Copyright 1904 by G. Barrie & Sons

AN UNLOOKED-FOR INTRUDER

As Cornélie was about to draw the curtains aside, she stopped, fell back a step or two, turned pale and said: ... "It seems to me that I hear someone breathing."

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XII
THE WHITE HOUSE

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

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

THE WHITE HOUSE

CONTENTS

[I, ] [II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII, ] [VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXI, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII, ] [XXIV, ] [XXV, ] [XXVI, ] [XXVII, ] [XXVIII, ] [XXIX, ] [XXX, ] [XXXI, ] [XXXII, ] [XXXIII]

I
THREE YOUNG MEN

It was mid-July in the year eighteen hundred and twenty-five. The clock on the Treasury building had just struck four, and the clerks, hastily closing the drawers of their desks, replacing documents in their respective boxes and pens on their racks, lost no time in taking their hats and laying aside the work of the State, to give all their attention to private business or pleasure.

Amid the multitude of persons of all ages who thronged the long corridors, a gentleman of some twenty-seven or twenty-eight years, after arranging his knives, his pencils and his eraser much more methodically than young men are accustomed to do, and after carefully brushing his hat and coat, placed under his arm a large green portfolio, which at a little distance might have been mistaken for that of the head of a department, and assuming an affable, smiling expression, he joined the crowd that was hurrying toward the door, saluting to right and left those of his colleagues who, as they passed him, said:

"Bonjour, Robineau!"

Monsieur Robineau—we know his name now—when he was a hundred yards or more from the department, suddenly adopted an altogether different demeanor; he seemed to swell up in his coat, raised his head and ostentatiously quickened his pace; the amiable smile was replaced by a busy, preoccupied air; he held the great portfolio more closely to his side and glanced with a patronizing expression at the persons who passed him. His manner was no longer that of a simple clerk at fifteen hundred francs; it was that of a chief of bureau at least.

However, despite his haughty bearing, Robineau bent his steps toward a modest restaurant, where a dinner was served for thirty-two sous, which he considered delicious, because his means did not allow him to procure a better one. Herein, at all events, Robineau displayed great prudence; to be able to content oneself with what one has, is the best way to be happy; and since we hear the rich complain every day, the poor must needs appear to be satisfied.

But as he crossed the Palais-Royal garden on the way to his restaurant, Robineau was halted by two very fashionably dressed young men who laughingly barred his path. One, who seemed to be about twenty-four years of age, was tall and thin and stooped slightly, as tall men who are not in the military service are likely to do. Despite this trifling defect in his figure he bore himself gracefully; there was in his manners and in his slightest movements an abandon instinct with frankness, and a fascinating vivacity. His attractive face, his large blue eyes, and his golden hair, which fell gracefully about his high, aristocratic forehead, combined to make of this young man a most comely cavalier; but his pallor, the strongly marked lines under his eyes, and the customary expression of his features, denoted a young man who had taken a great deal out of life and who was already old in the matter of sensations and pleasures.

His companion was shorter and his features were less regular, but he would have been called perhaps a comelier youth. His hair was black, his eyes, albeit very dark brown, had an attractively sweet expression, and his voice and his smile finished what his eyes had begun. There was less joviality, less vivacity in his manners than in his friend’s; but he did not appear, like him, to be already sated with all the enjoyments that life offers.

At sight of the two young men, the clerk’s face became amiable once more; he eagerly grasped the hand that the taller, fair-haired one offered him, and cried:

"Ah! it is Alfred de Marcey! Delighted to meet you.—And Monsieur Edouard! You are both well, I see.—You are going to dine, doubtless; and so am I."

That one of the two young men whose hand Robineau continued to shake, and whose noble and intelligent face denoted none the less a slight tendency to raillery, looked at our clerk with a smile; and there was in that smile a lurking expression of mischief at which a very sensitive person might have taken offence, had it not been that he instantly exclaimed in a cordial, merry tone:

"Dear Robineau!—Where on earth have you been of late?—My friend, such high-crowned hats are not worn now. Fie! that is last year’s style; but I suppose you wear it to add to your height, eh? And those coat-tails!—Ha! ha! You look like a noble father. Who in the devil makes your clothes? Do you know that you are half a century behind the times?"

Robineau took all these jesting remarks in very good part; and, releasing the young man’s hand at last, he rejoined good-humoredly:

"It’s a very easy matter for you gentlemen, rich as you are, with your fifty, or a hundred thousand francs a year, to follow all the fashions, to be on the watch for the slightest change in the cut of a coat or the shape of a hat; but a simple government clerk, who has only his salary of a hundred louis!—However, I must be promoted soon.—You can see that one must be orderly and economical, if one doesn’t want to run into debt. And then, I never paid much attention to my dress! I am not coquettish myself. Mon Dieu! so long as a man is dressed decently, what does it matter, after all, that a coat is a little longer or shorter?"

"Ah! you play the philosopher, Robineau! But what about those most symmetrical curls which you arrange so carefully on each side of your face?"

"Oh! those are natural! I never touch them."

"Nonsense! I’ll wager that you never go to bed without rolling your hair in curl-papers!"

"Well! upon my word!"

"Oh! I know you—with your assumption of indifference! It’s just as it used to be at school: it made little difference to you what you had for dinner; but the next day you would play sick in order to get soup."

As he spoke, the tall young man turned toward his friend, who could not help smiling; while Robineau, to change the subject, hastily addressed the latter.

"Well, Monsieur Edouard, how goes the literary career, the drama? Successful as always, of course? You are used to that."

Edouard made a faint grimace, and Alfred roared with laughter, crying:

"Ah! you were well-advised to talk to him of success! You have no idea what chord you have touched!—What, Robineau! have you not divined from that long face, that frowning brow, a poet who has met with an accident? who has been victimized by a cabal? That, in a word, you are looking upon a fallen author?"

"The deuce! is it so?—What! Monsieur Edouard, have you had a fall?"

"Yes, monsieur," Edouard replied, with a faint sigh.

"Ah! that is amusing!"

"You consider it amusing, do you?"

"I meant to say, extraordinary—for you have sometimes succeeded.—Was it very bad then?—that is to say, didn’t it take?"

"It seems not, as it was hissed."

"Faith! I don’t know what sort of a play yours was, but I am sure that it couldn’t be any worse than the one I saw the day before yesterday at Feydeau. Fancy! a perfect rigmarole! all entrances and exits; in fact, it was so stupid, that I, who almost never hiss, could not help doing as the others did. I hissed like a rattlesnake."

Alfred, who for several minutes had been restraining a fresh inclination to laugh, dropped his friend’s arm and gave full vent to his hilarity, while Edouard said to Robineau, with an expression which he strove to render resigned:

"I thank you, monsieur, for having helped to bury my work."

"What? can it be that it was yours?" said Robineau, opening his little black eyes as wide as possible.

"Yes, indeed!" said Alfred, "it was his play that you hissed like a rattlesnake."

"Oh! mon Dieu! how sorry I am! If I could have guessed! But it’s your own fault too; if you had sent me a ticket, it would not have happened. I remember now that there were some very clever mots—some pretty scenes. I am really distressed, Monsieur Edouard."

"And I assure you that I am not in the least offended. What do a few hisses more or less matter?—And in my opinion, a good hard fall is better than to drag along through two or three performances."

"Then you bear me no grudge?"

"Why, no," said Alfred, "you have proved your friendship! he who loves well, chastises soundly! Moreover, the best general sometimes loses a battle. Isn’t that so, Edouard?—Look you, I’ll wager that that has been said to you at least fifty times since the night before last."

Edouard smiled—but this time with a good heart; and he once more took his friend’s arm, who looked at Robineau again, while a mocking smile played about his lips.

"You are still very busy, Robineau?"

"Oh, yes! always! We have an infernal amount of work to do. My chief relies on me; he knows that in moments of stress I am always on hand."

"What have you in that big portfolio that you hold so tight under your arm? Are you to play the part of a notary to-night?"

"Oh! it has nothing to do with acting; it’s work I am taking home."

"The devil!"

"Very important work. I sometimes spend a good part of the night on it. But I am certain of promotion."

Alfred made no reply to this; he bit his lips and glanced at Edouard, and a moment later he continued:

"And the love-affairs, Robineau—how do they come on? How many mistresses have you at this moment?"

"Oh! I am virtuous, very virtuous.—In the first place, my means do not permit me to keep women; in the second place, even if I had the means, I wouldn’t do it—my tastes don’t run that way. I insist upon being loved for myself!"

"You certainly deserve to be adored, monsieur."

"I don’t say that I wish to be adored precisely; but I desire to find that sympathy—that sweet unreserve—that—Oh! you are laughing! You don’t believe in true love!"

"I? on the contrary, I believe in whatever you choose; and the proof of it is that I really believe myself to be in love with all the pretty women I meet—eh, Edouard?—Oh! but we mustn’t mention women to him now."

"What’s that? has he had a fall with them too?" said Robineau, chuckling as if well pleased with his jest.

"No; but his latest passion has just executed a fugue with an Englishman; so that Edouard swears that he will never become attached to another sempstress."

"Aha! so she was a sempstress?—And I’ll be bound that you denied her nothing; for you are very open-handed. And then she planted you for some wretched Englishman who promised her a carriage. That is the reward of wasting one’s substance on a woman!"

"On whom would you have us waste it, pray, Robineau? So far as I am concerned, women have often deceived me; but I bear them no ill-will. For, after all, a woman, when she throws us over, leaves us at liberty to take another; whereas we often don’t know how to rid ourselves of one who is faithful."

"That is the reasoning of a jilt!" said Edouard. "Ah! my dear Alfred, you will always be lucky in love, for you will never love!"

"That is so," said Robineau; "he cares nothing for sentiment, he is all for pleasure; and when one is in his position, rich, of noble birth and an only son, with a father who lets him do whatever he pleases, there is no lack of pleasure. For my part, messieurs, I know how to restrict myself; and then, as I told you, I have simple tastes—I care neither for luxury, nor for honors.—What do I need, to be happy?—What I have: a good place—a little fatiguing, to be sure, but I am fond of work—and pending the time when I shall marry, a pretty, emotional, loving mistress, who doesn’t cost me a sou, and on whose fidelity I can rely; for I am horribly jealous."

"And where do you find such a treasure, Robineau?"

"They are easily found; to be sure, I do not apply to grisettes or working-girls.—But I beg pardon, messieurs; while chatting with you, I forget that I am expected to dine at a house to which I was invited a week ago. They will not sit down without me, and I do not wish to keep them waiting too long."

As he spoke, Robineau stepped toward Alfred to shake hands. The latter seized the opportunity to take possession of the portfolio which the clerk held under his arm.

"My portfolio! my portfolio!" cried Robineau; "the devil! no practical jokes!"

"I’ll bet you that it contains nothing but blank paper," said Alfred, still retaining possession of the portfolio. "Come, Robineau; will you bet a dinner at Véry’s?"

"I won’t bet any dinner. I am in a hurry; give it back to me. I don’t want you to look inside; they are secret papers."

But Alfred paid no heed; he untied the strings of the portfolio, and exhibited to Edouard four packages of letter paper, three sticks of sealing wax, a pencil and two papers of pins.

"So this is what you work at all night?" observed Alfred; while Edouard laughed heartily at the expense of the man who had hissed his play.

Robineau feigned surprise, crying:

"Mon Dieu! I must have made a mistake! I took one package for another! I have so many files before me!—This vexes me terribly, I assure you; and if I were not expected at dinner, I would go back to my desk."

"Monseigneur, I restore your secret documents," said Alfred, handing the large portfolio, with an air of profound respect, to Robineau, who replaced it under his arm and was about to take his leave, to escape the witticisms of the two young men. But the taller one detained him.

"You are not angry, I trust, Robineau?"

"I! angry!—Why so, pray? You like to laugh and joke, and so do I, when I have time."

"Yes, I know that you are a good fellow at bottom. Look you—to prove to me that you bear me no grudge because I insisted upon casting a profane eye into the administrative portfolio, you must come to my house this evening; my father gives a large reception—I don’t quite know on what occasion; but this much I do know—that there will be cards and dancing and some very pretty women. Despite your little every-day passion, you are a connoisseur of the sex, and you must come. Edouard will be with us—he has promised me; we will win his money at écarté, and that will help him to forget his last failure. And then, who knows? perhaps he will find among the company a beauty who will wipe from his heart the memory of his faithless fair.—Well! will you come?"

Robineau’s face fairly beamed while Alfred proffered his invitation; he grasped his hand again and shook it hard, as he replied:

"My dear friend—certainly—I am deeply touched. This courteous invitation——"

"Enough fine phrases! Is there any need of ceremony between us? I intended to write to you; but you know how thoughtless I am, and I forgot all about it.—Then you will come?"

"I most certainly shall have that honor, and I am——"

"All right, it’s understood; until this evening, then; and we will try to enjoy ourselves, which is not always easy at grand functions."

With that the young man and his companion, after nodding to the Treasury clerk, walked rapidly away, leaving Robineau in the garden of the Palais-Royal, so engrossed by the invitation he had just received and by the prospect of passing the evening at the Baron de Marcey’s, that, if his feet had not been arrested by the raised rim of the basin, he would have walked straight into the water on the way to his favorite restaurant.

II
THE MILLINER.—ROBINEAU’S TOILET

Robineau arrived at last at his modest restaurant, the public rooms of which were, as usual, full of people; for small purses are more common than large fortunes; which does not mean that only the wealthy frequent the best restaurants. But one thing is certain, namely, that at thirty-two sou places, the patrons eat with heartier appetites than one sometimes has in the gilded salons of the others. As bread is supplied in unlimited quantities, the consumers do not stint themselves with respect to it; and the cry of: "Some bread, waiter!" is heard constantly from every part of the room.

Robineau, who, under ordinary circumstances, was not of the number of small eaters, had less appetite than usual on this day; he swallowed his soup without complaining that it was too clear or too salt, to the waiter’s great surprise; and when the latter inquired what he wished to eat after the soup, Robineau replied:

"Whatever you please, but make haste. I am in a great hurry. I am going to the Baron de Marcey’s this evening, and I must dress with great care."

"In that case, monsieur, a beefsteak and potatoes," said the waiter, who cared very little whether his customer was going to a baron’s that evening, while Robineau looked about with an air of importance to see whether anyone had noticed what he had just said, and whether people were looking at him with more respect. But to no purpose did he cast his eyes over the neighboring tables; the persons who surrounded him were too busily occupied in putting out of sight what was on their plates, to amuse themselves staring at their neighbors; a thirty-two sou restaurant is not the place in which to put on airs.

Robineau, seeing that no one paid any attention to him, although he mentioned the baron’s name once more, hastened to eat the three courses which followed the soup. When the waiter came with the dessert, which consisted of nuts and raisins, Robineau’s customary order, the clerk sprang to his feet, and, placing his portfolio under his arm, left the table, saying to the waiter:

"That’s for you; it’s your pourboire."

Then he walked hurriedly through the dining-room, elbowing such customers as stood in his path, who grumbled at his lack of ceremony; while the waiter looked with a wry face at the nuts and raisins which were bestowed upon him as pourboire.

Robineau hastened to Rue Saint-Honoré, where his lodgings were situated. As he drew near the house, the ground floor of which was occupied by a milliner’s shop, he slackened his pace and his eyes seemed to try to pierce the yellow silk curtains which concealed the shop girls from the eyes of passers-by.

"The devil!" muttered Robineau; "it’s only six o’clock, and Fifine isn’t ready to leave the shop. But I am in extreme need of her assistance. If that thoughtless Alfred had written me a few days beforehand, I might have prepared for his grand reception, and I should have everything that I need. These rich people never remember that other people aren’t rich!—I don’t know whether I have a white waistcoat to wear, and silk stockings.—Have I any silk stockings?—Mon Dieu! I lent them to Fifine the last night we went to the theatre, and she hasn’t returned them yet. That woman will end by stripping me of everything! I am too generous. But if she has worn holes in them I’ll make a terrible scene!—With fifteen hundred francs a year, when one has to feed and lodge oneself, and when one wishes to cut some figure in society, one cannot swim in silk stockings—it’s impossible!—and with all the rest, I have had no luck at écarté for some time past. Mon Dieu! when shall I be rich?—I certainly will not put on airs then; I will be neither haughty nor insolent. But at all events, when I receive an invitation to go into the best society, I shall not be driven to expedients to procure silk stockings."

While indulging in these reflections, Robineau had arrived in front of the shop; but the door was closed. To be sure, the curtains afforded a glimpse of the lower part of a face, an arm, or a profile; but there were six young women who worked in the shop; and when the mistress was present they kept their eyes on their work and did not attempt to look out of the windows. Robineau passed the door and decided to enter the passageway leading to his rooms, at the end of which was a door opening into the back shop. He walked to and fro for some time, coughing loudly when he was near the door at the end, and glancing impatiently at his silver watch, which he carried in his fob, at the end of a dainty blue ribbon of watered silk passed about his neck.

All six of the young women who worked in the milliner’s shop slept in the house; two in a room adjoining the mistress’s apartment, and the other four in a room on the fifth floor, above Robineau’s. Mademoiselle Fifine was one of the four. Robineau was well aware that, in order to go to her room, Fifine must pass through the passageway; but she did not ordinarily go up until nine o’clock, and he could not wait until that hour to speak to the girl. Much the simplest way would have been to go into the shop and ask Mademoiselle Fifine to step outside for a moment; but that would have meant an irrevocable quarrel with his fair one; for, like all milliner’s apprentices, Fifine had her own code of morals; if she had lovers, it was only because all her companions had their pleasant little acquaintances, and because they would have made fun of her if she too had not had someone to take her out to walk on Sunday. But during the week, madame—that was the title that they bestowed on the mistress of the establishment—was very strict with her young ladies, and she was responsible for their virtue from eight in the morning till nine at night.

After coughing vainly in the passage, Robineau decided to go up to his room, in order to put away his portfolio and make preparations for his toilet. He climbed the four flights of a dark and dusty staircase, of a type not uncommon on Rue Saint-Honoré; he entered his apartment, which consisted of two small rooms, one of which served as waiting-room, wardrobe and kitchen, the other as bedroom, dressing-room and salon. The first was scantily furnished, but the second was decorated with more or less taste, and it was orderly and clean; in fact, everything was in its place—a rare thing in a bachelor’s quarters.

Robineau opened one of the drawers of his commode, took out his black dress coat and his dancing trousers, and to his delight, found a spotlessly white piqué waistcoat. He spread them all on the bed, then looked at himself complacently in the mirror over the mantel; and his mirror showed him, as usual, a coarse, bloated face, small black eyes, a large round nose, a small mouth, a low forehead, very thick light hair, and thin, compressed lips. Robineau considered it a charming face; he smiled at himself, assumed affected poses, bowed to himself, and exclaimed:

"I am very good-looking, and in full-dress I ought to produce a great effect."

After looking at himself in the mirror for several minutes, he returned to his commode, fumbled in the drawers, turned everything upside down, and cried:

"Evidently I have no silk stockings. If worse comes to worst, I might buy a pair—I still have twenty-three francs left from my month’s pay; but that would straiten me; if I want to risk a little at écarté, I can’t do it. I know well enough that if I should ask Alfred to lend me money, he wouldn’t refuse; but I don’t want to appear to be short, and, in truth, as I have some very fine silk stockings, I don’t see why I should buy others. Mademoiselle Fifine simply must return them; if not, it’s all over, we are out, and I give her no more guitar lessons. She will think twice; a girl doesn’t find every day a lover who plays the guitar and who is obliging enough to teach his sweetheart how to play."

Robineau took down a guitar that hung in a corner of the room, went to the open window looking on the courtyard, and hummed a ballad, accompanying himself on the instrument. When Fifine was in her room on the fifth floor, the guitar was ordinarily the signal which notified her that Robineau awaited her; but it was hardly possible to hear the music in the shop.

After he had sung for some time, Robineau looked again at his watch; he stamped the floor impatiently and was about to go down to the passage, when someone rang at his door.

"It is she! She must have heard me!" he cried as he ran to open the door. But instead of his charmer, he found a young solicitor’s clerk, whom he knew as the friend of one of Fifine’s shopmates.

"Have they come up?" inquired the young man, not entering the room, but simply thrusting his head forward to look.

"What do you mean? have who come up?"

"The young ladies. I simply must speak to Thénaïs; I went up to their room at all risks and knocked; no one answered, but, as I came down, I heard your guitar; and knowing that you gave lessons to Mademoiselle Fifine, I thought that they were in your room."

"Alas, no! they are still in the shop; they won’t come up for a good hour at least; it is most annoying to me, for I have something very important to ask Fifine."

"Well! isn’t there any way to let them know that we are here?"

"Oh! if we should go to the shop, they would be angry; it’s expressly forbidden; and then I don’t care to do it myself; when one is in one of the departments of the government, one has to maintain a certain decorum; especially just now, we have to be moral; the rules are very strict on that point."

"We can get the young ladies to come out without going to the shop."

"Faith! it’s an hour since I came in, and began trying to think of a way to do it."

"Wait! I am never at a loss.—There’s no concierge in this house, is there?"

"No."

"So much the better—we can do what we please.—Have you two or three plates?"

"Plates? hardly; I very rarely eat in my room."

"No matter—a salad-bowl, a vase, anything you please."

Robineau looked in his buffet and returned with a porcelain preserve dish and one plate, saying:

"These are all I can find."

"Excellent," said the solicitor’s clerk, taking the two objects.

"What do you propose to do with them?"

"You will see; follow me, and shout as I do, with all your lungs, when we are near the shop."

The young man went slowly down stairs, holding the plate in one hand and the preserve dish in the other. Robineau followed, curious to see what he was going to do. When they reached the first floor, the clerk began to shout: "Stop thief!" and Robineau followed suit. Then the young man hurled the plate into the passage; whereupon Robineau ran after him to stop him.

"The devil!" he exclaimed, "that will do; don’t throw my preserve dish!"

But it was too late; the dish had already followed the plate; it broke into a thousand pieces, and at the crash all the young women rushed from the shop to inquire what was going on.

At sight of them, the solicitor’s clerk roared with laughter.

"I knew that I’d make you leave your work," he cried.

"Oh! it was a sell!" cried the shop-girls, with a laugh, while Robineau gazed sadly at the ruins of his preserve dish and murmured:

"Yes, it’s a very pretty scheme! But I won’t entrust any more of my dishes to this fellow."

The girls laughed uproariously; the young clerk was already talking with Mademoiselle Thénaïs, and Robineau was about to approach Fifine, when there was a cry of "Here’s madame!" whereupon the young milliners vanished like a flock of swallows, and the young men were once more alone in the passage.

"Well! now they have gone back again!" said Robineau.

"I told Thénaïs what I wanted to tell her," replied the other; and he left the house, enchanted with his ruse, while Robineau, who was minus a plate and preserve dish, and had not even spoken to Fifine, went upstairs to his room, consigning clerks and milliners to the devil. He arranged once more all the component parts of his costume, and had almost determined to go out to buy some silk stockings, when he heard two little taps at his door, and Mademoiselle Fifine appeared at last.

Fifine was a buxom, jovial wench of twenty-four, whose coloring was a little high, whose fair hair was of rather a doubtful shade, whose eyes were a little too prominent, and whose figure was a little too short; but there was a touch of decision in her manner which indicated a young woman of character, whom one might have taken for a roisterer, had she worn trousers.

"Well! what’s in the wind, my friend? What’s all this business of smashing dishes in order to see us? Dieu! what extravagance indeed! The girls called that very gallant!"

As she spoke, Fifine threw herself on a couch opposite the bed, and continued to eat cherries, which she carried in a handkerchief.

"If you think that it was an invention of mine, you are much mistaken!" rejoined Robineau sourly; "it was that little clerk, who, without a word to me—Don’t throw your stones all over my room, I beg you."

"I’ll sweep your room! Mon Dieu! Monsieur Neatness! Pray take care! he would rather have me swallow the stones, no matter what the result might be—eh, my dear friend?—What on earth is the matter with you to-night, Raoul? your nose is longer than usual; have you some secret trouble?"

"Oh! it’s nothing to laugh at."

"Well, I’m not inclined to cry. If you want me to cry, play me an act of melodrama; play me Monsieur Truguelin in Cœlina. When you come to the suicide, I’ll throw a cherry-stone at you."

"Come, Fifine, let us talk sense, I beg you."

"Come then and sit down beside me, so that I can pinch you. You see, I feel tremendously like pinching something to-night."

"I have no time to fool."

"Dieu! how agreeable this lover of mine is!"

"I am going to a reception this evening at my intimate friend Alfred de Marcey’s, son of the Baron de Marcey, who has nearly a hundred thousand francs a year."

"Ah! so that’s the reason one can’t look you in the face, and the reason you threw your dishes downstairs. Exactly! when one visits a baron, one shouldn’t eat next day. You’ve grown two inches already."

"Fifine, listen to me, I entreat you!"

"Are you going to cry?"

"To go to the Baron de Marcey’s, I must wear full evening dress."

"Ah! I see what you’re coming at—you want me to put on your curl-papers."

"Curl-papers—I shall be glad if you will, it is true; for you do it to perfection."

"Ah! the lion is quieting down!"

"But there is something else of which I am in urgent need, and that is my black silk stockings, which I lent you the last Sunday that it rained."

"Your silk stockings?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"The deuce! but they’re a long way off, if they’re still going!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I lent them to Fœdora, to play in private theatricals, and she admitted that she let her best friend wear them the next day, to a wedding; but as his calves are exceptionally big, he ripped a few stitches when he took them off."

"Mon Dieu! this is what comes of lending your things!"

"Is a person to presume that her lover will ask her to return what he lends her?"

"Mademoiselle, I am not a capitalist, a dealer in novelties. I have never pretended to play the grand seigneur with you."

"Oh! anyone can see that!—Catch it, Raoul."

"Don’t throw cherry-stones at me, please.—What am I to do? It’s eight o’clock already; to be sure, I know that people go very late to large receptions."

"Sometimes they don’t go till the next day; it’s more comme il faut."

"But I counted on those stockings."

"You must buy some more; there’s a place across the street where they sell them."

"Buy some? Oh, yes! that’s very easy to say.—You shouldn’t have made me spend twelve francs at the restaurant last Sunday."

"We will spend fifteen next Sunday, my dear friend."

"You always want to eat the things that cost most."

"Nothing’s too good for me."

"Well, if I buy stockings, it’s adieu to our country excursion for Sunday, I warn you."

"That begins to move me.—Come, be calm, loulou; you’re very lucky to have a sweetheart with some imagination. Stay here and begin to dress at the top; I’ll go to look after the lower part!"[1]

"Oh! my dear Fifine, how good you will be to do that!"

"Give me five or six sheets of note paper—vellum."

"Here they are; as it happens, I have just brought some home from my office. Do you want some sealing-wax—three sticks?"

"Yes, yes, give it to me; I secure madame’s good graces with these things; otherwise she wouldn’t have let me come away so early; but I said that I had a sick-headache, and as I’m her favorite, she said: ‘Go upstairs to bed.’"

Fifine took the paper and sealing-wax, and skipped out of Robineau’s room; whereupon he began to undress, saying to himself:

"She is really an excellent girl, and as bright as a button, this Fifine! She’s a little hasty, and a bit of a glutton; but still she is mad over me and would jump into the fire for me. She has refused marquises, beet-sugar manufacturers and brokers for me; and yet I simply take her out on Sundays—that’s all. She isn’t like Monsieur Edouard’s sempstress, who left him for an Englishman.—Ha! ha! I am not so very sorry, for he seems rather inclined to put on airs. He has about three thousand francs a year, I believe; that’s not so much! But he writes plays, opéra-comiques, vaudevilles—that is to say, fragments of vaudevilles.—Mon Dieu! if I had the time, I would write plays, too; and I flatter myself they’d be done rather better than his. But when a man has to be at his desk from nine o’clock till four, and always working, how is he to cultivate the Muses? When I am chief of a bureau, or even deputy chief, then it will be different—I shall have some time to myself. That Alfred’s the lucky fellow! An only son, his father a baron, and about a hundred thousand francs a year!—And just see how it all came about: Alfred lost his mother when he was very young; his father married again some years later, and might have had other children; but he didn’t; instead of that, his wife, whom he adored, died three years after their marriage, and the baron, overwhelmed with grief by the loss of his second wife, swore that he would never marry again; and he has kept his oath, although he is still a young man.—How well it has all turned out for Alfred! Dieu! nothing like that will ever happen to me! And yet I have an uncle somewhere or other, careering round the world, according to what my mother told me before she died; an uncle who was determined to make his fortune, and who started for the Indies, or Peru—in fact, no one knows where. But psha! he has probably tried to leap Niagara! It’s only on the stage that uncles arrive just in time for the dénouement, in order to save innocence from going to prison. After all, I am not ambitious—I’m a philosopher, I am satisfied with what I have. If I had some silk stockings, though, I should be even better satisfied. But just let a fortune fall into my hands, and people will see how coolly, how phlegmatically I will receive it.—Well! here I am all undressed, and Mademoiselle Fifine doesn’t return.—I can’t put on my cravat before my feet are shod and my hair curled. Luckily it’s July, and I shan’t take cold."

To kill time, Robineau, being weary of walking about his room dressed like a person who is about to make bread, concluded to take his guitar. He had reached the second stanza of the romanza from Bélisaire, when he was interrupted by a burst of laughter. Fifine, having left the door ajar, had entered the room without making any noise, and was holding her sides as she contemplated Belisarius in his shirt.

"O Dieu! how handsome you are like that, my boy!" she said, still laughing; "I am tempted to call the girls to look at the picture."

"Call no one, I beg; although, without flattery, I believe I have a figure that wouldn’t frighten them."

"You look like a fat Bacchus."

"Let me see the stockings, please."

"Here they are, troubadour; and I think that they’ll make a handsome leg."

And Fifine tossed a pair of black silk stockings on Robineau’s knee. He examined them for some time, then cried:

"They’re a woman’s stockings!"

"To be sure, as it was Adeline who lent them to me."

"Men don’t wear openwork things like these."

"Bah! men wear something else, and it doesn’t prevent their dancing."

"But——"

"But these are all I could find, and it seems to me that you ought to be well satisfied."

Robineau concluded at last to put on the stockings.

"They’ll think that it’s a new style I am trying to introduce," he said.

While he began to dress, Fifine took the guitar and hummed a tune.

"So I shan’t have any lesson to-night, my friend?"

"You must see, my dear, that it’s impossible.—They fit me very well, these stockings—exceedingly well—it’s surprising! I have a leg that adapts itself to anything."

"By the way, do you remember the way we behaved last night?—Well! we had a most extraordinary scene! You know madame won’t let us read in bed, because she’s afraid of fire."

"She is quite right; as to that, I agree with her."

"That’s all right, but we girls don’t care a fig for her orders. Last night, after Fœdora had dictated a note to Thénaïs, and when Adeline had finished telling us how she detected her lover’s treachery—Oh! by the way, I never told you that story; it’s terribly funny!"

"My dear, if you would be good enough to put on my curl-papers now, I should——"

"The iron isn’t hot yet; it’s on the stove upstairs; no matter—give me some tissue paper, I’ll arrange you."

"Put on fifteen."

"Why not thirty-six, like another Ninon?—Look out now, don’t move!—Just imagine that Fidélio—that’s Adeline’s lover’s name—has a business agency office, and always keeps pretty little maid servants, who, they say, he’s in the habit of making love to. It’s so well known in the quarter, that they always tell a girl of it beforehand when she enters his service, so that she may know what to expect——"

"The iron——"

"Nonsense! don’t bother me with your iron!—Adeline didn’t know all that. The rascal had introduced himself to her under a false name. Ah! what villains men are! Instead of putting on curl-papers for you, I ought to tear all your hairs out, one by one!"

"Fifine—I beg you——"

"Don’t move.—But that isn’t all: Monsieur Fidélio, not satisfied with having a pretty blonde of twenty in his service, was making love to a married woman; and this married woman, it seems——"

"You are pulling my hair!"

"Oh! that, you know, is very bad! That a woman who is free should do what she pleases—that’s all right. But one either is bound or one isn’t—that’s all I know; that is to say, unless the husband’s a tyrant or a miser."

"It’s after nine o’clock, Fifine!"

"What’s the odds? you will have time enough to make conquests.—Now then, the servant noticed that the lady came very often to see Fidélio on business, and that Fidélio, instead of being pleasant with his maid, as he usually was, did nothing but scold her. But one can be a servant and still have lively passions; such things have been known. To revenge herself, the girl goes one fine day to the lady’s husband and offers to make him a witness of a meeting between his wife and her man of business. The husband was frantic; he accepted, sent for a cab, and got in with the little blonde, who was to tell the driver to stop at the proper time. But on the way—and this is the funniest part of it!—the husband began to find the little maid much to his liking and proposed to transfer his passion to her.—‘We are both deceived,’ says he; ‘let’s take our revenge together.’—She didn’t take to that scheme; she resisted and the man persisted. Tired of being urged by him,—he had entirely forgotten his wife,—she told the coachman to stop, opened the door, and jumped out of the cab. The gentleman jumped after her and broke his nose on the ground. The girl, to escape his attentions, entered the first house she came to. It happened to be ours; and who do you suppose she found in the passage?—who but Fidélio colloguing with Adeline!—Then there was an explosion, explanation, confusion, and——"

"The iron must be red hot!"

"I’ll go and fetch it; but if it isn’t hot, I won’t come down again."

Robineau looked at himself in the mirror, saying:

"When Fifine is in the mood for chattering, there’s no way to stop her. But she puts on curl-papers like an angel; I shall have the best dressed hair at the ball."

Fifine returned, carrying the curling-iron, smoking hot.

"Come quick; it isn’t too hot."

"It looks all red to me. My dear love, be careful not to burn me, I beseech you."

"Dieu! he’s a perfect little lamb when he’s frightened!—To return to our scene of last night: we had just gone to bed, and I was reading—because, without flattering myself, I am the best reader. Auguste had lent us the Barons von Felsheim, and we were devouring it—that is the word—when, in the middle of a charming chapter, someone knocked at our door, and we heard madame’s voice calling:—‘Mesdemoiselles, why have you a light burning so late?’—At that the most profound silence replaced our bursts of laughter, and to hide the light,—for we didn’t propose to put it out—it occurred to me to put a vessel—you know, a night vessel,—over the candle-stick. That worked very well; she couldn’t see anything. Madame called again, and we didn’t answer. Then madame went away; and when we thought she was back in her room, I took off the protecting vessel.—What do you suppose? The light was really out. We were in despair; we didn’t feel like sleeping, and we didn’t want to be left in the middle of a very interesting chapter, in which there’s something about truffles—and not a match, because we haven’t as yet saved up a sufficient sum to purchase that commodity, for milliner’s apprentices aren’t in the habit of patronizing savings banks. However, we were determined to have a light, and for my own part, I would have gone out and unhooked the street lantern rather than not finish my chapter. Just at that moment we heard your guitar and your voice. Ah! my dear, you have no idea of the effect that produced on us! You were an Orpheus, a demigod!—‘Not in bed yet!’ we shouted all together, and in an instant I was out of bed; I put on the petticoat of modesty, because love of reading shouldn’t carry one so far as to go about naked, and I ran to the door and opened it; but I hadn’t taken two steps on the landing when I felt someone seize my arm, and madame, who was watching at the door, cried:

"‘Aha! so this is the way you sleep, mesdemoiselles! But I propose to find out who it is that dares to leave the room in spite of my orders—to light her candle, I suppose.—I knew too much to make any answer. Madame called to Julie to come up with a light. I got away from her; and while she stood in the doorway to keep me from going back, I ran down to her apartment, put out the candles, and threw the matches out of the window. So madame couldn’t find out who it was that came out, and we passed the time feeling around for each other.—There! your hair’s all done, my friend."

"Thank God!—I remember that you made noise enough.—I must wait till they’re cold before I take them off.—Fifine! you’re a perfect devil! But no matter—I love you sincerely, and if I should ever be rich like Alfred——"

"Ah! then we should see some fine things, shouldn’t we?"

"Yes; you would see—In the first place, wealth wouldn’t make me any different; it’s so absurd to be proud and self-satisfied just because one has a few more yellow boys in one’s pocket! Does it increase one’s merit? I ask you that, Fifine?"

"It is certain that if you were a millionaire, your eyes wouldn’t be any larger."

"Bah! unkind girl! they are large enough to admire you.—Oh! stop that!"

"I have never heard you speak of this Alfred, whose party you are going to."

"He’s a boarding-school friend; he always used to play leap-frog with me. Since then, we have rather lost sight of each other; he is always in his carriage or in the saddle, and I go on foot."

"That’s better for the health."

"Well, with all his fortune Alfred is bored. Anyone can see that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He is weary of pleasure; and then, he’s a rake, a libertine, a man incapable of true love."

"For a friend of yours, you give him a pretty character!"

"A friend of mine! oh! simply a boarding-school acquaintance, I tell you."

"Is he good-looking?"

"Yes, rather; that is to say, an ordinary face, but already worn and lined."

"Introduce him to me."

Robineau rose with an offended air and went to the mirror to remove his curl-papers.

"If I knew that he would make you happy, mademoiselle," he said, "I certainly would not hesitate! But I doubt if you would find in Alfred the profound and sincere affection which I feel for you."

"Dieu! my friend, how you do adore me to-night!"

"Because I’ve no carriage, you talk jestingly of abandoning me. But just let me get wealthy, and my only revenge will be to give you a magnificent country house."

"You must supply it with rabbits, understand, because I am very fond of rabbit stew. But meantime, while monsieur goes to his dance, I’m going to trim a cap."

"Downstairs?"

"No, upstairs."

"Is the shop closed already?"

"What, at nine o’clock? Don’t you follow the example of those evil tongues across the street, who say that the best part of our business is done when the shop is closed. Pretty shopkeepers they are, to talk about other people! The chief partner is bargaining for a place as box-opener at a theatre."

"There! How does my hair look?"

"Delicious, my friend! You’ll suffocate all rivals."

"Oh! all I care for is to be decent, presentable. You see, I make no pretensions."

"That is why you stand hours in front of your glass, practising smiles."

"For you alone, Fifine.—Ah! now where are my gloves?"

"I say, there’ll be a supper, no doubt, where you’re going? Bring me something."

"You expect me to put ices in my pocket, I suppose?"

"There’ll be other things besides ices; I want you to bring me some sweetmeats, or I’ll never put on curl-papers for you again."

"All right—we will see."

"Is monsieur going very far?"

"Rue du Helder."

"The milords’ quarter!—You mean to take a cab, no doubt?"

"I surely shan’t go on foot in this costume.—Let me see—it’s half past nine; I shall be at the Baron de Marcey’s at quarter to ten. That will do."

"Then it wasn’t worth while to make such a terrible fuss, my friend."

"There’s a cabstand almost in front of the house. I wonder if you would be kind enough to go down with me and call one?"

"That’s it; the only thing left for me to do will be to ride behind. But no matter; this is one of my good-natured days; forward!"

Robineau locked his door; Fifine went downstairs with him and called a cab, into which Robineau jumped after pressing the young milliner’s hand affectionately. She watched him go and called to him once more:

"Don’t forget to bring me something good!"

III
RECEPTION AT THE BARON DE MARCEY’S.--A SUPPER PARTY OF YOUNG MEN AND ITS RESULTS

The cab halted in front of a handsome hôtel. There was a long line of private carriages waiting to enter the courtyard; one would have thought that they were taking their owners to the Bouffes, or to see the English actors. There is not so large an audience at the Français when they are playing Molière or Racine; but our actors have not made a special study of the death agony of a moribund; they do not exhibit to us all the dying convulsions of a man who is being murdered, nor make us hear all the hiccoughs of a princess who is starving to death; those pretty little episodes are very pleasant to witness, they excite the nerves of people who need such tableaux to arouse the slightest emotion. And yet there are some people who claim that it is more difficult to act well a scene from Tartufe or Le Misanthrope, than to imitate a scene from the Place de Grève. But let us allow every one to follow his or her taste, and let us be content to congratulate him who still enjoys a play that does not last forty years, and who is moved by a scene in which no one dies.

When he saw the throng of carriages and the brilliantly lighted salons, Robineau said to himself:

"This will be a very numerous, very fashionable and very well assorted affair!"

He at once alighted from his cab, and hurried toward the entrance, passing his hand over his curls and putting on his second glove. Then he went up to the first floor, reflecting thus:

"After all, I am as good as all these people—better perhaps. Even if they do have carriages—what difference does it make to me?"

Robineau said this to himself in order that he might not seem embarrassed and intimidated when he entered the salons; but it did not prevent his being red of face and stiff and awkward when he found himself in the midst of the guests, where he vainly sought Alfred for some time. At last his friend came to him, and, taking his arm, began by indulging in some jesting remarks concerning divers persons present. This gave Robineau time to recover himself; he resumed his self-assurance, his customary smile, and began to cast his eyes upon the ladies, thinking only of making conquests.

"By the way, your father, Monsieur le Baron de Marcey—I have not yet had the honor of paying my respects to him," said Robineau, as he gazed admiringly at some very pretty young ladies who had just entered the salon.

"My father has seen you before; must I present you to him again? It’s the same ceremony every time!"

"It’s a long time since he saw me, my dear fellow, and——"

"That makes no difference; you have one of those faces that no one ever forgets."

As he spoke, Alfred walked away to speak to some ladies, and Robineau murmured:

"I certainly have a face that—I wonder if he meant that for an epigram? that would be very becoming in him.—Ah! there is Monsieur de Marcey."

A man of some forty-eight years was passing Robineau at that moment; he was of tall stature and his carriage was noble and imposing; his strongly marked features were still very handsome, although they seemed to be already fatigued by too intense emotions rather than by years. He was a little bald in front, although his hair was still dark; lastly, his face was habitually serious and almost stern. But to those persons who could read his countenance more understandingly, the expression of his somewhat sombre glance was rather melancholy than severe. However, his black eyes grew softer, and a faint smile played about his lips whenever he looked at his son. Such was the Baron de Marcey.

"Monsieur de Marcey,—I have the honor—I am much flattered——"

The baron glanced at Robineau for an instant, then exclaimed:

"Ah! this is Monsieur Robineau, I believe?"

"Yes, monsieur, an intimate friend of your son, who invited me to come; and I took advantage of——"

"My son’s friends will always be mine, monsieur, and they confer a favor on me by coming to my house."

As he spoke, Monsieur de Marcey bowed to Robineau, and passed on to speak with other guests, while the government clerk puffed himself up and sauntered through the throng, saying to himself:

"Monsieur de Marcey is always extremely amiable to me; indeed I consider him more amiable than his son, because he hasn’t always that mocking air.—Ah! there’s the music; they are going to dance. I think I will dance, too; but with a pretty woman, for I can never keep in step with an ugly one,—it’s no use for me to try."

The orchestra had given the signal; one of Tolbecque’s lovely strains drew the dancers together from all sides, and charmed the ears of those who did not dance, but who, as they watched beauty and innocence chasser and balancer, listened with delight to airs selected from our best composers’ prettiest operas.

Robineau addressed himself too late to several comely young ladies who were already engaged; he was forced to take a partner who had naught in her favor save her youth and a very stylish costume. He heard somebody call her madame la comtesse, and that made him desirous to distinguish himself as her partner; but she seemed to pay very little heed to his airs and graces, and replied only by monosyllables to the complimentary remarks he addressed to her.

"She’s a prude!" Robineau muttered, after he had escorted the countess to her seat; and he proceeded to invite a very attractive young person to whom also he essayed to play the amiable; but she contented herself with smiling at what he said to her, and seemed wholly intent on the dance.

"She’s a fool!" thought Robineau, as he carried his homage elsewhere. But finding that he created no sensation, despite his energetic movements and the smiles he lavished on his partners, he left the ball-room.

"After all," he muttered, "among all these fine ladies there isn’t one who comes up to Fifine! And if Fifine had a tulle gown, and a wreath in her hair, and some of those great bracelets with antique cameos—ah! what a sensation she’d make!—I’ll take a look at the écarté table. I will carelessly bet a five-franc piece.—Ah! the deuce! there are ices; I’ll begin by seizing one on the wing."

Robineau took an ice, and, in order to eat in comfort, seated himself behind two gentlemen of mature years, who were talking together in a small salon between the ball-room and the card-room.

"How he has changed!" observed one of the two gentlemen, looking at Monsieur de Marcey, who happened to pass through the salon.

"Changed! whom do you mean?"

"De Marcey."

"Oh! do you think so?"

"If you had known De Marcey twenty-five years ago, as I did, my dear Dolmont——"

"Parbleu! that’s just it—twenty-five years ago; and it seems to you that it was only yesterday—and that he ought to appear the same to-day."

"No, no, I don’t say that.—Dear De Marcey! We made the Austerlitz campaign together."

"Oho! were you at Austerlitz?"

"Yes, indeed; I am proud to say that I was; and I have been in almost every battle that has been fought since. Now, I am resting."

Robineau took his eyes from his vanilla ice for an instant, to look at the speaker. He saw a man of fifty, whose frank and intelligent face bore more than one scar; his buttonhole was decorated with several orders, and Robineau said to himself:

"This gentleman has well earned his decorations—that is sure!"

"To be sure," rejoined the old soldier’s companion a moment later, "De Marcey is not old; he entered the service early in life, as you did; but so many things have happened since that it always seems as if centuries had passed over our heads."

"For my part, when I think of my campaigns, it seems as if it had all happened no longer ago than yesterday, for I fancy that I am still in the field!"

"He is like me," thought Robineau, "when I think of my first fancy. And yet it was ten years ago. She was a figurante at the Porte-Saint-Martin, and on the day of our first rendezvous we dined at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, Faubourg du Temple. It wasn’t a fashionable restaurant then as it is to-day, and there was no canal to cross to get there; but they served delicious sheep’s-trotters. It seems to me that I am there still. I was eighteen years old then. Ah me! one grows old without perceiving it!"

And Robineau heaved a sigh—which did not prevent his finishing his ice.

"When I say, Dolmont, that De Marcey seems changed to me, I refer to his temperament rather than to his physical aspect. If you had known him long ago—he was always in high spirits and a jovial companion; he used to laugh and joke with us. He was fond of the ladies—oh! he was a great lady’s man. But he was jealous of his mistresses, very jealous! I recall that on various occasions that tendency led him into quarrels; and indeed it was on account of it, I believe, that they married him at twenty-three to a young lady for whom he cared very little. His parents maintained that, with his jealous disposition, if he married for love he would be unhappy. And in fact his marriage began very auspiciously. I knew De Marcey’s first wife; she was a very attractive woman, and I believe that she would have made her husband very happy; unfortunately she died, a year after giving birth to a son. I learned that De Marcey married again after six years; but I was not in Paris then, and De Marcey had left the army. I never knew his second wife."

"He didn’t marry the second time in Paris, but somewhere in the neighborhood of Bordeaux. It seems that his wife’s family had an estate there, and the marriage took place on that property. Indeed, I think that he did not return to Paris with his wife until long after his second marriage."

"And what sort of person was his second wife?"

"Charming! One of those exquisite faces such as the painters succeed in producing occasionally, but which we see much less frequently in the world."

"The deuce!"

"But she had a sad, melancholy air; when she smiled, the smile seemed to conceal a secret grief. I never saw her dance, although she was very young, eighteen at most; but she seemed to shun the pleasures suited to her age, and to go into society solely to please her husband."

"And De Marcey was very fond of her?"

"Oh! he adored her; he seized every opportunity of giving her pleasure. He was untiring in his devotion to her."

"Did he have any children by her?"

"No; but the lovely Adèle—that was the second wife’s name—loved little Alfred dearly, and manifested all a mother’s affection for him. She died after three years; De Marcey’s grief was so violent that for a long time his life was in danger. At last, the sight of his son, meditation, lapse of time——"

"Yes, time! that is the all-powerful remedy. But for all that, I am no longer surprised that his humor is so changed from what it was! One may overcome the most profound sorrow, but it always leaves its traces. It is like the severe wounds, which heal, but of which one always carries the scars."

With that the old soldier rose, his companion did the same, leaving Robineau alone on his chair, which he at once quitted, saying to himself:

"It is very entertaining to listen to other people’s conversation, and it’s instructive, too; you seem to be paying no attention, but you listen; especially when people talk loud, for that means that they are not saying anything that they wish to conceal. Ah! I must listen to the conversation of some of the ladies; that will be even more amusing, because they always sprinkle their talk with wit; when I say always, I mean of course those who have wit.—Yonder are two ladies who seem to be engaged in a most interesting conversation, for they are talking with great animation. There’s a vacant chair beside them."

Robineau nonchalantly took his seat beside two pretty women, and turning his ear toward them as if without design, caught some fragments of their conversation.

"Yes, my dear love, I judged him rightly. I was wise, as you see, to distrust his protestations of love, his ardent oaths, his profound sighs! And yet you cannot conceive with what an air of sincerity he told me that he proposed to be virtuous and faithful henceforth, and to love no one but me! It is ghastly to lie like that!"

Robineau turned his head so that he could see the speaker’s face; and he saw a lovely brunette, whose vivacious and intelligent features expressed at that moment a sentiment of vexation which she tried to conceal beneath a forced smile.

"My dear Jenny, I believe that you are a little annoyed because you put Alfred’s love to the proof."

"Annoyed! on the contrary, I am delighted. I did not believe in it for an instant; his reputation with respect to women is too well established for——"

At that point she lowered her voice and Robineau could not hear the rest of her sentence; but he thought:

"They are talking about Alfred—this is delightful!—She is a person he has been making love to, no doubt. Gad! how amusing it is!"

The other lady, who also was young and pretty, replied after a moment:

"I am inclined to think that I should have more confidence in his friend, Monsieur Edouard Beaumont; he has a less frivolous, less heedless air than Alfred; and he is very good-looking, is Edouard; he has a very pretty figure."

"Mon Dieu! my dear love, I’ll wager that he is no better than other men. It is safer to distrust those cold, reserved manners, too. Nobody is worse than such men, when it comes to deceiving us poor women. With a scapegrace who makes no pretence of concealing what he is, one knows what to expect at all events."

"And that is why you have a weakness for Alfred, I suppose?"

"Oh! never! never! I laughed at his oaths of love. Perhaps it amused me a little to listen to him.—But, although he is agreeable and bright—as to loving him, oh! I promise you that I never dreamed of such a thing. Pray do not think that!"

"If you defend yourself so eagerly, Jenny, I shall end by believing that you adore him."

"Oh! upon my word, I——"

She lowered her voice again. Robineau tilted his chair a little in order to hear; but for several minutes the two friends spoke in such low tones that he could not catch a word. At last the charming Jenny observed aloud:

"You did well, very well. I am sure that it puzzles him tremendously to see us talking together, for he thought that we were at odds. Did he never talk to you about me?"

"Why, no; he talked about nobody but myself."

"Ah, yes! of course. I assure you, Clara, that I shall remain a widow; I shall never marry again!"

"Can anyone be sure of that, my dear? Remember that you are only twenty-two years old."

"An additional reason for not endangering the happiness of my life. Is not what I have known of marriage likely to make me avoid it? Monsieur de Gerville married me when I was eighteen, having never paid court to me; without any idea whether I liked him or not, he asked my parents for my hand. He was rich, so they gave me to him. However, Monsieur de Gerville was young and good-looking. I might have loved him if he had taken the trouble to try to win my love, if he had simply tried to make me think that he loved me. I was such a little idiot then! I believed whatever anyone chose. But no—I was his wife, and he would have considered that he disgraced himself by making love to me, by paying me any attention. He had two or three mistresses who deceived him; but that was much better than loving his wife, who did not deceive him. However, he is dead, and it is my duty to forget the suffering he caused me; but I confess that that taste of married life left me with a very poor opinion of men in general. I believe them to be, as a rule, selfish, inconstant, unjust to women: they must have everything, and we must do without everything; they are pleased to be unfaithful, but they demand constancy from us; they are good-humored so long as we are fortunate enough to please them, but as soon as they begin to sigh for another woman, they do not give us another thought; instead of trying to conceal their unfaithfulness by redoubling their attentions and consideration for us, they become sulky, capricious, bad-tempered; and if we are so unfortunate as to manifest any regret at the change in their treatment of us, they accuse us of being jealous and exacting!"

"O Jenny! Jenny!"

"You will find out, my dear Clara, that it is all true. In fact, what happy couples can you mention? Only those where the wives close their eyes to their husbands’ infidelities. Oh! when we let them do whatever they choose, go in and out and run after other women, without ever calling them to account for their actions, then we are what they call good wives, and they deign to offer us an arm once a month."

"I see that Alfred’s inconstancy has soured you!"

"What do I care for Monsieur Alfred’s inconstancy? I tell you again, I listened to him only for the fun of it, and I never took his declarations of love seriously. However, I am very glad that I know—that I conceived the idea of——"

Here they lowered their voices once more; and as they had reached a very interesting point, and as Robineau was most desirous to learn what the idea was that had occurred to Madame de Gerville, he tilted his chair a little more in the hope of hearing. But the weight of his body overturned it, and before he could recover himself, he rolled at the feet of the two friends.

As they had paid no attention to their neighbor, they were not a little surprised when that gentleman fell almost on their laps. But Robineau rose hastily, stammered an apology and walked away, muttering:

"They polish their floors a great deal too much! It’s almost too slippery to stand up! I don’t understand why all the dancers don’t fall on top of one another. To be sure, they walk instead of dancing.—Curse that chair! I was just going to learn the idea of that pretty brunette—Madame Jenny de Gerville. I will remember the name, and I’ll drive Alfred crazy. Ah! it’s very amusing!"

Robineau returned to the ball-room and looked about for other groups of people conversing. He heard laughter near at hand, and found that it came from two ladies who were not dancing; there happened to be a vacant chair behind them and Robineau took possession of it.

"These ladies are laughing," he said to himself; "I’ll wager that they are making fun of some other women among the company. I mustn’t miss this! I didn’t have time to look at them, but I will scrutinize them when they turn.—Attention!"

"Oh! what a ridiculous creature that man must be, and how I would have liked to see him dancing with you! You must point him out to me when you see him."

"Oh, yes! never fear; he is easily recognizable. I can’t imagine where Monsieur de Marcey found him!"

"Good!" thought Robineau; "they are making fun of someone—I was sure of it."

And he moved nearer to them, taking care not to tilt his chair.

"Just imagine, my dear love, a short, fat, heavy, awkward man, with a big nose, stupid little eyes, lips that he presses together when he talks, and hair curled so tight that he looks like a negro!"

"Ha! ha! ha!"

"And with it all, such a pretentious manner! He asked me to dance—they were just forming for the first contra-dance; I accepted, and during the dance he tried to play the amiable, but he had nothing to say except the most commonplace things, all so flat and wornout that it made me very sorry for him!—When he found that I made no reply to those entertaining remarks, he took the liberty to squeeze my hand while we were dancing!—Ha! ha! ha!"

At that point, the lady who was speaking turned, and Robineau recognized the countess with whom he had danced the first contra-dance. The blood rushed to his face. Meanwhile, the lady, who instantly recognized the gentleman of whom she was speaking, with difficulty restrained an inclination to laugh, and gently touched her friend’s knee. But before the latter had time to turn, Robineau was already far away. He was beside himself with rage, and glared furiously about, muttering:

"Well, upon my word! that woman must be a great joker! I don’t know whether it was I she was talking about, but in any event, I hope she may find many of my kind!—But she’s too ugly to have any attention.—To say that I squeezed her hand! that is false! These ugly women are forever slandering us men; it’s because they are furious at not finding any lovers."

Having lost his desire to listen to conversations, Robineau bent his steps toward the card-room, making such a horrible grimace that Alfred, meeting him beside one of the tables, stopped him and said:

"Mon Dieu! what a face you are making, my dear Robineau! Have you been having hard luck?"

"I have lost three hundred francs!"

"That’s nothing; you will win them back." And Alfred walked away, while Robineau said to himself:

"He takes things easily! That’s nothing, he says! If I had lost three hundred francs, I should never get over it! But I am very sure not to lose any such sum, as I have only twenty-one francs fifty. I must risk that. I will try to win; but they say that it isn’t very prudent to play écarté at these large parties. However, at Monsieur le Baron de Marcey’s there can’t be any but honest people. No matter; I am going to bet on the one who is winning—that’s the best thing to do.—Who is having the luck?" asked Robineau as he drew near the card-table.

Unluckily for him, the luck changed; in a very short time he lost his twenty-one francs. Thereupon, making every effort to conceal his ill-humor, he turned away from the table.

"Good-bye to the trip into the country and the dinner at the restaurant on Sunday!" he thought. "Fifine will have to dine at her aunt’s, and I will play the guitar. It was well worth while for me to put myself out, dress in my best clothes and hire a cab, to come to a grand party!—It is very amusing, isn’t it? Women who laugh at you; men who stare at you as if they would like to walk on you; gamblers who win your money without giving you time to see where you are! Fifine is right: one has much more fun at Madame Saqui’s or at the Funambules when they play Le Fantôme Armé.—Let us take a look at the buffet. If I can’t put ices in my pocket, I can put some oranges and cakes."

Robineau went to the refreshment room; there were no oranges left, but there was an abundance of cakes. He stuffed his pockets with them while the servants brought refreshments, and he was about to make for the stairway when Edouard appeared in front of him. The young author stopped.

"Good evening, Monsieur Robineau," he said; "I haven’t seen you before—there are so many people here!"

"True; and look you, between ourselves, I don’t consider these enormous crushes very amusing; I confess that I have had enough of it, and I am going away."

"Already? Why, it’s only two o’clock. Oh! you must stay; Alfred wants us to take supper in his apartment after the party, and talk nonsense."

"Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, if we are to have supper. The devil! if I had known, I wouldn’t have eaten so much sweet stuff. But no matter—I will stay."

"Let us walk about and look for pretty partners."

"I will gladly walk about; but as to dancing, I am done."

Robineau slapped his pockets softly, to flatten them, and followed Edouard, saying to himself:

"I am not sorry to be seen talking with an author; I will talk theatre with him, and people will think that he and I are working together on a play.—I will bet that you prefer the play to an evening party, eh, Monsieur Edouard?"

"That depends; there are pleasant parties and very tiresome plays."

"Oh! of course; but I mean to say that it is very pleasant to be an author.—I must tell you of a plot—I say a plot, but I have a dozen in my desk!—Oh! I have some astonishingly good ones!"

"I believe it."

"Plots for grand operas, opéra-comiques, vaudevilles, melodramas. Oh! I do a little of everything; I have an inexhaustible imagination, and if I had time——"

"Yes, time is always what those people lack who produce nothing."

"That is so, isn’t it? But I will show them to you. What I should like more than anything would be to have free admission to the theatres.—Ah! to be able to go behind the scenes, to see the actresses at close quarters, and the ballet-dancers, who make pirouettes, so they say, as they bid you good-evening! What a lot of conquests one might make!"

"Not so many as you think; you get accustomed to the wings, as you do to the auditorium, and you talk with a Turk or a Polish girl without noticing their costumes."

"Of course; habit—I understand; but to produce a play, to superintend the rehearsals and the performance."

"It is delightful when one succeeds; but even so, what vexations have to be undergone before that point is reached! Rehearsals where people are never prompt, where they talk instead of studying their parts, which makes it necessary to rehearse forty times what they should have learned in fifteen; actors who want to make over their parts, managers who want to rewrite your plays, actresses who don’t like their costumes, claqueurs who want all your tickets, and last of all the public, that will have none of your play: such is often the result of six weeks of discomfort, annoyances and hard work!"

"He says all this to take away any inclination on my part to write plays," thought Robineau. "All authors are like that; they try to disgust beginners. I won’t show him my plots; he would steal my ideas, and then say they were his own.—You are rather inclined to look at the dark side of things now, Monsieur Edouard," he said aloud, "because you are still sore from your failure."

"Oh! I assure you that I have forgotten all about it."

"Bah! nonsense! For my part, if I should be hissed, I think that I should be in a horrible humor.—By the way, have you seen your little sempstress again? But I suppose that she is already replaced, is she not?"

"Faith, no! I am beginning to be tired of these bonnes fortunes, in which, as Larochefoucauld says, there is everything except love. I think that I should prefer a little love and less pleasure."

"That is like me, I am for sentiment, for what is called pure sentiment. I have adored all the women I ever knew, even my figurante at the Porte-Saint-Martin; and on their side, they have all treated me with peculiar favor; I am their spoiled child."

"You are very fortunate, Monsieur Robineau!—For my part, I would like to find—I don’t know just how to express it, but it seems to me that there should be a secret sympathy acting at the same time on two hearts that are made for each other."

"Yes, I understand you; that is what happened to me with my first inclination, whom I met at the Bal du Colisée. We fell while waltzing, both at the same time. I instantly discovered a secret sympathy therein."

Edouard allowed a faint smile to escape him, and drew near to a quadrille in which some very pretty women were performing.

"What do you think of that little blonde, Monsieur Robineau?"

"Why, nothing extraordinary; a good complexion, and youth; but she doesn’t turn her feet out enough."

"You are hard to suit! I think her very attractive; her eyes are lovely, her bearing full of grace. She does not seem to have made a careful study of dancing, but anyone can see that she enjoys it.—And what of the tall one, opposite?"

"She is not pretty; her nose is much too long, and there seems to be no end to her arms; her hair is badly arranged——"

"Well, I think that she has a very bright face, and it seems to me that, while she is not pretty, she must be attractive. I will wager that her conversation is very agreeable—And that stout brunette that’s dancing now?"

"She is a perfect bundle, and she tears about like one possessed."

"But see how light she is, despite her stoutness! What vivacity gleams in her eyes!"

"I say, Monsieur Edouard, you claim to be weary of bonnes fortunes, and yet you find all women to your liking; they all attract you!"

"Although I am weary of ephemeral liaisons, I did not say that I proposed to love no more; on the contrary, I am at present in search of an opportunity to fall in love in earnest."

"Well, well! so am I, messieurs," cried Alfred, who had stopped beside his two friends and had overheard Edouard’s last words. "I have a heart to place, and may the devil take me if I have known what to do with it for the last fortnight!—Here are plenty of good-looking women, however!"

"Faith! messieurs," said Robineau, throwing out his chest, "I protest that I contemplate all the ladies with a most indifferent eye. I am a philosopher, you see; besides, I have what I need, and it would be difficult for me to find anything better."

"Aha! Robineau, then you must show her to us. You must ask us to dine with her."

"Upon my word! do you mean to say that you think that she’s a woman for mixed parties? a woman to be taken where there are men?"

"Are you trying to make us think that she’s a duchess?"

"Why—look you—that might be."

"Ha! ha!—What on earth have you got in your pockets, Robineau? Are you wearing false hips to please your Dulcinea?"

Robineau blushed and put his hands over his pockets as he replied:

"It’s some papers that I forgot to take out of my coat."

"If you danced with such pockets as that, you must have produced a tremendous effect!—Ha! ha! it’s worse than Mère Gigogne!—Are these ministerial papers, too?"

Robineau turned away in a pet and threw himself on a sofa, heedless of the fact that he was crushing his cakes; and there he remained until the end of the ball, when Alfred came to him and said:

"We are going up to my rooms, Robineau; we are going to finish the night at the table, with a few faithful friends. Will you join us?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Then make up your mind to leave your couch, to which you seem to be glued like a pasha."

Robineau followed Alfred. Young De Marcey’s apartment was above his father’s, and contained everything that luxury, refinement and variety could suggest. It was a retreat that any petite-maitresse might have envied.

Four young men, as heedless and reckless as the master of the place, soon appeared in response to their friend’s invitation, and with Edouard and Robineau completed the party.

"Messieurs," said Alfred, presenting Robineau to his young friends, "allow me to introduce an old school-mate, a very good fellow, albeit slightly irascible when you talk to him of his conquests or his employment. Do not pay any attention to the size of his pockets; he maintains that it makes him more graceful. He is a little out of temper now because he lost some money at écarté; but we will make him tipsy and he will be a delightful companion."

All the young men laughed, and Robineau followed their example, crying:

"That devilish Alfred! always joking! But, as for making me tipsy, I defy you to do it, messieurs. I have a hard head, I tell you; I have never been known to get drunk."

"On my honor, Alfred, your quarters are delightful. Everything is so fresh and bright, and decorated with such taste! It is an enchanting spot," said one of the young men, as he walked about the apartment.

"Faith, messieurs, if you like it, so much the better. But I have nothing to do with it; my father looks after everything that concerns me, and he has lately had all the furnishings of my apartments replaced, saying that what I had was not handsome enough. I let him do as he pleases."

"Nobody can deny, Alfred, that you have a most agreeable father!"

"Oh! as to that, messieurs, I do him full justice. He is so kind that I am sometimes tempted to reproach him for indulging me too much. If I incur debts, he pays them; if I want money, he gives it to me; if I express a fear that my follies displease him, he embraces me, saying: ‘You are young, and you must enjoy yourself; be happy, my dear boy—that is all I desire.’ And I give you my word, he is so kind that I often pause in the act of committing some extravagance; for I have no secrets from my father, and I should be terribly distressed if I did anything that grieved him. Yes, messieurs, his indulgence will keep me in the paths of prudence, whereas, if he had thwarted me, if he had been harsh toward me, I should have done a hundred times as many wild and foolish things."

"In short, each of you loves the other dearly," said Edouard; "and it seems to me that one should always be happy to have one’s father for a friend."

"My father was very fond of me too," said Robineau; "however, he broke a cane over my back one day because I had lost my handkerchief. He was orderly to the last degree, was my father, but he loved me dearly all the same."

"To the table, messieurs, to the table, and let us see who can say the most foolish things! After an evening of dignified behavior, it is pleasant to take one’s ease for a while."

They took their seats at the table, and attacked a fine fowl and a ham roasted in currant jelly. Those who had danced a great deal were hungry; the others were incited by their example, and Robineau forgot that he had stuffed himself with cakes, in order to do honor to the sugar-cured ham, which he considered delicious. Bordeaux and chambertin circulated freely; the conversation became more and more animated, and as they drank they laughed and jested; each had his anecdote to tell, each had some love-making adventure with which he was anxious to regale his friends; the subject of women is inexhaustible, and men are always glad to return to it, for there is no man to whom it does not recall pleasant memories.

"Messieurs," said a young man, who seemed to be rather inflammable, "there is one incontestable truth, and that is that if we wish to be loved by the women, we must not love anyone of them."

"Oh! upon my word!"

"I leave it to Alfred; am I not right?"

"Faith! I am inclined to think just the opposite; for I am rather fortunate with the fair sex, and yet I love them all."

"Very good; you love them all, therefore you love none of them; which is just what I said."

"It would be a great pity, messieurs," said Edouard, "to think that a deeply rooted sentiment may not be reciprocated; and that as soon as we are really in love with a woman, she will cease to love us."

"When a man is in love, he loses all his advantages, and he is stupid enough to be carved."

"That is true," said Robineau, "he is terribly stupid."

"The woman we love doesn’t think us stupid, when she returns our love."

"Monsieur Edouard is right," said Robineau, tossing off a glass of chambertin; "when she returns our love, why, that is another matter! it is altogether different!"

"But when she doesn’t return it," said one of the young men, "then she makes sport of us and laughs at our sighs; she makes us look like downright jackasses, and we don’t discover it."

"We don’t even suspect it," said Robineau, filling his glass with chambertin again, "and that’s the amusing part of it."

"A woman, messieurs," rejoined Edouard, "who laughs at a man because he is really in love with her, such a woman is a flirt, and it seems to me that society is not made up entirely of flirts. How many passionate, loving hearts there are, ready to respond to our love! How many women who cannot help loving a scapegrace in secret, and who exert every effort to conceal what they feel!"

"They are innumerable," said Robineau.

"Faith! coquettish or sentimental, artless or passionate, they are fascinating," said Alfred; "except, however, when they run after us, follow us and set spies to watch all our movements."

"Oh! the devil! a woman who follows a man is a horrible creature! In the first place, it’s very bad form! But such a thing is never seen now."

"Yes it is, sometimes."

"For my part, messieurs," said Robineau, who persisted in talking constantly, although his tongue was beginning to thicken, "when a woman follows me, and I discover it—for when I don’t discover it, I close my eyes—but when she follows me, I say to her: ‘My dear love, you are following me about and I don’t like it. When I choose to be with you, I will tell you so; but if I choose to speak to another woman, I don’t need your presence in order to make myself agreeable; on the contrary, it paralyzes my faculties.’"

"Bravo! bravo!" laughed the young men; "he talks like Cicero."

"Now for the champagne, messieurs," said Alfred.

"Champagne it is!"

"Yes, champagne!" cried Robineau, "and let’s see who will drink the most; I never get drunk."

The corks popped, they partook freely of the champagne, and soon everybody was speaking at the same moment and each imagined that he was being listened to. But amid the uproar and the outbursts of laughter, Robineau succeeded in making himself heard because he shouted louder than all the others, and the tipsier he grew, the more he insisted upon arguing to prove that wine did not go to his head.

"My dear friend," he said, addressing Alfred, "you haven’t a suspicion that I am in the secret of your love-affairs, of your conquests; that is to say, a sweet little brunette, a widow; I don’t propose to mention her name, because we must be discreet, but it seems that you made love to her in great shape, and that the said Madame de Gerville set out to put your constancy to the test——"

"Madame de Gerville! how do you know that? How do you know Madame de Gerville?"

"In the first place, I haven’t said that it was Madame de Gerville; I didn’t mention any names, did I, messieurs?"

"No, no!" cried the young men, laughing heartily; "oh, no! he knows too much for that! anybody can see that he never gets tight!"

"Why, messieurs," said Robineau, putting a glass of champagne to his lips, "I swallow this like milk; I have a head of iron!—But all the same, Alfred, the young widow says that you’re a monster! a perfidious wretch! It would seem that she was really taken with you."

"I don’t know whether Madame de Gerville was taken with me; but I confess that I was deeply in love with her,—so much so that for a moment I thought it was serious. Jenny is lively, amiable, clever; but one fine day I met a certain Clara at her house; I didn’t know that she was her particular friend; there are many women who see one another every day, but don’t love one another. This Clara is very attractive too; I told her that I considered her a charming creature—the most natural thing in the world; but it seems that she repeated it to Madame de Gerville, and that Madame de Gerville didn’t like it. Faith! it matters little to me. To the devil with constancy! I know nothing but pleasure myself!—Let us drink to the health of all pretty women!"

"Ah! messieurs, everybody must live! here’s to the ladies in general!" said Edouard.

"Yes," said Robineau, holding out his glass to touch Edouard’s, "the ladies in general! and in particular, too; for I have a particular one—ha! ha!—and a solid one, too! Virtue personified, with a wanton air, and plenty of morals—the whole disguised as a milliner."

"Aha! so your duchess is only a milliner now!" said Alfred! "and you wouldn’t invite her to dine with us!"

"Well, messieurs, what’s the odds, after all? What does rank amount to when beauty is in question?"

"He is right. Haven’t kings been known to marry shepherdesses? The ancients weren’t so proud as we are. Did not Shechem, the son of King Hamor, marry Dinah, the shepherd Jacob’s daughter? Did not one of the Pharaohs of Egypt fall in love with Sarah, a shepherd’s sister?"

"Very good! in that case, long live the grisettes! I know of no one like a grisette for the combination of love and dancing; for patching your breeches when you tear them, for keeping your breakfast hot in the morning and lighting your lamp at night. Just go and ask some fine lady of fashion, such as I saw here to-night, to sew on a button or mend your suspenders—you’d be well received, wouldn’t you?—Long live the grisettes! I stick to that!"

"Long live the grisettes!" echoed the young men, laughing; and they plied Robineau with drink, because he was beginning not to know what he was saying, and that greatly entertained the young men, especially Alfred, who was not sorry to hear him contradict, when he was drunk, the lies into which his self-conceit had led him when he was sober.—Liars should never drink too much. The old proverb, in vino veritas, is true. How many people there are who would make fools of themselves in their cups, if they did not take care to keep sober! What reckless admissions, what piquant confessions we should hear, if—But the ladies never get tipsy!

"So it seems, Robineau, you’ve a very pretty milliner for a mistress?" said Alfred, filling his friend’s glass.

"Pretty, messieurs! Why, I don’t mean to say that her face is absolutely beyond criticism; and there are some defects in the contour, too. But her figure! oh! it’s like a model! If she was here, I’d have her stand up on this table, so that you could admire her. In short, she is Fifine! that tells the whole story!"

"Ah! her name is Fifine, is it?"

"Yes, messieurs; a charming girl! a regular dragon! who has never been able to resist an invitation to drink,—that is when she took a fancy to the man."

"And she took a fancy to you at once, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes! instantly; that is to say, she made me run about a good deal. And the boxes I carried! and the rolls I paid for! How I did pay for them! She is decidedly fond of rolls, is Fifine.—No matter; here’s her health, messieurs!"

"Fifine’s health!" replied the young men. This toast moved Robineau to tears; he took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, and pulled from his pocket with it, and scattered about the floor and on the table, all the cakes he had purloined, which had became as flat as pie crust. The young men roared with laughter, and Alfred emptied Robineau’s other pocket on his plate, crying:

"Here’s a provident fellow, messieurs; he put his dessert in his pocket."

"It was for my canary, messieurs," faltered Robineau, dumfounded for an instant by the spectacle of the little cakes; "for Fifine’s canary, I mean, who says ‘kiss me quick’ like a starling.—Still, you understand, it was only a joke, a wager; I am not reduced to that means of getting bird food. Not that the loss of my twenty-one francs doesn’t embarrass me a good deal; but——"

"I thought you had lost more than three hundred?" said Alfred.

"The deuce! three hundred francs! A copying clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year! Why, that would be more than two months’ salary!"

"You are mistaken; you earn a hundred louis, and you are soon to have an increase."

"Nonsense! A hundred louis! And as for getting an increase, my deputy-chief, who rules the roost, told me only this morning that, if I didn’t write better, they would be obliged to discharge me. That sounds well from him, when his writing is like fly tracks, and he earns six thousand francs! It seems to me that he ought to write better than me.—Well, messieurs, you don’t seem to be drinking; I was sure that I would beat you all!"

The young men were, in fact, beginning to yawn; Alfred tried in vain to wake them up—he too was overcome with drowsiness. The young men took their hats and bade one another good-night, pretending to be very firm on their legs.

It was broad daylight, and the streets were already alive with workingmen on their way to work; the peasants were returning leisurely to the country from the market, where they had been to sell their vegetables. The fresh, ruddy faces of the husbandman and the mechanic formed a striking contrast to the pallid faces of our young rakes; but the former had slept, while the latter had been up all night and were about to retire when the others were already beginning their day’s work.

Robineau left the hôtel with the young men. When he was alone in the street, he had some difficulty in making up his mind what to do; the houses seemed to be moving about, and the very earth to be unstable beneath his feet. He gazed with a frightened expression at the people who passed; and it is probable that they detected something peculiar in his face or his costume, for they laughed as they looked at him. Determined, however, to overcome what he took for a passing dizziness, Robineau pulled his hat over his eyes, and, exerting himself to the utmost to maintain the perpendicular, ran all the way home without stopping, and arrived there completely exhausted.

The first person Robineau met on the staircase was Fifine, who was going down to buy some milk for her breakfast.

"What! have you just come home?" she asked Robineau, who was trying vainly to put his key in the lock.

"Yes, my dear love, the party is just done."

"The party! why, it’s been daylight a long while; it’s after six o’clock.—Well! what makes you fumble at your door like that?"

"I don’t know what’s got into my key, Fifine, but it simply won’t go into the lock."

"Give it to me; I’ll find a way to unlock it."

Fifine opened the door, and exclaimed, after looking at Robineau more attentively:

"Mon Dieu! what a face! Your eyes are coming out of your head!"

"I don’t know what’s the matter with me, my dear; but this much is certain, that I don’t feel very well."

"Oh! I see well enough what the matter is; it seems to me that you have been having a good bout!"

Robineau had thrown himself into a chair, and was sighing piteously. Fifine followed him and stood gazing at him with a scornful shrug. At last, finding that he said nothing, but continued to sigh, she exclaimed:

"How much longer are you going to groan like that? You seem to have come back from your ball in fine spirits!"

"Ah! Fifine, that is because I consider a ball a very foolish thing!—These great parties—the trouble one has to take in dressing—all for the sake of being bored to death!—Ah! I should have done much better to keep my money to go into the country with you."

"Oho! I see how it is; monsieur has lost his money at écarté; and then morality comes to the front."

"Yes, my darling girl, I have lost my all! I have nothing left!"

"I wish all your écarté players had the jaundice, and you too!"

"I don’t know if I have the jaundice, but I feel very sick at my stomach."

"Oh! I believe you; your disappointment evidently didn’t interfere with your eating and drinking."

"I took almost nothing, I assure you; but there was a magnificent supper."

"Did you bring me any good things?"

"I had my pockets full; and I don’t know how it happened, but I haven’t anything at all now!"

"Ah! I recognize you there! How kind of you!"

"Fifine, if you find fault with me, I shall be ill."

"That means that your supper was too much for you. What a charming creature—a lover like this, who goes off to enjoy himself with other people, and comes home with an attack of indigestion!"

"Don’t abandon me, Fifine, I implore you!"

"That’s it! I must nurse him now!—Well, stay there; keep quiet, and I’ll make you some tea."

"Oh, yes! make me some tea; I don’t want to drink anything else."

The young milliner hastened downstairs and bought all that she needed for Robineau, who had a severe attack of indigestion. But Fifine was active, quick-witted and skilful; in an instant she lighted a fire, heated some water and gave the sick man a cup of tea. Thanks to her attentions, he felt better after a little, and at each cup of tea that the girl gave him, he cried:

"Ah! I shall remember your kindness, Fifine; I won’t spend my money with anybody but you. I wish I had a crown to offer you, and even then I should not think that I had paid you for your devotion.—As for these big parties, I shan’t go to any more of them. Society offers no temptations to me;—a cottage and you—that is true happiness!"

IV
UNEXPECTED FORTUNE.—A RIDE.—THE EFFECTS OF WEALTH

A week had passed since the ball at Monsieur de Marcey’s. The baron had left Paris on the following day, to visit one of his estates some leagues from the capital. He was in the habit of absenting himself quite often, either to visit some friend, or to inspect his various estates, or simply in search of diversion; but his absences did not ordinarily last more than ten or twelve days. When Monsieur de Marcey set out upon one of these little trips, his son very rarely accompanied him. Alfred, on his side, followed all his own fancies; he went wherever he chose, stayed in the city or in the country, untrammelled by the baron in any respect.

Alfred was in his own apartment, dressing—a very serious occupation for a dandy; but he was doing it carelessly, because for the moment there was no one whom he was especially desirous to please. To be sure he still gave a thought to Madame de Gerville from time to time, for the vivacious Jenny had really attracted him; but she had taken offence because he had thought Clara pretty and had told her so. Alfred, who could not understand how a woman could take offence at anything so natural, had done nothing to appease Jenny’s anger; and as he dressed, he said to himself:

"Women are becoming unreasonably exacting! They would like us not to notice that a woman we happen to have on our arm is pretty; but they are very willing that we should think ugly women pretty. Oh! they are exceedingly kind to those who are ugly; they persist in assuring us that they are good-looking; ‘you are too particular,’ they will say; ‘that woman is not bad-looking.’—But when we say: ‘Look! there’s a lovely woman!’ they cry: ‘Mon Dieu! where in heaven’s name are your eyes? I thought that you had better taste than that. What good points do you see in her?’—Mon Dieu! mesdames, why don’t you remember that one is never a just judge in his own cause? You may say what you please, but men will always be better able than you to detect in a woman that indefinable something that imparts charm to a face which you consider very ordinary; and, by the same token, you should be more just to men than we are."

Alfred was disturbed in his reflections by a great noise in his salon, and an instant later the door of his dressing-room was suddenly thrown open, and Robineau, rushing in like a bombshell, threw himself into his arms so violently that he overturned a very dainty washstand, at which Albert was performing his ablutions.

"Oh! my friend! my dear friend!" cried Robineau, whose face was transfigured by excitement, "how happy I am! Pray embrace me! No, it is my place to embrace you!—Ah! you don’t know,—you have no suspicion!"

"What I do know is that you rush in here like a madman," rejoined Alfred, "and that you have broken a most exquisite washstand from Jacob’s—a perfectly beautiful thing."

"I don’t care for that, my friend; I’ll give you another—two, three, if you choose! I’ll give you anything you want!"

Alfred scrutinized Robineau and tried to read in his eyes, while Robineau tried to calm himself a little and to make himself understood.

"My dear Alfred, my joy, my bewilderment must seem extraordinary to you—I can understand that; they produce the same effect on me, and there are times when I think I am dreaming. But it isn’t a dream, thank God!—When I left you a week ago, after your ball, what was I?"

"Faith! you were drunk."

"That isn’t what I mean.—I was still a mere clerk, a humble copyist at fifteen hundred francs a year."

"Are you the chief of a bureau now?"

"Better than that, my friend!—I have consigned the bureau to all the devils!—I have twenty-five thousand francs a year!"

"Twenty-five thousand?"

"Yes, my friend! yes, I, Jules-Raoul Robineau! I am going to set up a carriage! I am rich—almost as rich as you; not quite so rich yet to be sure, but it may come. When one is on the road to wealth—Yes—wait a minute, till I sit down. I am exhausted! Since I have had twenty-five thousand francs a year, I have suffered from palpitations; indeed, there are times when I really can’t breathe!"

Robineau threw himself on a couch, took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, loosened the waistband of his trousers so that he could breathe more easily, in fact, made himself perfectly comfortable. It was plain that money had already produced its effect, and that he was no longer the humble government clerk who bowed to the floor before he ventured to take a chair in the salons of his friend the Baron de Marcey. But wealth long ago proved its power to change the temper, the disposition, the aspect and manners of a person, and it is probable that the lessons of the past will always be thrown away, because men will be no better to-morrow than they were yesterday.

Alfred, who considered that there was no reason why his friend’s newly acquired wealth should prevent him from washing, had resumed his suddenly interrupted occupation, and waited tranquilly for Robineau to explain himself more at length. At last, after putting one foot on a stool, and looking about for a chair on which to put the other, the ex-clerk continued:

"My dear fellow, you must have heard me say that I had an uncle who sailed for the Indies when he was very young."

"Oh, yes! and you have never heard from him, and he has come home enormously rich. That’s what happens in all the vaudevilles."

"I am not talking about vaudevilles.—This uncle, my father’s brother, left home.—My dear parents never heard of him again.—They died, leaving me nothing but an education, which, I venture to say, is——"

"Go on, go on! I was at school with you, and I know that somebody else always had to write your translations and your themes; but no matter!"

"Yes; let us drop the Latin.—Yesterday, my dear fellow, when I returned from the department, I found a letter at my rooms. I opened it; it was from a notary, inviting me to call at once at his office, provided with my papers, certificate of baptism, etc. I didn’t quite know what to expect from a letter from a notary; but I complied with his invitation instantly. The notary asked me if I had any parents, and all sorts of details about my family; at last, my dear Alfred, when I had answered all his questions, and proved that I was really Jules-Raoul Robineau, son of Benoît-Etienne Robineau and Cécile Desboulloir, he said to me without any other preamble:

"‘Monsieur, your uncle, Gratien Robineau, has recently deceased at Havre, where he had just landed. He had turned all his fortune into cash, and proposed to pass the rest of his life in Paris, when death, which he had defied a hundred times in distant lands, struck him down as he reached the haven. Your uncle has left you all his property, and it amounts to about five hundred thousand francs.’"

"Five hundred thousand francs!"

"Ah! my friend, you can imagine my delight, my amazement. I almost fainted, and the notary had to give me vinegar and salts."

"What! you, Robineau, a philosopher, a bachelor without ambition, who despised riches,—you fainted when you learned that you had inherited a fortune?"

"Oh! my dear fellow, a man may be a philosopher, you know—that’s all right; indeed it’s the best thing one can do when one has to endure privations; but he may have a heart all the same, and be easily moved; and five hundred thousand francs! I thought at first that that meant a million a year, but, on figuring it out, I found that it was only twenty-five thousand francs at five per cent.—But when a man is sharp and knows how to go about it, he can make his money bring in six or eight or ten per cent.—Isn’t that so, my friend?"

"My dear Robineau, I know very well how to spend money, but I know absolutely nothing about investing it."

"Of course not! You have never been a clerk in the Treasury!"

"However, if I should give you any advice, it would be to invest your money in solid securities, consols or real estate. It seems to me that a man who has been accustomed to live on fifteen hundred francs a year may do very well with twenty thousand; and it would be better to have no more than that and have it perfectly safe, than to expose your fortune to the risks of business. That is my opinion, my dear Robineau; a man may be very heedless about his own concerns and yet advise others wisely; so you will do well to——"

Robineau, who seemed to grew impatient toward the end of Alfred’s harangue, had risen and was walking about the room humming; at last he interrupted his friend.

"All right! all right!" he cried; "I thank you for your advice, but I flatter myself that I shall be able to manage my fortune as well as any other man. Let us drop the subject, my friend, and think only of pleasures, of merry-making. In my opinion, when a man is rich, life should be simply a torrent of enjoyments.—Finish your dressing and let’s go out to breakfast; I invite you to breakfast with me at the Café Anglais, or the Café de la Bourse, or Véry’s, if you choose."

"You come too late, my dear Robineau; I have breakfasted."

"What’s the odds? You can begin again."

"No indeed! Do you think that because one is rich, one can eat every minute of the day without making one’s self sick?"

"The devil! that’s a pity. I have already had some coffee and tea, but I want a déjeuner à la fourchette—that’s better form.—By the way, my dear Alfred, as to form I will take your advice. I know that you follow the fashions, and I propose to follow them too, strictly.—Twenty-five thousand francs a year! Why, just imagine my joy!"

"Faith, I congratulate you; for you are a good fellow at bottom."

"If you knew how many plans I already have in my head! I mean to do so many things that I don’t know where to begin!—But let us go to breakfast, I beg; you can pretend to eat."

The two young men were about to go out when Edouard appeared. Robineau did not give him time to bid his friend good-morning, but threw his arms about his neck, embraced him and apprized him of the change that had taken place in his fortune. Edouard quietly congratulated him, and Robineau could not understand why the news did not produce a greater effect on him; he conceived that all those who were about him ought to be equally excited and enchanted on learning that he had twenty-five thousand francs a year.

"I came to ask you to breakfast with me," Edouard said to Alfred.

Giving the latter no time to reply, Robineau seized Edouard’s arm and cried:

"I am going to take you with us; we will breakfast together, yes, and dine too, if you have time; and while we are at the table, I’ll tell you my plans, my ideas.—Look, here’s a coat that I bought yesterday ready-made; I was in a hurry to have a new one. It fits me rather well, eh?—Let us go downstairs, and I’ll show you my cabriolet."

"What! have you bought a cabriolet and horses, already?"

"No, I have hired until I can buy them. I must have other lodgings; I can’t keep my cabriolet in my present fourth floor apartment; I am going to look for one with a stable and carriage house.—Mon Dieu! how many things I have to do! Really, I had no idea that wealth kept one so busy."

Alfred and Edouard glanced at each other with a smile; then they followed Robineau, who could not keep still, but ran through the rooms puffing like an ox.

They went downstairs, Robineau in the lead; he called his servant and shouted to him to get up behind his carriage.

"We shall founder your horse," said Alfred; "I might take my own cabriolet for Edouard and myself."

"No, no," said Robineau, "I prefer to go together. My horse is strong; at all events, if he isn’t a good one, I’ll make them give me another to-morrow. Oh! I see to it that I am well served, I do!—Get up behind, François; I will drive."

They all entered Robineau’s cabriolet; he seated himself in the middle, took the reins and essayed to drive, because he was convinced that as soon as one is rich, one knows everything by instinct. He plied the whip vigorously, pulled the reins this way and that, and tormented his horse, who grazed curbstones and pedestrians every instant; and while his companions laughed at his exertions and at his manner of driving, he locked his wheel in the wheel of a cab, while trying to avoid a dray.

The cabman swore and said that he must be a duffer to run into his wheel; Robineau swore too, in order not to seem to be in the wrong; but his oaths did not suffice to extricate him from the fix in which he had involved himself; and, realizing that he would never get out of the tangle himself, he handed the reins to Alfred, saying:

"Do me the favor to drive, my dear fellow, for I am so engrossed by my affairs that I might mistake the road."

Thanks to Alfred, they cut loose from the cab and arrived without other mishaps at the Palais-Royal. They went to Beauvilliers’, and Robineau ordered all the most expensive dishes; if his two companions had not checked him, he would have provided a breakfast for twenty and would have shouted at the top of his lungs that he had twenty-five thousand francs a year.

"By the way," said Alfred, "what of Fifine? you don’t mention her. She must be much pleased by what has happened to you, isn’t she?"

"Fifine!" repeated Robineau, with a distraught air; "oh! I haven’t had time yet to see her since I went to my notary’s.—My notary! I say, messieurs, how that rings in the ear! My notary!"

"Do you mean to say, Monsieur Robineau," said Edouard, "that you have not yet imparted your good news to her who was so dear to you a week since? Pray consider that when a woman has loved you for yourself alone, you owe her a debt of gratitude; and the least that you can do is to let her share your pleasure in what has happened to you."

"Edouard is right," said Alfred; "when you have had the good luck to fall in with a good, sensible, loyal woman, it seems to me, my friend, that you can hardly do too much for her."

"Messieurs, messieurs," replied Robineau, nibbling at the wing of a chicken, "it is very easy for you to talk; perhaps you would like me to make Mademoiselle Fifine my wife; that would be very pretty!"

"We know very well that you won’t do that; but——"

"But I can’t keep that little milliner for my mistress either. You must agree that when one has a considerable fortune, one may fly at higher game, more distinguished. And then, messieurs, between ourselves, Mamzelle Fifine isn’t exactly a model of virtue; indeed she falls very far short of it. I have noticed several times that—you understand—but I have always pretended not to see anything, because I wasn’t in love with her. And then, she has a flighty disposition, a very quick temper; she’s a perfect dragon. For my part, I like mild-mannered women. I am accustomed to her face; but the fact is that she isn’t pretty; she has a bold look and that’s all."

"Oh! I say, Robineau, you don’t propose to tell us now that she hasn’t a good figure; she was a Venus the other night."

"Oh, yes! a strange kind of Venus! And she made me spend all my money on little parties of two; two-thirds of my salary went that way."

"What, man! a woman who loved you for yourself alone?"

"Yes. Oh! I know that she loved me; but that didn’t prevent her being as gluttonous as a cat. However, messieurs, I have no desire to speak ill of her; I shall certainly buy her something; I am too generous to—But let us drop Fifine and talk about my plans. My dear friends, you have no idea what I have in my head—well! it’s a château!"

"A château!" exclaimed Alfred; "why, my poor Robineau, you are mad; if you buy a château you won’t have anything left to keep it up!"

"Bah! I know how to calculate. There are châteaux and châteaux! Why can’t I put a hundred thousand francs into a nice little estate, an estate with a house on it, built in the old style? My notary assures me that he can find such a one very readily; and then, my dear friends, I can assume the name of my estate. That is done every day; and, between ourselves, Robineau is a very vulgar name for a man with twenty-five thousand francs a year."

"What, Monsieur Robineau!" said Edouard; "you, who declared that you should never change, whatever might happen, and whose discourse reminded one of Socrates and Cincinnatus!"

"As I have told you, my friends, I have my plans. I look a long way ahead. I buy a small château, an estate, no matter where, and I assume its name; that gives me at once an air of nobility; then I find a rich heiress, I present myself, I make a favorable impression, and I marry. What do you say to that? It seems to me that’s not a bad scheme; and if I had no other name than Robineau, I could never become allied to a distinguished family! Mon Dieu! my dear Uncle Gratien, what a noble use I will make of your wealth!"

"And to begin with, you propose to discard his name."

"You must see that I do it from policy. It is decided: I shall buy an estate, I shall have peasants and vassals, and they will call me monseigneur!"

"They won’t call you monseigneur, my poor Robineau, because in these days the man who owns lands, houses and farms is not on that account at liberty to dispose at his pleasure of the people who till his fields; and those delightful little prerogatives of cuissage, jambage, marquette, prélibation, and the like, which made the plight of vassals worse than that of beasts of burden, and degraded mankind by exalting one man at the expense of his fellowman—those prerogatives no longer exist; because men love a kind and virtuous master and no longer tremble before an arrogant and dissipated lord; because all men are under the protection of the laws, which ordain obedience and not humiliation; and finally because there are no more serfs except in Russia, where I advise you to go to buy your château, if you want to be called monseigneur. But I really believe, Robineau, that if you were left to your own devices, you would become one of the petty tyrants of the olden time, or at least a wolf, like the one in Little Red Riding Hood."

"I say, messieurs, to my mind, that was a very pretty little prerogative that entitled the lord to be the first man to put his legs into a newly married woman’s bed.—But I will make rosières[2]—that will be just the same thing."

"Pending the time when you make rosières, pay the bill and let us go."

"Already?"

"Do you propose to pass your life in restaurants?"

"No, of course not; but it’s only half-past twelve, messieurs.—What does one do all day long when one is rich?"

"Attends to his business, when he has any, and enjoys himself when he has an opportunity—and that doesn’t happen every day."

"I don’t propose to leave you to-day, my friends. I will take you wherever you would like to go; to the Bouffes if you please; there’s a performance there to-day. That’s the rich man’s theatre, and I shall go nowhere else; but it isn’t one o’clock, and we can’t go to the Bouffes in the morning."

"Edouard and I are going for a ride," said Alfred, "and we shall probably take a turn in the Bois de Boulogne."

"To ride!" cried Robineau; "the devil! that’s my style; I’ll go with you!"

"Do you know how to sit a horse?"

"Never fear. It would be a great joke if a man with twenty-five thousand francs a year shouldn’t know how to sit on a horse!"

"In that case, come with us; I’ll lend you a mare that has a very gentle trot."

"That’s the thing; and I’ll make her gallop all the time. By the way, my friends, another word before we go: do me a favor."

"What is it?"

"After this, don’t call me Robineau any more, but call me by my Christian name—Jules; that is more distingué, it has a pleasanter sound."

"I will call you Monsieur le Marquis Jules, if you choose," laughed Edouard.

"As for me," said Alfred, "I shall call you whatever comes into my head."

"Try to let nothing come into it but Jules, I entreat you."

They returned to Alfred’s house, on foot this time, because, despite Robineau’s entreaties, the two friends did not care to crowd themselves into his cabriolet again. The nouveau riche decided therefore to dismiss his carriage, and accompanied his friends on foot; but on the way he assumed airs and graces which caused his companions much amusement. He did not deign to glance at the multitude, he refused to turn aside for anyone, for in his opinion everybody should have been eager to give way to him. But such was not the case; and as his impertinent air did not prepossess people in his favor, they did not make way for him; some even ventured to jostle him, and he received more than one blow for persisting in blocking the path.

"It’s very foolish to go on foot when you have a carriage!" he exclaimed; while Alfred and Edouard observed in an undertone:

"There’s something more foolish than that."

They arrived at the hôtel De Marcey. The two friends were soon in the saddle, and Alfred’s groom led out for Robineau’s use a pretty little mare which pawed the ground and displayed a noble ardor for the road. Robineau began to frown and walked around the horse, saying:

"It seems to me that this horse is a vicious-looking animal."

"On the contrary she is the gentlest creature you can imagine; she’s a lady’s horse."

"Then she will do for me. But why does she stamp so?"

"Because she’s impatient for a gallop."

"The devil! if she’s impatient, she’ll run away; I don’t want to ride like a madman!"

"Don’t be alarmed! Don’t you know how to mount?"

"Yes, yes; but when one has just breakfasted, one should go gently; that’s a principle of mine."

"If you don’t wish to go at all, you are at liberty not to do so; let us go without you."

"No—par Dieu! I am with you! Oh! you will see how gracefully I ride—what a seat I have!"

"Mount then."

"Which side do I mount?"

"What! you don’t know on which side to mount?"

"I have forgotten; it was a long while ago that I learned."

"My dear Robineau, you’ll have a fall."

"Jules! I told you to call me Jules; why won’t you do it?—I say, Germain, just hold the stirrup for me—that’s right."

"Boldly now! Ah! how heavy you are!"

Robineau succeeded at last in placing his right leg on the other side of the saddle; he was fairly mounted and he glanced triumphantly about.

"Let us be off," said Alfred; and he gave the rein to his horse; but Robineau, bounding up from the saddle, cried:

"Stop! stop! I am not ready. What the devil! you fellows start off without giving me time to get settled; my stirrup leathers are too long, my toes hardly reach the stirrup."

"That is the way to have them; you will rise less."

"Why, I came just within an ace of going over my horse’s head. I like my stirrup leathers very short; that gives one a much firmer seat.—Take them up a little for me, Germain—a little more; that’s right.—There—now I am glued to my saddle."

"Well! may we start now?"

"Yes, yes; let us start."

Alfred and Edouard rode off and Robineau followed them. Despite the shortened stirrup leathers, he bumped and rolled about on his saddle, although he had grasped the pommel with his right hand. As they were in Paris, they went no faster than a slow trot, and Robineau succeeded in keeping pace with them, calling out from time to time:

"Not so fast, messieurs! galloping in the streets of Paris is forbidden."

"But we are not galloping, are we?"

"Never mind—don’t go so fast, I beg you; I am not used to it yet, and then it’s more amusing to go slowly."

When they reached the Champs-Elysées, Robineau was already drenched with perspiration, and his hat, which the jolting had displaced, was so far back on his head that his hair flew about unconfined over his brow.

"Come on, Monsieur Jules," said Edouard, "let us have a bit of a canter here; it’s a superb road."

"Yes, yes, the road’s very nice; but it seems to me that my breakfast rises a little higher with each step that this infernal beast takes; she has a terribly hard trot, this mare of yours!"

"Bah! you are joking; let her canter then."

"One moment; my stirrup leathers are still too long."

"You don’t mean that; your knees are on the level of your horse’s ears!"

"Never mind; I learned to ride in accordance with certain principles."

"Very pretty, your principles are!"

"There—now I am ready."

"Off we go then!"

The two friends set off at a gallop. Robineau had no desire to ride at that pace; but the mare he bestrode was determined to follow the other horses, and her rider was fain to gallop whether he would or not. As he had never ridden at such a pace, he did not know what to do; he threw himself forward and backward, pulled the reins tight, then suddenly dropped them. He was convinced that his steed had taken the bit in her teeth, and he shouted with all the strength of his lungs:

"Stop her! stop her, I say!"

But Alfred replied:

"Don’t be afraid, Robineau, let her go."

And Edouard called back to him:

"Come on, Monsieur Jules; steady, sit straighter; you should be a little more graceful than that!"

The unskilled equestrian answered to neither name; he was utterly bewildered; he lost his hat, and ere long he himself lay sprawling in the dust; and Alfred, who was far ahead with Edouard, suddenly saw the little mare by his side without a rider.

The young men concluded that some accident had befallen their companion; so they turned back, leading Robineau’s horse. He had picked himself up and found that he had escaped with a few bruises, and after going back to get his hat, he had entered a café, where his friends found him.

"How is this? did you allow yourself to be thrown?" queried Alfred, smiling when he saw that Robineau was not hurt.

"Yes, messieurs. Parbleu! it’s a most surprising thing! You went off like the wind! My horse tried to follow you, and ran away. You told me to let her go, and I did let her go to such good purpose that I fell off. You see, I didn’t tell you that I could ride like Franconi or Paul!"

"We have discovered that!—Well! will you remount?"

"No, thanks; I have had enough for to-day. Besides, I am rather sore. Go and finish your ride; I will wait here for you and read the Petites-Affiches while you are having your canter; as I want to buy an estate, you will understand that the Petites-Affiches interests me more than the Bois de Boulogne."

The little mare was stabled, and the two friends rode away. Robineau, sipping a glass of sweetened water the while, as a restorative after his fall, ran through the Petites-Affiches, and read all the advertisements of estates for sale; but he constantly shrugged his shoulders, with such muttered comments as:

"These are too small! twenty thousand francs! forty thousand francs! They must be mere hovels! I want something better than that!—Dovecotes!—gardens in full bearing! What do I care for that?—I am not buying an estate in order to have pigeons and plums to eat; but in order to be called Monsieur de la—that is to say, by the name of my estate.—Ah! eighty thousand francs; that’s better; but pastures—farm lands—I can’t give balls and be a great lord in a farmhouse.—Aha! a château—two châteaux—twelve guest-rooms! That is what I want. Let’s see what the price is—three hundred thousand francs—two hundred and forty thousand francs. It’s absurd to fix such a price as that for a château! It seems to me that there ought to be cheaper ones for amateurs."

Robineau knew the Petites-Affiches by heart when the two young men returned from their ride. As he absolutely refused to mount his horse again, Alfred led the little mare by the bridle, and Robineau followed in a hired cabriolet. They returned to the hôtel De Marcey; but it was only half-past three, and they could not dine until six. Alfred went to his study to write some letters, Edouard went out to pay some visits, and Robineau, who did not understand that the days last twice as long when one does not know what to do to amuse one’s self as when one is at work, betook himself to his notary’s to pass the time.

At six o’clock, the three young men were together once more, and they went to a restaurant. Alfred and Edouard, who had concocted the scheme beforehand, persuaded Robineau that it was good form to eat very little and to send away most of the dishes ordered without touching them. So Robineau sent away several dishes which he was very desirous to eat, sacrificing his appetite to what he believed to be the acme of good form.

In the evening they attended the Bouffes. Robineau, who listened to music without appreciating it, dissembled as well as he could his overpowering desire to yawn.

"Bravi! brava! bravissima!" he cried; then looked at his watch to see if the play would soon be done. It came to an end at last; Alfred returned home, Edouard to his lodgings, and Robineau reëntered the cab that awaited him at the door, to take him to Rue Saint-Honoré.

Robineau stood in front of his abode, where he hoped not to sojourn long; for the house seemed to him a wretched place, and the entrance disgusting. However, he must needs sleep there once more. But before entering, he ordered François, his new servant, to call for him early the next morning with the cabriolet.

"Early to-morrow morning with the cabriolet!" cried a person who happened to be in the passage just as Robineau entered. And he recognized Fifine, whom he had not seen since the change in his fortunes.

Fifine held in her hand a candle wrapped in a half sheet of brown paper, and lighted; she had stopped and was waiting for Robineau, who did not quicken his pace.

"Hallo! is it you, my dear friend?"

"Yes, to be sure it’s I."

"What has become of you since the day before yesterday, that I haven’t laid eyes on you, monsieur? And all this style? this cabriolet? Have you made yourself a duke and peer while riding?"

"Let us go upstairs, Fifine; I can’t endure to talk in the hall—it’s very bad form!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! His Highness is afraid of compromising himself! Ha! ha! ha! Pardon me, Your Excellency; if I had known at what hour you would return, I would have cut my candle in four pieces to illuminate the staircase."

Robineau went upstairs, and entered his room, followed by the young milliner, who still held her candle in her hand. Robineau threw himself carelessly on a chair, and Fifine held her light to his face, saying:

"I say—what is the meaning of this coat? I didn’t know that you had any coat except the one that used to be black, and the threadbare gray."

"Well! now you know that I have another—that’s all."

"And this gold chain! these watch charms!—Ah! something must have happened."

"Yes, Fifine, there has been a very great change in my circumstances since the day before yesterday."

"Really! Have they given you a bonus of a hundred crowns?"

"A hundred crowns! Mon Dieu! a mere trifle!" said Robineau with a smile of contempt.

"What’s that? a trifle! Do me the favor to give me a dozen trifles like that, and I’ll go up in a balloon to-morrow morning."

"Fifine, listen to me attentively."

"Wait till I sit down, for what you are going to tell me may produce a deep impression on me."

Fifine put her candle in a candle-stick, and seated herself in front of Robineau, who tried to assume an important air before he began.

"Mademoiselle, I——"

"What! mademoiselle? are you talking to me?"

"Certainly."

"And you call me mademoiselle!—Try first to be a little more decent than that! What a fool you make of yourself with your demoiselle!"

"Well, then, Fifine—I must tell you that you no longer see before you the young man whose salary of fifteen hundred francs composed his whole fortune; the hopes that I have mentioned to you more than once are realized. I knew that my uncle would end by enriching me. Dear Uncle Gratien! he is dead and has left me twenty-five thousand francs a year."

"The deuce! really? isn’t it a joke?"

"No, Fifine, nothing can be truer. I am immensely rich and I shall soon have a château, because I am determined to have one."

"What! you are rich, and you didn’t tell me right away! you keep me on the anxious seat two hours!—Well, well! won’t we have some fun! Let’s dance and jump and raise a rumpus!—You are rich, and you sit there like a mummy!"

And Fifine seized Robineau’s arm and compelled him to dance around the room with her; but he shook himself free at last and resumed his seat, while Fifine continued to dance and jump over the chairs and the furniture.

"Assuredly, Fifine," said Robineau, sitting very erect, "I desire that you should enjoy yourself; indeed I shall be delighted to be of service to you when the opportunity presents itself, and you may rely on my interest; but as to your continuing to be my mistress, you must see that it is impossible, and that my social position will not permit me to see you as—as before."

Fifine, who was standing on the commode at that moment, in the attitude of Psyche, landed at Robineau’s side with one leap, crying:

"What’s that you’re mumbling?—your social position—you don’t propose to see me as before?—Do me the favor to explain yourself a little better."

"It seems to me to be clear enough, my dear Fifine. I still have the utmost regard for you; indeed I propose to prove it to you to-morrow by making you a present of a beautiful shawl of unspun silk—whatever color you choose—I don’t care. But I say that I can no longer be your lover, nor go out with you, because my present circumstances and my new position in society forbid."

Fifine, who had listened attentively, did not move for some seconds; then she went to the mantel, took her candle from the candlestick, and, before leaving the room, took her stand in front of its tenant, who still sat in his chair.

"I thought that you were only a stupid fool, but I see that you are an ingrate!" she said, smiling bitterly. "You don’t propose to see me, because a fortune has fallen into your hands. That is very noble! It is a resolution worthy of you! As for the present you mean to give me, keep it for the women who will sponge on you and make fun of you all the time—you’ll find that you’ll never have too much for them."

"Mademoiselle," said Robineau, rising angrily, "what you say is very indecorous. However, that doesn’t surprise me, from one who has such bad manners as you."

"Hold your tongue, you miserable counterfeit!" said Fifine, turning suddenly on Robineau, who intrenched himself behind an armchair; "you deserve to be made to swallow this candle all lighted!"

"Mademoiselle Fifine!"

"Hold your tongue! you make me sick!—Go with your duchesses and your princesses; keep ballet-dancers and miladies; but when you are drunk, wait for them to give you tea and dose you, and you’ll be likely to die of indigestion!"

With that, Fifine made a low curtsy to her former lover, and went out of the room, leaving him in utter darkness.

"What a spitfire!" cried Robineau when she had gone;" she didn’t even light my candle!—Oh! these women! That a man with twenty-five thousand francs a year should have to use a flint and steel!—Faith, I won’t do it; I prefer to go to bed without a light.—Think of that Fifine presuming to—But that’s how it always is! the more you do for women, the more they abuse it.—But it won’t be so any longer with me; I propose to set a terribly high figure on my favors; and to make a conquest of me will require something more than a turned-up nose."

Robineau went to bed, and, forgetting Fifine, fell asleep and dreamed of his future château.

V
PURCHASE OF A CHÂTEAU.—DEPARTURE FOR AUVERGNE

Robineau did not sleep very long, for when a man’s mind is running on a château, lands, titles, a carriage and servants, it must necessarily cause him some excitement. There are insomnias more pleasant than those caused by ambition and a longing for grandeur; it is sweet in the silence of the night to think of the person we love, to be in thought, in memory, in hopes, with her from whom we are separated. At such times we yield without question to the fondest illusions, we fashion our own dreams, and we dread to sleep, because sleep does not always present to us the images that are most dear to our hearts. But Robineau, who had no such thoughts as these, weary of tossing and turning in his bed, and of looking for a château, first on the right ear and then on the left, rose early and began to dress, saying to himself:

"My cabriolet and my servant may be waiting for me already at the door; I have too much to do to waste my time in bed."

Having dressed, he left his room on tiptoe, because he was not at all desirous to be overheard by Fifine, who was also a very early riser; but he met no one in the hall, and arrived safely in the street, where he looked in vain for his cabriolet.

"The devil! not here yet!" he muttered, looking at his watch. "Ah! it’s only six o’clock; but no matter: if I choose to go to drive at six o’clock, I am at perfect liberty to do it."

He went back into the passage, uncertain whether he should sally forth on foot or wait for his carriage; but, hearing a noise on the stairs, and fearing that it might be Fifine, he decided to go out.

Robineau bent his steps toward his notary’s, but when he reached the house the concierge was just rising.

"I am going to the office!" he called out as he hurried across the courtyard.

"There’s nobody there," the concierge replied. And so it proved; Robineau found the office door locked and went back to the concierge.

"What does this mean? Haven’t the clerks arrived yet?"

"Why, it’s too early, monsieur; the clerks never come to the office at six in the morning."

"Is monsieur le notaire at home?"

"He certainly hasn’t gone out yet. I suppose he’s asleep with his wife."

"Asleep! nonsense! Why, it’s two hours since I woke up. I am going up to his apartment."

"But, monsieur, nobody goes up so early as this."

"When a man proposes to buy a château, he should be at liberty to call whenever he pleases."

The concierge, thinking that Robineau’s business must be of great importance, allowed him to go upstairs, and he jangled the bell at the door of the notary’s apartment.

In a few minutes a maid opened the door with a terrified air, saying:

"Mon Dieu! whatever has happened?"

"It’s I, my dear child," replied Robineau; "I want to speak with your master."

"What for, monsieur?" inquired the servant, still thinking that some event of great importance must have happened.

"What for? Parbleu! about the château, the estate I instructed him to find for me."

The maid became calmer and stared at Robineau as she replied:

"Monsieur is still asleep; he isn’t in the habit of attending to business so early."

"Go tell him, my dear, that it’s his client Jules-Raoul Robineau, who has just inherited twenty-five thousand francs a year from his uncle Gratien; that will wake him up at once."

"Oh! I don’t think so, monsieur. Besides, monsieur and madame haven’t been married very long, and I don’t know whether I can go into their room like this."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Oh, no! wait a moment, monsieur, while I go and see."

The servant decided to deliver the message entrusted to her, and Robineau meanwhile paced the floor of an enormous dining-room.

"When the notary knows that it’s I," he thought, "I am sure that he’ll get up immediately."

But the maid soon returned and said with a mocking air:

"Monsieur swore because I woke him, and sent me about my business; he says you must come again."

"Did you give him my name?"

"Yes, monsieur, but that didn’t do any good."

"Ah! that didn’t do any good? Very well, I will call again."

And Robineau went away in a very ill humor, saying to himself:

"If that man had paid over all my money, I would change notaries instantly. Let’s go to Alfred’s."

He arrived at the hôtel De Marcey before seven o’clock and found the servants walking about the courtyard. Alfred’s valet stopped Robineau, saying:

"My master is asleep, monsieur."

"Bah! that doesn’t matter; he won’t be sorry to see me, he expects me," was the reply; and Robineau went upstairs, walked through various rooms and arrived at last in Alfred’s bedroom, where he found his friend fast asleep. He shook him violently, crying:

"Well, my friend! aren’t we ever going to get up? Come, come, lazybones!"

Alfred opened his eyes, looked up at Robineau, and exclaimed:

"Hallo! is it you? What in the devil do you want of me?"

"I have come to talk business with you. If I am not mistaken, you told me yesterday that you had seen a very fine estate near Mantes, which——"

"Eh! the devil take you and your estates! I was having the most delicious dream; I was coasting with Madame de Gerville, and the sled broke; but instead of being hurt, we were hugging each other so tight, we fell so softly; and I felt the pressure of her body. I touched——"

"I beg your pardon for waking you, my friend," said Robineau, "but——"

"And I," said Alfred, "beg you to pardon me if I go to sleep again."

And he paid no further heed to Robineau, who cried:

"What, my friend! you are going to sleep again just on account of a dream of coasting and such nonsense?"

Seeing that it was useless to speak to him, Robineau decided to take his leave.

"Let’s go to Monsieur Edouard Beaumont’s," he said to himself. "A poet, an author ought to rise early; genius should be up with the lark. At all events, I’ll ask him to breakfast with me, and they say that authors are very susceptible to such invitations."

So he betook himself to Edouard’s lodgings, where he had never been. He knew the address, however, and succeeded in finding it. The young author did not live at a hotel, nor did he occupy a first floor apartment; but he had lodgings in a pleasant house in Rue d’Enghien. The concierge did not stop Robineau, but merely said to him:

"Go up to the fourth floor."

"The fourth floor—that’s rather high," said Robineau to himself. "To be sure, the staircase is very clean and very pleasant. But a poet—there’s no law compelling them to be rich. And yet I have heard Alfred say that Edouard was in comfortable circumstances, that he had about four thousand francs a year. That used to seem a fortune to me."

On reaching the fourth floor Robineau rang once, twice; no answer. Not discouraged, he rang a third time, and at last heard Edouard’s voice, calling:

"Who’s there?"

"It’s I—Jules—you know. I have come to ask you to breakfast. Let me in."

"Oh! I beg a thousand pardons, Monsieur Robineau, but I worked far into the night, and I should like to sleep a little longer. Au revoir."

He walked away from the door, and Robineau stood on the landing for some moments.

"What in the devil have all these people eaten," he said to himself, "that they’re so anxious to sleep? it’s a most extraordinary thing!"

He went downstairs and looked at his watch; it was about half-past seven, and it occurred to him that his cabriolet should be waiting for him. So he returned to Rue Saint-Honoré and uttered a cry of joy when he saw in the distance the carriage standing at his door. He quickened his pace and discovered Fifine and the other young milliners standing in the doorway of the shop. He marched proudly by them and jumped into the cabriolet amid shouts of laughter from the young ladies, saying to himself:

"They laugh at me! Very good! I will try to splash them."

He drove about for an hour through the streets of Paris, then returned to his notary’s office. That gentleman, who was already tired of seeing him four times a day, and who did not care to be roused from sleep by him often, concluded that he had better find an estate for him in short order, as the best way to be rid of him. And so, as soon as he saw him, he said:

"I have what you want."

"Is it possible? An estate?"

"Better than that—a small château."

"A château?—You are a delightful man!"

"With towers, too, and battlements."

"Battlements!—Allow me to embrace you!"

"And moats—they are dry, to be sure."

"I will have them filled with water."

"Plenty of rooms, many guest chambers, stable for twenty horses."

"I will stable asses there."

"A park, a forest, and enormous gardens where you can lose yourself!"

"Lose myself—that is delicious!"

"Outlying land where you can hunt."

"I will do nothing else."

"A little stream abundantly supplied with fish."

"And I am very fond of matelote!"

"And the château is all furnished—in rather old-fashioned style, to be sure; but you will find there all that you need for immediate occupancy, except linen."

"My dear notary, this is enchanting. Furnished in antique style! Why, it is all the more noble for that!"

"However, you will obtain with the deeds an exact inventory of everything that the château contains."

"This is all very fine; I am simply afraid that this charming property is too dear."

"Eighty thousand francs."

"Eighty thousand francs! that is a mere nothing. I will buy it."

"It is my duty to warn you that the property does not produce much revenue; the appurtenant estates are not well kept up."

"I don’t care for that."

"There will be some repairs to be made on the buildings."

"I will do whatever is necessary."

"And then, it’s some distance from here."

"What difference does that make to me? I shan’t go there on foot. But where is it?"

"In Auvergne, near Saint-Amand-Talende and Clermont—nearly ninety leagues from Paris."

Robineau reflected for some moments.

"In Auvergne!" he said; "ninety leagues from Paris! The devil! I shan’t be able to breakfast at the Café Anglais and return to my château at night."

"But consider too, monsieur, that an estate near Paris soon becomes ruinous by the number of visitors you receive; one person comes to pass a week with you, another a fortnight; you are never free; you need a large fortune to meet the expense that that occasions."

"That is true; and in Auvergne people won’t drive out to breakfast with me.—I am not familiar with Auvergne; is it a pleasant country?"

"Oh! it’s a most interesting, most picturesque region, monsieur. The little town of Saint-Amand and its neighborhood form one of the most remarkable districts of the Limagne d’Auvergne. You will see mountains in all directions and green fields. Nature abounds in accidents of rare beauty."

"There are accidents, you say?"

"I am speaking as an artist; I mean that you will be surprised, on emerging from a rugged mountain chain, to see before you vine-covered hillsides, and valleys where the most luscious fruits and the most nutritious vegetables grow in abundance."

"That’s what comes of not travelling! I imagined that there was nothing to see in Auvergne but mountain-rats."

"The little village of Talende is supplied with water by one of the most noteworthy and most abundant springs of living water known. Julius Cæsar called Talende the bed of the gods!"

"In that case the people ought to sleep very comfortably."

"Lastly, Auvergne has given birth to more than one famous man: at Aigueperse the Chancellor de l’Hôpital was born; Riom was the birthplace of Anne Dubourg, Issoire of Cardinal Duprat; and the little hamlet of Chanonat witnessed the birth of the amiable Delille, and has been celebrated in song by that poet."

"This is all very fine; but what is the name of the château? I care a great deal about the name."

"The estate is known as La Roche-Noire."

"La Roche-Noire! superb! And when it is mine, can I assume that name?"

"There is nothing to prevent."

"Monsieur de la Roche-Noire! Jules de la Roche-Noire!—Magnificent!—It is settled, monsieur le notaire; I will buy the château."

"You might go to see the place before coming to a decision, and——"

"No! no! It would surely be sold to someone else meanwhile, and the name of La Roche-Noire would escape me! It is decided, it’s a bargain, I will buy the château.—When can I have my papers? When will you have the deed ready? I am in a great hurry to take possession of my château!"

"I must write to my brother notary at Saint-Amand; and then the deeds—oh! it will be a matter of a week at most."

"A week! dear me! that’s a long while!—But no matter; do whatever is necessary, so that no one can dispute my title. By the way, if you are writing to Auvergne, I should be glad to have the people at my château know that I shall be there soon, and to have them prepare a little reception for me. There are servants at La Roche-Noire, no doubt?"

"A concierge and a gardener at most."

"Very good; there’ll be no harm in letting them know that their new master proposes to visit his château very soon; that will give them time to prepare a little complimentary greeting, eh, monsieur le notaire?"

"To be sure, if they wish to offer you one."

"A new lord! Why, I should say that that was the regular thing."

"At the Opéra-Comique, yes."

"And even more in Auvergne, for those people must still retain the patriarchal customs.—Well, I will leave you. Hasten my business, I beg you; remember that my life, my happiness, all my hopes are already centred on my château."

Robineau left the notary’s office, beside himself with joy; and inasmuch as joy, like grief, longs to find a vent, he returned to Alfred, who was no longer in bed, and to whom he shouted from the reception-room:

"It’s all settled! I am a landed proprietor, I own a château, the Château de la Roche-Noire, nothing less,—with towers, battlements, moats,—and cannon perhaps. Nothing is lacking! My dear De Marcey, I am the happiest of men!"

Alfred smiled at the intense excitement produced in the parvenu by the possession of a château; he bade him sit beside him, urged him to be calm, and asked him where his estate was situated.

"In Auvergne," replied Robineau; "a magnificent country! the land of mountains, of great men, of the most picturesque accidents—the bed of the gods according to Julius Cæsar; and that fellow should have known what he was talking about, for the Romans were great voluptuaries when they chose to take the trouble."

"In that case how does it happen that the natives of such a beautiful region come in crowds to Paris to mend kettles or carry water?"

"What does that prove? Haven’t men always loved to travel? The most ancient peoples, the Jews, Chaldæans, the Phœnicians, set us the example; and when a patriarch like Abraham journeys with his family, his household and his flocks, from the Euphrates to Palestine, and then to Egypt, it seems to me that an Auvergnat may well take the trouble to travel to Paris."

"That is true; however, I don’t know Auvergne, but I have heard that it is a very interesting country. Of course you will go down and inspect the château before purchasing?"

"No, I shall purchase it at once and inspect it afterward; I propose to make my entry as lord, as proprietor. The domain of La Roche-Noire! and only eighty thousand francs! You must agree, my dear De Marcey, that it’s a great find."

"More probably some old Gothic structure, in a ruinous, dilapidated condition, where you will have to lay out a lot of money just in repairs."

"I shall repair nothing; I love ruins myself! And a park! a forest! hunting and fishing!"

"Do you hunt as well as you ride?"

"Oh! you wicked joker! Look you, I am sure that you have formed a very false idea of my château."

"I assure you that I am very glad that you have one, because now you will at least let me sleep in peace."

"Oh! my friend! my dear friend! I have a delightful idea!"

"To buy another château?"

"No, one is enough; I am not ambitious, you see. But you have just said that you don’t know Auvergne; here’s a superb opportunity to become acquainted with it. I take you with me to see my property; I compel you to agree that I have made a fine purchase; and you give me some advice as to establishing my household, you teach me to hunt. We will give fêtes, which you will arrange and manage.—Well! what do you say to it? don’t you like the scheme?"

"Faith! I should like well enough to go to Auvergne; but I remember that I am to take a little trip this summer through Switzerland with Edouard; our plans are all laid."

"Instead of going to Switzerland, you may as well come to Auvergne, which is the Switzerland of France; you will see mountains and snow there as well as in Switzerland, and we will take Edouard with us."

"The deuce! do you propose to take everybody?"

"No, but I should like to take Edouard, because he’s a poet, and a poet is often useful, especially when a person means, as I do, to give banquets, entertain ladies and be gallant."

"Ah! I understand; you want Edouard to go, in order to write occasional verses?"

"He will do only what he pleases; but it seems to me that an author, a poet, should not be sorry to visit a picturesque region—a country where there are cliffs and precipices. He will procure material for ten plays! Snow, mountains, torrents—there’s nothing like them to inspire genius. I am sure that Edouard will write a poem about my château, or a tragedy which he will call La Roche-Noire.—Urge him to come, Alfred, I beseech you."

"I promise to suggest it to him, and if he agrees, it’s a bargain; we will go with you and install you in your château."

Robineau left Alfred, in order to attend to the preparations for his departure. Alfred, as he reflected on the proposal that had been made to him, concluded that the trip to Auvergne might furnish him with frequent opportunities for amusement; indeed the bare idea of seeing the Château de la Roche-Noire and Robineau playing the grand seigneur was most diverting; and as he and Edouard had formed the plan of going to Switzerland solely to obtain a brief respite from the fatiguing life and dissipations of Paris, he thought that his friend, like himself, would be inclined to accept Robineau’s invitation.

It rarely happened that Edouard and Alfred passed more than two days without meeting. Although they had not precisely the same tastes and the same temperament, they were fond of each other and suited each other. The sympathy that draws two persons together is not always born of similarity of temper and mental characteristics. We see gayety attached to melancholy; and the gravest and most sedate persons seek the company of the most inveterate jokers and find enjoyment with the greatest buffoons. The sluggish nature requires something to rouse it; the mind needs contrasts. How many people there are who are contented only with those with whom they are forever disputing! Two persons may be congenial without loving each other; to inspire the latter sentiment, there must be in the bottom of the heart, despite external differences, that secret sympathy which we feel but cannot define.

Alfred was more frivolous, more heedless, more hilarious perhaps, than Edouard; the latter, however, was hardly more virtuous than most young men of his age; but, as he was not rich, like young De Marcey, he did not carry his follies so far, and he was sensible enough to be determined not to run into debt. His habit of careful expenditure, of reflecting before agreeing to join a party of pleasure, had led his friend to dub him Monsieur le Prudent; but Edouard was no more prudent than Alfred when his heart was engaged. Both were pleasant fellows: Alfred because he said whatever came into his mind, and his natural merriment often suggested some most amusing conceits; Edouard because he said only what he felt, and his thoughts were generally judicious. However, Edouard laughed at the follies that Alfred uttered, and Alfred applauded his friend’s sage reflections.

On the evening of the day when Robineau roused them both from their slumbers, Edouard and Alfred were together, and the latter informed his friend of the proposal of the new purchaser of La Roche-Noire.

Edouard reflected for several minutes; whereupon Alfred lost patience and urged him to decide.

"Go to visit Monsieur Jules Robineau!" said Edouard at last; "why, don’t you know that your friend Robineau is an awful ass?"

"Certainly I know it; but what does it matter? Don’t we visit asinine people every day?"

"If he were only that, it would be nothing; but he is full of absurd pretensions."

"So much the better! that’s the most amusing part of it. Think of the airs he will put on in his château! and the commotion it will make in the neighborhood! and the amusing scenes that will result! You, being a dramatic author, will find innumerable tableaux of manners there, and comical incidents——"

"That is all very well; but we cannot go with the poor fellow for the sole purpose of amusing ourselves at his expense."

"What harm would there be in that? But don’t you see that, while amusing ourselves, we shall be rendering a genuine service to Robineau? He will need our advice in a thousand matters. He means to give fêtes, balls, and he is already thinking of asking you to write verses for marriages and baptisms."

"Indeed! much obliged!"

"However, if we should be bored at his château, we could go away. I don’t expect to pass my life at La Roche-Noire."

"How shall we make the journey?"

"Mon Dieu! just as you choose. By post, I presume; and divide the expense,—that goes without saying. I do not propose that Monsieur Robineau shall pay our travelling expenses; but we shall spend no more than we should in Switzerland.—Well! you are still reflecting. Does your prudence descry some obstacle? With your four thousand francs a year and your savings, you will end by being richer than I am!"

"I do not desire great wealth, I ask for nothing but happiness."

"You are not exacting! you want nothing but the best.—Well, what is your decision?"

"Whatever you wish; let us go to Auvergne, and visit Monsieur Robineau’s château."

"That is settled then. Poor Robineau! he will be in raptures when he knows that we are going with him. He is a good enough fellow at heart; I greatly fear that he will ruin himself with his château, and we will try to prevent him, unless he is really obstinate about it.—We will go and have a look at Auvergne and the little Auvergnates! I am not sure, but I have an idea that we shall find some pretty faces there."

"Ah! thinking of the women already!"

"You are an excellent one to preach! Why, my dear fellow, a country where there were no women, and consequently no hope of a love-affair, though it were as beautiful as Eden, as rich as Eldorado, and of as mild a climate as Araby the Blest, would be in my eyes a dreary solitude. That is why I have always pitied poor Crusoe, who, instead of a woman, had only his man Friday for company."

Robineau did not fail to come the next day to learn the decision of the two friends; and when he heard that they proposed to accompany him to his château, he was in raptures. He bought a post-chaise for the journey and wanted to buy horses as well. Alfred had much difficulty in making him understand that it would be much better to use post-horses as far as Clermont-Ferrand.

"Why not all the way to my château?" asked Robineau.

"Did you not tell me that your château was only a league or two from that town?"

"Yes."

"Very well! as we are going to Auvergne to see something of the country, I opine that we may very well do a couple of leagues on foot."

"But——"

"But, if you continue to oppose our wishes, we shall leave you to go alone."

Robineau yielded, although it would have seemed to him much more noble to drive in a post-chaise into the very courtyard of his château; but he reflected that he would easily find other horses at Clermont to carry him the rest of the way and to transport his baggage; for he had laid in an ample stock of clothes and toilet articles, desiring to introduce in Auvergne the latest Parisian styles.

By dint of pestering his notary, Robineau succeeded in having his purchase completed promptly; and at the end of six days he was ready to leave Paris, attended by his new servant, named François, who had driven his cabriolet, and whom he had promoted to be his valet, because he had instantly detected his master’s weakness; and never spoke to him except with downcast eyes and hat in hand.

Alfred did not consider it necessary to take any servant with him; but as the Baron de Marcey had not returned to Paris at the time of their departure, he left with Germain, his valet, a letter for his father, in which he said simply:

"I am going for a little journey with Edouard and Robineau; I am sorry not to have had an opportunity to embrace you before starting, but I will make up for it when we return. Keep well and enjoy yourself. I am going to try to get some diversion."

The careless fellow did not even mention the part of the country to which he was going; he thought that it made no difference to his father, and moreover he intended to write to him if he should stay with Robineau for any length of time.

On the day fixed for their departure, Robineau took his seat in the post-chaise before the horses were harnessed; he sent François thrice to meet Alfred and Edouard. At last his two companions arrived; the valises were stored away, the trunks strapped on behind, the horses saddled, and the postilion cracked his whip. They were off for Auvergne, and Robineau said to himself:

"Here I am en route for my château!"

VI
THE MAN OF CLERMONT-FERRAND

The sun had just risen over the pretty town of Clermont-Ferrand, and the toiling portion of its people had already betaken themselves to their work. In front of the post-house servants were plucking chickens, farm-hands threshing grain, children leading horses to drink, some travellers drinking the stirrup-cup, dealers, who made regular visits to Clermont, clinking glasses with the inn-keeper, and postilions kissing the maid-servants, who struggled and submitted as the custom is in all lands.

About two hundred paces from the inn, a man was carelessly reclining on a stone bench, surveying with cold indifference the scene before him; and, as he turned his eyes this way and that, his mind seemed rather engrossed by memories of the past than awake to impressions of the present. This man, whose costume denoted poverty, aye, vagabondage, seemed to be from forty-five to fifty years old; but the disorder of his costume, a beard of more than a month’s growth, and unkempt black hair, some of which fell over his face, made it difficult to divine his age. However, despite his disordered hair, and beneath the dilapidated hat that covered his head, one could distinguish features that must once have been handsome: a well-shaped nose, a mouth of medium size, but almost entirely toothless, gracefully arched black eyebrows, and large brown eyes, the usual expression of which was ironical and harmonized with the mocking smile which, from time to time, played about his lips. His figure was tall and shapely. In short, although clad in a pair of shabby gray trousers, a red waistcoat covered with stains, and a full nut-colored redingote, patched in several places with a different material; with worn-out boots, full of holes, on his feet, and a blue kerchief twisted carelessly about his neck for a cravat, there was something in the man’s aspect which indicated that he was not of vulgar birth, and in his whole manner, a suggestion of ease, almost of pride, which formed a striking contrast to his costume.

After remaining for some minutes stretched out on the stone bench, the stranger rose, pushed his hair back under his hat, and, taking up a huge knotted stick which stood by his side, walked with a decided step toward the inn, which he entered with head erect, like a man travelling for pleasure. He turned into the common room, seated himself at an oilcloth-covered table, and knocked loudly thereon with his stick.

A maid answered his call. Although inn-keepers are accustomed to entertain all sorts and conditions of men, the traveller’s costume was not prepossessing, and as it is not customary to stand on ceremony with guests who appear to be unfortunate, the girl began by asking sharply why he made so much noise banging the table with his stick.

"Because I choose to, my dear," replied the newcomer in a loud voice, with a threatening glance at the servant. "You should come more quickly to wait on me, and then I should not need to knock so loud. You saw me come in, as you were in the doorway. Why didn’t you come at once to ask me what I wanted?"

The servant, not expecting to be taken to task thus by a man so shabbily dressed, was covered with confusion, and replied, twisting her apron:

"Why! because—because——"

"Parbleu! because I didn’t arrive in a carriage, and because I am not dressed with great care! But what does that matter! So long as I pay for what I order, there is nothing for you to say. Come, bring me some bread and cheese, and a jug of wine—quickly, for I am hungry."

The girl turned away, muttering:

"What a fuss he makes for bread and cheese!"

However, she made haste to serve the stranger, who breakfasted with a hearty appetite and demeaned himself before his bit of cheese as if he were feasting on truffled turkey. But the other travellers in the common room, who were breakfasting more sumptuously, did not venture to turn their eyes too often in the direction of the latest arrival, for there was something in his expression which seemed to indicate that he would not take malicious jests in too good part. There is a species of poverty which is able to impose respect, just as there is a sort of opulence which is never respectable.

Meanwhile the servant had told her master about their latest guest, and the host, who was a very inquisitive and very loquacious individual, and gave himself a great many airs, although he was not so tall as his wife, even with his nightcap, came trotting into the room with a smiling face. He spoke a word with several of the travellers, eying the stranger askance all the while; then, after walking around him three times, decided to accost him, and said, leaning against the table at which he was taking his repast:

"Well! you don’t find my light wine very bad, I fancy?"

The stranger, without looking at his host, replied after a moment, with the mocking smile familiar to him:

"Whether I find it good or bad, I must drink it, I suppose?"

"Oh! to be sure! Still, if you wanted something better, I might——"

"If I wanted other wine, I shouldn’t have waited for your permission to order it."

"True; but——"

"But I am not so particular now!"

"Not so particular now?—Ah! I understand: that means that you used to be—eh?"

The stranger looked up at the inn-keeper, and after gazing fixedly at him for several seconds, observed:

"There is something that you used to be, still are, and probably always will be!"

Thereupon the inn-keeper fastened his little red eyes on the strange guest’s, as if trying to understand him; but, after cudgelling his brains in vain, he said:

"I don’t catch your meaning at all. Are you a fortune teller?"

The stranger shrugged his shoulders and returned to his bread and cheese, making no further reply.

"Do you expect to stay for some time in our town?" continued the inn-keeper after a moment. "I have no idea; if it amuses me to stay here, I shall stay."

"To be sure!—Oh! you will see some pretty things here: a magnificent botanical garden, a fine college, and our bridge, formed by the calcareous deposits from the water of a spring!—I say nothing of our apricot pies; you don’t seem to care for sweetmeats. But you will be surprised, amazed, by the beauty of the neighborhood!"

"Nothing surprises or amazes me now."

"Oh! that makes a difference.—By the way, do you intend to sleep here?"

The stranger did not answer this question; he passed his hand across his brow and seemed to reflect; at last he asked the landlord:

"Are there none of the Granval family left in this town?"

"The Granval family!" rejoined the astonished host; "what! did you ever know them? They were very rich people, the Granvals! very highly esteemed and——"

"I know what they were; I ask you if there are any of the family still here?"

"No, not one. Monsieur Granval the elder died about five years ago, leaving a son and a daughter. The son enjoyed very poor health; it didn’t do him any good to take the waters at Mont d’Or—they didn’t make him any stouter. He took it into his head to marry, and that finished him; he died two years ago. As for the daughter, she married a merchant and went to Italy with him."

The stranger listened with his elbows on the table and his head resting on his hands. When the inn-keeper had ceased to speak, he uttered a fierce oath, then muttered:

"Some are dead, the others have left the country! How everything changes in a few years, how everybody disappears!"

"Did you have a commission for the Granval family?" inquired the landlord, seating himself opposite the traveller, who, without heeding the question, said a moment later:

"After all, even if I had found him, he would have been no better than the rest. Everyone for himself—that’s the natural order. So much the worse for those who make fools of themselves, who allow themselves to be fleeced! It is no more than right to laugh at them.—But I defy them now! I am above them, I despise them all! And I shall be able to do without them."

"You will do without them?" said the inn-keeper, thinking that his guest was addressing him. "Oh! that’s all right, if you can. But I didn’t quite understand who you said that——"

"How much do I owe you?" demanded the stranger, rising abruptly.

"How much do you owe? Oh! it won’t take long to reckon: bread, cheese, wine—that makes twelve sous in all."

The stranger took twelve sous from a pocket of his jacket, and tossed them on the table; then, producing a pipe and tobacco from a coat pocket, he filled his pipe and said to the inn-keeper:

"Where is there a light?"

"A light—to light your pipe?"

"Apparently."

"Parbleu! there’s fire in the kitchen; it’s never cold here.—But you haven’t told me whether——"

The stranger was not listening. He went into the kitchen, lighted his pipe and placed it in his mouth; then he walked slowly from the inn and resumed his seat on the stone bench, where he smoked as placidly as a Mussulman seated luxuriously on soft cushions.

"That’s a devil of a fellow!" said the inn-keeper as he watched him walk away. "He smokes—I should say that he’s an old soldier. What the devil did he want of the Granvals? He ended by saying that he despised them!—Never mind; I did well to sit down with him; if he comes back, I’ll make him talk some more."

The stranger, having passed the whole morning on the stone bench, did in fact return to the inn about two o’clock. He ordered bread and cheese once more, but drank only water. The inn-keeper hovered about him and asked him several questions, trying to enter into conversation; but the stranger seemed indisposed to talk. He ate his bread and cheese without answering the questions, paid for his meagre repast, filled his pipe, lighted it, and left the inn; but this time he went down the street instead of returning to the stone bench.

"He’s a wretched customer!" said the inn-keeper when he had gone.

"And for all that," said the servant, "he puts on as many airs as a marquis! He gives his orders and talks as if he owned the place! He’d do well to shave, instead of stuffing himself with cheese!"

"Is he still sitting on the stone bench opposite, Marie?"

"No, monsieur, he went down the street."

"Then we probably shan’t see him again."

"Good riddance!"

The inn-keeper was mistaken; about eight in the evening he saw the poorly dressed stranger reënter the common room, with his knotted stick.

"Hallo! here’s the cheese-man again!" muttered the servant. But her master motioned to her to hold her peace, for he feared to offend the traveller. The latter seated himself at a table, and ordered bread, cheese and a small glass of eau-de-vie. He was served promptly and ate his bread and cheese without speaking; but when he asked how much he owed, the landlord, who was burning to question him, stepped forward and said, courteously removing his cap:

"Do you not intend to sleep here?"

"Sleep here!" echoed the stranger; "no, that isn’t necessary; I can sleep quite as well in the fields, and it costs nothing; whereas, if I slept in your house, I should have to pay, should I not?"

"Why, that’s the custom; you understand of course that we can’t supply our——"

"Very good! very good! Have I asked you to give me anything for nothing?"

"No, monsieur, I didn’t say that; but——"

"But keep your tongue still then, and let me rest in peace."

The inn-keeper angrily replaced his cap, and the stranger took his leave, after paying his bill.

"I begin to believe that this eater of cheese is nothing but a vagrant," said the host, when he was certain that the stranger was at a safe distance. "A man who sleeps in the fields—that’s rather suspicious. I am sorry he didn’t take a room here, because then he would have had to tell me his name."

"Oh! he’s all right," said a little man who had entered the common room just as the traveller went out. "When he arrived in town he went at once to monsieur le maire, to show his papers."

"Ah! so you know that man, do you, Monsieur Benoît?" asked the inn-keeper, walking toward the newcomer.

Monsieur Benoît caressed his chin, shook his head to give himself importance, and replied:

"Yes, I have met him several times about the town; he has been here at least a week."

"What’s his name?"

"I don’t know that; but I think that he’s a man who has been rich, who has squandered everything and has nothing left."

"And what does he do now?"

"Why, you have seen: he walks about, rests and smokes; but he talks very little."

"Oh! I have no questions to ask him; he has paid for everything he has had here; but he’s very shabbily dressed.—I say, Monsieur Benoît, you must agree that that isn’t the costume of a man who owns consols."

"I didn’t say that he was rich now; I said that I believed that he had been rich, which is a very different matter."

They discussed the stranger for some time longer; but the arrival of new guests caused them to forget the man of meagre repasts.

The next morning, at daybreak, the stranger was stretched out on the stone bench once more, opposite the inn. He seemed less engrossed by his own thoughts and watched the travellers who arrived from time to time; more than once, indeed, he started up, as if he would accost one of them; but he soon fell back on the bench, and his features assumed an expression of distress.

About noon he entered the inn and ate as sparingly as on the previous day. Then he took his head in his hands, and remained at the table as if buried in thought. He had been a long while in that posture, even the host himself not daring to disturb him, when there was a great uproar in front of the inn. A post-chaise had arrived. Three young men and a servant alighted, and the servants of the inn, as well as the host, ran out to welcome Robineau and his two travelling companions; for they were the new arrivals.

"Ah! Bless my soul! but I am stiff!" said Robineau; "it’s quite right to talk about travelling fast by post. How we did go, messieurs! The towns and villages fled behind us!"

"It would be more accurate to say that we fled before them."

"It’s fine, it’s great fun to travel fast.—Oh! my legs!—Take good care of my trunks and parcels, François!"

"Well, monsieur l’aubergiste, give us something good to eat—the best you have. I am as hungry as a hawk! What do you say, Edouard?"

"So am I. The air in this part of the country seems most invigorating."

"And you, Robineau—aren’t you in appetite?"

Robineau pulled Alfred’s coat-tail and said in an undertone:

"Pray don’t call me Robineau again, my friend; you know very well that it is no longer my name. I am Jules de la Roche-Noire."

"The devil! as if I could remember that! Well, Monsieur Jules Robineau de la Roche-Noire, do you not feel disposed to adjourn to the table?"

"I shall have no appetite, my dear fellow, until I reach my château."

"This château of yours will end by making you ill, my poor boy."

The three young men having entered the common room, their loud conversation caused the stranger to raise his eyes, and he examined them without changing his position.

"Messieurs, messieurs, don’t sit down here, for heaven’s sake!" said Robineau, who had just discovered the stranger; "we can’t stay in this room—people like us! Don’t you see? Pretty company, isn’t it?"

"Faith!" said Alfred, taking a seat, "when I travel, I am philosophical; and so long as the dinner is good——"

But Robineau shouted, called, made an uproar, and the host appeared, cap in hand.

"Give us a private room," said Robineau; "it seems to me, monsieur l’aubergiste, that you should be more careful and not put us with—with everybody."

"Your table is being laid on the first floor, messieurs; and if you will walk upstairs——"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Will the gentlemen sleep here?"

"No! no, indeed! we sleep at my estate of La Roche-Noire."

At that name the stranger raised his head and looked closely at Robineau, who continued:

"You must know that château, monsieur l’aubergiste?"

"La Roche-Noire? no, monsieur. I know the village of La Roche-Blanche, which is about two leagues from here."

"I say, Robineau," laughed Alfred, "perhaps you are mistaken; maybe you’re lord of La Roche-Blanche."

"Not at all; I have my title deeds; I am perfectly sure that it’s Noire.—However, what estates are there at La Roche-Blanche?"

"Oh! most of the people live in caves, monsieur; in a sort of caverns, dug out of the cliffs."

"You see, messieurs, that there’s no resemblance—caverns! And I have a magnificent château!—You know the town of Saint-Amand, I trust?"

"Saint-Amand-Talende? Yes, messieurs; it’s but a few leagues from here."

"Well, my château is near there; it must be visible from a distance, because——"

"Oh! let us go to our dinner, for God’s sake!" cried Alfred. "Your château has given me indigestion already, before I have seen it."

"Yes, yes, let us not stay here."

As he spoke, Robineau cast a contemptuous glance at the stranger, who, instead of lowering his eyes, frowned and looked after the Seigneur de la Roche-Noire. That gentleman made haste to leave the room, saying to the inn-keeper:

"Why do you have people like that in your house?"

"Like what, monsieur?"

"Parbleu! like that beggar who is sitting in your common room, and who didn’t even rise when we came in."

"He is not a beggar, monsieur, he’s a traveller."

"Well, he’s a very neat, attractive person, your traveller! He has a most insolent air, too; and if I hadn’t been afraid of—of compromising myself, I would have taught him that that isn’t the way to look at a man like me."

"Oh! Robineau, don’t play the fire-eater, I beg," said Alfred, seating himself at the table; "since you have had a château, you want to intimidate and crush everybody. Do you think that wealth gives you the right to play the master everywhere?"

"There’s no question of that. I want to be treated politely, that’s all. It seems to me that that isn’t too much to ask."

"But were you very polite yourself, Monsieur Jules, to that poor fellow?" asked Edouard. "As soon as you saw him, you insisted on leaving the room. He probably noticed the scornful glances you cast at him. The unfortunate are more sensitive than other people, because they constantly dread humiliation."

"Bah! let us not talk about that man any more. In truth, I have too many things on my mind to pay attention to such creatures. Let us eat quickly, messieurs, so that we may arrive at my place the sooner."

"Choke yourself to death, if you choose; I propose to dine quietly. Remember that it’s only two o’clock! we have plenty of time!"

"But why go on foot? Let us keep the carriage, and we will hire other horses."

"Oh! we are tired of being in a carriage; it will be much pleasanter to walk these last two or three leagues and admire the landscape and the peasant women; for you must find out what sort of neighbors you have to deal with."

"Then we will leave the chaise and our luggage here, and I will send my people to fetch them to-morrow.—However, messieurs, I am going to send François ahead, to have our apartments made ready."

"Send François ahead, if you choose."

Robineau left the table and went in search of his valet; he led him aside and said to him:

"François, you are to go on to my château in advance of us."