Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons

LEODGARD CALLED TO ACCOUNT

Landry uttered a sort of hollow growl which presaged a storm on the point of bursting. Bathilde hid her face in her hands, and Ambroisine squeezed her father's arm.

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME VIII
THE BATH KEEPERS;
OR,
PARIS IN THOSE DAYS
VOL. II

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

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

THE BATH KEEPERS;
OR,
PARIS IN THOSE DAYS
[CONTINUED]

CONTENTS

[XXIX, ] [XXX, ] [XXXI, ] [XXXII, ] [XXXIII, ] [XXXIV, ] [XXXV, ] [XXXVI, ] [XXXVII, ] [XXXVIII, ] [XXXIX, ] [XL, ] [XLI, ] [XLII, ] [XLIII, ] [XLIV, ] [XLV, ] [XLVI, ] [XLVII, ] [XLVIII, ] [XLIX, ] [L, ] [LI, ] [LII, ] [LIII, ] [LIV, ] [LV]

XXIX
AN UNFORTUNATE GIRL

The storm which Plumard feared for the next day burst that same evening, very shortly after the solicitor's clerk delivered the plume. At the bath keeper's house on Rue Saint-Jacques, Ambroisine was alone, listening to the roar of the thunder and the rain as she awaited her father's return.

Master Hugonnet had gone to visit his neighbor the keeper of the wine shop; but he had prolonged his stay there beyond his usual hour, and his daughter was beginning to be anxious, when she heard at last a knock at the street door; by the sound of the knocker, she recognized her father's hand, which was more or less heavy according as his libations had been more or less frequent during the evening.

This time, Ambroisine knew by the sound that her father was drunk.

She made haste to open the door. Master Hugonnet was leaning on the arm of the keeper of the wine shop, his neighbor, who had deemed it prudent to escort his customer to his home.

While the bath keeper stumbled into the house, urging his neighbor to come in, the latter said in Ambroisine's ear:

"Your father has thrashed, beaten, half killed a little solicitor's clerk, who was regaling himself at my place. He is a regular hothead when he is sober; but now he's a perfect lamb; and he embraced his victim! He ought to be drunk all the time, mademoiselle, for he is much more agreeable in company then."

The cabaretier took his leave, and Ambroisine returned to her father, who had seated himself at a table and was striking it with his hand, crying:

"Ambroisine, give us some wine and goblets; our neighbor is going to take a glass with me.—Well! where is our neighbor?"

"He has gone back, father; for it is very late. It is time for everyone to be getting to bed, and you will do well to go; you are not thirsty now—you have drunk enough."

Hugonnet seemed not to have heard his daughter; he passed his hand over his eyes, sighed profoundly, and stammered:

"Poor little solicitor—for I think he was a solicitor—the idea of beating him like that! A boy no taller than my cane! It's a shame! it's disgusting! there are people who abuse their strength over feeble creatures!"

"But, father, I understand that it was you who beat this little clerk! What had he done to you, pray? for you certainly don't pick quarrels with people without some reason!"

"I! it is impossible! He is my friend, that little dwarf; I would like to embrace him. Poor boy! he wanted pomade; I told him I hadn't any. He insisted on having some, and declared that a barber ought to make pomade. Poor fellow!"

"And you beat him because he asked you for some pomade! A pretty subject for a quarrel that!"

"I, beat him! Who says that?—He said to me: 'Do you know how to make hair grow? give me a receipt. Do you think that by mixing soot with horse droppings one would obtain a good result?'—Ha! ha! stupid nonsense that!—Where's our neighbor?"

"I tell you again that he has gone home to bed, father, and that you would do well to do the same, instead of staying in this room."

"Poor little solicitor! Mon Dieu! such a little fellow!—Think of beating a mere piece of a man! It's outrageous! And if I knew the villain who did it!—To be sure, you can't make pomade with horse droppings and soot—nonsense! It's making fun of a barber to ask him such questions!—The idea of putting pomade made like that on your customers' heads! Never! What do you take me for?—Embrace me! Someone has made a bump on your forehead, let me shed tears on it."

"For heaven's sake, father, go to your room! Listen; the thunder is very loud! Everybody in the house has gone to bed, and I would like to do the same. You will be much more comfortable in bed."

"Isn't our neighbor coming back?"

"In such weather as this, when the rain is falling in torrents! when the sky is so black!—Ah! what a flash! it is frightful!—Who on earth do you suppose would go out in such horrible weather?—If my deadliest enemy were in my house, I would not turn him out of doors!"

At that moment, someone knocked at the barber's door. Ambroisine was thunderstruck, and Master Hugonnet hiccoughed:

"There—you hear—someone knocked; it's our neighbor come back."

"Oh, no! it is impossible," said Ambroisine; "it cannot be he. We must have been mistaken; it was the roar of the storm that we heard."

Two more blows, struck with a feeble hand, but very near together, removed all doubt from the girl's mind. She shuddered, unable to assign a cause for her emotion; but she hastily seized a lamp and darted into the hall that led to the street door, exclaiming:

"Somebody out of doors in this terrible storm! I must not keep him waiting."

She drew the bolts and opened the heavy door. A woman stood before her, pale, dishevelled, trembling, and with water dripping from all her garments.

Ambroisine uttered a cry and stood for a moment without moving; she could not believe her eyes, she was suffocated with emotion.

"Bathilde!" she whispered; "you—in this condition! No, no! it is impossible!"

"Yes, it is I," replied a faint voice. "It is really Bathilde, driven from her father's house, cursed by her father and mother, who comes to you to beg for shelter! For I have no home, they have turned me out of doors. If you spurn me, Ambroisine; if you too turn me away—then I shall remain in the street; but it will soon be over!"

"I, turn you away! I, refuse you shelter, my friend, my sister!—Oh! mon Dieu! I cannot speak!"

Tears choked Ambroisine, and deprived her of the use of her voice. But she led Bathilde into the house. She embraced her, strained her to her heart; she strove to warm her by her caresses; and the poor girl, reanimated by such a welcome, tried to calm her sobs, saying:

"You do not turn me away—you still love me, do you not?—Ah! I am less unhappy than I was!"

"Poor child! Come with me—we must dry you first of all, change your clothes. You cannot stay like this. Ah! if my father should see you in this state!"

"Your father! Perhaps he would not receive me in his house; for I am very guilty, and if you knew——"

"Hush! you must not talk about that now.—Wait a moment; I have an idea that he is asleep; I will just go to make sure."

Ambroisine returned to the room where she had left her father. Master Hugonnet was sound asleep, with his head resting on the table.

"Come to my room," said Ambroisine, returning to Bathilde and taking her hand; "father is asleep, and I did not wake him."

Having reached the bedroom, the two girls threw themselves into each other's arms once more, Bathilde finding relief in weeping on her friend's breast, and Ambroisine already trying to devise a method of diminishing her companion's distress in some measure.

Ambroisine first disengaged herself from that loving embrace, saying:

"Mon Dieu! I forget that you are all wet, drenched! Take off all your clothes in the first place, and get into my bed; I will cover you up carefully, and you will get warm sooner."

"And you, Ambroisine?"

"I? oh! I will lie beside you; the bed is wide enough for us two. But first—here is some wine; you must drink some to put your blood in circulation.—Poor sister! you were out of doors in this storm!"

"Oh! it had begun when my mother drove me from the house, despite my prayers and supplications. I knelt to her; she pushed me away. I threw myself at her feet—she was inexorable!"

"Don't tell me that.—O my God! I do not know if Thou wilt ever grant me the happiness of being a mother; but if I do have children some day, I swear to Thee, O my God, that, whatever fault they may have committed, whatever their crimes, I will never curse them, I will never close my arms to them!"

Bathilde had fallen on her knees; she clasped her hands, held them up toward heaven, and her tears flowed freely as she faltered:

"Forgive me, mother! forgive me, father, for the sin of which I am guilty! Ah! I am well punished! And when you drove me from your house, I would have killed myself, if that would not have been a greater crime.—Indeed, I had no right to take that step, for I too am a mother, and I will love my child so dearly!"

"A mother! you, a mother!" cried Ambroisine, running to Bathilde and pressing her to her heart again. "But your mother cannot have known that when she turned you out of her house in this frightful storm!"

"Yes, she knew it; I had just confessed everything to her—told her that I bore within me the fruit of my sin. That is why she turned me out and cursed me!"

"Come, my poor girl, calm yourself a little; try not to grieve so. Remember that now you are not alone in your suffering, that I will assume half of your troubles, and that I will not rest until I have relieved them; for something tells me that I am in a measure the cause of what has happened to you."

In a few moments Bathilde was undressed and lying in Ambroisine's bed. Her friend begged her to try to sleep, but Bathilde shook her head.

"To sleep would be utterly impossible for me at this moment," she murmured. "If you are willing, I would prefer to tell you everything; but you are tired, you need rest, do you not?"

"No, I am too excited. I had too violent a shock when I saw you in the street just now. I feel that I cannot sleep, either; and I prefer to listen to you. Tell me everything. But wait; I will sit here by the bed, close beside you—there; now, go on."

"The man whom I love, Ambroisine—do I need to tell you his name?"

"Oh, no! it is Comte Léodgard. I have had a sort of presentiment of it ever since that evening, at the Fire of Saint-Jean. Mon Dieu! how I regret that I ever had the unfortunate idea of taking you there with me!"

"Do not reproach yourself, Ambroisine; was it your fault that the count found me—to his liking; and that I could not help feeling the most tender affection for him? You did all that you could do to keep me from loving him. You advised me like a mother. But the wound was inflicted—my heart had already ceased to be mine. It was no longer possible for me to shield myself against that love, which was stronger than my reason.—Ah! if you knew how sweet it is to love! Look you, even at this moment, when I am so miserably unhappy, I do not curse my troubles when I remember that it is for Léodgard that I am subjected to them!"

"And to think that I believed you to be cured of that love! Because for a long time you had not mentioned the letter that the count wrote you; you never asked me for it!"

"What need had I of the letter, when I could see every day the man who wrote it?—How shall I tell you, Ambroisine? My mother was away; all day long I could see him from the windows looking on the street. At night I was imprudent enough to go there still and look. And one night—I don't know how he did it—I found him there, before me, then at my feet, swearing that he would always love me; and I had not the courage to send him away."

"The harm is done and cannot be undone. Well?"

"Two months passed—oh, so quickly! My mother was still absent, and I saw Léodgard almost every night. How many times during those two months, when you came to see me, I was tempted to make you the confidante of my love and my sin! It was painful to me to have a secret from you, but he had enjoined upon me the strictest secrecy, he had made me promise that I would tell you nothing, and I did not want to disobey him.—At last, about a month ago, I learned that my mother was coming home. My blood ran cold with fear, and I begged Léodgard to delay no longer asking my parents for my hand. He promised to do it; but I have not seen him since that day! It is true that I ceased to be free of my movements in the house. My mother had returned; she watched me, kept me in sight, as before. For the last two days it seemed to me that she was harsher than ever with me; her face was dark; when her eyes met mine, I could not sustain them; I felt that I turned pale and trembled. More than once I was on the point of falling at her feet and confessing all. But I waited, I still hoped. I said to myself: 'To-day, perhaps, he who made me a guilty woman will come to ask my parents for my hand. And as the reparation will follow the confession of my sin, they will not refuse to forgive us.'"

"Yes," said Ambroisine, with a sigh; "but your seducer did not keep his promise!"

"Oh! he will keep it, Ambroisine; I refuse to doubt it. If he had known, if I had dared to tell him, that I was a mother, I am sure that he would have come before this to dry my tears! But I had not dared to make that confession to him before my mother's return parted us so abruptly."

"Ah! he does not know—— But finish your story, I beg you!"

"Mon Dieu! I have nothing left to tell but what took place at our house this evening. I was working with my mother, in a room away from the street. We were perfectly silent; but from time to time I saw that my mother's eyes were fixed on my person. I trembled lest she should discover what I still tried to conceal. But suddenly my father entered the room; and he, usually so kind and gentle, also had a lowering, troubled expression. He came to me and held out a white plume, which I recognized as one I had seen on Léodgard's hat.

"'Here,' he said, 'here is something that a lover of yours sends you! But the fellow will not be tempted to try it again, I fancy; for I treated him in a way to take away any such desire.'

"I was pale and speechless, for it seemed to me that nobody but Léodgard could have brought that plume.

"But my mother instantly cried:

"'A lover! so it's true that she has a lover, is it? My suspicions are well founded!—Ah! you wretched, shameless girl!'

"I fell on my knees, stammering: 'Pardon! pardon! yes, I am guilty; but he will marry me! he has sworn it, and he will keep his oath!'

"When they heard an avowal which doubtless they were far from expecting, my father hid his face in his hands. But my mother—oh! her wrath was terrible! She strode toward me to strike me, but I think that my father caught her arm. She heaped insults upon me, and questioned me. I was so terrified that I could not speak.

"'But,' she cried, 'that villain—her seducer—who is he? Did you see him, Landry?'

"'I don't understand it,' said my father; 'it was a wretched little solicitor's clerk—horribly ugly and a perfect idiot—who ran away when I thrashed him!'

"I knew then, of course, that Léodgard had not brought the white plume, and I faltered:

"'It is not he, father; no, I don't know the man you saw.'

"'But, in that case, who is your seducer? Tell me his name—his name, instantly, that I may go and wash away in his blood the affront put upon my honor!'

"My father's eyes were threatening; he meant to kill my lover; so I refused to name him.

"'Very well!' said my mother; 'go and join the man for whom you have forgotten your duty; the man who has brought shame into our house; go—you can live with us no longer; you are no longer worthy to live under our roof; we turn you out. Begone!'

"In the hope of moving her, I told her then that I bore within me a helpless creature, innocent of my sin! But, far from appeasing her anger, it seemed to redouble when she heard that. She called me a—— But what need is there for me to tell you more? You saw me in the street, when the storm, increasing in violence to crush me, seemed to say to me that the wrath of God had joined forces with my mother's to punish the girl who had forfeited her honor, who had brought a blush to her father's brow!"

Bathilde's eyes filled with fresh tears as she finished her story.

Ambroisine allowed her grief to vent itself; there are times when words of consolation buzz in our ears without reaching the heart.

At last Bathilde took her friend's hand and pressed it, saying:

"Forgive me for causing you so much distress. But your father—if he learns that you have taken in the child whom her parents have cursed, perhaps he too will turn me out of doors. I will remain hidden in your chamber, Ambroisine; I will not stir from it. You will not tell your father that I am here; for where should I go, if he too should turn me away?—With no roof to shelter me, I should die of grief and want. And I do not want to die, because there is a little being to whom I must give life."

"Calm your fears, my poor darling! I shall tell my father all, for I should not like to have any secrets from him; but I am not at all alarmed; he is soft-hearted, is my father; although he shouts and storms, he has a kind heart; and, far from blaming me for taking you in, he will approve of it, he will say that I did quite right; and then he will go to see your parents and plead for you; for it is not possible that they do not regret having turned you away."

"You do not know my mother, Ambroisine; she never recedes from her resolutions; and my father is so exacting with respect to honor! he had such perfect confidence in his daughter! Believe me, your father would take an absolutely useless step; but there is someone whom I would like much to see; someone whom I must inform of my condition, my present plight; for then he will be able—at least, I hope so—to allay the anger of my parents by telling them that he means to repair his wrongdoing—and to console me a little for all my suffering by telling me that he still loves me. That someone—you know who it is, do you not, Ambroisine? Well, you can easily find his home—the Hôtel de Marvejols is on Place Royale.—You are so kind, Ambroisine, that I know that you will go to see him, and tell him all that has happened, and give him a letter which I will write to him, begging him to put an end to our misery, and telling him also that—that there is another person to whom he owes aid and protection.—You will see Léodgard, will you not?—Ah! if he knew that I had been cursed by my mother, he would have come here ere this to comfort me."

"I will do whatever you wish, my poor love!" Ambroisine replied, forcing back a sigh. "But, sleep a little, take a little rest; remember that you need it, and that you must be careful of your health."

Bathilde made no reply, but closed her eyes. Fatigue brings sleep at last, as time always brings forgetfulness. Which proves that in us mortals the mind is always vanquished by the body.

XXX
GOOD FRIENDS

On waking the next morning, Master Hugonnet remembered nothing of his debauch except his dispute with the little clerk, with whom he was now furiously angry. As he arranged his shop, he cried:

"Can anyone imagine such a sly, impertinent knave! To propose to me to make pomade for him out of vile things, and to ask me if it would make hair grow!—He had a very cunning leer as he said that, the horrible dwarf!—Just imagine, my girl, a little man with a nose so turned up that you can see nothing but two holes in his face; and making sport of me for all that, because he had a few crowns in his pocket, won in gambling hells, no doubt. If I find him again, I'll give him another good thrashing! I don't propose to have the Basoche insult bath keepers!"

Ambroisine let her father give vent to his bile. Then she approached him and smiled.

"Father," she said, "you didn't talk like that last night when you came home from the wine shop! Then you adored this little dwarf; you shed tears of regret because someone had beaten him."

"Really! I must have been drunk then?"

"Why, yes! rather."

"I must cure myself of that failing."

"Oh! father, a single failing may be excused in one who has so many good qualities; the world is not perfect."

"You spoil me, my child; but as for you, I know of none but good qualities, not a single fault!"

"Do you remember, father, that someone knocked last night, near midnight, during the storm?"

"No, I don't remember."

"But you do remember at least the horrible storm, that lasted almost all night?"

"Very vaguely; why?"

"If someone had come to ask me for hospitality in that weather, should I have done wrong to grant it?"

"It is never wrong to do a good deed, even though it fall upon ingrates."

"Well, father, someone came—all drenched and shivering; that person was very unhappy—with no place to go for shelter. And so I took her in and gave her a night's lodging; she passed the night in this house, and is here still."

"She is here—where, pray?"

"In my room."

"In your room!"

And Master Hugonnet's brows began to contract, but Ambroisine hastened to add:

"That person, father, is Bathilde, the daughter of your friend Landry."

"Landry's daughter here! and she passed the night here, you say? What on earth has happened at her father's house? What's the trouble?"

"Oh! father, some very terrible things have happened in your friend's house."

"Tell me all about it, my child."

Ambroisine, with downcast eyes, told the story of Bathilde's liaison with the young Comte de Marvejols, of Dame Ragonde's return, and of the terrible catastrophe which had followed the discovery of that mystery.

Hugonnet listened, his face betraying the interest he took in the story; at times he clenched his fists, his features contracted, his eyes blazed with anger; but at the last, when Ambroisine described the condition in which she had found Bathilde in the street, at midnight, when the rain was falling in torrents and the thunder roaring almost incessantly, then Master Hugonnet could no longer resist his emotion; tears dimmed his eyes, and he could not help muttering:

"Ah! that was too much! they were too harsh! they were without pity in their anger!—Why, the poor girl might have died!"

"Yes, indeed! a little later, and I should have found her dead!" cried Ambroisine, putting her arm about her father's neck. "Ah! you would not be the man to drive your daughter away like that, without pity, without mercy—to turn her out of doors, where she would be exposed to the fury of such a storm! No, no! no matter how guilty I might be, you would not treat me so, father! you love your girl too dearly!"

Hugonnet had not the strength to reply; he could do no more than wipe his eyes and kiss his daughter.

"I have told you all, father," Ambroisine continued; "I have even told you the name of Bathilde's seducer; but I implore you to keep the secret; for if Master Landry should discover it, he would fight with the count; and if either of them should be killed, the poor girl would be still more to be pitied."

"Very good, I will hold my tongue! but this seducer must be punished! Let me undertake that duty."

"No, father, no; you must not interfere in this business at all. I beg you not to. I propose to see Comte Léodgard. Bathilde believes that he still loves her, she is convinced that he will repair his wrongdoing, that he will restore her honor by marrying her."

"He! Comte Léodgard! that scapegrace, marry Landry's daughter! the daughter of a bath keeper!—Do not hope for that! He will never marry Bathilde, never!"

"Oh! father, if she should hear you, think of her despair!—Well, I shall take no rest until the count has undone the wrong he has done her; nothing will stop me, nothing deter me from attaining that end! You see, I am strong and determined, father; I resemble you—I am brave. Let me act, I beg you; let me see the count myself, and take whatever steps are necessary to make Bathilde happy once more!—I do not know whether it is simply my longing for success, but something tells me that I shall succeed."

Hugonnet pressed Ambroisine's hand.

"Do as you think best; you are a good girl, and I have confidence in you."

"Oh! thanks, father! And now, won't you come with me and say a word of consolation to poor Bathilde, who will not stir from my room and dares not show herself to you?—Come, father, and see her, I beg you; if you do not, she will think that you are angry because I made her welcome; that will add to her grief, and she has quite enough now."

Hugonnet allowed his daughter to take his hand and lead him to her room, where she softly opened the door.

At sight of Ambroisine's father, Bathilde fell on her knees and hid her face in her hands. But when Hugonnet's eyes fell on the poor girl, whose sufferings had already made inroads on her beauty, he forgot her fault and remembered only her misfortune.

He ran to her, lifted her up, and kissed her, saying:

"I am not your judge, I am your friend, as I used to be your father's. Would you like me to go to see him, and entreat him to be kind to his daughter?"

"Oh! you are too kind, monsieur. But I am afraid that you would do no good; perhaps, indeed, the anger of my parents would be redoubled if they should learn that you know of my wrongdoing."

"But suppose that I should go to see Landry and pretend to know nothing about it?"

"That would be better, father," said Ambroisine; "you can see how they receive you, and whether they mention their daughter."

"They will not mention her!" said Bathilde, sadly shaking her head. "When they turned me out of the house, they said to me: 'Never show your face here again; we shall not recognize you, for hereafter we have no daughter!'—So, you see, they will not mention me."

"Courage, my child, courage! It is impossible that their anger will not die away finally. Meanwhile, this house is yours, my daughter will be your sister, and I will try to replace those who have withdrawn their affection from you."

Bathilde kissed Hugonnet's hands; and Ambroisine threw her arms about her father's neck, crying:

"Ah! if I didn't love you already with all my heart, I believe that I should love you more than ever at this moment!"

Left alone with Ambroisine, Bathilde, who had but one thought, one hope, hastily scribbled this note to Léodgard:

"My parents have found out everything, and they have turned me out of their house. Ambroisine has taken me in; she is like a sister to me. But without you, Léodgard, I cannot hope for pardon. I must tell you what I dared not tell you before, something that makes me glad and miserable at once: I am a mother! Oh! my dear, remember your oaths, and come, come quickly, to give your child a father."

She handed her letter to her friend and said:

"It's on Place Royale; you will find the place, won't you?"

"Never fear," Ambroisine replied, placing the paper in her bosom. "Place Royale is not very hard to find; I passed through it not so long ago, on my way home from Vincennes, where I had been to see my godmother; she gave me a message for somebody who lives on Place Royale.—Ah! I shall never forget that day; for on the road that I took—— But, great heaven! here I am telling you things that don't interest you; and I read in your eyes that you wish that I had started before this with your letter. That is natural enough, since what you have written is sure to interest the count so deeply.—Come, be calm, I am going—I am going at once!"

"Dear Ambroisine! what torment, what trouble I cause you!"

"Will you be kind enough not to say that? I tell you once more that your not being in your father's house now is my fault. If it had not been for that infernal idea of mine of taking you to see the Fire of Saint-Jean, you would still be on Rue Dauphine, working by your mother's side. As I am the prime cause of the trouble, the least that I can do is to try to repair it."

Ambroisine left the house, walked very fast, did not stop on the way, and reached Place Royale in less than half an hour. She asked at a shop where the Hôtel de Marvejols was; it was pointed out to her, and in a moment the girl saw the heavy gate leading into the courtyard swing open before her.

"What do you want?" cried the concierge, in a rough voice, and without leaving the large armchair in which he sat at the back of his lodge.

"I would like to speak to Monsieur le Comte Léodgard de Marvejols."

"He is not in."

"Will you have the kindness to tell me at what hour I can find him?"

"Never!"

"What! never?"

"No; monsieur le comte no longer lives here, he doesn't sleep in monsieur le marquis his father's house, and he never comes here; so, you see, you will never find him here."

"Then, monsieur le concierge, will you kindly tell me where monsieur le comte lives now, and I will go there."

"I don't know where monsieur le comte lives; besides, it is none of my business to give his address!"

"But, monsieur, I must speak with monsieur le comte; it is absolutely necessary!"

"That is none of my business."

And the concierge closed the door of his lodge with a most unamiable air.

Ambroisine remained in the courtyard, in despair at the unsuccess of the step she had taken, and unable to make up her mind to go away. At that moment old Hector, the marquis's valet, came from a porch at the rear and crossed the courtyard. He saw Ambroisine, and as beauty always exerts a charm, even over old men, he approached the comely girl and said, observing her distressed look:

"What is the matter, my pretty maid? Do you wish something here?"

"Yes, monsieur; I hoped to find someone, and I am told that he is no longer here."

"Whom do you seek, my child?"

"I desire to see the young gentleman of the house, monsieur—Comte Léodgard."

"My master's son!" rejoined old Hector, with a profound sigh. "Ah! this is no longer the place to look for him; Monsieur le Comte de Marvejols is no longer to be found under his father's roof. Nearly a month ago he ceased entirely to come to the house; and monsieur le marquis, although he tries not to show it, is deeply grieved, I can see."

"But, monsieur, if monsieur le comte no longer lives here, he must live somewhere, unless—mon Dieu!—unless he has left Paris—France?"

"No, no, my child, don't be alarmed!" replied the old servant, compressing his lips with an expression in which there was a faint suggestion of cunning; "monsieur le marquis's son has not left Paris. Oh! he leads too merry a life here to have any idea of going away!—And are you so very anxious to see him, my pretty maid?"

"Yes, monsieur, it is so important! A certain person's repose, her happiness, is at stake. I have a letter to give to Monsieur Léodgard; and your concierge will not tell me where I can find him."

"But I do not believe that he knows. Since monsieur le comte ceased to live with his father, monsieur le marquis never speaks of his son, and he will never hear his name mentioned. But I, who, without making any pretence, know what goes on in my master's heart, have made inquiries without saying anything to him about it; I talked with the valet of one of Monsieur Léodgard's friends, and I learned from him that monsieur le comte occupies a very pretty, elegant house a long way from here—in Rue de Bretonvilliers. It is close by Ile Saint-Louis—a new street recently laid out, in a very deserted quarter. But it seems that that does not prevent monsieur le comte from enjoying himself immensely in his new abode, where he gives fêtes, or rather orgies! for our young gentlemen do not know how to amuse themselves in any other way. Probably fortune, which used to treat Monsieur Léodgard so ill, has ceased to be adverse to him. Well, well! card playing has its chances; there are times when luck favors you as much as it has been against you. If monsieur le comte is lucky now, so much the better; for his father would never pay his debts again.—But I stand chattering here, and my master may need my services."

"Rue de Bretonvilliers, you said? Thanks, thanks, monsieur!"

"I don't know the number, but there are very few houses on that street as yet, and it will be easy for you to find it."

"Oh! yes, monsieur, yes, I will find it; thanks for your kindness."

"Go, my child; I hope that you will not make a useless journey!"

Ambroisine left the Hôtel de Marvejols and started off again; but she reflected on what the old servant had just told her. If the young count, since he had ceased to live with his father, led a more dissipated life than ever, of course he had entirely forgotten poor Bathilde.

That thought weighed heavily on Ambroisine's heart; she had never had any confidence in the oaths which the count had sworn to her friend; but it shook neither her resolution nor her courage.

Rue de Bretonvilliers, begun in 1615, contained as yet very few houses; the new buildings were, in many instances, separated by walls enclosing gardens or unimproved land. The belle baigneuse observed one house of a refined but curious style of architecture, consisting of three wings, two of which were on the street, while the third, which was much smaller, was at the rear of an immense courtyard.

Something told Ambroisine that that was Léodgard's residence, and she did not hesitate to knock there.

"Monsieur le Comte de Marvejols?" she inquired of an old woman whom she saw in the courtyard. The old woman nodded, then took a trumpet from her pocket and put it to her ear.

Ambroisine repeated her question, speaking very loud.

"Monsieur le comte is not in!" replied the deaf old concierge; "what do you want of him?"

"I have a letter for him."

"Give it to me."

"But I would like an answer."

"You can come again."

"When must I come to find the count?"

"No one ever knows; he doesn't say."

"But you will hand him this letter to-day?"

"Yes, if I see him."

"Do you not see him every day?"

"No; he is at liberty not to come home!"

"What sort of a life is he leading?" thought Ambroisine.—"At all events, you will give him this letter as soon as he returns?"

"Yes, if I see him."

"What! you do not see him when he returns?—you, the concierge?"

"Bless me! he has his own key; and he doesn't always knock."

"Well! try to see him as soon as possible!"

Ambroisine went home, far from satisfied with what she had learned.

Bathilde was impatiently awaiting her; she told her all that she had done, all that the marquis's old valet had told her concerning the young count. But Bathilde, far from being dismayed, was persuaded that her lover had left his father's house only to be more free to offer a home to his future wife.

"He will have my letter soon!" she cried, taking her friend's hand; "he will know my plight, all that I have had to suffer for him; in a word, he will know that I am a mother.—Ah! you will see, Ambroisine, that he will come at once to comfort me."

Ambroisine made no reply; but she did not share her friend's hope.

Master Hugonnet came again in the evening to see the poor girl, and said to her with a disappointed air:

"I went to Master Landry's to-day."

"You have seen my father!" cried Bathilde; "well?"

"He received me very coolly, very shortly, in fact; he answered only a few curt words to what I said. His face was dark and careworn."

"Oh! my poor father! it is I who am the cause of his unhappiness!"

"But he did not say a word about you.—As for your mother, when she saw me, she turned her back and disappeared; perhaps she was afraid that I should read her grief in her eyes."

"Oh, no! monsieur, she was afraid that you would mention her daughter's name."

And Bathilde turned away to weep, thinking how sad it was to be an object of shame and misery to those whose existence it was her duty to make glad.

Two days passed, and Bathilde received no news of Léodgard. Each hour, each minute that went seemed a century to the poor girl, whose eyes expressed the anxiety and suffering that were devouring her heart.

When the second day had gone, Ambroisine, realizing her friend's tortures, said to her in the morning, after kissing her:

"While my father is busy with his customers, I will run to Rue de Bretonvilliers."

"Oh, yes! do go, Ambroisine; it is not possible that Léodgard has received my letter and has not taken the slightest step toward consoling me. If he will simply come and tell me that he still loves me, that will give me strength to endure my suffering. Either the concierge has not seen him or she has forgotten to hand him my note."

"That is what I propose to find out."

"If he is at home, try to see him, to speak to him, to obtain an answer from him, so that I may at least know what my child's fate will be!"

"I know all that I am to say to him."

"But do not reproach him. You know how impatient, how quick-tempered he is! Avoid irritating him."

"I shall think of you, and, like you, I will be indulgent."

Ambroisine left the house. Bathilde hardly breathed all the time that she was absent. At last her friend returned, but her face did not announce cheerful news, and her voice trembled as she said to Bathilde:

"The concierge swore that she gave the letter to her master the day before yesterday, before night; she knows nothing more."

"And you did not see him?"

"'Monsieur le comte is absent,'—that is what she told me.

"'But at what time must I return in order to see him?' I asked the woman.

"'I don't know, myself; monsieur le comte goes in and out without saying anything to me, and he won't even allow me to ask him if he will return at night. "That does not concern you!" he told me once, and with such an angry, threatening look, that I vowed I would never ask him another question.'

"That, my poor girl, is what that woman told me."

"He received my letter two days ago!" murmured Bathilde, weeping; "and he has not been here, he has sent me no answer!—Mon Dieu! can it be that what you told me of Comte Léodgard is the truth? Was I simply one of those victims to whom a man does not become attached, only a caprice, only one seduction more?—Oh! if that is true, if I am no longer loved by the man for whom I ruined myself, if he has abandoned me forever—Ambroisine, I shall not have the courage to endure my misery!"

"Yes, you will have that courage," said Ambroisine; "heaven will give it to you; indeed, you will derive it from your very situation. When you think that you are a mother, you will remember what you owe your child—that child whom you love already, although you do not know it yet; but who will make you forget all your troubles, when its little arms try to embrace you, when its mouth calls you by the sweet name of mother, when the sounds of its voice reach your heart."

Bathilde wiped her tears away and looked up at her friend, saying:

"Oh! you are right! one cannot desire death when one is a mother.—I will be brave; for my child's sake, I will try to think only of it."

"But do you think that you must abandon all hope?—No, indeed! I am not easily rebuffed, I tell you! I did not find the count to-day; well, I will go there ten times, a hundred times; and, if necessary, I will pass whole days and nights in front of his house, until I am able to see him and speak to him; and unless he goes in and out like a ghost, or has the power to make himself invisible, I shall end by meeting him. Meanwhile, I say again, patience and courage, and think of your child!"

XXXI
THE HOUSE IN RUE DE BRETONVILLIERS

The small hôtel, or rather maison de plaisance, occupied by the young Comte de Marvejols, in Rue de Bretonvilliers, had been built by a farmer-general, who had given his architect special instructions.

That wealthy functionary had purposely bought a lot of land in a quarter distant from the centre of the city and almost deserted. When building there a petite maison, where he could at his ease receive his mistresses, entertain his friends, and give fêtes which generally degenerated into orgies, our farmer-general, who nevertheless affected to lead a more regular life than many of his confrères, had not forgotten to arrange a means whereby he could always avoid scandal, and even be able at need to deny his presence at his little house in Rue de Bretonvilliers.

To that end, the architect had, in accordance with his instructions, divided the house into three parts, or rather three wings; one, the largest and most sumptuous, on the right of the courtyard, was the general rendezvous of the guests; there they supped and gambled and indulged in the most unbridled dissipation.

The left wing contained the kitchen, the offices, and the servants' quarters.

Lastly, at the rear of the courtyard, was a smaller building, never occupied except by the master of the house and those of his most intimate friends whom he allowed to have access to it. It was rumored that in that part of the house there were secret doors opening into underground passages which had their issue in deserted lanes or in the unimproved lands on the other side of Rue de Bretonvilliers, and that by means of those secret exits the proprietor could, when he chose, disappear from his house, and even deny his presence there, where it was always impossible to take him unawares.

Despite all his precautions, our farmer-general was surprised one day by someone whom it was impossible to avoid, and against whom it is fruitless to resort to secret exits and secret doors: Death had struck him down at the apogee of his prosperity, at the very moment when that man, always fortunate theretofore, was cudgelling his brains to devise some new desire to be gratified.

But Death often seizes his victims at such times; as an ancient philosopher has told us: excess of good fortune is almost as much to be dreaded as adversity.

The farmer-general left none but collateral relations, who had offered the house in Rue de Bretonvilliers for sale. But time passed and no purchaser appeared. The roués of those days preferred to have their petites maisons in the faubourgs, or in the country—altogether outside the city. So it had been decided to offer the house for hire, and there the Comte de Marvejols had taken up his abode when he ceased to live in his father's house.

Within a few weeks, Léodgard's situation had totally changed. The young noble whom we saw near the Pont-aux-Choux staking his cloak because he no longer had a denier to stake now cut a brilliant figure; he had repaid the sums that he owed his friends, and it was said that he had squared accounts with the old usurer to whom he had had recourse so often; his dress now was in the extreme of fashion, rich jewels gleamed in his sword hilt and in the clasps of his ribbons; the courtesans to whom he addressed his homage received sumptuous gifts from him and praised his generosity incessantly; lastly, he often gave entertainments to his friends and their mistresses, in his new residence, and at those festivities nothing was lacking: the daintiest dishes, the most exquisite wines, were supplied lavishly, in an apartment where the brilliant glare of chandeliers and candles was reflected on all sides by the lovely Venetian mirrors with which the walls were covered.

It was two o'clock in the morning.

The right wing of the petite maison in Rue de Bretonvilliers was brilliantly illuminated; from the courtyard one could hear the bursts of laughter of the guests who were still in the banquet hall, seated, or rather half reclining, like the Greeks, around a table laden with flowers, decanters full and empty, and the débris of a supper, the remnants of which would have made a royal feast for more than one family.

In an adjoining room, the portières of which were drawn aside, were card tables, surrounded by numerous lovers of games of chance. Some women were among them, and seemed not the least eager in the pursuit of luck and in contending against it.

Lastly, in the less brilliantly lighted rooms of the suite, away from the intrepid gamblers and banqueters, divers couples were seated on sofas, talking, if not of their love affairs, of their amorous adventures. Some fair ones sought, by dint of eloquent glances, to subdue hearts which had thus far resisted their charms, but which would naturally be more submissive after a sumptuous supper, and in an assemblage where pleasure was the only law that anyone chose to recognize.

The Marquis de Sénange, the Sire de Beausseilly, and the Chevalier de Monclair had remained undauntedly at table, talking and drinking, while their friends played cards or made love to the ladies.

"Do you know, messieurs, that this little house is a most delicious spot!" said Sénange, as he glanced about the banquet hall. "Nothing is lacking here; everything is refined, convenient, and decorated with perfect taste!"

"What I admire above all is the way in which the cellar is supplied. Vertudieu! messieurs, judging from our entertainment, there must be a profusion of everything here!"

"Just try, Monclair, not to get into such a state as on that night that we lay on the grass near the Pont-aux-Choux! Do you remember?"

"Yes, indeed—about two months ago.—Give me some of that malaga, Sénange.—Well, messeigneurs, just see what changes may take place in two months! Do you remember poor Léodgard's destitute plight at that time?"

"Pardieu! of course I remember it, as we played for his cloak, which I won from him!—But he has paid me more than its value since!"

"Who would have told us then that a few weeks later this same Léodgard would give us delicious suppers, in a charming house built for a farmer-general; that he would display as much elegance and splendor as his predecessor!"

"Mon Dieu! I see nothing so surprising in that! Fortune is capricious! She treated Léodgard harshly, and now he is her favorite. Instead of losing all the time at cards, he wins—that is the whole story!"

"Not to-night, however, for the charming Herminie has just won a hundred rose crowns from him at lansquenet; she was sitting by me just now, counting them."

"Give me some cyprus, my masters; it is my favorite wine, and this is simply perfect."

"I' faith! if Léodgard is losing, he doesn't show it," said the fair Camilla, a young courtesan with almond-shaped eyes, who had returned to the banqueting room to take some sweetmeats from the table. "He is throwing his gold and silver about to-night with the indifference of a nabob. He is an accomplished cavalier now."

"It must be that his father, the old marquis, has decided to make a sacrifice, to loosen his purse strings; for his winnings at the card table could not have changed Léodgard's position so quickly."

"That is very probable; but when anyone questions him on the subject, that devil of a Léodgard loses his temper; he says that it is nobody's business."

"He is not fond of talking about his affairs; generally speaking, he is not expansive."

"Oh! we must not say that before the fair Camilla! Surely she knows the secrets of her most submissive adorer; a cavalier servant has no secrets from the lady of his thoughts.—Is not that true, adorable Camilla?"

"Mon Dieu! seigneurs, I am less inquisitive than you are! So long as Léodgard gives me everything that I want, what more would you have me ask him for?"

"Well answered!—Ah! my bucks, that will teach you to question a woman!"

"For my own part," said the Sire de Beausseilly, "there is something that surprises me more than the present magnificence of the Comte de Marvejols."

"What is that?" asked Monclair, after tossing off another glass of Cyprus.

"Well, messieurs, it is the strange expression that has characterized our host for some time past; the sad or gloomy look that is always in his eyes, even among us, in the midst of our merrymaking, and when he hears nothing but joyous words and songs all around him!"

"Well, upon my word! that is delicious!—You are mad, Beausseilly!—He would like to make us believe now that Léodgard is sad when he gives us a fête! Why, he sang at the table only a moment ago!"

"He did sing, I admit it; but his expression was no more hilarious, for all that; he tried to appear so—that may be; but there is a long distance between real gayety and bursts of forced laughter!"

"Nonsense, Beausseilly! no more of that; I fancy, my dear fellow, that the fumes of this Spanish wine are beginning to go to your head!"

"No, messieurs, I am quite sober, I am in full possession of my senses. I will not agree to retain them all night, by the way, for there are some lovely eyes here quite capable of depriving me of them!—But to return to Léodgard. Come, I will leave it to his mistress; ask Camilla if she does not think that his manner is less cheerful, less frank, less open, than it used to be.—Answer, O terrestrial divinity!"

The beautiful courtesan took a bunch of flowers from a vase and threw it in Beausseilly's face, saying:

"You do not know what you are talking about; Léodgard is charming; try to be as gallant as he, and all the ladies will adore you.—Do you want to see a serious cavalier, who never laughs, and who does not even look at the ladies?—Well, I will show you one now—there is no need to seek far. See—that man all in black at yonder card table; if you have seen him smile once to-night, I will give you my chin to kiss!"

"She means Jarnonville," said Sénange, laughing.

"Jarnonville, yes, that is what they call him," said Camilla; "but tell me, my noble friends, why that funereal face comes to a joyous party like this?"

"Did you not see him at table? He drank for four!"

"Then he must carry his wine well; for he looks no more cheerful with it all!"

"He's a brave fellow—he fights as well as he drinks!"

"That does not make him any more attractive.—Ah! by the way, Flavia, that madcap Flavia, has bet that she will make a conquest of that dark-browed knight. I am sure that she will have nothing to show for her ogling and her sighs! I must go and watch."

The fascinating Camilla left the banquet hall and returned to the card room.

The playing was very animated; the young nobles, excited by wine, risked large sums on a card or the fall of the dice.

Léodgard was banker at a lansquenet table. Luck, which had been unfavorable to him at first, had changed; he won on every deal, and the gold lay in piles before him. He raked in his adversaries' money with the utmost sang-froid. He was in no wise excited by his good fortune; from time to time he glanced about with a vague expression and seemed to give little thought to the pastime in which he was indulging.

"Evidently, it is hopeless to play against the Comte de Marvejols to-night," said the Chevalier de la Valteline, leaving the card table in a pet; "I believe he has sold himself to the devil; he has a familiar demon who favors him!"

"Nonsense!" said Montrevert; "we must not find fault with his good luck; he lost steadily for a long enough time; he was even reduced once to staking his cloak.—Do you remember that night, Léodgard?"

"Yes, yes, I remember it.—Messieurs, the bets are not all made."

"For my part, I shall not forget it!" continued Montrevert; "for it was the same night that I was attacked and robbed by Giovanni."

"Come, messieurs, make your bets!" cried Léodgard, frowning darkly, while all his features contracted as if in a nervous spasm.

"Léodgard must remember it, too," added La Valteline, "for it was that same night that he insisted on pursuing that famous robber, to kill him; and, although he did not kill him, he had the honor of wounding him at all events, for he came back covered with blood."

"Well, comte, what are you doing? You are taking up the money, although you lost!" said Jarnonville to Léodgard, whose face had suddenly become ghastly pale.

"Oh, yes! to be sure; I beg pardon. I did lose, did I not?—Well! let someone else take the bank."

"All the same, I would be very glad to have had the honor of fighting with that Giovanni!"

"Is he still performing his doughty deeds, the villain?"

"I should say so! He is more audacious than ever, so it seems. Not four days ago, the Vicomte de Monferrant, on his way home from a party where there had been some high play, was attacked on Rue Saint-Paul and robbed by that bedevilled Italian!"

"Did Monferrant defend himself?"

"He says so, but I don't believe it; he is too much of a coward for that."

"In that case, how did he happen to be going home alone?"

"He was not alone—his servant was in front with a lantern; but at his master's first outcry, the rascal, instead of running to his assistance, fled, it seems, without so much as looking back."

"And a few days earlier, the old Baronne de Graveline was going home one evening in a brouette; Giovanni drove away the man who wheeled the brouette, then relieved the baroness of her money, diamonds, and jewels; she had some very fine ones on that night."

"It is worthy of remark that this infernal villain has extraordinary luck; he always stumbles on a rich victim!"

"Do you call that luck, Montrevert? For my part, I am persuaded that Giovanni attacks only where he is sure of his ground. I mean by that that he must have confederates, who probably inform him as to the profitable strokes that may be made on a certain evening."

"In that case, Giovanni's confederates must be received in the best society, and even at court, to be so thoroughly posted concerning what is going on, and to know what road such and such a person is likely to take to return home."

"Ha! ha! that is not an unlikely supposition, on my word! There is no safety anywhere, messieurs!—I say, Comte de Marvejols, are you quite certain that you have had no thieves at your party to-night?—Léodgard!—Where in the devil is he?"

Léodgard had left the card room and had gone to the table where the indomitable drinkers were still at work; he had swallowed several glasses of maraschino, then had gone out into the courtyard, only to return in a moment to the dining hall.

"Have you the fidgets in your legs to-night, comte?" murmured young Monclair; "you do not seem to stay a second in one place."

"You are mistaken; I stayed a very long time at the lansquenet table," rejoined Léodgard, curtly.

"I' faith! my dear fellow, it is a delightful affair," said Sénange; "it is impossible to do things more handsomely or to entertain one's guests with more magnificence."

"I am very glad if you have had an enjoyable evening," said Léodgard; and his brow lost a few of its wrinkles.

"Vive Dieu! we should be most exacting if we did not think this supper perfectly exquisite; you did well to hire this little house, on my word! it seems to have been built expressly for parties of this sort."

"But you have never shown us the whole of your house. If I am not mistaken, there is another wing at the rear of the courtyard; does no one go there?"

"That is where I live," replied Léodgard, becoming serious once more; "but it is not arranged for the reception of company."

"Moreover, it is the mysterious wing!" cried Camilla, laughingly. "If I wish to be allowed to go there, I must notify monsieur le comte a long while beforehand."

"Hush, Camilla! a truce to your foolery!" said Léodgard, with a stern glance at the courtesan.

"Upon my word, you are gallant to-night!—Don't expect me to take your part another time when people say that you no longer seem cheerful!"

"Who said that?"

"Never mind! I am going to enter the lists with Flavia to make the conquest of the Black Chevalier."

Jarnonville had left the card table and had taken a seat in a less brilliantly lighted part of the room; but Mademoiselle Flavia, a young madcap with very eloquent eyes, bright and languorous in turn, soon seated herself beside him, and said:

"What are you doing in this corner? you look as if you were sulking, and that is not what people come here for. Come, say something to me. Do you know that you are not at all gallant—you have not said a single word to one of these ladies to-night!"

"As you see that I pay no attention to the ladies, why do you pay any attention to me?" retorted Jarnonville, meeting with absolute indifference the fire of the blonde Flavia's glances.

"Why?—Why, my dear man, do you know nothing of women?—For the very reason that you pay no attention to us, that you seem to scorn to win our favors, I long to make your conquest—from a spirit of contradiction! We always desire what is not offered us.—What is the meaning of this mania for playing the bear at your time of life? Come, tell me your troubles."

"You would not understand them!"

"What a boor!—Mon Dieu! I can guess them: you have been betrayed by your wife or your mistress—it is always that that makes you men misanthropic."

"I was sure that you would not understand me," said Jarnonville, rising; and he was about to turn away, when the dark-haired Camilla planted herself in front of him, with a smile on her face.

"How now, Sire de Jarnonville," she said; "can it be that you think of going already? Why, it is not daylight yet! We are going to sing, and dance chaconnes; will you not be my partner?"

"Such pleasures have not appealed to me for many years. Excuse me, fair Camilla; you are unfortunate in your choice."

"Oh! my dear, you will waste your glances and your smiles, as I have done!" cried the blonde Flavia, showing the double row of pearls with which her mouth was embellished. "Your sweetest tones will slide over that steel cuirass. This gentleman has a heart of granite—or, rather, he has no heart at all!—See, he is not listening to us, he is going away!"

"Oh! not yet!" rejoined Camilla, laying her pretty hand on Jarnonville's arm.—"Tell me, chevalier, why do you insist on going away? Do you find yourself so very wretched with us?—Look at us—are we so unpleasant to the eye that you cannot even endure the sight of us?"

The young courtesan uttered these words in such a cajoling, suppliant tone, that the Black Chevalier glanced at her in spite of himself, and for the first time his expression lost something of its sternness.

"Good, it is decided!" exclaimed the fascinating brunette, overjoyed by this first success; "I propose to keep you; and why should you leave us so early? for you are your own master, you have neither wife nor child."

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Jarnonville pushed the two courtesans roughly aside and left the card room, muttering in a hollow voice:

"No child! no child! Ah, no! I have no child! I have lost my most cherished treasure, my joy in the present, my hope for the future. That angel, a single glance from whose eyes banished all my cares, whose voice opened my heart to a felicity so pure that I lived in a veritable heaven on earth!—I have her no longer—death struck her down! In God's name, what had she done that she should die, O inexorable fate!"

Speaking thus to himself, Jarnonville left the house, crossed the courtyard, motioned to the concierge to open the gate, and passed out into the street. But he had not walked twenty yards from the gate when a person rushed to meet him and almost threw herself at his feet, crying:

"In pity's name, seigneur, listen to me! do not, I implore you, spurn a woman who seeks your help!"

"A woman!" rejoined Jarnonville, harshly, thinking that it was still another courtesan who accosted him; "what does it matter to me that you are a woman? Seek protection from the young popinjays within, but do not detain me, let me pass."

"Sire de Jarnonville!" exclaimed she who had stopped the Black Chevalier. "Ah! Providence befriends me.—You will not spurn me, seigneur, you will come to my assistance. I am no courtesan; I am not one of the women who frequent this house from which you have just come. I am an honest girl, and I can hold up my head before you without fear! Perhaps you would recognize me if the daylight were not still so faint. My name is Ambroisine—I am the daughter of Master Hugonnet, the bath keeper on Rue Saint-Jacques; and you have often been to my father's place."

Jarnonville gazed at the belle baigneuse for some seconds, then said:

"And what is Hugonnet's daughter doing, alone, in the middle of the night, in this lonely quarter, so far from her father's house?"

"She is here, chevalier, in the hope of restoring peace of mind and happiness to a friend who is now in the lowest depths of despair.—Oh! this is not the first time that I have passed the whole night near this house, watching for Comte Léodgard to go in or out. There has been scarcely an evening for a month past that I have not stolen secretly from our house to come to this place to do sentry duty. My father does not know it; he thinks that I am in bed; he would be anxious if he knew that his daughter exposed herself to danger, alone, at night, in this horrible neighborhood! And yet, he could not be angry with me, for I am doing it all to save my friend."

"I do not understand you."

"I have no reason to conceal the truth, least of all from you, whom I know to be less hard-hearted than you choose to appear.—Comte Léodgard has seduced, dragged down into the depths of despair, a poor girl who had been, until she fell in with him, as pure as the angels. He promised her, swore on his honor, that she should be his wife. She believed in the sincerity of his love and his oaths.—Bathilde's parents discovered her sin, and drove her from their house without pity. I took her in, and my father did not blame me—far from it!—But the author of all Bathilde's sufferings, the man who lives here, Comte Léodgard—— Can you believe, seigneur, that he has utterly deserted the girl he seduced?—Bathilde wrote to him that her parents had turned her out of doors; and he has not come to see her, he has not even deigned to answer her letter. He received it, however, for I myself gave it to his concierge. In the last month, I have come here twenty times, to see him, to speak to him—it is impossible to find him! He has refused to admit me!—And that man gives grand parties in his fine house! He passes his nights in dissipation, while his poor victim weeps in despair and appeals to him in vain for a word of comfort!—Ah! it is frightful!—But I vowed that I would see this Léodgard, this unworthy nobleman, who dishonors the name he bears—that I would see him and speak to him. I am only a woman, but I am brave and determined.—To-day, Providence has permitted me to meet you, and I am deeply grateful. I cannot doubt that, with your help, I shall be able to speak with the count."

Jarnonville listened attentively to what Ambroisine said; for a moment he seemed moved, but almost instantly, as if he regretted that he had allowed his heart to be touched, he pushed the girl away and would have walked on.

"A mere love story!" he said; "a woman seduced! What have I to do with all that? Comte Léodgard's intrigues do not concern me!"

"But a poor girl who is on the point of becoming a mother, and whose child, spurned by its father, will have no name, nothing to eat—that concerns you, for you are compassionate to children, I know!"

Jarnonville stopped; he passed his hand across his forehead, heaved a profound sigh, and returned to Ambroisine, saying:

"Come with me!"

The chevalier retraced his steps to Léodgard's house and knocked; the gate swung open and he bade Ambroisine enter with him.

Seeing the girl in the courtyard, the concierge, who recognized her, cried:

"What are you doing here? Monsieur le comte will not receive you, as you know quite well! I have orders to send you away whenever you come here, so——"

"This young woman is with me," said Jarnonville, in a tone that imposed silence on the concierge. "Hold your peace!"

And taking Ambroisine's hand, he led her through the vestibule at the right into a room preceding the banquet hall, and said:

"Remain here. I will find Léodgard and send him to you, without telling him who it is that wishes to see him."

"Oh! thanks! thanks a thousand times, seigneur!—I knew that you would help me!"

Jarnonville left the room; and Ambroisine, undismayed, awaited Léodgard's appearance. She was not embarrassed at finding herself in that sumptuous abode. Grandeur loses all its prestige when it loses its power to inspire respect.

Hardly five minutes had passed when Léodgard entered the room in which Ambroisine awaited him.

"A lady to see me?" he exclaimed; "why does she not come to the salons where my guests are assembled?"

"Because that is not her place, monsieur le comte, and because, no doubt, you would not be pleased to see her there," said Ambroisine, stepping forward with a resolute air.

As he recognized Hugonnet's daughter, Léodgard could not restrain an angry gesture. He glanced at her disdainfully and muttered:

"What! is it you? By hell! you are persistent! You have been to my house too often already; you must have understood that I did not choose to receive you. You have no right to violate a person's domicile thus!—Understand, my dear, that this is not your father's bathing establishment, where anyone who pleases has a right to enter."

"Oh! I know quite well that I am not in my father's house, monsieur le comte; there is no possibility of mistake on that score. For Master Hugonnet's house is the house of an honorable man, from which those who come to demand justice are not turned away."

"On my soul, I believe that she presumes to be impertinent!—Begone! I have nothing to say to you!"

"And I did not come here to talk, monsieur, but to demand an answer to the letter you have received."

"What letter?"

"The letter from Bathilde—that poor girl whom you have deceived and seduced, and who bears within her the result of her fault. When she implores you in her child's name, can you be deaf to her prayer? What shall I say to Bathilde, monsieur le comte?"

"Nothing! I do not answer such letters! Upon my word, these girls are mad! We do them the honor to think them pretty, to make love to them, and they expect that sort of thing to last forever!—Your friend will be consoled.—Adieu!"

"Monsieur le comte," said Ambroisine, falling at Léodgard's knees, "for the love of heaven, have some pity for Bathilde, who believed your oaths!—Give her back her honor; remember that her parents have cast her out!—Excuse me for not addressing you with more respect. Treat me as harshly as you will, but be moved by Bathilde's suffering, I implore you!"

"Enough! enough! let me hear no more of all this! And above all, girl, never put your foot in my house again, for I shall not always be so patient!"

As he spoke, Léodgard roughly extricated himself from Ambroisine's hands, and hurried from the room.

"The villain!" said the girl, as she rose. "Ah! poor Bathilde, who will take care of your child?"

"I will!" said Jarnonville, who had returned to Ambroisine; and he made haste to escort her from the hôtel in Rue de Bretonvilliers.

XXXII
PASSEDIX PUTS ON A NEW SKIN

One fine winter's day, the Chevalier Passedix, who had left his lodgings in the morning shivering with cold, being but poorly protected by his threadbare and scanty cloak, returned to the Hôtel du Sanglier with a radiant face and with his head in the air, throwing the doors open like a man who is not afraid of being rebuked for making too much noise.

Instead of going upstairs to his lodgings, the chevalier entered the room on the ground floor with which we are already acquainted, wherein Dame Cadichard, the mistress of the establishment, was wont to sit and take her meals.

Passedix appeared in the room at the moment that his hostess was about to attack some panada which her old servant, Popelinette, had just placed before her. He threw himself into a venerable easy-chair opposite Dame Cadichard and stretched out his legs, crying:

"Sandis! what a beastly chair! May God damn me if it isn't stuffed with nutshells!"

Widow Cadichard cried out in amazement, almost in anger, when she saw the lack of ceremony with which her fifth-floor tenant presumed to make himself at home before her, and carried his impertinence to the point of criticising her easy-chair.

"What is the meaning of this tone, these manners, Monsieur de Passedix?" she demanded at last, pausing over her panada. "Since when has it been the fashion to enter a room where there is a lady without even putting your hand to your hat? And why do you stretch yourself out in that chair, if you don't find it soft enough for you?"

"Enough, sweet Cadichard, enough, I beg! Put a curb on your tongue, whose intemperance begins to annoy me. I have been patient with your nonsense long enough, and I am disposed to be so no longer.—Put that in your pocket, Dame Cadichard!—That panada you are eating has a very sorry look. For shame! I will bet that there's no sugar in it! I desire a breakfast somewhat more substantial than that.—Where is Popelinette, that I may send her to the nearest wine shop?—Holà! Popelinette!"

"My servant is not at your orders, monsieur le chevalier; she does housework for the tenants who pay me. When you do that, she will work for you too."

Without a word in reply, the Gascon took from his belt a stout purse full of gold pieces, and threw it on the table at which his hostess was seated. Then he said to her:

"Well! belle dame, there is enough money to pay more than I owe you. Be good enough to make up my account, so that we may become good friends once more! For I have learned to appreciate the truth of the proverb: 'Short reckonings make long friends!'—That is very melancholy for the human race! It proves that the human race is damnably selfish! But I do not undertake to correct it; I take it as I find it.—Make up your account, Dame Cadichard, and pay yourself from this all that I owe you to this day."

The hostess was struck dumb by the sight of that well-lined purse, which had almost fallen into her soup; for the gold which it contained shone with the brilliancy of good alloy. In the joy and amazement caused by her tenant's action, she tried to say something; but she could only stammer a few incoherent words, ending with a sneeze, whose ramifications extended to her panada. So she confined herself to stirring that compound, until, recovering her speech at last, she cried, with the most gracious of smiles:

"Mon Dieu! what in the world has happened to you, chevalier? What change has taken place in your position since yesterday? for only yesterday you could not give me anything on account of my rent!"

"What has happened to me, my dear hostess? Why, one of those very simple events which happen every day to people who have rich relations.—One of my uncles has deceased; mortuus est! And that uncle, who could not endure me, who was never willing to see me on his birthday, or on New Year's Day, thought better of it when he was on his deathbed, and made me his only heir, to the exclusion of certain cousins who fawned on him and wheedled him from morning till night!"

"Ah! that is fine, monsieur le chevalier!—Believe that I share with you in your joy at what has happened."

"I do not doubt it! And first of all, you will share with me by taking your dues from this purse.—Well, this morning, I met a friend who was coming to bring me the good news!—He threw his arms about my neck and embraced me until he nearly strangled me.—I was about to ask him the reason, when he cried:

"'Your uncle Flic-Flac, of Pézenas, has closed his shop—in other words, put out his lantern—in other words, broken his pipe; in short, he has started on the long journey, and has left you all his property—about two thousand crowns a year!'"

"Two thousand crowns a year! why, that's a very pretty income, Monsieur de Passedix! It's the same as six thousand livres."

"Even so, Dame Cadichard, you reckon with marvellous accuracy; my inheritance is six thousand livres a year, without counting the furniture and chattels of the defunct, which also come to me.—When Craquenard—that is my friend's name—had told me all that, I admit that at first blush I refused to believe it.

"'Craquenard, you are making sport of me,' I cried; 'you are telling me lies. If you are, I will run Roland through your belly!'"

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier, how ill-tempered you become all at once!"

"What can you expect? I cannot help it—my blood is always forty degrees above zero.—But Craquenard replied:

"'To prove that I am not telling fables, just come with me; I'll take you to Maître Bourdinard's, the solicitor; he has received a copy of the will, and is instructed to hand you the money you have inherited.'

"You will understand, Dame Cadichard, that I did not have to be asked twice to accompany Craquenard to the solicitor's! There, as soon as my identity was established, they offered to give me something in advance on what will come to me when everything is settled. And that is why, my sweet hostess, I return with such a well-lined purse! To say nothing of another little sack which I have in my belt.—Aha! wealth is very nice, indeed! Sandioux! I never felt so happy in my life.—Make up your account, if you please."

"Here it is, monsieur le chevalier; it has been made a long while," replied Dame Cadichard, taking a paper from a drawer; then she handed it to the Gascon, saying: "Be kind enough to verify the account!"

"Fie! fie! who ever heard of a gentleman like me verifying an account? That is all well enough for the lowborn, for clowns!—We do not always pay, perhaps! but, at all events, we never verify!—Once more, take from this purse what I owe you, so that I may be entirely square with you."

The hostess opened the purse, took out several gold pieces, counted on her fingers, then with a pen, and receipted her account, which she handed to the chevalier, with the purse, which was still well filled.

"That is all settled, Monsieur de Passedix. When you have time, you may make sure that the account is not padded by a single denier."

"Oh! Dame Cadichard! once more, what do you take me for?—I should be very sorry to look at this paper. See—this is how much I care for it!"

And Passedix tossed the account into a tiny fire that burned in a huge fireplace, whose feeble heat hardly changed the temperature, which was very cold outside.

Dame Cadichard, marvelling at the noble indifference with which her tenant paid his debts, said to him, with a respectful inclination of the head:

"Monsieur le chevalier, would you accept a plate of this soup? That will help you to wait for what you propose to send for to the wine shop."

"Oh, no! no, thanks!" cried Passedix, probably recalling the accident that had befallen the soup. "I have no desire to taste it.—May I not have Popelinette's services?"

"I beg pardon, monsieur le chevalier,—at once, instantly."

And Dame Cadichard, leaving her soup, left the room and went into the hall to call her servant in such shrill, imperative tones that old Popelinette soon came running in in dismay, crying:

"What's the matter? who's sick? where's the fire? Something must have happened!"

"The matter is, Popelinette, that Monsieur le Chevalier de Passedix wants to send you on an errand, and he must not be kept waiting."

"What! was it for that thing that madame was yelling as if she wanted to sprain her throat?"

"That thing!—Popelinette, try to express yourself more respectfully when you are talking about Monsieur de Passedix!"

The old servant stood with a dazed expression in the middle of the room, unable to understand how it happened that her mistress spoke so kindly now of a tenant whom she had abused so roundly only that morning.

Passedix put an end to the servant's conjectures by placing a gold piece in her hand, with these words:

"Go to the nearest wine shop, Popelinette, and order a dainty breakfast; let them bring everything for three. I feel capable of multiplying the size of my mouthfuls by three. Order several bottles of the best wine, also.—Go, and what money remains shall be yours!"

The sight of a fine gold doubloon instantly made the servant as polite and zealous as her mistress. What a mighty influence has that metal, which acts in the same way upon almost all temperaments! Physicians have never found its like among all the drugs that they force us to take.

When Popelinette had gone, the chevalier resumed his seat at the table and said to his hostess:

"Now, Dame Cadichard, let us talk a little. You will readily understand, I think, that a man with two thousand crowns a year, to say nothing of the lesser objects, cannot continue to live under the eaves, where he has for fellow lodgers rats of all dimensions."

"Oh! of course, monsieur le chevalier, I realize that this lodging is not worthy of you; and be sure that, if I put you up there, it was because special circumstances forced me to do it.—It was very much against my will."

"Enough! enough! Dame Cadichard, you should never recur to unpleasant subjects.—Do you consider me wealthy enough now to resume my handsome apartment on the first floor, which you let to that noble Spaniard, the so-called Comte de Carvajal?"

"I wish that I had a much handsomer one to offer you, Monsieur de Passedix; but my first floor is at your service."

"Very good.—Speaking of this Comte de Carvajal—have you never seen him, dear hostess, since he left your house so abruptly?"

"Never.—One night, when you were absent, I was very much surprised when Monsieur de Carvajal, who had not given me any notice, came in and said: 'Madame Cadichard, I must leave your house instantly; news just received forces me to return at once to Spain.'—Thereupon he paid me what he owed me, gave Popelinette a handsome pourboire, sent for a porter to take his trunks, and disappeared, leaving me amazed at his abrupt departure."

"Oh! the villain! the traitor! He did not start for Spain, for that same night—I remember it only too well, because, when I asked about your tenant the next morning, I was told that he had left the hotel the night before—that same night following his departure, as I was walking with a young lady to whom I was paying court, we met on the street a sort of rustic, or vagabond,—I don't know what to call him,—who threw himself between me and my fair.—As you can imagine, I unsheathed at once——"

"I do not doubt it, monsieur le chevalier."

"But that simpleton, that clown, had under his cloak a short, broad sword, which he used like a hatchet.—That disconcerted me. I am accustomed to fighting with people who know how to stand on guard. I tried to thrust a little too far, and Roland slipped from my hand. While I was looking for him, my knave disappeared with my belle, whom, by the way, I have not seen since."

"But I fail to see what connection there is between that adventure and the Comte de Carvajal."

"This is the connection: the rustic was not a rustic; I had met him before, in the guise of an artisan. And again, the artisan was not an artisan; I had previously had dealings with him, when he was dressed as an old Bohemian. And finally, all these disguises concealed the Comte de Carvajal, your magnificent tenant."

"The Comte de Carvajal! is it possible? But, in that case, he must be a very mysterious personage. Disguise himself like that—what can be his purpose?"

"I have no idea. The man was probably a political spy, sent here by his government to observe, to discover the cardinal's projects; perhaps to organize a conspiracy against him!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! why, if that's so, his stay in my house might have compromised me!"

"Sandis! I should say so! They would have ended by razing your house. It is great good fortune for you, Dame Cadichard, that that fine spark has bade you adieu!"

"You make me shudder, monsieur le chevalier!"

"As he has decamped, you are no longer in any danger. But, by Roland, I do not bid him adieu! If he is still in Paris, I will find him, and then it will be war to the death between us!—But, with your permission, I will at once install myself, or rather reinstall myself, in the first floor lodging. I will take my repast there.—By the way, Dame Cadichard, I expect a very agreeable young man—very small, but very agreeable for his size. He is a clerk in my solicitor's office; and as I happened to mention before him my desire to replenish my wardrobe entirely, and as quickly as possible, he told me that he had a friend who knew a second-hand dealer amply supplied with clothes of the latest cut. He is to bring him to me here."

"Never fear, monsieur le chevalier, I will send him up to you."

"To the first floor, Dame Cadichard. Don't forget that I have come down. I shall go up again some day, perhaps; it is not safe to swear to anything."

"Oh! Monsieur de Passedix!"

"But that worries me very little.—Six thousand livres a year! Sandis! I used to make conquests galore, but now I shall be overwhelmed with them!"

The chevalier resumed possession of the apartment on the first floor; he stretched himself out luxuriously in an enormous easy-chair that was almost suitable for a bed, and glanced about the room, saying to himself:

"Ah! Monsieur de Carvajal, so I am occupying your place now!—Who knows? perhaps you would be very happy now to live in a little room under the eaves; for in this world, when one goes up, we frequently see others come down, and vice versa.—Oh! but I will find this mysterious Spaniard! From all I have been able to judge, he knows that little Miretta; I believe him to be my rival with the little brunette. A grandee of Spain, in love with a chambermaid—that is rather extraordinary! But, after all, I sigh for that girl, and I am the equal of the grandest of Spanish grandees."

Popelinette returned with two waiters from the wine shop, bringing dishes and bottles. In a short time, a dinner fit for Gargantua was spread before Passedix; but the newly made heir seemed not at all alarmed when he saw the contents of the dishes that were served him; and from the way in which he attacked them one might fairly presume that he would reach the end of them.

Passedix had already put away half of his repast, and was attacking the second half, when Popelinette, the old servant, who had become as courteous as her mistress, came in with repeated reverences and informed him that Monsieur Bahuchet and his comrade, Monsieur Plumard, had arrived, and wished to speak with him.

"Very good! I know what they are here for!" cried Passedix; "they have brought new clothes, in the latest style.—Usher these young men into my presence; I will choose such things as seem worthy of my person, and it will not prevent my finishing my dinner!"

Before we introduce the solicitor's two clerks, let us see what had happened between them as a result of the delicate commission which one had intrusted to the other.

XXXIII
BAHUCHET'S POMADE

We have seen in what fashion Master Landry treated young Plumard, whom he had taken for a lover of his daughter.

We know, too, that little Bahuchet, having betaken himself to a wine shop with the purpose of regaling himself there, had found means to obtain a thrashing from Master Hugonnet, to whom he had applied for some pomade which would make the hair grow. As in those days hair dressers employed neither bear's grease nor lion's flesh, the bath keeper had taken the young clerk's request in very ill part. Bahuchet had returned home sorely vexed because he had been beaten, but even more dissatisfied because he had obtained no pomade; for he was most solicitous to recover possession of the gold piece that he had given to his comrade Plumard, and which the latter had promised to return to him on receipt of the precious cosmetic that was to restore to the nape of his neck the shade which it had lost.

"After all," said Bahuchet to himself, the next morning, "as that brute of a barber would not give me any pomade, pardieu! I will make some myself! And who knows! perhaps it will be better for the head than all the infernal drugs that the wigmakers rub into our hair."

After having considered some time what he could make it of, the little clerk took some gum, mustard, pitch, starch, and molasses, and with all of these he compounded a solid paste which gave forth a not very sweet odor, but which clung so persistently to the hands that it was extremely difficult to free them from it. He filled a small jar with this substance, wrapped it in a paper, put his seal upon it, and walked proudly to the office, saying to himself:

"Plumard shall have his pomade, and I my gold piece."

The two clerks accosted each other, each with a most amusing expression.

"Well, friend Plumard, did you do my errand? did you deliver the white plume?"

"Yes, to be sure; I put it into Master Landry's own hands."

"How did he take the thing?"

"In very bad part, and at one time I thought he was going to treat me shamefully; luckily, I ran away in time.—But I would not undertake such a commission again! it was too dangerous!"

"And for that reason you shall be handsomely paid!" said Bahuchet, taking from his pocket the little jar in which he had placed his vile mixture.

Plumard's face beamed; his hand was already put forth to grasp the little jar, but Bahuchet pushed it away, saying:

"One minute; how about my gold piece?"

"Oh! of course, I will return it to you; I ask nothing better; I much prefer this jar!"

"I should think so! a wonderful invention like this! I ought to have made you pay me its weight in gold; but between friends, you know. Besides, a promise is a sacred thing! Here, take your stuff!"

And Bahuchet, having received his money, handed his comrade the little jar.

Plumard was in such a hurry to experiment with his pomade, that he instantly tore off the paper and looked at and smelt the contents of the jar.

"It is black," he said.

"I suppose that it has to be black."

"It has a strange smell."

"Probably because the old sibyl uses plants that are unknown to us."

"How hard it is!"

"You must warm it a little before using; then it becomes more ductile."

"No matter; I mean to put some of it on my head at once."

"What! here, in the office? You had better put it on at home."

"No! there are only we two in the office as yet, and I do not want to postpone making use of it."

"You don't imagine, I suppose, that your hair will grow instantly? You must give the stuff time to act on the capillary tissues."

"Very good; but the sooner I put some of it on my head, the sooner the hair will grow.—By the way, is there any particular way of using it?"

Bahuchet reflected a few moments, then replied:

"Yes; wait till I recall the old witch's instructions.—Ah! now I have it: first heat the pomade, then rub your skull with it, put on a good lot; then you must cover it with a small round piece of linen, cotton, or woollen stuff—the material is not important; you must simply be sure that the pomaded part is well covered. Then, in a few days you will see your hair!"

"Very well! I will follow your instructions to the letter; I will warm it on the stove. But what in the devil shall I put on my head to cover the pomade?"

"See—there's an old black woollen stocking that Maître Bourdinard's servant must have left here by mistake; you can cut a cap out of that."

"Faith! you are right; I shall look like a little abbé. Come, let us set to work!"

Bahuchet cut from the stocking a round piece large enough to cover the top of Plumard's head; meanwhile, the latter daubed his head with the mixture, which the heat had melted; he noticed with surprise that he could not free his fingers from the pomade after he had used it; but Bahuchet told him that that was a proof of the virtue of the cosmetic. At last, the clerk's head being sufficiently pomaded, the piece of woollen stocking was applied, and the operation was at an end. The clerk then covered his head with the cap which he hardly ever laid aside.

The next morning, young Plumard put his hand to his head to make sure that his plaster was still firm. As he passed his fingers over it, he felt a sort of crust, but the woollen covering did not stir, and the clerk was convinced that the process of growing was under way.

A week passed.

Plumard had tried, but to no purpose, to remove the piece of woollen stocking that covered his head.

"Let it alone, for heaven's sake!" said Bahuchet; "if it sticks, it must be that the work is going on; when the hair has grown a little, your skullcap will fall off of itself."

Another week elapsed, and Plumard made another attempt to remove the piece of stocking, but obtained no better result.

At last, after a month, he could stand it no longer; he determined to find out what was under the skullcap, and he said to Bahuchet one morning:

"Take off this piece of woollen, which is beginning to be a nuisance; it is high time to see if my hair is growing."

Bahuchet no longer dared to deny his friend's entreaty. He pinched up the edge of the stocking, and tried to pull it off; but Plumard uttered a piercing shriek.

"Stop!" he cried; "you are tearing off my skin!"

Bahuchet's pomade, being composed largely of pitch, had, when it dried, become firmly glued to the scalp, while the piece of stocking was so stuck to the pitch that it was utterly impossible to detach it. To pull off even a small fragment, it would be necessary to pull off a bit of the pitch, and the skin would inevitably come with it. We can understand, therefore, why Plumard screamed aloud when Bahuchet tried to remove his skullcap.

"Don't you want me to try again?" inquired Bahuchet.

"Why, can't you see that you are tearing the skin off my head? I don't want to be trepanned!—What infernal kind of pomade did you give me?"

"Probably you are in too great a hurry; the work is not done yet; you must keep the covering on a while longer."

"Alas! I am beginning to think I shall keep it on forever; I don't want to have my skin torn off!"

"After all, that black cap is not bad-looking; you look as if you had on a wig, or, rather, as if your hair was cut too short. I assure you that it is preferable to your bald head."

Several weeks had passed since this conversation between the two clerks. Plumard was still wearing his woollen skullcap glued to his head; he tried to make the best of it, but there were times when a fit of anger seized him, and then he vented his fury upon Bahuchet, accusing him of having given him a pomade which, instead of accelerating the growth of his hair, must necessarily prevent the growth of anything whatever on his head.

To appease his comrade and restore their friendly relations, Bahuchet lost no time in taking him aside after the Chevalier de Passedix paid his first visit to the solicitor's office.

"There is a chance for a good windfall," he said; "this Gascon has inherited a lot of money; he wants to replenish his wardrobe. You have an uncle in the old clothes trade; let us go to his shop and select an outfit—we can make a hundred per cent on it with the Chevalier de Passedix. And then, I have an idea that he will be a profitable acquaintance for us; the newly made capitalist seems inclined to spend his inheritance merrily, and it is quite as well that he should run through it with us as with somebody else; don't you think so, Plumard?"

Plumard, having scratched his black woollen patch, with a wry face, pulled his other cap over his eyes and left the office with his comrade, saying:

"All right! let us go to see my uncle the old clothes man."

Having made a selection from the second-hand garments, which the uncle had intrusted to his nephew with the greatest hesitation, the two clerks bent their steps toward Place aux Chats, and entered the Hôtel du Sanglier, where they were speedily ushered into the presence of the Gascon chevalier, who was discussing the second part of his repast.

Bahuchet and Plumard bowed low to the newly made heir, like Turks before a pasha. Passedix bestowed a gracious smile upon them and pointed to two chairs.

"Be seated, young men," he said; "with your permission, I will finish my dinner."

"With our permission!—We are at monsieur le chevalier's service; and we are in no hurry—are we, Plumard?"

"Not at all," replied Plumard, who, as courtesy demanded, had removed his cap; and he passed his hand from time to time over the piece of stocking, which he still hoped to detach.

"Are you both employed in Maître Bourdinard's office?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier; we are the two chief clerks."

"Is it a good office?"

"Excellent; the result is that we have too much work."

"And you are not handsomely paid?"

"In a solicitor's office! Bah! there is no grease except on the backs of the chairs."[A]

[A] The chevalier asked: "Et l'on n'est grassement payé?"—The adverb literally means fatly, hence greasily.

"Will you drink a glass with me, young Basochians?"

"It is a very great honor to us, monsieur le chevalier; we will drink as long as you choose."

"That is what I call talking, sandis!—Goblets, Popelinette!—and go to the wine shop again and order some more bottles of different brands; meanwhile, we will finish these. Here, servant; take this other gold piece; and above all, do not haggle; nay, nay! to haggle is bourgeois, it is foolish! Say: 'It is for the noble and gallant Chevalier de Passedix,' and pay without a word."

The old servant went away, and Bahuchet whispered to his comrade:

"You hear—he doesn't haggle. He will pay for these duds whatever we ask."

Passedix filled the goblets; the two clerks respectfully touched the chevalier's with theirs, and he exclaimed as he looked at Plumard:

"Why, my poor boy! you don't seem to be in very good condition!"

"How so, seigneur chevalier?" rejoined the clerk, drawing himself up.

"Because I see that you have a plaster on your head, such as they put on sick dogs."

Plumard turned purple, while Bahuchet made haste to say:

"That's nothing, he has a cold in his head, and it's a blister he's trying.—But while monsieur le chevalier is finishing his repast, we might show him the superb costume we have brought.—Open your bundle, Plumard."

"You are right, little clerks; show me the clothes."

First of all, Plumard took from the bundle a pair of orange silk knee-breeches, slashed with lemon-colored satin.

Passedix was overjoyed with the short-clothes; he took them in his hand, examined them closely, and cried:

"Charming! delicious! they are in the best taste—they are dainty and elegant! The breeches please me exceedingly, and I have an idea that the orange color will be very becoming to me.—Let us see the doublet."

The doublet was of the same material and embellished with slashes of lemon-colored satin, like the short-clothes.

Passedix was enchanted.

"This harmonizes perfectly with the breeches!" he said; "it is perfect.—And the girdle?"

"Here it is," said Plumard, producing one of orange silk with fringe of the same color.

"Oh! how pretty it is, and how well they all go together!" said Passedix. "Now let us see the cloak."

Bahuchet smilingly presented the cloak, which was orange velvet, faced with lemon-colored silk.

"Admirable! magnificent!" cried Passedix. "Still, if the cloak had been of another color, to form a contrast with the rest——"

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier, it is much richer, much more stylish, like this. Look at our king, Louis XIII—does he wear several colors? is he not almost always dressed in black throughout: short-clothes, doublet, and cloak?"

"Sandioux! he is right! and I could not choose a nobler model!—Yes, all of one color—that is more harmonious, it is pleasanter to the eye. On my honor, I am enraptured with this costume! Let us drink, messieurs; I long to try it on."

"We shall have the honor to serve you as valets de chambre, monsieur le chevalier."

"You are too obliging! Drink, I say, young clerks!"

Passedix, who was as impatient as a child over the prospect of putting on a new garment, hastily finished his dinner, then proceeded to his toilet. With the assistance of the two clerks, he speedily donned short-clothes, doublet, girdle, and cloak. Then he strode about the room, looked at himself in the great mirror that adorned the mantelpiece, and seemed not to tire of viewing himself both before and behind.

"How do you find me?" he asked the young men; "tell me, without flattery."

Every part of the costume was much too large for the Gascon, whose thin, lank body danced about in his new clothes. But Bahuchet assumed an expression of admiration as he gazed at him, and exclaimed:

"It suits you magnificently, seigneur chevalier! One would swear that the costume was made for you; it makes you stouter.—Egad! how handsome you are now!"

"The short-clothes are perhaps a little full, are they not?"

"That will be all right; you are superb!"

"In truth, I believe that I am not to be despised in this garb; and if the little one should see me now, it is probable that she would be less surly; but she shall see me—I must meet her somewhere. I propose to exhibit myself to the whole city."

"You will find no cruel fair, seigneur."

"He is very agreeable, this little clerk!—It's a pity that your friend has that plaster on his head—it makes him look too much like a poodle; if I were in his place, I would rather sneeze than wear that.—By the way, messieurs, I forgot the most essential article—the price of these clothes."

"Thirty pistoles for the whole outfit," said Plumard, curtly, for he was not pleased to be thought to resemble a poodle.

"Thirty pistoles it is! we will draw on the little bag. Money is made to keep moving, sandis!"

While Passedix counted out the thirty pistoles to Plumard, for a costume which his uncle the second-hand dealer had said that he would sell for fifteen, Popelinette returned with a basket containing divers bottles.

The old servant was dumfounded at sight of Passedix, whom she did not recognize.

"Who in the world is this person?" she murmured.

"This person, Popelinette, is your tenant, whom you have never seen in such gorgeous attire, and whom you did not deem capable of becoming so charming, I fear; there are so many people who notice only the clothes, and do not choose to take the trouble to look deeper! I was as handsome a man this morning, but I did not wear this magnificent costume, so that I was less admired!"

"I am inclined to think that he was not admired at all!" said Plumard to his comrade.

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier—why, you look like an orange now!" replied the old servant.

"So much the better, my dear, so much the better! The orange is a distinguished and sweet-smelling fruit. I will go to some perfumer's shop this evening, and cause myself to be sprinkled from head to foot, so that people may smell me five minutes before they see me.—But let us drink, my dear clerks, let us taste these bottles—let us empty them, cadédis!—and no heeltaps!—Come, young plaster! Cheer up, and take off that shocking blister, which makes you look like a spaniel."

Plumard made a wry face, but he drank; Bahuchet laughed at his companion's expression, and emptied his glass, which Passedix refilled.

The two clerks were soon more than hilarious, and began to make remarks which might have compromised them in Passedix's eyes, if he had been in a condition to notice them; but, being engrossed by his new costume and his newly acquired wealth, and being passably excited himself by his frequent libations, the chevalier did not hear what the two clerks said; especially as the wine had loosened the tongues of all three, so that they all talked at once.

"Six thousand francs a year! O fortune!—How becoming this color is to me!"

"I like this wine rather well."

"Plumard, we must go into the old clothes business; it pays."

"Why does he call me spaniel and poodle? I get tired of that, in the end.—Let's take a drink!"

"Your health, boys!—Ah! when she sees me thus, as brilliant as the sun, I shall be one too many for her four-faced lover!"

"Bahuchet's infernal pomade is responsible for my wearing this round thing on my head!"

"Your health, O my infanta!"

"Thirty pistoles! I make a profit of a hundred per cent, and I am tempted not to give my uncle anything."

"O Miretta! I will lay my little hoard at thy feet, and myself as well!"

"The devil take Maître Bourdinard's office! I propose to enjoy myself; I work no more!"

In the midst of this hubbub, the bottles being empty, Passedix paid no further heed to the two clerks, but left the hotel, to display himself to an admiring Paris and to seek Miretta.

Bahuchet and his friend followed him to Place aux Chats. There they stopped, looked at each other, and began to laugh. They linked arms, each thinking that he was supporting the other, and Bahuchet stammered:

"We have thirty pistoles to spend; for I don't suppose, dear boy, that you will be foolish enough to give half of it to your uncle the old clothes man?"

"I never had any such intention. My uncle can afford to make me that little gift."

"If he loses his temper, you can tell him that somebody stole the bundle, the clothes."

"That is true. I'll say that the famous Giovanni stripped me."

"Bravo! the very thing; let us charge the accident to Giovanni's account. Par la sambleu! the fellow is stout enough to take a lot of robberies on his shoulders."

"Now, we will have some sport. We must make the thirty pistoles dance.—Look out, my dear boy, steady!"

"Where shall we go to spend it?"

"We must go out of Paris, or we might meet some of our comrades, and then we should have to treat them too."

"No such fools!"

"Let us go to the village of Le Roule."

"Where is that village?"

"Le Roule?—It's a pretty village, just after you leave Paris by Porte Saint-Honoré.—There's a leper's hospital there."

"A leper's hospital! Thanks! What an attraction! Do you propose that we go for diversion to a leper's hospital?"

"Why, no; you don't let me finish. I said that to show you that I know the locality. There is also a certain pêcheur-rotisseur, who serves stewed rabbit and fried fish. We shall be very comfortable there, and we can regale ourselves at our ease."

"So be it! let us go there; lead the way."

"Try not to waver so on your legs."

"Isn't he delicious!—when it is he who stumbles at every step."

The two clerks, each supporting the other, and sometimes describing zigzags which terrified the passers-by, set out for Le Roule, which was then only a village, although destined to become one of the great faubourgs of Paris.

XXXIV
A BOLD STEP

Since Bathilde had learned the result of Ambroisine's visit to Léodgard, since she had learned in what way he had treated the person who went to implore him in her behalf, a profound melancholy, a gloomy resignation, had succeeded the impatience, the anxiety, the hope, which had divided the empire of her mind at first.

It has often been said, and justly, that anxiety is worse than misfortune itself.

Bathilde, when she found that she had nothing to hope from Léodgard save contempt and disdain, turned all her thoughts upon the child to which she was to give life. It was for it that she resolved to live; it was for it that she derived courage and resignation from the very excess of her suffering.

But one thought still tormented the poor child: she was afraid that her presence was a burden, not to Ambroisine, but to her father; she was afraid that her prolonged sojourn in Master Hugonnet's house was an embarrassment, an inconvenience, which, from kindness of heart, he was careful to conceal from her.

But in her plight, without money or resources of any sort, whither should she go if Ambroisine's father sent her away?

Bathilde was wrong to conceive such fears; Master Hugonnet did not do good for ostentation's sake; he simply followed the biddings of his heart, and he was happy himself when he could render a service; it never occurred to him to plume himself upon it. The thought of sending the poor girl away who had come to him for shelter would never have entered his mind, and it was not necessary that she should be Ambroisine's friend to induce him to be kind and charitable toward her; kind hearts do not require to be stimulated; they who need a great number of witnesses in order to do a good deed are not truly generous.

But Ambroisine read her friend's heart; she divined her thoughts, her anxieties, her fears; she did her utmost to banish them, impressing upon Bathilde that her presence, far from being the slightest embarrassment, was very advantageous to them; that by her skill with her needle she assisted them materially; that her company made her, Ambroisine's, retreat delightful; and that, in fine, it was to Bathilde that gratitude was due.

Friendship is ingenious when it seeks to dissemble its kindly acts.

Bathilde smiled at her friend and pressed her hand; but tears fell from her eyes, despite her efforts.

"Weeping again!" said Ambroisine, one day. "You are not reasonable. You have no further reason to tremble for your child's future. Did I not tell you that the Sire de Jarnonville had promised to be a father to it? And he will not break his word! I judged him rightly when I thought that beneath that savage, yes, terrifying manner, the Black Chevalier concealed a heart accessible to pity. How could he fail to be moved by the sufferings of others, he who had suffered so terribly himself in the loss of his child?—He has been here several times since the day that I met him in Rue de Bretonvilliers. He comes to me when I am alone, and asks in an undertone: 'How is your friend? Does she need anything? Do not forget that I propose to be a father to her child.'"

"A father!" rejoined Bathilde, bitterly. "What! Can it be that the child of Comte Léodgard de Marvejols needs that a stranger should be a father to it—when its own father exists?—Alas! I do what I can to be brave, Ambroisine. But, in spite of myself, I suffer when I think that shame is the only inheritance that I shall bequeath to my child."

On the day following this conversation, Ambroisine was alone in her father's shop, just at nightfall, when the Black Chevalier crossed the street, halted in front of her, and said in a curt tone which ill dissembled what was taking place in his heart:

"That poor girl—your friend—can I do anything for her yet?"

Ambroisine looked up at Jarnonville, and, as if struck by a sudden idea, cried:

"Pardon me, seigneur; you can assist me to restore her honor, perhaps.—For I see plainly that my poor Bathilde cannot console herself for the abandonment of her lover and the curses of her mother. Since yesterday an idea, a hope, has come into my mind. Heaven, doubtless, suggested it to me.—Sire de Jarnonville, Comte Léodgard's father is still living, is he not?"

"To be sure—the Marquis de Marvejols."

"What sort of man is he?"

"The old Seigneur de Marvejols is an upright, just man, who is sensitive to the last degree in the matter of honor. Proud of the name that his ancestors have handed down to him, he is no less proud of having no unjust act for which to reproach himself in the whole course of his life. Stern in his speech, he has nevertheless a sensitive and generous heart; the evil-minded may tremble before him; the unfortunate never."

"What you tell me, seigneur, confirms me in my plan."

"What is it?"

"To go to Comte Léodgard's father, to lay before him the whole story of his son's behavior toward Bathilde, and the events that have resulted from it, and to demand justice for the victim of a shameful seduction."

And seeing that Jarnonville kept silence, Ambroisine continued:

"Do you disapprove of my project, seigneur chevalier? What have I to fear, after all? My poor Bathilde cannot possibly be more unhappy! Her seducer cannot treat her any more cruelly!—Yes! I am determined to attempt this method of restoring my friend's honor! This old marquis, who is such a just man, will perhaps insist upon his son's keeping the promises, the oaths, he made to Bathilde."

"But how will you prove to Léodgard's father that his son did really make your friend a solemn promise! He will tell you that all men who seek to seduce a woman use the same language, and that it is her place not to listen to words whose value she should know."

"How will I prove it! Oh! luckily enough, I have kept a letter written to Bathilde by the count when he had not succeeded in his projects. It is the first and, I believe, the only letter he ever wrote to her. The poor child gave it to me at the time, to be rid of the temptation to read it all day long. For the eloquent oaths of love which it contained were beginning even then to turn her head. Writing is something more than mere words."

"Yes, you are right; and if you have that letter——"

"I have always kept it carefully; something told me that it might be of use to Bathilde some day; she thinks, no doubt, that I burned it long ago."

"In that case, carry out your plan. But I do not see in what way I can be of use to you in all this, and why you claim my assistance?"

"To help me to gain access to the old Seigneur de Marvejols—that is why I appealed to you."

"Do you know where the Hôtel de Marvejols is?"

"Yes, chevalier; it is on Place Royale. I went there once, expecting to find Monsieur Léodgard there."

"Well! go there now; ask for monsieur le marquis; say that it is a poor girl who desires to speak with him, to obtain justice, and you will speedily be admitted to the old nobleman's presence. To obtain access to the upright man who reckons duty superior to birth and fortune, one needs no influence; it is enough to be oppressed and to claim his support. Therefore, a sponsor would be of no use to you; on the contrary, it would offend the old marquis, by showing him that you confounded him with those powerful men who are insensible to the laments of the unfortunate."

"Oh! thanks, Sire de Jarnonville, thanks! To-morrow I will go to the Hôtel de Marvejols."

"Does your friend know of your plan?"

"No, indeed! I should not think of mentioning it to her. In the first place, I am sure that she would forbid me to go to her seducer's father; she would be afraid of drawing upon herself that honorable young man's wrath; but he was not ashamed, by presuming upon a poor girl's innocence, to look on while she was cursed and cast out by her parents!—Oh, no! Bathilde shall know nothing about it, seigneur chevalier! If I fail in my undertaking, at all events she will not have this fresh humiliation to add to her grief; if the old marquis listens to me kindly, then it will be time enough to give her heart a little hope."

"Go, brave girl, and may you succeed in your noble purpose!"

The next day, about noon, Léodgard's father was alone in his study. The old nobleman's countenance had seemed sterner than ever of late, because it had become more melancholy.

The desertion of his son, who had entirely ceased to visit the old Hôtel de Marvejols, was the probable cause of the grief which the marquis concealed beneath a prouder and more gloomy expression. But upon that noble brow, furrowed by age, there was something else than sternness to be read.

The marquis was seated in his great easy-chair; a book lay open before him on a table; but he was not reading; his head was resting on his hand, and he seemed absorbed in profound meditation. From time to time he glanced at certain papers that lay scattered over the table, and murmured:

"All his debts are paid; he has contracted no others; and yet he passes his time in fêtes, in orgies, entertaining his friends and their mistresses. The most princely magnificence reigns in that house that he occupies in Rue de Bretonvilliers! Where, in heaven's name, does he obtain this money which he seems to squander so lavishly? Doubtless chance has become favorable to him, but chance cannot be always on one side; and not long ago he lost quite a large sum at the Duc de Soubiran's. Where does he find enough money to meet his insane expenditures? Can it be true, as rumor has it, that some foreign courtesan has given him immense wealth in exchange for his love; and that Léodgard has agreed to that shameful bargain?—Ah! I do not propose to seek any further to learn the source of his fortune; for something tells me that the discovery of that secret would bring the flush of shame to my brow!—And his marriage to Mademoiselle de Mongarcin—I must think no more of that; it will never take place. That nobly born heiress would refuse now to marry a man whose conduct is a constant scandal.—Ah! Léodgard did thoroughly everything that was necessary to prevent that union from being arranged!"

The old man had relapsed into meditation, when the door of his study opened, and old Hector discreetly showed his face before the rest of his body.

"What do you want, Hector?" inquired the marquis, raising his head; "I did not ring for you."

"That is true, monsieur le marquis; and I should not have ventured to disturb you without a reason, a motive; someone——"

"What is it, pray? Speak, explain yourself, Hector. Does someone wish to speak with me? Is it my son, or someone from him?"

"No, monsieur," replied the valet sadly, turning his eyes upon the floor; "no, it is not Monsieur Léodgard who sends—although the person probably knows him, for she came here to ask for him several months ago."

"The person—who is this person?"

"It is a young girl; she asks to be allowed the favor of speaking with monseigneur—in private."

"A young girl—and an acquaintance of Comte Léodgard—I can have nothing in common with such a person! Send the girl away, Hector!"

"I have the honor to assure monsieur le marquis that the person in question appears to be no less virtuous than respectable. She implores monseigneur to consent to hear her; she demands justice and says that she has no hope of obtaining it except through him."

"Justice!" muttered the marquis. "In that case, Hector, do not keep this girl waiting—admit her at once."

The old valet left the room, but he very soon returned with Ambroisine, who, when she reached the doorway, turned pale and began to tremble, and dared not go forward, for the marquis's aspect was stern and imposing. The old man fastened his eyes upon her, and they inspired as much fear as respect in the person who faced them for the first time.

Hector gently pushed the lovely girl into the room, whispering to her:

"Don't be afraid! Monsieur le marquis is not so terrible as he looks."

Then, at a sign from his master, the valet bowed and disappeared, leaving Ambroisine alone with Léodgard's father, who motioned for her to come forward, saying:

"Come nearer, take a chair, and tell me what you desire from me, young woman."

"Justice, monsieur le marquis," replied Ambroisine, raising her head; for the old man's deep voice, instead of frightening her, seemed to restore her courage by reminding her of the motive that brought her thither.

"Justice? Has someone wronged you? have you reason to complain of someone?"

"I am not the one who has been wronged, seigneur; and it is not for myself that I have come to implore your assistance; it is for a friend, who is very unhappy, greatly to be pitied, but who would never have dared to come herself to tell you of her trials; and yet——"

"Explain yourself more clearly, my girl, and, above all things, be careful to tell nothing but the truth!"

"Ah! monseigneur, could anyone dare to lie before you? But I beg you to excuse me if I cannot express myself very well."

"A person always expresses herself well when falsehood and calumny do not sully her lips, and when she has faith in God's justice.—Speak, my child, I am listening."

"Bathilde—that is my friend's name—is not yet eighteen years old; her father, now the keeper of a bathing establishment on Rue Dauphine, is an old soldier, who served under Henri IV; he is a man of great courage, and the soul of honor. Bathilde was brought up very strictly in her parents' house; her mother never allowed her to go out, or to have any pleasure whatever.—Excuse me, monsieur le marquis, for going into all these details; I do it because the poor girl who knows nothing is in much greater danger of allowing herself to be deceived than one who is warned by experience. Unfortunately, Bathilde's mother went on a journey, and during her absence her daughter had more liberty. A young man noticed her at the Fire of Saint-Jean, to which I had the unfortunate idea of taking her.—You see, Bathilde is so pretty! there is so much candor and innocence in her beauty that it was easy for a seducer to divine that he could readily deceive her and triumph over her. Well, this young man constantly appeared before my friend's windows; then he sent her, by way of the window, a letter in which he made her the most loving promises; he swore that she should be his wife; he called God to witness the sanctity of his oath.—Ah! monseigneur, poor Bathilde would have considered that she insulted the man she loved if she had not had confidence in such an oath. She was weak, she was guilty! But judge of her despair when her mother returned and discovered her sin! Poor Bathilde was cast out pitilessly, turned into the street at midnight.—Luckily she remembered that I was her friend.—We did not spurn her! we gave her shelter; my father forgave her fault when he saw how miserably unhappy she was.—But Bathilde still hoped that her seducer would keep his promises; she wrote to him, she informed him that she bore within her a pledge of their love; and I undertook to deliver her letter, to see the man in whom her only hope lay.—Ah! monsieur le marquis, he who was the cause of all the harm rejected my petition; he was unmoved by the sufferings of the poor girl whom he had shamefully abused; he ordered me to be turned out of his house, and forbade me ever to appear there again.—Is not that infamous behavior, seigneur? Is it not true that when one has dishonored a poor girl who was as pure and virtuous as she was beautiful, he has no right to be deaf to her prayers and to deny his child?"

The old man listened to Ambroisine with interest, and without interrupting her; while she was speaking, he sat with his head resting on his hand, seemingly weighing every word. When she finished, he looked at her with a kindly expression and said:

"You are a sincere and devoted friend—that is well; this that you are doing, one might ask in vain of the young men who press one another's hands with endless protestations of friendship. But, alas! my poor girl, what has happened to your friend is one of those misfortunes which have become too common in our day. Moreover, what is there to prove that this young Bathilde did not herself invite seduction, that her coquetry did not cause her ruin?—Lastly, why do you apply to me rather than to another, to obtain justice from this seducer? Am I his kinsman or his connection? have I any rights, any power, over him?"

Ambroisine, without replying, took from her breast the letter written to Bathilde by Léodgard, and with a trembling hand presented it to the old man; he had no sooner cast his eye on the paper than he recognized his son's hand. Thereupon his expression changed, a cloud darkened his brow; he controlled his emotion, however, and read the document that he held in his hands. As he read on, his expression became more severe, and when he had finished he let his head fall forward on his breast and seemed utterly crushed by that fresh blow.

Ambroisine, hopeful and afraid by turns, sat perfectly still, not daring to break the silence, and prayed under her breath that heaven would move the old man's heart to pity for poor Bathilde.

"It is my son, the heir of my name, who has done all this!" murmured the marquis at last, speaking to himself, as if he had forgotten the girl's presence. "O mon Dieu! am I doomed always to find him culpable? Shall I owe to him nothing but subjects of grief, misery, and shame?—Yes, it was certainly his hand that traced these characters—indeed, he did not hesitate to sign the letter—to write a name that has always been honorable at the foot of these lines which contain naught but falsehood and perfidy! which have no purpose but to drag an innocent girl to the pit!—Ah! he is misplaced in the reign of a just and virtuous monarch! In the time of Henri III, in that age of license and libertinage, among the Maugirons and Schombergs and Saint-Mégrins and the rest of the king's mignons, he would have found his fitting place, and would have obtained the approbation and favors of a dissolute court for his conduct! But to-day, when a firm hand holds the reins of the State, when protecting laws restore the courage of the weak and make the criminal tremble, my son, the last descendant of the line of Marvejols, seems by his conduct to seek to gain for his name the scandalous celebrity courted by the favorites of Henri III! I cannot allow these disgraceful proceedings to be prolonged! no! Justice must be done before all! Honor takes precedence of nobility!"

And the old man, raising his head proudly, said to Ambroisine in a firm voice:

"Go back to your friend, my girl, and say to her that she will hear from me ere long."

Ambroisine would have been glad to know what she might hope for Bathilde, but a gesture from the marquis imposed silence on her; and she left the Hôtel de Marvejols, uncertain as yet whether she should congratulate herself on having gone thither.

XXXV
AN UNEXPECTED CHANGE

Although the old marquis had told Ambroisine to say to Bathilde that she would soon hear from him, the belle baigneuse did not think it well to tell her of the visit she had made to the father of her friend's seducer. She was afraid of arousing vain hopes in her heart. To no one save the Sire de Jarnonville did she describe her interview with Léodgard's father. The Black Chevalier, who now took a deep interest in Bathilde, said to Ambroisine, when she finished her story:

"Justice will be done! Do not doubt it, brave girl. The old marquis will, first of all, make inquiries about your friend and her relations; he will wish to make sure, first of all, that you have not deceived him in any respect; and when he is certain that all you have told him is true, I repeat, he will see that justice is done."

"But what do you mean by justice, seigneur chevalier? Can he force his son to marry Bathilde?"

"No; and, frankly, I do not think that such is his intention. But if Léodgard has a right to refuse to contract a union which does not meet his views; if, being of full age, and his own master, he is at liberty to defy his father's desires or his will, his father, who is in very good favor with the cardinal-minister, has but a word to say to induce Richelieu to send Léodgard to the Bastille. As for his victim, I do not doubt that the old marquis will make her independent and take care of her child."

"Money to Bathilde! Her lover in prison!—Oh! that is not what I wanted! Bathilde will refuse the marquis's benefactions. She will blame herself for the punishment he inflicts on his son. And I shall be the cause of it all! Oh! I bitterly repent now that I went to the Hôtel de Marvejols—my poor friend will never forgive me!"

"What was your hope, pray, when you went to Léodgard's father to tell him everything?"

"Mon Dieu!—I cannot say.—In the first place, I wanted him to scold his son—but without sending him to the Bastille! And then, I thought that perhaps Monsieur Léodgard would be ashamed of his conduct, and would try to make up for everything by—by marrying Bathilde!"

"Marry a bath keeper's daughter!—he, the Comte de Marvejols?—Ah! that is just what you must never dream of hoping for!"

Ambroisine cast down her eyes, but a deep flush overspread her cheeks, and her voice thrilled with noble pride as she murmured:

"Ah! then the daughters of bath keepers are of very little account in your eyes, monsieur le chevalier, if you think that they may be dishonored with impunity."

Jarnonville raised his eyes and gazed earnestly at the girl for some time. Never before had he examined her so closely. He was impressed by her beauty, for at that moment the flush which suffused her face, the pride and the grief that could be read upon her brow, gave to all her features an expression which made them even more charming than usual.

The chevalier was surprised beyond measure; he had never noticed that Hugonnet's daughter was so beautiful, or that her person possessed so many charms; for the first time in many months a faint smile played about his lips, and he said at last:

"If the daughters of bath keepers were contemptible, you alone would suffice to rehabilitate them. You mistook the meaning of my words. Far from my mind be the thought that there exists a class which may be outraged with impunity! But, in conformity with the passions of mankind, there are prejudices, customs, conventional proprieties; also pride and vanity, which, though they do not commit sin, too often prevent its being atoned for.—But I say again, I had no intention of insulting you, noble-hearted, devoted, generous girl! You, who embody so perfectly all the marvellous tales we are told of the friendships of ancient times!—Come, give me your hand, let me press it in mine, as gallant men do when they are reconciled; and then I shall be quite certain that you no longer bear me any ill will."

The Sire de Jarnonville offered Ambroisine his hand. She seemed to hesitate, her face flushed vividly once more, but its expression was softer and more yielding. At last she made up her mind; slowly she put forth her plump white hand, and laid it, trembling, in the chevalier's. He pressed it as if it were the hand of a friend; but it is doubtful whether these two experienced at the contact the same sensations that two friends would have felt.

After a few seconds Jarnonville released Ambroisine's hand, and they parted, the former with a less sombre expression than usual, the belle baigneuse reflecting upon what she had done for Bathilde, and perhaps also upon the grasp she had just exchanged with the Black Chevalier; for women have a meaning in all that they do, whereas a man often yields unreflectingly to a sudden impulse.

Six days had passed, and nothing had occurred to disturb the peaceful life that Bathilde was leading in her room at Master Hugonnet's. Ambroisine had not ventured to tell her of her visit to the old Marquis de Marvejols. But she was constantly preoccupied and anxious; at the least unexpected sound in the house, she ran to inquire if anyone had come. So that now it was Bathilde's turn to be surprised at her restlessness, and she insisted upon knowing its cause.

But Ambroisine confined herself to replying:

"Nothing is the matter! I assure you that nothing is the matter! But I was thinking—I am surprised that the Sire de Jarnonville has not been to our shop for several days, to ask me about you, as he has been accustomed to do for some time."

"Why, Ambroisine, he must have much else in his head! Why should he think so often of a poor girl whom he does not know?"

"Upon my word! I would like to see him forget you! After he promised to take care of your child—especially now that——"

"That what?"

"Why, that the time is approaching when you will be a mother.—Oh, no! he will not forget you. He is not like most of the young nobles of the court, I tell you! And as he doesn't come, there must be something to prevent; for he put his hand in mine; that means that he is my friend, that I may rely on him under all circumstances; and he is not the man to break his engagements."

Toward the close of that day, a servant in the Marquis de Marvejols's livery appeared at Master Hugonnet's shop, bearing two large letters sealed with the crest of that noble house.

Ambroisine, who was with her father at the moment, turned pale and began to tremble when the servant entered, for she instantly recognized the livery.

"Master Hugonnet, bath keeper?" said the man, addressing the master of the house.

"That is my name, monsieur; what do you wish?"

"I am instructed to hand you this letter from my master—Monsieur le Marquis de Marvejols."

Hugonnet glanced at the letter that was presented to him; he hesitated about taking it, and said to the valet:

"Are you not making a mistake, monsieur; I have not the honor of knowing Monsieur le Marquis de Marvejols, and——"

"Yes, father, yes, it is surely for you," interposed Ambroisine; "take it—take it, I say!"

"Ah! you are sure that there is no mistake?"

"Yes, yes; you will see.—And that other letter, monsieur?"

"It is for a certain Demoiselle Bathilde Landry, who lives with you. Will you have the kindness to hand it to her?"

"Yes, monsieur, oh, yes! I will take it to her at once."

"Then my errand is done."

And the valet went away, after bowing very respectfully to the bath keeper and his daughter.

"So you know what all this means, do you?" said Hugonnet, looking at his daughter with a surprised expression.

"Yes, father; I will explain it to you. But break this seal first, I entreat you, and see what he has written to you."

"Break the seal! that would be a pity! It is magnificent—just look!"

"But, father, seals are made to be broken. How else do you expect to know what anyone writes to you?—Break it! please break it!"

"Oh! how impatient you are!—Well! if I must——"

The seal was broken, and the bath keeper unfolded a large sheet of paper, on which he read:

"The Marquis de Marvejols requests Master Hugonnet, bath keeper, and his daughter Ambroisine to accompany Bathilde Landry to his house to-morrow.

"He will expect them at two o'clock in the afternoon, all other affairs being put aside."

"What does this mean?" said Hugonnet, glancing at his daughter.

"It means, father, that I went, all alone, to see the old Seigneur de Marvejols, that I told him the whole story of his son's treatment of Bathilde, giving him as proof of what I said a letter that Monsieur Léodgard once wrote to my friend; and that I demanded justice at his hands for the victim of the seduction.—That is what I did, father, without asking Bathilde's permission."

"Nor mine either, I believe?"

"That is true, father. Are you angry with me for doing it? Do you think that I did wrong?"

Hugonnet reflected a moment, then cried:

"I' faith! no! You did not do wrong. But you should have told me.—No matter; kiss me; you are a good girl, a true friend.—Well! we will go to the marquis's to-morrow, and we will see what he has to say. After all, he cannot make it out a crime in us to take a poor child in, who was without a home and without means."

"Oh! no, father! on the contrary, he thanked me for doing it."

"Go now, and take your friend her letter. It probably contains the same invitation as this one."

"Yes, father, I am going. But if you knew how excited I am! What will Bathilde say when she learns that I went to her seducer's father and told him everything?"

"Why, you are not afraid of her scolding you, are you? I have forgiven you."

"Oh! that is not the same thing."

"True; with me, you are always sure of being in the right. But you acted for Bathilde's good—and, above all, for her child's! Go—go; if the friend blames, the mother will pardon you!"

Ambroisine left her father and went to her friend's room, concealing beneath her neckerchief the marquis's second letter. She tried to assume an indifferent, cheerful air as she walked toward Bathilde; but the latter was not deceived, and after looking into Ambroisine's eyes for an instant she said, somewhat sharply:

"You have something to tell me, and you are afraid to speak; what makes you afraid? Cast out and cursed by my parents, abandoned by the man I loved, it seems to me that I can defy fate now. What more have I to dread?"

"It is true that I have something to tell you; but it is no new misfortune that threatens you—far from it!"

"What is it, then, and why do you hesitate to say what you have to say?"

Ambroisine took from her bosom the letter sealed with the marquis's crest, and handed it to Bathilde, saying in a faltering tone:

"Here—here is a letter that was just brought here for you."

"A letter!—Oh! it is from him; yes, nobody but he can have written to me. So he is still thinking of me—and you did not give it to me at once!"

Bathilde had already snatched the letter; she broke the seal, unfolded the sheet, and read:

"The Marquis de Marvejols requests Demoiselle Bathilde Landry to come to his house to-morrow, at two o'clock, accompanied by Master Hugonnet and his daughter Ambroisine."

"What does this mean?" murmured Bathilde, whom the reading of the letter had terrified beyond words. "It is his father, that old man, who does not know me, who writes me this!"

Thereupon Ambroisine sat down beside her friend, took one of her hands in hers, and in her softest voice confessed to her the course she had adopted in conferring with Léodgard's father.

Bathilde shuddered as she listened; and when her friend had finished, she said to her, weeping bitterly:

"I cannot scold you for what you did, for you hoped to put an end to my trials! And yet, if you had consulted me, I should have dissuaded you from this plan; for the result can only be to increase my misery, if the marquis punishes his son. He will hate me all the more intensely; he will be furiously angry with me, for he will think that it was I who asked you to tell his father all.—Ah! as if his desertion were not enough! Must I endure his hatred in addition?—The old Seigneur de Marvejols will take care of my child, you say. But suppose that, in order to keep a closer watch on the child, to give it an education worthy of the blood that will flow in its veins, it should occur to him to take it into his own house! Then I should be compelled to part with it—never to see it again, perhaps!—Oh! the mere thought turns my heart to ice! I, part with my child, my treasure, my hope, the only living thing that still attaches me to life!—Never! never! far better to die!"

"Who says that anyone thinks of separating you and your child?" cried Ambroisine, raising her head proudly. "Do you think that I would allow it? Oh! have no fear; if I did wrong to go to your seducer's father without consulting you, never fear, I will see to it that no misfortune comes to you on that account!—On the contrary, something tells me that you will not blame me long for having done so.—Courage, Bathilde, courage! the Marquis de Marvejols is a just and honorable man. Have confidence in him."

The next day, at noon, the large hall in the Hôtel de Marvejols was arranged as if for a solemn ceremonial. Chairs were placed in rows on each side. At one end a large table, covered with a velvet cloth with gold fringe, stood before three handsome armchairs, each provided with a sumptuous silken footstool. On the table were papers and writing materials.

Several valets in rich livery, among them old Hector, went in and out of the hall, making sure that everything was prepared in accordance with their master's orders.

As the clock struck two, one of the doors opened, and three persons were ushered into the hall. They were Bathilde, Ambroisine, and Master Hugonnet.

Bathilde, whose aspect was made even more interesting by her condition and her suffering expression, leaned on her friend's arm, trembling from head to foot, and seemed to lack courage to raise her eyes.

Ambroisine walked forward with a confident step, although, in the depths of her heart, she was intensely excited. Then came the master bath keeper, who entered the hall with a respectful demeanor, cap in hand, saluting all the servants and even the articles of furniture as he passed, because the magnificence of the hôtel made a profound impression upon him.

Old Hector stepped forward at once to meet the young women, and escorted them to one side of the hall, where he gave them seats, saying:

"Pray be seated; monsieur le marquis will come very soon. Pray be seated, and your companion also."

Bathilde and her friends had been in the hall hardly five minutes, afraid to do more than exchange a few words in whispers, when another door opened and the Marquis de Marvejols entered, accompanied by two gentlemen, one of whom, almost as old as the marquis, had a venerable, benevolent face which inspired respect and confidence; while the other, who was much younger, had a noble, severe expression, and a glance that seemed determined to read one's inmost heart.

"That is the marquis!" whispered Ambroisine to Bathilde; but she, instead of looking up, cast her eyes on the floor and felt as if she were about to swoon.

She rose, however, on the entrance of the three gentlemen, as did her friend and Master Hugonnet. The new-comers bowed graciously to the persons who were in the hall before them; and the marquis, walking forward alone toward Ambroisine, said to her, looking at Bathilde:

"This is your friend?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

Bathilde tottered; fear and excitement made her heart beat furiously. But, despite her prostration and her extreme pallor, her beautiful and refined features were still fascinating, and the old man seemed impressed by the sweetness and charm of her face.

He gazed at her a few seconds in silence, then placed his hand on the girl's arm and said:

"Do not tremble, my child; calm your emotion; you are not here as an accused person."

With that, the marquis returned to the two gentlemen who had come with him, and they all took their seats in the armchairs at the end of the hall.

In a moment a man clad in the black costume then worn by men of the law took his place in front of the table, on which papers and parchments were strewn.

Old Hector appeared at one of the doors and made a slight motion with his head to his master, who said:

"You may admit him now."

Hector left the hall by the door through which Bathilde and her friends had entered; a few moments later, a man appeared at that door; he was pale and his emotion was apparent, but his glance was stern. He had donned his old uniform, which he had ceased to wear except on solemn occasions. He carried his head erect, and his step was firm as he walked into the hall without turning his eyes in the direction of Bathilde, who shuddered at sight of him, and hid her face against Ambroisine's bosom, murmuring:

"My father! it is my father!"

It was, in fact, the old trooper of Henri IV who had passed within a few feet of his daughter. He walked toward the marquis, and said to him in a tone in which, although perfectly respectful, there was a slight tinge of bitterness:

"Seigneur, you request me to come to your house; you inform me that you will make known to me the seducer of my—of her who was once my daughter; you might well be certain that I would not decline that invitation; but permit me to say that I did not suppose that this information would be given before so many witnesses; I did not think that it was necessary that my shame should be so public!"

"Master Landry, do not accuse us before you know what we propose to do," replied the Marquis de Marvejols; "we know that you are a most honorable man; the fact that you served under King Henri honors you in our eyes no less than the most ancient quarterings of nobility on your arms could do; you cannot believe, therefore, that in requesting you to come before us our purpose was to humiliate you. On the contrary, we propose that justice shall be done you; and if your shame has been public, the reparation shall be equally public.—Be kind enough to take a seat—on this side."

The marquis pointed to the side opposite that where Landry's daughter was seated; and the old soldier, whose features had softened somewhat as he listened to the words of the Seigneur de Marvejols, seated himself on a bench, caressing his grizzled moustache, but taking pains not to look toward Bathilde.

She had been hardly able to control herself since she had been in her father's presence.

"He does not deign even to cast a glance at me!" she whispered to her friend.

"Because he is afraid of breaking down. He knows very well that you are here! If he saw you so pale and distressed, do you suppose that he could continue to be angry?—Wait, and hope."

The sound of a curtain drawn noisily back, and of spurs jangling loudly on the floor, attracted the attention of the two girls. A new personage had entered the hall; he made his appearance there as a master; and his manner was proud and arrogant as he strode toward the old marquis, passing disdainfully before the persons assembled there.

Bathilde instantly recognized Léodgard; she pressed Ambroisine's hand, murmuring:

"It is he! O mon Dieu! what is going to happen?"

"You wrote to me to come to you, seigneur, with respect to a matter which concerns the honor of our family, you say," said Léodgard, halting in front of his father; "but what is the meaning of such an assemblage as this? Are you about to sit in judgment? Have you sent for me to come here as an accused person?"

"Perhaps," replied the old marquis, in a solemn voice, fastening his eyes upon his son with a look which compelled him to turn his away.

But Léodgard, looking at the persons who surrounded him, speedily recognized them all. At sight of Bathilde he turned pale, and could not master his confusion; but when he recognized Landry, an expression of annoyance, of anger, appeared on his face, and he waited, quivering with impatience, to hear what was wanted of him.

"Comte de Marvejols," said the old marquis, "when a sin—I might say, a crime—has covered an old man's brow with shame and brought despair into a family, reparation should not be made in darkness and secrecy. Therefore I have requested Monsieur le Duc de Montaulac and Monsieur le Baron de Freilly to be kind enough to assist me with their presence to-day; for, in the presence of such gentlemen, one must do his duty or be adjudged unworthy to wear a sword."

"I do not understand you, seigneur," rejoined Léodgard, while his features assumed an arrogant and scornful expression. "If anyone here considers that I am unworthy to wear a sword, let him come forward and tell me so, and I will show him how I handle it."

"Honor, monsieur, does not consist simply in being able to fight with skill; if it were so, bandits, highwaymen, cutthroats, would all be men of honor, and would be rewarded rather than punished.—But a truce to discussion.—Comte Léodgard, cast your eye upon this young woman who is here, by your side,—upon this old soldier, who has never been recreant to honor, and who no longer dares to look upon his child, because she has brought the flush of shame to his brow—those are your two victims."

"What! he is the man! he! the mise——"

And Landry, leaving his sentence unfinished, put his hand to the hilt of his sabre. But a glance from the old marquis recalled him to himself; he restrained his passion and confined himself to glaring at the young man in a fashion which was sufficiently indicative of what he proposed to do.

The marquis resumed, still addressing his son:

"You seduced Bathilde, Landry's daughter; you deceived a young girl, innocent until then. She put faith in your promises and your oaths. And after ruining her, you abandoned her in the most dastardly manner when she was cursed and cast out by her parents!—Comte Léodgard, was it because you belong to an illustrious house, because you bear a noble name, that you deemed yourself entitled to bring misfortune and infamy upon a family of lower rank, a family which had as its possessions only honor?—Answer me!"

Profound silence reigned for a moment in the hall. Landry toyed with the hilt of his old sabre with a trembling hand. Bathilde scarcely breathed. Ambroisine waited anxiously for what was to follow; and all the other witnesses of the scene seemed to share her anxiety.

After a brief interval, Léodgard, who had turned his head away to avoid Bathilde's glance, said, trying to give an ironical accent to his voice:

"Really, monsieur le marquis, I did not expect to be haled thus before a court of honor, for an act in which, I must confess, I had not detected so many crimes, so many terrible disasters!—From the way in which you reprove what is, after all, only a peccadillo, a youthful escapade, one would think that I had done something that no gentleman had ever dared to do before! By Notre-Dame! he who thinks that has but little acquaintance with our young noblemen of to-day! There is not one of them who has not been guilty of five or six offences of the sort for which you reproach me!—But, far from blushing and repenting of them, they, one and all, pride themselves thereon! And since when has it been forbidden to us young men of the court to make love to the petites bourgeoises, to the young girls of the lower orders? After all, if they wish to remain virtuous, it is their business not to listen to us! But, instead of that, they incite our advances by their glances, their allurements! They would be sorely disappointed if we did not try to seduce them!"

Landry uttered a sort of hollow growl which presaged a storm on the point of bursting. Bathilde hid her face in her hands, and Ambroisine squeezed her father's arm, murmuring:

"How horrible! how shameful!—Oh, no! she did none of that!"

But the old marquis rose and interrupted Léodgard, exclaiming in a voice of thunder:

"Enough, monsieur, enough! your defence is simply an additional insult to the woman you have outraged!—We know that there are women who invite seduction, who even provoke it; they do not deserve our pity! But do you dare to place this unhappy creature here among those girls who have neither modesty nor morals?—In that case, why did you need, in order to seduce her, to employ the most sacred oaths, to write her that you would take her for your wife?"

"I!—write such things to her!"

"See, here is your letter; do you deny your own signature?"

And the marquis handed his son the letter which he had written to Bathilde long before, and which he had long ago forgotten.

When he recognized his own handwriting, Léodgard was confounded.

A ray of joy gleamed in Ambroisine's eyes. As for Landry, a sudden change transformed his features; they lost in an instant all their severity, and turning his eyes upon his daughter the old soldier gazed at her, no longer in anger, but in sorrow. Pity had found its way into his heart, and it was easy to see that pardon was not far behind.

But Léodgard was not long in recovering from that first moment of surprise.

"After all, seigneur," he demanded, with an impatient gesture, "what is your purpose? For heaven's sake, let us put an end to this scene! Why did you summon me here?"

"That you might restore the honor of this girl, whom you have made a mother; and to do that, you must marry her, give her your name."

Léodgard stared at his father as if he doubted his ears; it was the same with all those present, except the two noblemen seated with the marquis.

"If you consent to this union, Léodgard," continued the latter, "I will this very day convey to Bathilde Landry this house and the revenue of two other houses which I own in Paris; moreover, I will settle my entire fortune, after my death, on the child that is soon to be born. I myself will retire to my estate of Champfleury, and end my life there; life in the city is no longer congenial to my years or my tastes. If you refuse to take Bathilde for your wife, then, monsieur, there is another satisfaction which her father has the right to expect; I read in his eyes that he is burning to demand it, and I cannot blame him!—Choose, therefore, Bathilde's hand, or a duel with her father."

"My choice cannot be doubted!" cried Léodgard. "The Comte de Marvejols will not marry a bath keeper's daughter! And if the bath keeper desires to measure swords with me, I am willing to consent to do him that honor."

A low groan was heard from the direction of the two girls, while Landry, proudly twisting his moustache, said calmly:

"Monsieur le comte, King Henri IV tapped me on the shoulder and called me his brave! I do not think that you will dishonor yourself by measuring your sword with my rapier!"

"And so," rejoined the marquis, with a grief-stricken glance at his son, "you expect, by shedding her father's blood, to efface the shame with which you have sullied this maid's honor! Let it be as you choose, monsieur! Henceforth God will attend to your punishment.—But be not alarmed, my poor girl, poor mother, whom your seducer spurns; whatever the result of the combat about to take place, I will henceforth take care of you as if you were my own child.—And you, Landry, you, her father—now that you see her grief, her suffering, her repentance, you will forgive her for her sin; yes, you will forgive her—I see it in your eyes; and then you will thank this other maid, her friend, of whose devotion you are not as yet aware.—Come forward, Ambroisine, and receive the praise which you deserve; let your father hear it; let us bring joy to one heart at least!"

Master Hugonnet, flushing crimson with pleasure, gently pushed Ambroisine forward; she walked a few steps, being in dire embarrassment, and said, lowering her eyes:

"Monsieur le marquis is too kind; what I have done was quite natural—I should have been so happy to find that Monsieur le Comte Léodgard still loved Bathilde!—And so, before making up my mind to tell the whole story to monsieur le marquis, I went many times to the house in Rue de Bretonvilliers, to try to speak with monsieur le comte; and yet I confess that I was a little afraid when I went to that quarter alone at night. And then, as they always told me that Monsieur Léodgard was not in, I sometimes passed a great part of the night waiting for his return; and once—oh! I was so frightened—I had such a horrible experience!—But I beg pardon, monseigneur; that cannot interest you—excuse me."

Within a few seconds, Léodgard's face, as he listened to Ambroisine, had become deathly pale, and great drops of sweat stood on his brow; but he remained motionless in his place and affected to make light of what she said.

The old marquis motioned to Ambroisine as she was about to turn away, saying:

"Go on, my child; what happened to you in your friend's service cannot fail to interest us. What was this experience?"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur le marquis—excuse me—it was like a ghost.—This is how it happened. I was waiting for monsieur le comte to return; the clock had struck twelve; as I did not know what to do to kill time, instead of standing still in front of the gate, I walked now and then along the walls on one side or the other—for the hôtel stands entirely by itself. That night, as I stopped at the end of the wall, behind the hôtel, a man suddenly appeared; I had neither heard nor seen him; it was as if he came out of the wall.—But imagine my terror; by his hairy cap and his olive-green cloak, I had no doubt that it was Giovanni the brigand, whom I had heard described so often; and then——"

"It is all over! I will atone for everything!" cried Léodgard in a hoarse voice, roughly pushing Ambroisine aside, to approach Bathilde. "Monsieur le marquis, I surrender, I consent, I will marry Bathilde; I am ready to lead her to the altar!"

It would be impossible to describe the effect of these words, which everyone was so far from expecting.

The keenest delight was depicted on every face. Bathilde uttered a cry of joy. Landry went to his daughter and took her in his arms. Ambroisine and her father were in ecstasies.

The old Marquis de Marvejols offered his son his hand as a sign of reconciliation.

And no one thought to ask for the end of the adventure which the belle baigneuse had begun to narrate.

XXXVI
A STRANGE CHOICE

One beautiful day in spring, Valentine de Mongarcin sat in the salon where her aunt Madame de Ravenelle preferred to pass her time, amusing herself by picking out chords on her zither and singing the words of a new virelay.

Madame de Ravenelle, reclining on an immense couch, listened to her niece, keeping time gently with her head, and smiling with the contented expression of a person whose digestion is good and who has no cares.

The fair Valentine was a long way from displaying a countenance as placid as her aunt's; her brow often contracted; her mouth expressed melancholy rather than pleasure, and her eyes, which she turned constantly from side to side, indicated that her mind was deeply preoccupied.

"Well! go on, Valentine; why have you stopped singing?" inquired the old lady.

"What do you say, aunt? was I singing?"

"Well! this is charming! do you mean that you did not know it? that you sang without being aware of it?"

"I assure you, aunt, that I was not thinking of music at all!"

"Is it possible? However, you have been so distraught, so pensive, for some time past, that if I did not know you, I should really believe that you had some passion in your heart!—But I am not at all alarmed in that direction; I know that you love no one!"

"That is true, aunt: I have no love for anyone."

"Still, you will have to decide some day. You do not lack suitors, at all events; there are more than ten gentlemen, rich and of noble birth, who seek your hand. I say to them all: 'Wait, be patient; she will come to it.'"

Valentine made no reply. But, a few minutes later, she asked:

"Did you hear anything last evening, aunt, at Madame de Brissac's reception, of a very—a very extraordinary occurrence?"

"No, niece, no; and I prefer not to. Extraordinary events sometimes cause keen emotion, and I dislike anything that disturbs my delightfully quiet life."

"Well, I heard two young gentlemen talking within a few feet of me—not so low that I could not hear their words. One of them said: 'Yes, my friend, Léodgard de Marvejols is married.'—'That is impossible,' the other replied; 'why should his marriage be kept secret?'—The first one answered; but just then he and his friend walked away, so that I could learn nothing more."

"You must have heard wrong, niece; or else the young gentleman was amusing himself at his friend's expense.—A man of the Marvejols blood does not contract a marriage without letting it be known beforehand in society! That would in truth be most extraordinary!"

At that moment a servant appeared and announced the Baron de Germandré.

The old lady ordered him to be admitted, and soon a little, wizened, bald-headed old man entered the salon, saluted the ladies with all the grace of a courtier, and, after presenting his respects with a sprightly air, dropped upon a sofa, saying:

"Great news, mesdames! great news! I am always among the first to learn the news, you know. I like that; early fruits are always agreeable: ha! ha! ha!"

"What is it, Monsieur de Germandré?" asked Madame de Ravenelle, half raising her head; "is the king making love to his wife? is Richelieu out of favor?"

"No, no, to-day's news does not concern the court, but a gentleman of noble lineage, of a very ancient family.—Why, it is utterly inconceivable! And if I had not had my information from the old Duc de Montaulac, who was one of the witnesses, I should refuse to believe it; but one must yield to evidence!"

"When you are willing to explain yourself fully, baron, we shall be very glad; for thus far you have confined yourself to most ambiguous phrases."

"That is true, mesdames—I beg pardon; this is the authentic news: the son of the Marquis de Marvejols, young Comte Léodgard, is married!"

"Married!" cried Madame de Ravenelle, unable to control a movement of surprise; and she glanced at her niece; but the latter remained impassive and simply pressed her lips tightly together, like one who was not at all surprised by what she heard.

"That would be perfectly natural," continued the baron; "the count's marriage was sure to come, and it would surprise no one if he had married someone of his own rank, a person of noble birth, of an illustrious family. But if you knew to whom he has given his name!—why, it is beyond belief; such a thing was never seen!"

"Really, baron, you are intolerable! You keep us in this suspense!"

"Oh! a thousand pardons, belle dame!—Well, the descendant of the house of Marvejols, Comte Léodgard, has married a girl of the common people—the daughter of a bath keeper. That is the sort of people with whom that noble gentleman has allied himself."

Valentine clenched her fingers on the chair on which her hand rested, but she strove to retain her self-control.

For the first time in her life perhaps, Madame de Ravenelle uttered an exclamation, and seemed deeply moved; she could hardly murmur:

"It cannot be so, baron; there must be some mistake; such a marriage is impossible!"

"Mon Dieu! I said exactly the same thing, madame, when I heard of it; but since the Duc de Montaulac and the Baron de Freilly were present as witnesses to the marriage, and since they have confirmed the report, how can you entertain any further doubt?"

"And the old Marquis de Marvejols consented to this marriage?"

"He not only consented, but—and this may seem to you even more incredible—he forced his son to contract it, so to speak."

"He? the marquis?"

"Yes, madame.—You know that he is a very strange man, is the dear marquis! He has certain ideas, certain principles, on the subject of honor, which are worthy of much respect, no doubt; but still there are cases when one may well make an exception to the rule."

"And the Duc de Montaulac and the Baron de Freilly consented to act as witnesses to a marriage which violates all the proprieties, which is almost an insult to the nobility?"

"What would you have? It seems that it is quite a romantic story. They say that the girl, who was a model of virtue, was seduced by that scapegrace of a Léodgard—for the gentleman is said to be a sad rake. And then, the affair having had certain—er—consequences, the girl was turned out of doors by her parents, and but for a friend who assisted her and gave her shelter she would probably have died in the street; for the dashing Léodgard had abandoned her!"

"That was very wrong! He should have given her money—a great deal of money!"

"He has never had any too much for himself; though now, they say, he spends as much as a sultan!—To make my story short, the father learned all from the girl's friend, who went to see him. He summoned all the parties before him, and it was then that the Duc de Montaulac and Monsieur de Freilly were present. He told his son that he owed reparation to the father of the girl he had seduced. This father is an old soldier, so it seems; the marquis gave the count his choice between marrying the girl and fighting a duel with her father?"

"And Léodgard preferred the marriage? It is inconceivable!"

"He refused at first; he even rejected the proposition with contempt. Then, all of a sudden—no one knows how it came about—he changed his mind and consented to marry. The ceremony took place instantly, in the chapel of the Hôtel de Marvejols. A venerable priest had been summoned. Everything was ready. The rite was performed."

"I cannot get over my surprise! No, it passes my understanding. The new bridegroom will not have the audacity to present his wife at court, I presume?"

"It seems that after the marriage the bride's parents gave up their bathing establishment and went to live in the provinces."

"What a pity! we might have gone to the Comte de Marvejols's father-in-law's place to bathe! That might have become the fashion."

"As for the old marquis, he has given his mansion on Place Royale to the young bride, so they say. It seems that he has lavished gifts upon her; he has settled an enormous income upon her. But he has arranged it so that his son cannot touch it; in short, he has determined that the young woman shall have an independent fortune.—It is certain that with the sort of life that Comte Léodgard is leading now few fortunes could stand the strain.—Finally, the old marquis has left Paris; he has gone to his fine estate of Champfleury, announcing that he does not propose to leave it again."

"That is a very strange series of events!—Do the new husband and wife live happily?"

"Oh, yes! for they do not live together. On the very day of his marriage, Comte Léodgard left his wife and returned to his petite maison in Rue de Bretonvilliers. As for the new countess, she has taken up her abode in the Hôtel de Marvejols, and I am assured that the count, her husband, has not set his foot inside the door since she took possession."

"All that you have told me is so astounding—it has excited me too much.—I am afraid that I am going to be ill, baron; this is contrary to all my habits."

"You will resume them again, belle dame; after all, no matter what happens, it seems to me that it is a matter of indifference to us. So much the worse for people who make fools of themselves! The idea of marrying a woman whom you leave on your wedding day and whom you refuse to see again! I declare that, had I been in the count's place, I would have fought a hundred times rather than enter into such an absurd alliance!"

"You would have done well, baron; you would have done very well! Ah! you do not belie your blood!"

"What the devil! one is a gentleman or one is not; I know no other distinction!—But I must leave you, mesdames; receive my respects. I confess that I am in haste to go to several other houses to tell the story of the Comte de Marvejols's extraordinary marriage."

"I can understand that. Go, Baron de Germandré, go; we will detain you no longer."

The old baron took his leave.

Madame de Ravenelle glanced at her niece; Valentine simply said, in a curt tone:

"Well, madame! you see that I heard aright, do you not?"

The old lady made no reply; but, after so severe a shock, after such an excess of fatiguing emotion, it was plain that she wished to enjoy a little repose, for she stretched herself out on her couch as she did when she proposed to sleep.

Thereupon Valentine at once left the salon and went to her own apartment.

"Send Miretta to me!" she said to a servant whom she met; then, having no longer any motive for concealing her feelings, she abandoned herself to chagrin, wrath, mortification; she tore whatever was within reach of her hand; she spurned and broke everything that came in her way.

Miretta soon appeared before her mistress. For some time past, Miretta had been sad and pensive. Wherever she might be, her brow was pale and anxious, and her eyes expressed grief and discouragement; she was no longer the pretty and piquant brunette who fascinated all eyes. Grief soon works havoc with beauty.

"Mademoiselle sent for me, and I am here," she said in a low tone, bending her head before her mistress.

"Yes, come in; close that door, so that I may speak, so that I may at last give full vent to my feelings, without constraint."

"Mademoiselle is much agitated! Has anything happened to grieve her?"

"Oh, yes! yes! I am suffering acutely; I feel deeply humiliated! I cannot tell you all that I feel; I do not know myself what is taking place in my heart; but I would like to be able to avenge myself!—Miretta, that man who was to be my husband—at least, such was the wish of both our families—that Léodgard de Marvejols, is married—married to the girl Bathilde, the daughter of a bath keeper! he, the descendant of an illustrious family! Do you understand?—do you realize what a terrible affront he has put upon me?—To marry Mademoiselle Bathilde Landry, he disdained, he refused, the hand of Valentine de Mongarcin!—Ah! that thought drives me frantic—it suffocates me, it makes my nerves tingle! Give me water—water—quickly! It seems to me as if I were choking."

Miretta waited upon her young mistress with the most zealous attention. Valentine soon became calmer, and even smiled at her maid, saying:

"I feel better now—thanks, Miretta! In truth, I was very foolish to make myself ill over that man; that is not the way to be avenged! But to marry that Bathilde—who would ever have believed it of him?"

"And the white plume you sent her, mademoiselle?"

"I believe that instead of ruining the girl, it simply helped to make her a countess!—She! she! Comtesse de Marvejols! I cannot accustom myself to the idea. And yet, it would seem that he no longer loves her. Just imagine that on the very day of their marriage Léodgard left this Bathilde! She lives in the hôtel on Place Royale, and the count continues to occupy his house in Rue de Bretonvilliers; and since the day that he contracted that shameful marriage he has not been once to visit his wife!"

"That proves, mademoiselle, that Monsieur le Comte Léodgard did not marry willingly; and that he must certainly have been forced into this marriage with the bath keeper Landry's daughter."

"No, he might have refused; he is old enough to control his own actions. He had his choice between this marriage and a duel with this Bathilde's father, and he dastardly declined the duel!"

"Oh! mademoiselle, it is inconceivable that it was from lack of courage. Everybody agrees in saying that Monsieur le Comte Léodgard is the bravest of the brave!"

"Yes, yes, you are right; but, in that case, why did he consent? There is some mystery underneath all this—something which I would give all the world to discover!"

And Valentine, resting her head on one of her hands, half reclining on a sofa, lay for several minutes deep in thought. Miretta, kneeling on a cushion by her mistress's side, was equally motionless, and, wholly engrossed by her thoughts, evidently had no idea what she was doing.

Valentine emerged from her reverie at last, and said, passing her hand through Miretta's lovely black hair:

"Poor girl! you too are in trouble, and you have nobody to whom to confide your sorrows. But I have noticed your depression for some time; your face is careworn, and when you try to smile there are tears in your eyes—tears which you try in vain to conceal!—Come, tell me your troubles; has the man whom you loved so dearly betrayed you?"

"Alas! mademoiselle, I do not know whether he has betrayed me; yet I can but think that he has ceased to love me, as he no longer tries to see me. Days, weeks, months have passed, and I never see him—I cannot succeed in meeting him!"

"Poor Miretta, I understand your melancholy; but do you know whether he is still in Paris? Perhaps he has been compelled to absent himself, to take a journey, and had no time to send you word?"

"Oh, no! he is still in Paris, mademoiselle, I am very sure; for I—I sometimes hear of him."

"Those persons from whom you hear of your lover should be able to tell you where he is, where you might find him."

Miretta lowered her eyes and replied, after a moment's pause:

"No, mademoiselle; for he will not tell where he lives, he does not wish me to go to see him.—Mon Dieu! what have I done to him that he should forget me, avoid me thus? He knows very well that I came to this country only because he was here! I only asked to be allowed to see him now and then, at long intervals; was I so unreasonable? And yet, the last time that I saw him, he was so far from being cold to me that one would have said that he loved me more than ever. He came with me to this door, he pressed my hands lovingly, he looked at me as one looks with the heart; and can he have ceased to love me? No, it is impossible! Oh! there are times when I should believe that he was dead, if I did not know that he has been seen, in Paris, within the fortnight."

"Look you, Miretta, you are childish to be alarmed, to distress yourself; you have no real reason for it; your fears are as vague as your suspicions; whereas I—I feel that I must have revenge for the affront put upon me. But to whom shall I look for my revenge? Not to my aunt; she was considerably moved, I admit, when she learned of this monstrous marriage; but in a moment she went to sleep, in order to forget all about it. So that I must depend on myself alone for my vengeance, yes, on myself! But a young girl does not count in the world; she can do nothing. It is better—yes, she must be able to maintain her rank, to show herself, to make a sensation, and perhaps——"

Valentine's features became animated, her thought seemed to embrace the whole future. She remained for a long while buried in meditation, then said to Miretta:

"You must have seen here all the noblemen who aspire to my hand. I wish you to tell me what you think of them; what you may have heard about them. Pages and esquires are never dumb when their masters are mentioned. Answer me frankly. You cannot hurt me, for I love none of these gentlemen.—The Sire de Vergy?"

"He is a very handsome cavalier, perhaps a little too much in love with himself; he thinks of nothing but his dress, he adores perfumery——"

"Let us pass to another;—the Comte de Brillancourt?"

"He is a very fine-looking man; he is most anxious to be considered a roué, a seducer, a man who makes conquests every day; but his servants declare that he boasts of more than he makes, and that he never finds anybody at the rendezvous which he claims to have received."

"He must be a fool! he would be a very depressing companion.—The Sire de Montaubry?"

"He is considered an agreeable gentleman, who adores pleasure and passes his life in merrymaking. He is generous to prodigality; he rewards his esquire when he has invented some pleasant occupation for his time. Cards, dancing, music, the table, horses—these are what he must have every day."

"The man must be insufferable with his high spirits!—The Baron d'Arcelle?"

"He is no longer young, but he is enormously rich! He is a great stickler for etiquette; he dismissed his coachman one day because he allowed the carriage of a farmer of the salt tax to pass him."

"They who ascribe so much importance to little things are incapable of great things!—The Marquis de Santoval?"

"Oh! there is a man in whose glance there is something that inspires fear! He has a handsome face; but such a black beard, and eyes that shine with a smoldering fire, and heavy eyebrows that almost join. His servants say that he is very just to them, but that he punishes inexorably the slightest fault. He is a widower; his first wife was very pretty, and Monsieur de Santoval is terribly jealous; they say that he did not make her happy. He adores the chase, and passes a large part of the year on his estates, hunting wolves."

"Enough, enough! my choice is made!—Go, Miretta, see if my aunt has finished her siesta."

Miretta returned and informed her mistress that Madame de Ravenelle was quite ready to listen to her. So Valentine left her apartment and went to her aunt. After saluting her with great gravity, she said:

"Madame, I have decided at last to take a husband; it is time for me to occupy my rightful place in society."

"Ah! you have decided, niece? Very good! Mon Dieu! what a multitude of events for a single day!—Well, Valentine, it only remains to make a choice among all the noble suitors who have asked for your hand."

"My choice is made, aunt."

"Indeed! it is extraordinary how rapidly everything happens to-day!"

"My choice has fallen on the Marquis de Santoval. I accept him for my husband."

"The Marquis de Santoval!"

And the old lady uttered another exclamation of surprise, then fell back on her couch, saying:

"Everybody seems determined to kill me to-day by exciting me beyond endurance!"

XXXVII
BATHILDE'S CHILD

The magnificent Hôtel de Marvejols had changed masters. In the place of the old marquis, Bathilde, Comte Léodgard's lawful wife, was installed in the vast apartments, and gave orders to the numerous servants whom the marquis had left with her as a nucleus of her household.

An abrupt change seemed to have taken place in the young woman's mind, manners, and bearing. Nature, seconding her newly acquired fortune, lavished upon her a multitude of gifts, which, previously to that time at least, had been hidden by her timidity and the retirement in which she had lived.

On receiving a name and a title which raised her in her own esteem, the modest and trembling girl had become an excellent woman, humane and beneficent to all those about her.

She wore without embarrassment, even with dignity, the richer garb which her lofty position demanded. Far from being awkward and ill at ease in the rich attire of a noble dame, Bathilde displayed new graces; her refined and fascinating features seemed made to go with silk fabrics and velvet cloaks.

Nothing offended the eye, nothing seemed out of place, in the young woman suddenly transported from a modest little chamber to a luxurious mansion; and no one, seeing her in her salon, dressed as a wealthy countess should be dressed, would have suspected that he had before his eyes the daughter of a bath keeper.

When Bathilde, on leaving the chapel, saw Léodgard hasten away without bestowing a glance upon her or addressing her a single word, her heart felt a cruel pang; but she succeeded in dissembling her pain; she said to herself that, after the honor that she had received, and now that her child had a name, and that she could look her father in the face without blushing, to abandon herself to her disappointment in love would be pure weakness, and that it behooved her thenceforth to show that she was worthy of the rank to which she had been raised. She said to herself, too, that the seduced girl, the mistress, must disappear before the legitimate wife; and she found strength in her soul to force back her suffering, and to show to those about her a tranquil brow, a self-possessed glance, and a pleasant smile.

Perhaps, in the depths of her heart, Bathilde hoped that her spouse would not always bear her ill will, that he would some day desire to see her to whom he had given his name.

But when weeks and months passed without a sight of Léodgard, she understood that his mind was definitely made up; that he had married her to satisfy his father's wishes, but that he proposed, by living apart from her, to prove to her that he had not contracted the marriage of his free will.

After installing Bathilde in the noble mansion on Place Royale, after handing her the documents which assured to her, and to her unborn child as well, an independent fortune, the old marquis had imprinted a kiss on the brow of his new daughter, and had left Paris for his estate in the country, taking with him old Hector and several of his oldest servants; the others had remained in the young countess's service.

As for Landry, his daughter's new position in the world satisfied his honor without dazzling his mind. But his good sense told him that the father of the Comtesse de Marvejols ought not to carry on a bathing establishment, and he lost no time in selling it.

On the day following her marriage, Bathilde went to her mother to ask her pardon and to entreat a renewal of her affection. But Dame Ragonde could not forgive even her own child. After listening coldly to her daughter's entreaties, she replied in a harsh, dry tone:

"I congratulate you on having become a countess; but I trust that it will not encourage other girls to imitate you!"

With that, she turned her back on Bathilde, who was fain to be content with her father's warm embrace.

Soon after, the old soldier and his wife started for Normandie.

Although Bathilde had had to renounce the hope of recovering her mother's favor,—in truth, her mother had never manifested the least real affection for her,—by way of compensation there were some persons whom her new fortune made very happy, and who did not attempt to conceal the joy and satisfaction which that unhoped-for event caused them.

Is it necessary to name Ambroisine and her father?

But Ambroisine especially was overjoyed, because, as she contemplated Bathilde in her fine clothes, and in that superb mansion which had become hers, she could justly say to herself:

"This is my work; she owes it to me that she is in this place, that she has a name and a handsome fortune!"

The sweet-natured Bathilde did not show herself ungrateful. Her first care when she found that she was the mistress of large means was to beg Ambroisine and her father to share her wealth with her. At first, she asked them to live in her house; then she insisted upon enriching Master Hugonnet, and begged him to accept as a token of her friendship a handsome sum which would assure his well-being for life, so that he need work no more.

But Ambroisine and her father refused everything.

"Keep your wealth, my dear young lady," said Hugonnet, pressing Bathilde's hand in his; "I have no use for it! I am well to do, my trade is prosperous, all goes well! I have no idea of ceasing to work. My health is good, and I am not too old. Besides, I should die of ennui, if I had nothing to do; and to avoid being bored to death, I should probably get tipsy every day, which would be too often!—So you see that I must refuse this money that you offer me—for I do not believe that you mean to pay me for the pleasure it gave me to be of use to you, to offer you a shelter under my roof; such things are not to be paid for, and you know it!—Oh! if I were unfortunate, if some unlucky accident should happen to me, I would come without a blush to ask your assistance, and I should consider that I insulted you if I applied first to others. But I flatter myself that that won't happen.—Meanwhile, continue your friendship for us; look upon us still as your best friends. That is the way to make us as happy as yourself.—As for my daughter, you offer to keep her with you; but it would cost me too much to part with her. Ten thousand hogsheads! I am fond of my daughter, you see! and I hope that she cares a little bit for me!"

"Oh, yes! my dear, good father!" cried Ambroisine, throwing herself into Hugonnet's arms. "Never fear, I will not leave you! I will come to see Bathilde—madame la comtesse—often, very often——"

"But you will never call me anything but Bathilde, your friend, your sister, who owes everything to you! If you do, I shall think that you no longer love me!"

"As you please, as you please, dear Bathilde!"

"Look you, my dear young lady," continued Hugonnet, "I will tell you all that I can do for you. In the first place, I promise that Ambroisine shall do no more shaving; no, that is all over! for when one visits a countess one must keep to one's place!"

"But I have not shaved anybody for a long while, father."

"Hum! now and then. In the second place, she will no longer look after the details of the shop; indeed, she need never enter it at all, if she prefers not to. I can do without her, and she will have more time to come to you."

Ambroisine kissed her father once more; and that was all the share that those excellent people consented to accept of the handsome fortune of the girl whom they had made welcome, entertained, and comforted when she was without a home and without food.

But a new being was destined ere long, on receiving life, to revivify, to enliven, and to embellish all its surroundings.

Bathilde brought into the world a daughter, who bade fair to be as lovely as her mother. When she heard her child's first cry, and gave her the first kiss, the young mother felt as if she had been transported to Paradise.

Ambroisine was with her friend when, by the young countess's orders, a messenger was sent to Comte Léodgard to announce the birth of his daughter and to receive his commands with respect to her baptism.

The steward to whom that commission was intrusted soon returned to the Hôtel de Marvejols. Bathilde sent for him and bade him deliver his report to her in person.

"Did you see monsieur le comte?" she asked, taking her eyes for a moment from her child, who lay beside her on the bed.

"Yes, madame; I requested to be allowed that honor, as one who had something of great importance to say to monsieur le comte, and I was ushered into his presence."

"And you told him——?"

"That madame had brought into the world a daughter, as beautiful as the day."

Bathilde smiled, and glanced at the child with an expression that seemed to say:

"He told the truth, my child! there is nothing on earth more beautiful than thou art!"

Then she motioned to the messenger to continue.

"I had the honor to say to monsieur le comte that madame la comtesse desired to receive his commands relative to the ceremony of baptism."

"Well! what was monsieur le comte's reply?"

"Monseigneur first asked me what persons were with madame la comtesse at this moment?"

"And you told him that no one was with me save my loyal friend Ambroisine and my servants?"

"Yes, madame; and then monsieur le comte remained for a long time absorbed in thought, so that he probably forgot that I was there; for he suddenly looked up and said to me: 'What are you doing here?'

"'Monseigneur,' I replied, 'I am waiting to know what I am to say to madame la comtesse.'

"'Tell her,' said monsieur le comte, 'that she may do as she pleases, that I leave her entirely at liberty, that I have no orders to give.'

"And monseigneur dismissed me with a wave of his hand."

"That will do," said Bathilde, heaving a sigh, which died away over her child's cradle; and she motioned to the servant to leave the room.

When he had gone, she glanced sadly at Ambroisine.

"He will not come here," she said, "even to see his daughter!"

"Console yourself! he will come some day, and when he has once seen this little angel you will no longer need to send messages to him!"

"You are right!" said the young mother, letting her eyes rest once more on her child. "Yes, I must place all my confidence, all my hope, on this little darling; and, in truth, when heaven has sent me such a treasure, it is no time for me to indulge in lamentations. But still, Ambroisine, who will hold my daughter over the baptismal font?"

"Does not the grandfather always act as sponsor for the firstborn?—Send a courier to Monsieur le Marquis de Marvejols, at Champfleury; it is near Chartres—about forty leagues from here, I believe. You will receive a reply within a week."

"You are right, Ambroisine; yes, it is my duty to turn now for guidance to that venerable man who has been so kind to me. But I am still too weak. Act for me, give the necessary orders, see that the courier is despatched."

Ambroisine made haste to carry out the young countess's commands. By her direction, an intelligent man was sent to the old marquis, and he promised to bring back an answer as soon as possible.

But in those days promptitude was very slow. Post routes were not established until the reign of Louis XI, and then only for the king's service. Not until the reign of Louis XIII, in the year 1630, did the service assume some regularity, with the inauguration of the system of relays, and the appointment of inspectors to superintend the service. But, for all that, as couriers intrusted with despatches by private individuals were still very rare on the highroads, the roads were, for that reason, in very bad repair; and the relay stations often had in their stables only a few gaunt nags, or donkeys masquerading as horses.

However, the time did not seem long to Bathilde, for she had her daughter—her daughter whom she nursed herself, unable to conceive that a mother could intrust that duty to a stranger when nature had not denied her the means to perform it herself. Thus the hours passed like minutes, and the days flew by with surprising rapidity in the eyes of that young wife, who took such intense delight in nursing and rocking and caressing her child.

After several days the courier returned; he was the bearer of a letter which the old Marquis de Marvejols had delivered to him for the countess.

She hastily broke the seal; and as she knew how to read,—a rare accomplishment at that period among the daughters of the common people,—she soon knew the contents of the letter, which was thus conceived:

"MY DEAR BATHILDE:

"It gives me great pleasure to say that I will be sponsor to the daughter whom God has given to you. But, my dear child, it is impossible for me to come to you at this moment, for the gout holds me fast to my easy-chair; and when it once has its grip upon me, it does not readily relax it.

"Obtain a substitute for me, then, for that solemn ceremony, which should never be long delayed. Let some worthy gentleman hold the child in my name, and let her receive the name of Blanche; it was my wife's. To me it will be a memory and a source of hope.

"As for the godmother, I believe that I shall anticipate your wishes by urging you to select for that agreeable post the excellent young girl who displays such loyal and devoted friendship for you.

"Adieu, my dear daughter. May heaven grant you long life to watch over the little angel, who, I doubt not, will cause you to forget all your past sufferings!

"MARQUIS DE MARVEJOLS."

The young countess put her lips to the letter written by her husband's father, saying:

"It shall be as you deign to permit, O venerable man, who read my heart so well.—Blanche! Blanche! that is your name, my darling, it is the name your grandfather gives you. Ah! how sweet it is to pronounce! How well it suits the purity of your soul!—Blanche! one would say that she understands me already, and that she thanks me for giving her that name!"

Ambroisine rarely passed a day without going to see Bathilde, especially since her friend had become a mother.

As soon as she reached the house, the young countess gave her the marquis's letter, saying:

"Read this; it concerns you too."

Ambroisine read the letter eagerly; her cheeks instantly flushed with joy and pleasure, and she threw her arms about her friend, crying:

"I shall be her godmother! he permits me to be your daughter's godmother!—What a noble old man!—Ah, yes! he knew right well that he would make us both happy by suggesting that!—And he gives her the name of Blanche—Blanche!"

Ambroisine stopped as if she had suddenly remembered something.

"What is it?" said Bathilde; "one would say that that name recalled some memory."

"No, no; I was reflecting."

"About whom I shall accord the honor of taking Monsieur de Marvejols's place, eh?—Mon Dieu! I confess that that embarrasses me considerably; for I do not know any nobleman. Nobody comes here but you."

"Oh! do not be embarrassed, do not think any more, for I have already thought of someone."

"You have? Of whom, pray?"

"Have you forgotten, dear Bathilde, that generous gentleman, who, when you were still at my father's house, authorized me to offer you his assistance, and promised to take care of your child—the Sire de Jarnonville?"

"Ah, yes! you are right, Ambroisine; I ought not to have forgotten him; forgive me. But, you see, I think of nothing but my daughter now!—Do you see him sometimes?"

"Yes, quite often, in fact; he comes to my father's, not to joke and talk nonsense with all those idle young noblemen who rendezvous there, but to ask me about you and your child. Ah! he was heartily glad of your good fortune."

"And do you think that he will be willing to hold my child over the font, in monsieur le marquis's place?"

"Oh! I am sure that he will accept the post with great pleasure—he is so fond of children! For he is a widower, and he once had a little girl whom he adored, and her name was Blanche, like your child's.—That was what came into my mind just now."

"And what you dared not tell me, because he lost his daughter!—Oh! don't be alarmed, dear Ambroisine, I am very far from seeing in that an omen of disaster for my Blanche. No, heaven has sent her to us to allay all our suffering. She has given me so much happiness, that I am sure that she will soften the Sire de Jarnonville's regrets in some degree. He will transfer to her the love that he had for his own child."

That same evening the Black Chevalier stopped in front of the barber's house, and, as always, looked through the window to see if Ambroisine was there.

The girl's frank and sprightly conversation had insensibly lightened the Sire de Jarnonville's sombre humor; and often, without a previously formed intention, he walked in the direction of Rue Saint-Jacques, to obtain that distraction which became more necessary to him every day, and which he had begun to prefer to the debauches and combats that had formerly been an essential part of his life.

That evening Ambroisine was on the watch for the chevalier; for she was eager to tell him what Bathilde expected from him.

She very soon told him the tenor of the old marquis's response, and added, lowering her eyes, that she had made bold to say that the Sire de Jarnonville would consent to take his place and to represent him.

"You were quite right to give that assurance," replied the chevalier, gently pressing Ambroisine's hand. "It will be an honor and a pleasure to me to act as godfather to the countess's child. Moreover, the Marquis de Marvejols is very old, and I am still young and strong. If the first godfather should die, it is only right that there should be one left to succeed him and to watch over the child, whose father seems determined to close his arms to her."

"The old marquis wishes the little girl to be named Blanche," said Ambroisine, hesitatingly.

"Blanche! Blanche!" murmured Jarnonville, letting his head droop on his breast. "Ah! that was the name of an angel!"

"Well! this is another angel, as you will see. You will be her protector, her second father. The little darling—she will love you dearly. She will not cause you to forget the other, but she will ask you to give her a little of the affection which you feel for all children, in memory of the child you have lost."

Jarnonville was too deeply moved to reply. He took leave of Ambroisine, saying:

"To-morrow I will go to pay my respects to madame la comtesse, and to receive her orders for the ceremony."