of cheerful physiognomy. The young man's costume was very simple; neither ornament nor embroidery adorned his gray coat, buttoned just to the knee and cut like our frock coat of today; his belt was black; no ribbons floated from his knees and his arms; he neither had a sword nor laces, nor plumes on the broad brim of his hat.

He had been for a very long time in the barber's shop. On entering, his eyes had appeared to search for something other than the master of the place; he had thrown glances towards the back shop, and still continued to do so. Several times already his turn had come and Touquet had said to him,—

"Whenever you wish, seigneur bachelor."

The young man's simple costume was, in fact, that which was ordinarily worn by law students in Paris; but to each invitation of the barber the bachelor only answered, "I am not pressed for time," and another took his place.

After a time the loiterers and gossips departed and the young man found himself alone with Touquet, to whom his conduct began to appear singular.

"Now you can no longer yield your turn to anybody," said the barber, offering a chair to the stranger. "In truth I cannot shave you; you have not enough on your chin; but without doubt you came for something, and I am at your service, monsieur."

"Yes," said the young man with an embarrassed air, turning his eyes towards the back shop, "I should like—my hair is too long, and—"

"Seat yourself here, seigneur bachelor; you will find that I am skilful; my hand is as well accustomed to the scissors as to the razor."

The young man decided at last to intrust his head to the barber, but as soon as the latter paused for a moment he profited by it to turn and look into the back shop.

"Are you looking for anything, monsieur?" said Touquet, whom this trick did not escape.

"No—no. I was only looking to see if you were alone here."

"Yes, monsieur; you see I have no need of anybody to help me in order to satisfy my customers."

"Indeed, someone told me you were extremely skilful."

"And monsieur has had time to judge of my talent, he has been nearly two hours in my shop."

"I had nothing pressing to do; and then, I wished to obtain some information of you. Tell me, my friend, who occupies the first story of this house."

"I do, monsieur," said Touquet, after a moment's hesitation.

The young man seemed vexed then that he had asked the question.

"May I learn, monsieur, how that interests you?" resumed Touquet, looking at the unknown attentively.

"Ah, it is that I am looking for a lodging—in this quarter. One chamber would suffice me. Do you not take lodgers, and could you give me a room if this house belongs to you?"

"This house does belong to me; in fact, monsieur, I cannot grant your request. For a long time I have let no lodgings, and I have no room in the house, which is not very large."

"What! you cannot let me a single chamber, a closet even? I repeat to you, I wish to have one in this neighborhood; I often have business in the Louvre. I will pay you anything that you ask."

"Anything?" said the barber, glancing ironically at the young man's simple garments. "You are getting on, perhaps, a little, monsieur student. All the same, your desires cannot be gratified, and I advise you to renounce your plans."

Touquet dwelt on this last phrase, and the young man's face reddened a little; but the barber had finished his ministrations, and the former had no way of prolonging his stay with a man who did not appear to wish to continue the conversation, and to whom he feared he had said too much. The bachelor rose, paid, and at last left the shop, but not without looking up at the windows of the house.

"That's a lover," said Touquet, as soon as the young man had taken his departure. "Yes, his uneasiness, his looks, his questions—oh, I understand it all. I have served too many lovers ever to be deceived about that. Curse it! this is just what I feared. What vexations I foresee! What anxieties are about to assail me! He must have seen Blanche, but where? when? how? She never leaves the house without me, and that very rarely; however, this young man is in love with her, I'll bet a hundred pieces of gold. Halloo there, Marguerite! Marguerite!"

The old servant had heard her master's loud voice; she mentally invoked her patron saint and went down to the shop.

"How long is it since Blanche went out without my knowing it?" said the barber suddenly.

"Went out? Mademoiselle Blanche?" said Marguerite, looking at her master in surprise.

"Yes,—went out with you. Why don't you answer?"

"Blessed Holy Virgin! that hasn't happened for two years; then Mademoiselle Blanche was still a child, and you sometimes allowed her to go with me to take a turn in the big Pré-aux-Clercs. But since that time the poor little thing has not been out, I believe, except twice with you, and that was at night, and Mademoiselle Blanche had a very thick veil."

"I didn't ask you if she had been out with me. And has any young man been here in my absence who has asked you about her, or who has sought to be introduced to her?"

"Indeed, I would have given him a warm reception. Monsieur doesn't know me. Except the Chevalier Chaudoreille, mademoiselle has seen no one; as to the latter, he came this morning to give her a music lesson."

"Oh, Chaudoreille isn't dangerous; but if some student, some young page, should come in my absence and seek to see Blanche, remember to send such heedless fellows away promptly."

"Yes, monsieur, yes. Oh, you may be easy. Besides, hasn't the beautiful child always about her a precious talisman which will preserve her from all danger? I defy ten gallants to turn her head so long as she carries it, and I will see that she does not leave it off."

"Watch, rather, that she does not open her window; that will be better. If that should happen, I should be obliged to give her the little room which opens on the court."

"Ah, monsieur, Mademoiselle Blanche would die there of weariness; there one can barely see the light, and the poor little thing does not go out, and could only work during the daytime with a candle."

"Unless she opens her window, it will be a long time before she occupies it," said Touquet in a low voice, making a sign to the servant to leave him, which the latter did, saying,—

"What a misfortune not to have faith in talismans! If monsieur believed in them, he would not deprive that poor little thing of every amusement."

The barber had not been mistaken in judging that the young man, who had had so much difficulty in tearing himself away from the shop, was a lover.

The Italian's song had so captivated Blanche's ears that the young girl had stood close to her casement, and had not budged from it during the time that her music master had made his variations on the villanelle. At the same moment Urbain was passing, and he had stopped to listen to the music, and while listening his glance was carried to Blanche's window. At first he had seen nothing but some very small panes; but at last, through these panes, his eyes could distinguish a face so pretty, eyes so blue and so full of the pleasure that Blanche was experiencing, that the young man had remained motionless, his looks fixed upon that window, near which the charming apparition remained. When the music ceased the pretty face disappeared, and the young man had said to himself,—

"I was not in error; there is an angel, a divinity, in that house."

And as that angel, that divinity, lived in the modest house of a barber, the bachelor had believed he should penetrate into the third heaven in entering Master Touquet's shop; but he returned to ideas more terrestrial on seeing nothing but men who had come to be shaved, who had about them nothing divine, despite all the essences with which their chins were besmeared. Urbain had glanced towards the back shop, hoping to perceive the pretty figure of the first floor, and had prolonged as much as possible his stay in the barber's shop. We have witnessed the result of his conversation with the barber.

The young man departed, very much out of sorts; he perceived that he had made a blunder in questioning the barber, who was probably his adored one's father; for the young men of that time were inflamed with love as quickly as those of today. He felt that before going into the shop he should have obtained some information in the neighborhood, and he decided to finish as he should have begun. In all times the bakers have had very correct ideas about their neighbors, because the neighbors are all obliged to go or to send to the baker's. Urbain went into a shop at a little distance, and while paying for some rolls entered into conversation with the woman who was behind the counter,—a conversation in which all the servants who arrived at that moment took part.

"Do you know a barber in this street?"

"A barber? Yes, my good monsieur; down there at the corner of the Rue Saint-Honoré,—Master Touquet. Has monsieur some business with him? Oh, he's a very skilful man at his trade, and has made lots of money, by shaving beards, or in some other way. What that is I won't pretend to tell you. That's so—isn't it, Madame Ledoux?"

"It is true," said Madame Ledoux, resting a basket of vegetables on the counter, "that Touquet has not always enjoyed an excellent reputation. I have lived in the neighborhood for eight years and, thank God, I know everything that has passed here,—all that everybody has done here, and all that everybody is still doing; and that reminds me that yesterday evening I saw Madame Grippart come home at ten o'clock with a young man, who left her in front of the grocer's shop after having held her hand in his for more than two hours, while that poor Grippart was peacefully slumbering, for he goes to bed at nine o'clock. That doesn't trouble him; he well deserves it, for he went about everywhere saying that his wife had a strong breath, and those things need not be said.—But to return to Master Touquet. Oh, that's a sly blade, a crafty, cunning fellow. I've known him since he settled in this street; he's been here nearly fifteen years. He rented the house which belonged to M. Richard. You know, my neighbor, the old cloth merchant?"

"The one whose wife had two fat, plump twins seven months after they were married?"

"Who didn't look at all like their father. It's the same. Well, this Touquet was then barber, bathkeeper and lodging-house keeper, and report says that beside that he helped young men of family in their love affairs. He then kept two shop-men, and should have made money; however, he was for a long time miserably poor, since his shop-men left him because he did not pay them. Everyone was very much astonished ten years ago when Touquet kept with him, and began to educate as his own child, the daughter of a man whom he did not know, who had come to lodge with him by chance, and who was killed the same night in a fight between some worthless fellows and the officers of the watch. The poor man! they found his corpse down there,—Rue Saint-Honoré, before the draper's shop. Do you remember it, Madame Legras?"

Madame Legras, who had just come into the baker's shop, began by throwing herself on a chair and crying,—

"Good-day, ladies! Good Heavens! how dear the fish is today, nobody can look at it."

And Urbain sighed, saying, "The fish will take us away from the barber"; but to advance in love one must often have patience, and in the midst of all this gossip that which concerned Touquet was precious to the young bachelor.

"I wished to have an eel to feast my husband, but it was impossible."

"Is it his birthday?"

"No; but he took me yesterday for a walk around the Bastile, and one compliment brings on another. I can say with pride that there are few households so united as ours. During the four years that I have been married to my second husband, M. Legras, we have quarrelled only five times; but that was always for some trifling cause. What were you talking about, ladies?"

"Of our neighbor Touquet, about whom this gentleman desired some information."

"Touquet the barber? My word, ladies, you may say whatever you will, but I don't like that man."

"He's a very handsome man, however."

"Yes, of the same height as M. Legras; but there is something hard and false and stern in his appearance."

"Yes, for some time past; formerly he was gayer, more open. Now monsieur never chats; he has grown proud."

"That's not surprising; he has made money."

"Yes, by shaving beards perhaps."

"It's a good deal more likely he has made it by assisting the love affairs of some great nobleman, in procuring and abducting some beauty."

"Come, ladies, don't be so malicious. As for me, you know I haven't a bad tongue. Touquet is very skilful at his trade. I know very well that in order to buy and pay for that house where he now is he must have shaved a good many faces; but they say now the barber is very steady and economical."

"When the devil is old—"

"Touquet is not old; he's hardly over forty years."

"Adopting that little girl should have brought him good luck."

"That's what I was telling monsieur. Poor little thing! Nobody knows anything about her, except that she had a father."

"Well, neighbor, somebody found a letter on him having for an address, 'To Monsieur Moranval, gentleman.'"

"Ah, he was a gentleman?"

"Yes, my dear. Oh, I remember all that as if it were yesterday."

"How fortunate one is in having such a memory! And what did the letter say?"

"It seemed that there were only a few lines of which nobody could make much of anything; someone recommended to this Moranval to take great precautions in the business which brought him to Paris. But what business? Nobody knows anything about it."

"Did they find nothing else on him?"

"No; there is little doubt that the poor man was robbed after being murdered."

"Did they go to Touquet's to inquire what he knew about it?"

"Touquet answered the officers of justice that the man had come down to his house the evening before, and had introduced himself as a gentleman who was about to remain for some time in Paris; that he had first asked him to put his little girl to bed, and that later he had gone out, saying he should be absent for an hour or so. Touquet had waited up for him a great part of the night, and it was not till the next day that he learned from public rumor that a man had been found murdered in the Rue Saint-Honoré, a short distance from his house; that, being already uneasy about his guest, he had gone to see the victim, and had recognized the man who had arrived at his place the evening before."

"I hope that's a history. Unfortunately, one hears only too many similar stories. Ours are really cut-throat streets, and it is not well, after nine o'clock, to be out in them. The gentlemen of the parliament make decrees often enough, but it doesn't do much good. A little while ago, it seems a counsellor of the Chamber of Investigation was similarly murdered. The parliament has just promulgated a new ordinance against these worthless fellows—haven't they, monsieur?"

"Yes," said Urbain; "the public prosecutor has just complained of murders, assassinations and robberies, which take place every day, as many upon the highways as in the city or the suburbs, by armed persons who forcibly break into houses, and that through the negligence of the police officers who do not properly perform their duty. Parliament yesterday passed a new decree, ordering that vagabonds, men of bad character, and robbers, should vacate the city and the faubourgs of Paris within twenty-four hours."

"Well, you'll see, tonight we shall hear a bigger rumpus than ever."

"And the barber Touquet is not married?" resumed Urbain, who wished to return to the subject of conversation which was interesting to him.

"No, he's a bachelor," said Madame Ledoux.

"And this young girl that lodges with him—"

"She's the little one whom he adopted."

"She had no other protectors?"

"What could you expect, since nobody knew her parents? Touquet has, they say, taken very good care of her; I will do him the justice to say that. He has taken into his house, to wait on the little one, a servant, old Marguerite, a gossip, who is always seeking for preservatives against the wind, the thunder, the sorcerers, or even for talismans to guard her dear Blanche against the snares of the gallants."

"Blanche, then, is the name of the young girl?"

"Yes; that is her name."

"And this old woman is the only one about her?"

"Mercy! isn't that enough? Besides, the little one never goes out, and no one ever sees her even put her nose out of the window."

"Tell me, ladies, don't you think, with me, that the barber has brought up this pretty child for himself, and that he would not take so much care of her unless he was in love with her?"

"Indeed, that might very well be possible. Touquet is still young, and perhaps wishes to marry her."

"Nonsense! I don't believe that; and besides, they say that the young person is not good-looking. I have heard it said by an ugly little thin man, with a long sword, who is often at the barber's shop, that the orphan is very ugly."

"Ugly!" cried Urbain quickly. "That's a frightful lie!"

"Ah, monsieur has seen her, then?" immediately said the gossips, looking at the young man with a mischievous air.

The latter felt that he had committed an imprudence; but having nothing more to learn from these dames, he made them a low bow and left the shop, leaving the gossips to talk among themselves.

"Well, if he hasn't gone, and he didn't tell us what he wanted with Touquet."

But Urbain had learned enough; and while directing his steps toward the Rue Montmartre, where he dwelt, our lover cogitated thus:—

"She's not the barber's daughter; he has stood to her in place of a father, but he has no rights over her except those accorded to a benefactor by a grateful heart. She's the daughter of a gentleman, which is much better; my father was a gentleman also, who valiantly fought under King Henry. The old soldiers still remember Captain Dorgeville, and the name which he has transmitted to me is pure and without stain. I am alone in the world; I am my own master. Like her I have no parents, for a year ago death deprived me of my good mother. My fortune is very moderate,—twelve hundred livres income and a little house by the seaside. That is all my father left me; but she has nothing more, and by working I could render her happy. I am about to take my bachelor's degree, but I shall now leave this unfruitful career; science brings fortune too slowly. I don't know, however, if I could please her. Yes, that's the first task with which I should occupy myself. If she loves me, I will ask her hand of the barber. He will wish to assure her happiness; he could not refuse me unless he himself—— If these women said rightly he is in love with her. The hard tone with which he answered me this morning, his refusal to lodge me in his house, make me believe it. And that wretch who dared to say that she was ugly!—when object more enchanting never met my eyes. Ah, it wasn't of her he was speaking. If such a thing could happen, I should like to see her, to tell her of the love which she has inspired; and, if I could manage to please her, nothing then could prevent me from becoming her husband."

These were, somebody will say, very foolish plans concerning a young girl whose face one had only perceived through some very dim window-panes; and it was on the possession of this almost ideal object that Urbain already based the happiness of his life. But let us look back on our own lives. We were hardly more reasonable,—happy if between us and the chimeras which enchanted us there was nothing thicker than a pane of glass.

CHAPTER VII
Intrigues Thicken

CHAUDOREILLE now started off at a great pace towards the city. The ten crowns which he felt in his purse, on which he prudently kept his hand while walking, caused him to hold his head even more arrogantly than he usually did. He had placed his little hat over his left eye in such a manner that the old red feather with which it was adorned fell precisely over his right eye, and as he walked mincingly along, at each step that he took the chevalier could thus enjoy the waving of his ridiculous plume.

Never had the Chevalier de Chaudoreille felt so clever, so inordinately satisfied with himself. Blanche's image, so sweet, so beautiful, her delightful manner, which possessed all the innocent witchery of girlhood, was still before his eyes, and as he was never lacking in confidence as to his own merits, he readily persuaded himself that the young beauty could not see him with indifference, and was even a little taken with him. On the other hand, the enterprise with which he was charged by the barber, as the agent of the Marquis de Villebelle, flattered his self-love. He believed himself the friend, the confidant, of the Marquis de Villebelle, although the latter had never spoken to him; but he thought that the adroitness with which he would serve him in his amorous plan would be sooner or later known to the great nobleman and would win his favor. Full of this idea, he hastened to reach the shop of which Touquet had spoken. Before entering, Chaudoreille resumed to himself,—

"One mustn't go in here," said he, "looking like a snob, and turn the shop upside down without buying anything. I must not forget that I am sent by a great personage. They have given me ten crowns on account, as the price of my services, but I can very well spend twenty-four sous."

This determination taken, he opened the door of the shop and entered nimbly; but in wheeling round in order to appear more graceful and to bow at the same time to the right and left, he sent Rolande's scabbard through one of the panes of the glass door, and it broke in a thousand pieces.

Chaudoreille's face lengthened and he felt some confusion, for he calculated that the price of the pane already exceeded the sum he had intended to lay out. Two young persons seated behind the counter burst into laughter, while an old woman placed opposite murmured between her teeth,—

"He must be very awkward."

"I will pay for it," said Chaudoreille at last, heaving a big sigh.

"Indeed I should hope so," responded the shopkeeper; "but has anyone ever seen a man carry a sword bigger than himself?"

At these words the chevalier drew himself up and stood on his tiptoes, and glanced angrily at the old woman.

"It's very astonishing," said he, "that anyone should permit herself such reflections. I carry the weapon that suits me, and if a bearded chin had said the same thing to me, my sword would have immediately taken the measure of his body."

"I didn't intend to say anything to make you angry," replied the shopkeeper, softening; "only it seemed to me that that long sword would embarrass you in walking."

"Embarrass me! That is a different thing," and Chaudoreille turned his back to the shopkeeper to approach the young ladies, saying to himself,—

"I didn't come here to discuss the length of my sword. Let's leave this woman's twaddle."

"What do you wish, monsieur?" said a young, squint-eyed girl, with a flat nose, thick lips and crooked chin, whose dark-red skin seemed covered with a coat of varnish.

Chaudoreille looked at her for some moments, saying to himself,—

"By jingo! she's not very much like the portrait of the little one which they gave me. It's true that love is blind, and that great noblemen like original faces."

But after looking at the person who addressed him, Chaudoreille glanced a little farther and perceived another woman measuring some ribbons. At the first glance the barber's messenger recognized the young girl whose portrait had been drawn for him. She was all Touquet had painted her, though he could not then see the color of her eyes, which were bent on the ribbon. Chaudoreille approached her and, bowing graciously, said to himself,—

"This is our affair. I have an astonishing tact for divining correctly. Other people hesitate for an hour; but I recognize immediately those who have been pointed out to me, and I am never deceived. Here are some delightful ribbons," said Chaudoreille, leaning on the counter, carelessly caressing his chin, and trying to imitate the free manners and impertinent tone of the profligates of the day.

The young girl then raised her eyes to the chevalier; their brightness, their expression, arrested Chaudoreille in the midst of a compliment from which he expected the most happy results.

"By jingo! what a glance! what fire!" said he, taking a step backward, while the damsel continued to look at him.

In order to enchant her he attempted to turn a light pirouette, in which Rolande's scabbard just missed putting out the eye of the cat, which was lying on a neighboring stool. A mocking smile played on the lips of the young girl, who said, "What ribbon does monsieur wish?"

"What ribbon? My faith! I don't much know. Something to match the rest of my costume. It is to make a knot for Rolande."

"And who is Rolande, monsieur?"

"My sword, beautiful brunette, which I will pass through the body of him who denies that you have the most beautiful eyes in the world."

Delighted at his compliment, Chaudoreille said to himself in an undertone,—

"Take care; we mustn't go too far, or be too amiable; I must not forget that I did not come here on my own account. This young girl appears somewhat smitten, from the way she looks at me. Zounds! if I had a ruff I would with good-will cheat the Marquis de Villebelle of the little one. Come, Chaudoreille, hide your charms if you can; don't dart your glances at this pretty person, and hasten to tell her that she must not occupy herself with you."

While saying this Chaudoreille unrolled and examined twenty different ribbons, approaching them to the handle of his sword and throwing from time to time a glance about him, to assure himself that he could speak without being heard by the other two women in the shop.

This manœuvre did not escape the eyes of the young girl, who smiled, and seemed to wait for Chaudoreille to explain himself. Happily for Chaudoreille, two people came into the shop, and while the old woman and the other damsel were serving them, he opened a conversation in a low tone.

"I did not come here only to buy a ribbon, celestial merchant."

"If you wish anything else, speak, monsieur, and you shall be served."

"Julia, have you not finished with monsieur?" said the old woman impatiently, looking angrily at the long falchion of the chevalier, which, every time he moved, threatened her cat's eyes.

"Monsieur has not decided yet," answered Julia, while Chaudoreille cried with an impertinent air,—

"It seems to me that I should be allowed to choose my own colors. When a man like me comes into a shop, one should, my good woman, keep him there as long as possible; if you wish to have my custom, leave me to chat as much as I please with this beautiful child."

This insolent mode of speech was then so much in fashion, that she remained silent, in place of putting the chevalier out, as would be done now to a coxcomb who behaved like Chaudoreille.

"Oh, by jingo! if one did not keep these little shopkeepers in their place I believe they would permit themselves to make observations to us," said Chaudoreille, approaching for the twentieth time a gold-colored ribbon to his doublet. "This color goes very well with my cloak. What do you think of it, adorable damsel?"

"I think that these ribbons are too fresh to blend with monsieur's clothing, and that that one swears at them."

"I confess that the velvet of my jerkin is a little tarnished, but what could you expect? When a man fights he necessarily attracts dust and powder. Here's a cloak that I've not had more than six weeks, and I'll wager that you would say it had been worn for some months."

"Decide on your ribbon, monsieur," said the young girl, without answering.

"Give me a gold-colored rosette," said Chaudoreille; and he added in a mysterious tone, "I have something very important to communicate to you."

"I doubt it," said Julia.

"Come," said Chaudoreille to himself, "I'll wager that she believes that I'm in love with her and is impatiently awaiting my declaration. I'm incorrigible; I let myself go, and I have turned her head without even perceiving it. Let us hasten to disabuse her.—No, beautiful brunette, you need not doubt it," responded he, lowering his eyes with a coquettish air; "I ought to confess to you that it is not of myself that I seek you, and that I am only the ambassador of Love, when you would have taken me for Love himself."

Julia's hearty laughter prevented Chaudoreille from continuing, and he did not know at first how to take this excessive gayety; but his self-love always made him place things to his own advantage, and he decided to laugh also, while saying in a low tone to the young girl,—

"Isn't it very funny to behold in me a lover's messenger?—I, who could cheat them all of their conquests. It's a great joke, in truth."

"Come, monsieur ambassador, give me your message," said Julia, looking pityingly at the envoy.

Chaudoreille threw a glance all around him, put a finger on his mouth, examined the persons who were in the shop, pushed from him a stool on which the cat was lying, then leaning toward Julia with the air of a conspirator, he whispered in her ear,—

"A great lord sent me to you. He's a rich and powerful man; he's a personage in favor; he's the gallant who—"

"He's the Marquis de Villebelle," said Julia impatiently. "I've known him for a long time. What does he want with me? What has he bidden you say to me? Come, monsieur, speak."

"It must be that I am very adroit," said Chaudoreille, "when without my speaking she divines everything that I wish to say to her.—Since you know his name," resumed he, again approaching his face to Julia's ear, the latter brusquely pushing him away, "I have no need of telling you. This great nobleman adores you."

"Undoubtedly he did not employ you to express his sentiments."

"No, but he sent me to ask you to meet him. If you do not accord him this favor, he will set fire to the four corners of this street, that he may have the pleasure of saving you, fair Julia,—for it is thus I believe that you are called, which makes me think that you are not French. Have I rightly divined?"

"Has anyone commissioned you to ask that question?" asked Julia, looking at Chaudoreille disdainfully.

The latter bit his lips, put his left hand on his hip, and said in a bass voice,—

"What shall I say to the noble Marquis de Villebelle, of whom I am the intimate confidant, and whom I represent at this moment?"

"Tell him to choose his messengers better," said Julia in a dry tone.

"I was sure of it," said Chaudoreille, taking some steps backward; "she has fallen in love with me; it is my personal attractions that have played me this trick. All this is very disagreeable; I should have disguised myself a little, or at least should not have permitted my eyes to make fresh wounds. There is money to be got here. By jingo! I must not lose sight of that;" and Chaudoreille repeated to Julia, not allowing her, as a matter of prudence, to see more than his profile,—

"What shall I say to the marquis? Where will you walk tomorrow evening?"

The young girl waited for some moments in silence, appearing to reflect deeply; while Chaudoreille fingered his purse, very anxious as to her answer, and saying to himself,—

"In any case, I shall not give them back the ten crowns.

"Tomorrow evening at eight o'clock, on the Pont de la Tournelle," said the young Italian at last; for Julia, in fact, was not French.

"'Tis enough," responded Chaudoreille, continuing to hold himself in such a manner as to show only his profile; "I have nothing more to ask of you; let us part, for fear the sight of me make you change your resolution."

The messenger already had hold of the knob of the door when Julia recalled him.

"You have forgotten to pay for your ribbon, monsieur."

"By Jove! that's true. What the devil has got me? I'm as stupid as possible."

While saying this Chaudoreille drew forth his purse, rattling the ten crowns that it held as loudly as possible, counting and recounting them several times in his hand.

"I don't know if I have any change about me," said he. "Ordinarily I carry nothing but gold, it is so much lighter. How much is it, beautiful merchant?"

"Thirty sous, monsieur."

"Thirty sous for a rosette!" cried Chaudoreille to himself, making a grimace, and putting the coins back in his purse. "That seems to me a considerable price. You must notice that the ribbon is very narrow."

"For a man who carries nothing but gold," said Julia, "I am astonished that monsieur should bargain over such a trifle."

"I'm not bargaining; but still it seems to me that you might knock something off, and that for twenty-four sous one ought to have a superb rosette. No matter; I'll pay it with a good grace; give me my change."

He presented one of the crowns with a sigh, and while Julia was counting out his change he fastened the gold-colored rosette to Rolande's handle. The effect that the ribbon would produce somewhat mitigated his regrets at paying thirty sous for it. He took the money, and, recalling to himself that they could ask him to pay for something else, he ran to the door, darted into the street and disappeared as quickly as possible.

"And my window-pane," said the old shopkeeper,—"did he pay for my pane?"

"Ah, mon Dieu! no, madame," answered Julia.

"I was sure of it. Run, my good girls, run as fast as you can. That wicked coxcomb, trying to play the spark, with his old threadbare mantle, with his old feather that I wouldn't take to dust my shelves! He turned everything upside down here, and just barely missed putting out my cat's eyes; he was impertinent to me, bargained for two hours over a rosette, and ran away without paying for the pane. He's some pickpocket, some cutpurse."

The two damsels opened the shop door and looked down the street, but could see nothing of monsieur le chevalier.

"It's my fault, madame," said Julia; "I should have asked him for the price of the window. I will pay for it."

"Yes, mademoiselle; that will teach you another time not to listen to the conversation of these gentlemen who make so much trouble and haven't a sou in their pockets."

The young Italian did not answer. It is probable that at that moment she was not interested in the pane of glass or in Chaudoreille.

Night approached. For some hours all had been silent in the barber's shop; for he, following his habitual custom, had closed his shutters as soon as day declined, since he was not in the habit of receiving strangers and waited on no customers in the evening. This was the time that Touquet had chosen for his dinner hour, although people commonly took this meal much earlier. The barber's dinner, therefore, also passed for a supper.

As soon as Marguerite called from her kitchen, "We are waiting for you, mademoiselle," Blanche left her room and quickly went down into the lower room where the meal was served. Touquet dined with the young girl. This was the moment of the day when they were longest together, although the barber always appeared to wish to abridge the time as much as possible, remaining at the table only as long as was absolutely necessary in order to satisfy his appetite, and answering only in monosyllables to all that Blanche said to him, so as not to prolong the duration of the repast.

This time the barber was, as usual, seated near the hearth, waiting for Blanche to come down; but when she appeared, contrary to his custom, he raised his eyes to the young girl and seemed to wish to read hers. Surprised at being thus regarded by him whose looks had always evaded her smile, Blanche involuntarily lowered her eyes, which beamed with truth and innocence, and a little more color appeared in her cheeks; for the barber's look was more piercing than usual.

Touquet already seemed reassured. The expression of Blanche's features had dissipated the uneasiness which he had felt; he placed himself at the table and made a sign to the lovely girl to take her accustomed place. The meal seemed as though it would pass in silence as usual; Marguerite only, while changing the dishes, ventured some remarks, to which Blanche answered a few words.

But all of a sudden the young girl appeared to recall an agreeable idea, and cried,—

"My friend, did you hear the music this morning?"

"The music," said Touquet, glancing furtively at Blanche; "yes, I believe I heard it."

"Oh, it was so pretty! They sang in Italian at first; then afterwards in French,—a romance. Wait; I believe I can remember the refrain," and Blanche sang with expression,—

The barber knitted his thick eyebrows while listening to Blanche.

"What! you have already learned the romance?" said he in an ironical tone.

"No, not all the romance; the refrain only."

"And that was the first time you had heard it?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Did you open your window then?"

"No, though I should very much have liked to do so; but I glued myself against the window so as to hear better."

"And to see better, no doubt."

"See! Oh, I like to hear much better," answered Blanche, almost frightened at the barber's glance.

"Are there no curtains at your window?" asked Touquet in a moment.

"Yes, monsieur, there are curtains," answered the young girl timidly.

"Blanche, I've told you that I don't like you to expose yourself to the oglings of the coxcombs who pass and repass in the street."

"But, my friend, can anyone see me through the windows?"

"Yes; no doubt of it."

"Oh, well, my friend, if that displeases you, I won't go to the window again."

Touched by Blanche's sweetness, the barber assumed a less severe expression, and, rising from the table, he said, almost kindly,—

"Go back to your room, Blanche; I will try soon to render your life less monotonous. Yes, I feel that you cannot continually remain in such dull retirement."

"Why, I am all right, my friend; and if I could only learn that romance altogether, but M. Chaudoreille only sings me his villanelle, and that is not amusing."

"I will buy you some others."

"Oh, try to get me the one I heard this morning,—

I love to eternity.

Can you remember it?"

"Yes, yes; I will remember it.—But I am waiting for someone to come; go upstairs to your room."

Blanche curtseyed to the barber and gayly went up to her room, while Touquet said to himself, following her with his eyes,—

"Come, I was wrong to make myself uneasy; she knows nothing of him."

An hour after this conversation somebody knocked at the barber's door and Marguerite admitted Chaudoreille, who came into the lower room with the important air of a man who is very well pleased with himself.

"You're very late," said Touquet, signing to him to seat himself.

"Why, what the deuce, my dear fellow! Do you think that these affairs are so speedily arranged?"

"I don't believe, however, that you've been all this time in the shop where I sent you."

"No, undoubtedly; but I passed a greater part of the time there. After that it was necessary for me to have some dinner, for you did not invite me to partake of yours, I believe."

"Well, were you successful? Give me an account of your mission."

"I went there. Wait, while I dry my forehead a little."

The barber made a movement of impatience and Chaudoreille passed over his face a little silk handkerchief, which for prudence' sake he never unrolled. After emitting some exclamations of fatigue, during which Touquet impatiently stamped his foot, he commenced his story.

"To go to that place in the city I could take two roads; I don't know but I could take three."

"You wretch! take a dozen if you like, but get there."

"It was necessary for me to get there, and then to return here. I decided on going by the Pont-Neuf, then down the quay into the street. You know, where they sell such good tarts."

"Chaudoreille, you're mocking at me."

"No, I'm not; but it seemed to me I should tell you everything that I did. But you are so petulant. Finally, I took the shortest way. I went into the shop where the young girl works."

"That's good luck."

"I entered with that grace which characterizes me; I bowed first to an old woman who was on the right, and afterwards bowed to two young girls who were on the left. In the middle of the shop I saw nobody but a cat sleeping on a stool."

"No doubt you bowed to the cat also."

"Oh, if you interrupt me I shall get all mixed up. They asked me what I wanted; I answered, dissembling my designs, 'Let me see some ribbons.' They showed me some reds, some blues, some greens, some yellows, some oranges; during this time I examined the two little ones. As nature has endowed me with a penetrating eye, I recognized immediately the one you depicted for me."

"You spoke to her?"

"A moment and you shall see how I conducted the matter. I was sufficiently adroit to get her to serve me. She asked me what color I had decided upon; but I, with careful cunning, did not decide in order that I might prolong the conversation. At last, by a happy chance, some other people came into the shop; then we were less observed."

"And you told her what had brought you there?"

"I decided first for a gold color, and I got her to make a rosette for Rolande. Wait; don't you think this becomes me well?"

So saying, Chaudoreille rose and put his sword near Touquet's face, who pushed the chevalier rather brusquely into his seat, exclaiming,—

"If I didn't restrain myself I should break every bone in your body to teach you not to abuse my patience thus."

"There's no pleasure in conducting an intrigue with you," said Chaudoreille, a little disconcerted at being reseated so heavily; "but if you wish that I should come to the facts, here I am. I made known to her the intentions of the Marquis de Villebelle."

"His intentions? I didn't communicate them to you."

"That is to say, his love, his passion. At last I demanded a meeting for tomorrow evening."

"Well, what then?"

"She hesitated for a long time, reflected for a long time; then I redoubled my eloquence; I pictured the marquis dying of despair if she repulsed his vows."

"Idiot! was that necessary?"

"Yes, certainly; it was highly necessary; the little one was weighing it."

"Did she make any wry faces?"

"No; on the contrary, she gave me the most interesting glances."

"Finally, is she coming?"

"Yes, by jingo! she's coming. Yes; but it took me to decide her."

"Tomorrow evening?"

"Yes, at eight o'clock."

"Where is she to be?"

"On the Pont de la Tournelle."

"That's good."

"As soon as I had got her answer, I attached my rosette."

"Excuse me from the rest; I know enough."

"You must know that in bowing too precipitately I broke a pane, for which they made me pay a crown, and for which I hope I shall be reimbursed.—Ah, that's not all; I know that the lady is named Julia, and also that she is an Italian. You see I did not lose any time. Are you pleased with me?"

"Yes, it's not so bad," said Touquet, with a less gloomy expression, approaching a table on which Marguerite had, according to her usual custom, placed some cups and a pewter pot full of wine. "Stop your eternal chatter; I'm well enough pleased with you. Drink a cup of wine."

"You call exactitude of detail chatter," said Chaudoreille, filling one of the cups up to the brim; "but I was trying to show you that I did not steal the money which you gave me. As for the pane of glass, I had to make that circumstance known to you, for I had only nine crowns remaining.—Ah, I forgot; the gold-colored rosette cost me two crowns, so I've only received seven."

"Two crowns for that miserable knot," said the barber, glancing mockingly at the handle of the sword. "Chaudoreille, you have missed your vocation; you should be a steward; you know how to swell your bills."

"What must I understand by these words, I beg of you?"

"That that rosette did not cost over fifteen sous."

"Yes, for a passer-by, for an unknown, perhaps; but when one represents a great nobleman, shopkeepers fleece him, and I didn't believe that I should haggle. If anyone had asked me three times the price, I should have given it without uttering a word."

"Calm yourself," said Touquet, smiling at the heat with which Chaudoreille tried to prove that he had spent three crowns; "we must reimburse you for your ruff."

"Oh, I'm not uneasy about that, but what shall I do tomorrow? Shall I go to the rendezvous? Shall I carry off the little one?"

"No; that concerns me only. I can trust you to startle the game for me, but I don't think proper to let you bring it down."

"You know me very little still, my dear Touquet. I believe that you should render more justice to my adroitness and my valor. If you knew how many intrigues I have drawn to a successful end! It's necessary to see me in moments of difficulty. I take precedence over everybody; I would abduct a Venus under the eyes of Mars, and all the Vulcans would not make me afraid."

"I don't doubt it, but I don't want to put you to the proof."

"All the worse for you, for you would see some very surprising things. No obstacle would stop me; when I'm excited I'm an Achilles. Wait; I should just like once, by chance, that you should find yourself in some danger, that you should have need of help; then, as quick as lightning, with Rolande in my hand—"

At this moment a noise was heard in the street, and Touquet, squeezing Chaudoreille's arm exclaimed,—

"Be quiet! be quiet! I hear something."

"What does it matter to us what they are doing in the street? There are, perhaps, some young men laughing and amusing themselves. Let them do it. I tell you, then, that, brandishing my redoubtable sword—"

"Be quiet, then, stupid," resumed the barber, holding the chevalier's arm still more tightly; "they are beginning again."

They then distinctly heard the sound of a guitar which someone was playing near the house.

"Someone who loves music," said Chaudoreille.

"Hush! let us listen," said Touquet, whose features expressed the most lively anxiety, while the chevalier murmured in a bass voice,—

"They don't play at all well; they have need of some of my lessons."

Almost immediately a voice was heard which, accompanied by the guitar, sang a tender romance, of which the refrain recalled to the barber the words which Blanche had quoted to him.

"No more doubt of it," said Touquet, rising suddenly; "they are singing to her. Ah, reckless fellow, I'll go and take away from you all desire to return here."

While saying these words the barber ran to get his poniard, which hung over the fireplace, while Chaudoreille changed color and murmured,—

"What the devil is the matter with you? What are you going to do? and who are you going to do it to?"

"To an insolent fellow who is in front of this house. Come, Chaudoreille; follow me. If there were ten of them, they should have the pleasure of feeling my poniard. You shall also have the pleasure of chasing and chastising these blackguards."

While saying this Touquet ran into the shop and hastened to open the door, being by that means sooner in the street than if he had gone by the passageway. While he precipitately drew the bolts, Chaudoreille rose with a good deal of fury and ran three times round the hall, crying,—

"Where the devil have I laid my sword?"

This feat accomplished, he perceived that Rolande had not left his side, and cried to Touquet, who could not hear him,—

"Stupid that I am! In my hurry I did not see him. I am with you; I have only to draw him from the scabbard.—Come then, Rolande.—It is this cursed knot which holds him. Plague be on the rosette! Touquet, here I am; amuse them a little until I can draw Rolande from the scabbard."

But the barber was already in the street, while Chaudoreille remained at the back of the room, appearing to be making futile efforts to draw his sword, crying all the while,—

"I am with you! Cursed rosette! Without it I should have already killed five or six."

CHAPTER VIII
Conversation by the Fireside

IT was really for little Blanche that somebody was singing and accompanying himself on the guitar. Lovers are the most imprudent of mortals. Urbain in loving Blanche was experiencing love for the first time, for he would have scorned to have given the name of love to those momentary caprices of the fancy which are extinguished as soon as gratified; and even at the early date at which we are writing, the young men permitted themselves to have such whims; but when they loved truly that lasted in those good old times, or so they say, much longer than it does today, at least among the little shopkeepers. The great have always had their privileges, in love as in everything else.

A first love causes one to commit many imprudences; but the second time that one's heart is assailed by the tender passion, one has a little more experience; and the third time, one knows how to hide his play. It is necessary to become habituated to everything; and if women do not invariably hold to their first love, are not invariably faithful to it, it is only that they may acquire this habituation, and it would ill become us to call it a crime in them.

But Urbain disturbed himself very little, as it will appear; he had unceasingly before his eyes the face of the enchantress he had perceived at the window, and he ardently desired to see her when there should be nothing between them. What he had heard from the gossips of the neighborhood had strengthened his hope and perhaps added to the feeling he already experienced for her, for there was something romantic in the history of the young orphan; extraordinary events inflame the imagination, and that of a lover takes fire very easily.

But before seeking to surmount the obstacles which stood in the way of gaining the one he loved it was first necessary to obtain her love, without which all his plans could avail him nothing. One may brave the jealousy of a rival, the watchfulness of a tutor, anger, vengeance, and the daggers of a thousand Arguses; but one cannot brave the indifference of the beloved object. Before that obstacle all prospects of happiness vanish. A very much smitten lover wishes to find a heart which responds to his own. That brutal love which is satisfied with the possession of the body, without caring for that of the soul, could only exist among the petty tyrants of former times, who plundered travellers and achieved the conquest of women at the point of the sword; then, putting their victims behind them on their horses, as a custom-house officer possesses himself of contraband goods, went off to enjoy themselves with their booty in the depths of their fastness, troubling themselves very little that the unhappy creatures responded to their loathsome caresses only with tears.

Today love is more delicate. Before everything, one desires to please; and with his guineas the great lord wishes to touch the heart as well as the hand of the pretty dancer; and he succeeds, because dancers generally carry their hearts in their hands.

While taking his humble meal Urbain said to himself,—

"How shall I see her? How shall I make myself known to her? Blanche—what a pretty name! and how well it suits her! But the barber doesn't seem very tractable; his house is a veritable fortress. It is necessary, before everything, that that charming girl should know that I love her, that I adore her. This morning she listened to the musicians, and appeared to be greatly pleased with the last romance they sang. I know that romance; I'll go this evening and sing it under her window; perhaps she will show herself; perhaps at night she opens her window to take the air."

The air was a little nipping, for the season was severe; but a lover always believes it is springtime. Delighted by the idea Urbain went home to get his guitar, and waited impatiently, until the streets should be deserted, to go and serenade a woman whom he did not know.

This Spanish custom was then much in fashion in France. There are still some little towns where it is preserved, and where one may hear between ten and eleven o'clock sentimental songs accompanied by the guitar; but in the great capitals it is only the blind and the organ-grinders who sing love in the streets.

The hour propitious to lovers having arrived, Urbain went to the Rue des Bourdonnais; he had easily recognized the barber's house, having specially noted it in the morning; a feeble light which shone between the curtains of Blanche's window seemed to indicate that the young girl was not yet sleeping, and, without reflecting that the other dwellers in the house would hear him, Urbain had sung with the most tender expression he could put in his voice.

We have seen what followed on this imprudence. At the sound of bolts being drawn, the young man softly departed, and, hiding at the entrance of the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, he heard the threats and the swearing of Touquet.

"He's escaped," said the barber, reëntering the lower room and angrily throwing his sword on the table. These words seemed to break the charm which held Rolande in his scabbard; and Chaudoreille, drawing his sword suddenly, and making it flash in the air, ran precipitately into the shop, crying,—

"And now, master singers, I'll let you see something fierce."

"Don't I tell you there's no one there," repeated Touquet, while Chaudoreille appeared to wish to draw the bolts of the door. "I made too much noise; the rascal heard me and ran off."

"Are you quite certain there's nobody there?" said Chaudoreille, still brandishing his sword.

"Yes, quite sure."

"I have a great inclination to go into the street and satisfy myself as to that."

"Do as you please about it; you are your own master."

"No; on reflection, I believe that would be a blunder; they may perhaps come back; it will be better to let them approach without fear; then we can fell suddenly upon them, and give them no quarter."

So saying, the chevalier put Rolande into the scabbard and returned to the lower room, where he seated himself before the fire and again filled his cup with wine, which he swallowed at one draught, to cool—so he said—his anger.

The barber strode up and down; he was strongly agitated, and appeared to have forgotten the presence of Chaudoreille, as he murmured at intervals in a gloomy voice,—

"That which I feared has happened at last! That beautiful bud has been seen, and they will all wish to cull it. They will seek to learn who she is, where she comes from; there will be a thousand remarks, a thousand inquiries, and who knows where that will lead? Bungling fellow that I am! I well had need to guard the child. I believed I had made a master stroke which would disarm all suspicion. I ought to have foreseen that one day she would be sixteen, that she would be charming, and that in order to possess her they would employ all the stratagems which I have often used on behalf of others."

"My dear fellow," said Chaudoreille, carrying to his lips for the third time a goblet filled to the brim, "my honest Touquet, if you don't want to take care of the little one any longer, give her to me, and I'll answer to you for it that no fop shall be allowed to see her face."

"What shall I give you?" said the barber, as if he had only just become aware of Chaudoreille's presence. "What are you talking about? Answer me!"

"Oh, by jingo, you were speaking of the young flower you have sheltered; I heard you very plainly."

"You heard me!" cried Touquet, seizing Chaudoreille by the arm with which he was holding his full cup; "and what did I say? What did you hear? Speak, wretch! Speak, will you?"

"Take care! you're shaking my arm. Here's my doublet all stained with wine now. What the deuce! You'll have to give me another."

"What have you heard?" repeated the barber in a threatening voice, raising his closed fist on Chaudoreille, while with the other hand he shook him so briskly by the arm that a great part of the wine covered the jaws and neck of the chevalier.

"Nothing, nothing, I swear to you," murmured the latter, lowering his eyes, so as to avoid the barber's gaze. "I only said to you that this wine has a fine bouquet, and that if you wished to give me some bottles to keep I should carefully guard it from all eyes. I believe that's what I was saying; for, in truth, you've turned me upside down with your irritable conduct, and I don't know what I'm saying."

Touquet loosened his hold of Chaudoreille's arm, as if ashamed of his hasty movements, and, resuming his calmer tone, seated himself near the latter.

"There are some things I wish to keep secret—not that they're of any great importance; and, for the matter of that, I don't think that you will ever allow yourself to prate about my affairs; you are too well aware that my dagger would at once deprive you of the organ of which you made such use."

"What the deuce do you suppose I could blab about you?" said Chaudoreille, drying his face and his clothing with his little silk handkerchief, and pinching his lips, as if doubting whether Touquet had not already cut out his tongue. "You never tell me anything about your business, and I'm not a man to invent the slightest untruth."

"I've told you what all the world knows,—that I have sheltered Blanche since she had been left an orphan at my house, and that I know no more than anyone else about her father or her family. She is now grown up and pretty. Lovers will begin to come; that's what vexes me. They'll seek to learn everything about this young girl, and assuredly they won't know more about it than I am telling you. The one who was singing just now is known to me; he came into my shop this morning, and stayed two hours, in the hope that Blanche would appear. Do you hear me, Chaudoreille?"

"I hear you—if you wish me to," said the chevalier, continuing to rub his doublet; "for I don't know if I should or if I should not hear you. That shall be as you wish."

"I wish you weren't quite so foolish," said the barber, glancing scornfully at his neighbor.

"No words of double meaning," answered Chaudoreille; "you know I don't like them. This cursed wine stains, and for the moment I don't know where to get another doublet."

"He's a mere child, a scholar, who has not yet a beard on his chin," said the barber after a moment's silence, which was only interrupted by the rubbing of the handkerchief on the spots impregnated by wine. "He shows the small experience he has had in love intrigues by coming to sing before my door—in order to let me know who was there. The poor boy has much need of a lesson."

"He certainly is not first-rate at the guitar.".

"I don't believe that he can be known to Blanche. No—but that romance he was singing,—it's precisely the same as the one she mentioned to me,—

My darling is all to me."

"That doesn't equal—

Thou hast lost thy fond dove too.

Zounds! what a difference in the melody!"

"No, Blanche is candor itself; she would not have spoken to me of that romance had she known the young man. Why the devil haven't you taught her something else besides that old rubbish of Louis the Twelfth's time? If you had taught her to sing something pretty she would not have been enraptured at the first romance sung by wandering minstrels."

"What do you say? Are you talking to me?" said Chaudoreille, raising his head.

"Of course I am, since you call yourself a professor of singing."

"My dear Touquet, listen well to what I am going to say: I don't tease you about your method of shaving beards, and don't you meddle with my way of teaching music. Each one to his own trade. You know the proverb. I teach my pupils nothing but masterpieces, and I'm not going to cram their heads with the little gurglings of those miserable clowns who travel from Naples here singing the same roulade."

"It's vexatious, then, that the young girls prefer these roulades to your masterpieces. You gave Blanche a music lesson this morning, and she tells me that you have wearied her with your villanelle."

"Had anyone but you told me that?" cried Chaudoreille, rising in vexation. "I should have attributed it to jealousy. But it's getting late; it's been a tiring day, and I must go to rest. If, however, you wish me to remain here for fear the singers should return, I will sacrifice my repose."

"No, no; it's unnecessary," said the barber, smiling. "They won't come back; go to bed."

"You have no need of my services tomorrow evening, then?"

"No—however, if you like to be walking on the Pont de la Tournelle at the hour agreed on, you could at any rate serve as a spy for us."

"Sufficient," said Chaudoreille, pulling his hat over his eyes; "you can count on me in life and in death; I shall be at the rendezvous at the exact hour, and Rolande shall be sharp. Good-by!"

So saying the chevalier passed through the passageway into the alley and opened the door of the house. He thrust his head out into the street, and, after glancing cautiously to the right and left, went on his way like a stag who hears the sound of the chase.

CHAPTER IX
The Closet. The Abduction

AS everything coheres, everything is connected in this lower world, there is no chance; but there are many rebounds which transmit from one to another events, effects, for which we bless or curse fate,—as they are fortunate or unfortunate,—instead of tracing them to their original causes, from which, in truth, we are sometimes removed so far as to have no cognizance of them.

Thus it came to pass that our young Urbain had blessed chance on perceiving that the light was still burning in Blanche's room; but if the young girl had not gone to rest it was not by chance, but because Marguerite could not decide to go up to bed in her new room before knowing where the little door in the back of her alcove led.

Now if the garrulous old maidservant had not confessed to her master that she had witnessed his nightly vigils, the latter would not have made her change her lodging; and the fear which induced him to do so was due to other causes still more remote; thus, by a series of events, Marguerite's gossip had led to Blanche's hearing Urbain's sweet and tender voice sing the romance which had so enchanted her in the morning.

"Yes, mademoiselle," said the old woman, some moments before the young lover began to sing, "I know I should die of fright if I should have to sleep alone in that horrid room, formerly inhabited by a magician, without knowing where that little door leads to—perhaps into that Odoard's laboratory. Who knows whether he isn't still there? These sorcerers are sometimes shut up by themselves for half a century, searching for secrets which will enable them to give human kind into the hands of the devil. I am sure that M. Touquet, who is very indifferent in regard to everything pertaining to sorcerers, has not once been into that room. Let me pass the night in your room, my child; tomorrow, when it's daylight, we'll go together and open that door, since the Chevalier Chaudoreille wasn't polite enough to do so. I can pass the night in this easy chair; I shall be much better here than upstairs, and I can tell you some interesting stories before you go to sleep."

Blanche could not refuse Marguerite what she asked as a favor; the old woman was relating her third story of sorcery, and the young girl, who felt that her eyes were growing heavy, was about to go to bed, when the sounds of a guitar were heard.

Blanche listened, and made a sign to Marguerite to be silent, and soon recognized with delight the air which she was desirous of learning. There is something sweeter, more seductive, in music thus heard in the middle of the night; it finds its way more quickly to the heart. Urbain's voice was flexible and melodious. Blanche, transported, remained motionless, as though she feared by a single movement to lose a sound, while Marguerite, gaping with astonishment, looked at the engaging child without appearing greatly enchanted with the music. But Marguerite was more than sixty years old, and music had not the same effect upon her as upon Blanche; the sounds reached no farther than her ears, while they vibrated deliciously in the depths of the heart of sixteen.

Very soon, however, the noise which they heard in the street put an end to Blanche's happiness; she recognized the barber's voice, and the threats which he pronounced made her tremble, as well as Marguerite, who cried immediately,—

"Go to bed! go to bed quickly, my child, and extinguish the light; if M. Touquet sees that we are still awake, if he should find me in here—O holy blessed Virgin! I shall be lost."

"But why is he so angry?" said Blanche. "Is singing in the streets in the evenings forbidden? I was so pleased to hear that romance. What harm was the young man doing?—for it was a young man who was singing—was it not, dear nurse? It was not the voice of an old man, and, oh, how well he sang! I have never heard such a pretty voice; it had a singular effect on me; it made my heart beat with pleasure—didn't it yours, Marguerite?"

Marguerite, whose heart was beating only with fear, contented herself with repeating, "Go to bed quickly, put out the lamp, and above all don't say tomorrow that you heard the singing; that would prove that you were not yet asleep, and M. Touquet wishes everyone to go to sleep as soon as they go to bed."

Since it was necessary to yield to the insistence of the old servant, Blanche went to bed, but she did not go to sleep; the young singer's voice still seemed to ring in her ears, and on hearing the least sound in the street she imagined that it was the musician again. As to Marguerite, after putting out the lamp, she extended herself in an armchair near the fire and fell asleep, murmuring a prayer to drive away evil spirits.

The morning after this night, so fertile with events, Blanche arose early. She was pensive, preoccupied, still dreaming of the young singer's voice; she felt new desires, and sighed as she glanced toward the street. Marguerite ran to her work, saying to Blanche,—

"When monsieur is most busily engaged with his customers, we'll go up together into my room; but, my child, above all don't say anything about the music."

Blanche promised her, saying, "Why should he be angry because somebody came to sing such a pretty air under our windows?"

The barber said nothing to the young girl about the adventure of the night; he contented himself with observing Blanche, and the lovely child, remembering the threats which she had overheard him utter against the singer, had no desire to chat; she hastened to return to her chamber, where Marguerite was not long in coming to rejoin her.

"Now is the time," said the old servant; "monsieur has a good many people to shave. Come, my child; come up with me, and above all don't be frightened; I have taken every precaution necessary to drive away the goblins."

"Frightened!" said Blanche, because she saw that Marguerite was trembling. "No, dear nurse, no; I assure you that I'm not thinking of your secret door at all."

Thus saying, Blanche darted lightly up the stairs, while Marguerite followed her more slowly, saying, "Happy age when one has no fear of magicians, because one does not understand all their wickedness,—it is true that she has a talisman."

When they reached the room, Blanche entered quickly, while the old woman made a genuflexion and invoked her patron saint, after which she decided also to go into her new room, throwing anxious glances about her. Blanche had run into the alcove and already drawn the bed into the middle of the room.

"Wait a moment; don't be so imprudent," cried Marguerite to her. "Is it necessary to do things so quickly?"

"But, dear nurse, the sooner we open that door, the sooner you'll be reassured."

"Reassured! that's what I wish. Have you your talisman, my darling?"

"Of course I have. Didn't you sew it yourself inside my corsets?"

"That's true."

"I don't see the door you were talking about."

"It is so well encased in the woodwork."

"Ah, here it is!"

"Wait a moment, mademoiselle, while I throw some holy water before it."

"But there's no key; how can we open it?"

"Well, we must try. I have several keys that I have picked up while cleaning the house, perhaps one of those will open it."

Marguerite advanced tremblingly towards the end of the alcove. She drew from her pocket half a dozen rusty keys of different sizes, and was about to try one of them, but her hand shook and she could not find the keyhole. Blanche seized one key and tried it unsuccessfully, then a second; but at the third the young girl uttered a cry of joy, for the key turned, and Marguerite crossed herself, murmuring,—

"O my God, the door is opening!"

In fact, the door yielded to Blanche's effort and opened, creaking and groaning on its hinges, and the two women beheld a square closet; but, as it received no light except from the little door that opened into it, and as that door led into a dark alcove, one may conceive that there was little daylight there. Blanche remained on the doorsill and Marguerite recoiled a few steps, saying,—

"See now, my child; I was right in thinking that that door led somewhere. Oh, this is as dark as a cave."

"Let us go in here, nurse."

"But not without a light, I hope. Wait; I will go and light my lamp. I don't know that it is prudent of us to enter this closet."

"But, Marguerite, you see very well that there is nobody here."

"I can see nothing except darkness. Wait; take the lamp, and you go first, my darling; you have your talisman; nothing will happen to you."

Blanche entered first; she seemed more curious than alarmed, while the old woman could scarcely persuade herself to follow. The closet was six feet square, and held nothing but two big empty chests placed on the floor, which time had covered with dust and spiders' webs.

"Well now, my dear nurse," said Blanche, smiling, "where are the sorcerers? I don't see anything frightful here."

"In fact," answered Marguerite, glancing all about her; "there's nothing but four walls, no other door, and these two chests are empty. I'm sure that no one has disturbed this place for half a century. No matter; I swear to you that I shall not come back here again. I don't know why I feel so uneasy here. How the floor creaks under our feet!"

"It's because no one has walked here for a long time; this house is old."

"Come, my dear child, let us leave this closet; I shall shut the door and double-lock it, and I shan't open it again while I stay in this room."

Thus saying, Marguerite pushed Blanche before her, then closed the little door and double-locked it, murmuring between her teeth,

"Alas! if some sorcerer should wish to open the door that lock would not resist him; but every night I shall cross my shovel and tongs before it."

This visit terminated, Blanche went down, humming to herself the romance of the evening before, and Marguerite returned to her work.

The barber had ordered dinner early; and at six o'clock in the evening he left the house, repeating to Marguerite:

"Redouble your watchfulness, do not allow any man to go near Blanche without my permission, and inform me if you hear anyone singing in the street."

The old woman promised to obey. Touquet wrapped his mantle about him and left to execute the marquis' plan. As he was accustomed to conduct similar intrigues, he knew where to procure everything that was necessary; and at a quarter to eight he was on the Pont de la Tournelle, while about a hundred feet from him two men awaited his orders near a travelling-chaise drawn by two horses.

For a long time Chaudoreille had been walking on the bridge. Fearing to miss the rendezvous, given for eight o'clock, he had arrived at six; burying his head between his shoulders and hiding his chin under his little mantle, he tried to give himself the air of a conspirator. With his left hand on Rolande's handle and the other holding his mantle, he walked sometimes slowly and sometimes with a precipitant step; and every time that anyone passed him he did not fail to murmur, in such a manner as to be heard,—

"How late she is in coming! What can keep her? I am burning! I am bursting! I shall die with impatience."

As soon as he saw Touquet he ran to him and pulled the edge of his mantle; then, looking to see if anybody was passing, he said to him in a mysterious tone,—

"Here I am."

"Well, hang it, I see you!" said the barber, shrugging his shoulders; "but I'd much rather see the little one."

"She hasn't appeared yet, I can answer for that. I've looked in every woman's face."

"It's not eight o'clock; let us wait."

"Be easy; I'll go and put myself in ambuscade and examine all the feminine visages."

"Take care they don't slap you; that would draw a crowd, and wouldn't please me."

"Slap me! They're more likely to kiss me, I should say; but I'll make a grimace, so as not to tempt them."

And Chaudoreille, drawing his hat down over his eyes, departed, taking as long steps as his little legs would permit.

In about three minutes Chaudoreille returned to say to the barber,—

"There's a woman who has just come along by the Pont Marie, and who is going to pass over this bridge."

"Indeed! Is she the one we are waiting for? You ought to know, if you've peered into her face."

"No; I wasn't able to do that this time, because she was giving her arm to a man, and he would have been frightened."

"If she's with a man it's not our young girl; one doesn't bring witnesses to a lovers' meeting."

"That's correct," said Chaudoreille, and he started off again.

Some minutes later he returned to Touquet, crying,—

"Here's another one who is coming along this way; but this one is alone, I am sure of that."

"Is it our beauty?"

"No, it is not she."

"You idiot! what did you come and tell me for?"

"So that you should not make a mistake; I thought it was my duty to avert that."

"Chaudoreille, do me the pleasure of remaining still. I know very well how to recognize her whom I came to meet without your help; although I haven't yet seen her, I am certain that I shan't make a mistake; but, hang it! if she doesn't come to this meeting, I shall send you to drink the water under the bridge, to teach you to do your errands better."

Chaudoreille had not heard the barber's last words; he was already far away, but he returned precipitately, looking scared.

"What is it now?" said Touquet.

"A patrol of the watch, which I can see coming, and which is going to pass by us."

"Well, what of that? What has the watch to do with us? It's not forbidden to walk on the bridge, and, even if they should see us abduct a young girl I can answer for it they'll hardly trouble themselves about that."

"Haven't we a rather suspicious look?"

"You make me ashamed of you."

"I shall pretend to be laughing, to allay their suspicions."

"Wait, perhaps this will give you more courage."

So saying the barber kicked Chaudoreille; but the latter received it singing, contenting himself by rubbing the part attacked while executing his trills, because at that moment the watch was passing them. When the patrol had departed he breathed more freely, and cried,—

"They have taken us for simple troubadours."

"They should have taken you for a fool. A plague on all poltroons! They are good for nothing except to spoil everything."

"I'm not going to get angry at a matter which doesn't concern me; but on great occasions it seems to me that stratagem is often better than valor."

The barber had begun to be impatient, when a young woman came on to the bridge, walking slowly and glancing from time to time about her. Chaudoreille had not perceived her, because he was in ambuscade at the side of the Rue des Deux-Ponts.

Touquet approached the unknown, looked at her and saw that this really was the young girl whom the marquis had depicted; for her part, the damsel looked attentively at the barber, and seemed to wait for him to address her in words.

"Are you not the Signora Julia?" said the barber in a bass voice, approaching the young girl.

"And you the barber Touquet?" answered she, lifting to him her animated black eyes.

The barber was surprised at hearing himself named by a person to whom he believed himself unknown, but, after having considered the young girl anew, he resumed,—

"Since you know me, you should also know that the Marquis de Villebelle has sent me to you."

"The marquis is rather ungallant," answered Julia, "in not coming himself to a first meeting."

"These great noblemen are not the masters of their time; besides, the marquis has no desire to converse with you about his love on this bridge."

"Preferring, no doubt, his little house of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine?"

"It seems to me, signora, that you are very well acquainted with everything that concerns the marquis; after that I have nothing more to tell you, except that a carriage is waiting a hundred feet from here."

"Very well, let us go."

"The deuce!" said the barber to himself, offering his arm to Julia, that he might conduct her to the coach; "here is a young girl who doesn't make a bit of fuss about allowing herself to be abducted. But I must confess that there's something in her voice and manners very decided and piquant, which astonishes as well as pleases."

They had reached the carriage when Chaudoreille's voice was heard; he ran after the barber, crying,—

"There's a woman coming by the side of the Porte de la Tournelle; it is our little one; I recognized her walk."

Saying these words, Chaudoreille perceived that the barber was conducting a person to whom he had given his arm.

"How is this? What does this mean? Must I believe my eyes?" cried the chevalier. "That's our beauty, and what the deuce way did she come? No matter; we've got her; that's the essential thing. I will protect your walk."

Chaudoreille then drew his sword, and, giving no ear to the barber, who bade him depart, ran up to the carriage, crying to the two men who were near,—

"My friends, here they are. Be adroit, be courageous. By jingo! she must enter your vehicle, willingly or by force."

Somebody opened the door, and Chaudoreille was a little surprised at seeing the young person trip first into the carriage. He was about to do the same, and seat himself near her, when Touquet, taking him by the breeches, dropped him on all-fours on the pavement, and, following Julia into the carriage, said to the coachman,—

"Go on!"

"What the deuce! he's going to abduct her without me," said Chaudoreille, picking himself up. "No, not by all the devils! It shall not be said that I did not finish this adventure; besides, they've only given me something on account, and I should like to be settled with before the marquis gets tired of the little one."

Chaudoreille immediately darted after the carriage; accustomed to running, he caught up with it, mounted behind, and allowed himself to be drawn at a great gallop, taking care to hold tightly to the tassels, which served to support him.

CHAPTER X
The Little House. A New Game

THE carriage bearing the barber and Julia had soon passed the Porte Saint-Antoine, which at that period had not attained the dignity of the Faubourg, but was in a neighborhood where the road is cut by the boulevards, and which served frequently, as did all thinly inhabited districts at the time of which we are writing, for a meeting-place for robbers, vagabonds, pages, lackeys and cut-purses.

The marquis' little house was situated near the Vallée de Fécamp, which today is replaced by a street bearing the same name, and making the continuation of the Rue de la Planchette. Crossing this unlighted place of evil fame in the middle of the night was, at that time, to expose one's self to as much danger as though passing through the forest of Bondy. However, many noblemen had chosen this quarter for the theatre of their gallantries. They possessed small houses there, their ordinary meeting-places in their love intrigues, and often went out incognito, but always well armed.

The carriage stopped before an enclosing wall; Chaudoreille looked about him on all sides. The house was isolated, and the wall which enclosed the garden appeared unbroken, but Touquet had already alighted from the carriage; he approached a small door which the chevalier had not perceived, and rang a bell. Before any one could come to open it Chaudoreille had left the place which he had occupied, and had offered his hand to Julia to assist her in alighting from the carriage.

The door was immediately opened by a man servant, who appeared holding a lantern in his hand, and, merely glancing at the carriage and at the damsel who was getting out of it, he contented himself with smiling and making a low bow to the barber.

"Your master has warned you that we were coming?" said Touquet to this person in a low voice.

"Yes, monsieur," answered the servant, "I am waiting for you."

Here the barber, upon turning around to introduce Julia to the lackey perceived for the first time the redoubtable Chaudoreille, who stood bolt upright before the door with his sword in his hand, as though he were a sentinel on guard. The barber shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and, after handing Julia in, he unceremoniously dragged the chevalier by his mantle, and made him also pass into the garden, saying,—

"Since you have followed us here, it is necessary that you should do something for us."

"That is my duty, by jingo," responded the chevalier, while Touquet reclosed the garden gate, after having said to the two men who were near the coach,—

"Wait for me."

They followed along a tiled passageway which led to the house. The garden was gloomy. The servant who carried the lantern walked in front, and Chaudoreille, who found himself the last, glanced from time to time anxiously from right to left; he wished to open the conversation, and had already exclaimed, "This garden appears to be very large," when the barber turned and ordered him to keep silent. To indemnify himself for this forced silence, Chaudoreille, who was still holding Rolande naked in his hand, struck every tree that he met.

They arrived at the house and entered a vestibule, at the end of which was a staircase, while to the right and the left doors led to the apartments on the ground floor.

Julia, who had followed her conductors without speaking, appeared to examine attentively everything that presented itself to her. Chaudoreille, finding himself near the man with the lantern, uttered a cry of surprise, saying,—

"Why, what the deuce! I can't be mistaken. It is Marcel, one of my old friends. Don't you know me? I am Chaudoreille; we spent six months in prison together, but it was for a mere trifle. I left it as white as snow."

"Be silent, idiots," cried the barber; "you can make your greetings a little later. Where is madame's apartment?"

"On the first floor," answered Marcel, putting his hand in Chaudoreille's, who shook it as if he had found his best friend.

"Lead us," said Touquet, "and you remain here."

The latter part of this order was addressed to the chevalier and it did not afford him much pleasure; but he was forced to obey. However, when Chaudoreille perceived that there was no light in the vestibule where they left him, and where he found himself in the most complete obscurity, he ascended several steps of the stairs, crying in a quivering voice,—

"Don't leave me alone here. The night is chilly and I am afraid of taking cold."

Marcel led Julia and the barber and, after making them pass through several rooms, lighted only by his lantern, opened a door, saying,—

"Here is the room in which madame can rest herself."

Julia could not restrain an exclamation of surprise, and the barber himself was lost in admiration. The room which they had entered was lighted by a lustre hung from the ceiling, and the light of many wax candles permitted one to admire the luxury with which this place was decorated. Delightful paintings of seductive and voluptuous figures ornamented the wainscot. The furniture was upholstered in light blue, where silk and silver were blended with art. There were Venetian glasses, Persian carpets, candelabras in which perfumes were burning, while natural flowers were disposed elsewhere, in pyramids, in crystal vases. The whole combination tended to make a sojourn in this place a delight, for here was united everything that would intoxicate the senses and inspire pleasure.

Julia and the barber had entered the lighted room; Marcel remained respectfully at the door and seemed to wait some orders.

"This place is delightful," said Julia; "but I do not see the marquis."

"You will see him soon, madame," answered Touquet; "in an hour he will be here. While awaiting him you can ask for everything that is agreeable to you. Your desires will be accomplished immediately. This bell communicates with the floor below. Is not that so, Marcel?"

"Yes, monsieur, and if madame would like to take something, I have prepared a collation in the little neighboring room."

Marcel indicated a door hidden by a mirror. The barber pushed it and they saw a second room, smaller but equally well lighted, and decorated with as much magnificence, only the furniture and the hangings were of poppy-colored velvet, ornamented with fringes of gold, while light blue and silver were the only colors in the first.

"He did not deceive me," said Touquet to himself, glancing into the second room, "when he said that he had made an enchanting bower of this house. What luxury! What magnificence! How much money he must have spent to do all this! And yet he is not happy."