Copyright 1904 by G. Barrie & Sons

A RECONCILIATION

We had drawn near to each other, having both left the table to go to the window. I do not know how it happened, but I soon found Eugénie in my arms; then we kissed, we walked away from the window, and——

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XVIII
LE COCU

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

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

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.]

PREFACE
BECAUSE OF THE TITLE

I have never written prefaces to my novels; I have always considered what an author says in a preface, what he therein explains beforehand to the reader, as utterly useless. The reader would be entitled to reply, as Alceste replies to Orontes: “We shall see.”

Nor have I ever supposed that the public read a novel in order to talk with its author. It matters little to my readers, I presume, whether I am young or old, short or tall, whether I write in the morning or at night; what they want is a work that pleases them, in which there is enough of truth to enable them to identify themselves with the characters; and if the author constantly talks of himself and stations himself between his heroes and his reader, it seems to me that he destroys the illusion and injures his own work.

My reason for placing a preface at the head of this book has to do with the title—that title which has caused persons to recoil in dismay who do not balk at executioners, damned, tortured, guillotined, and other pleasant conceits in which authors indulge without objection. I propose, not to justify myself, for I do not think myself guilty, but to reassure some of my readers of the gentler sex, whom my title might alarm beyond measure.

Le Cocu! What is there so indecent in the word, pray? In the first place, what does it mean? A married man who is deceived by his wife, a husband whose wife is unfaithful. Would you like me to give my book such a title as The Husband whose Wife was False to Her Vows? That would resemble a Pontoise poster. Was it not clearer and simpler to take the one word which, alone, means all that?

You might have called it the Predestined, someone may say. My answer to that is that that title would have been excellent for those who understood it, but that very many people would never have guessed that it meant cuckold; that everybody is not familiar with such conventional language, and that I write to be understood by everybody.

But, after all, why enter upon such a crusade against a word so often and so happily employed on the stage? Who does not know that the immortal Molière called one of his plays The Imaginary Cuckold? I have seen that play acted, and consequently advertised in the streets of Paris, less than three years ago—at a time, however, when we permitted ourselves many fewer liberties than at present; and yet I saw no one draw back with horror or disgust, or indulge in any of these indignant, nervous outbursts on reading the poster of the Théâtre-Français on which the announcement of The Imaginary Cuckold was printed. I think, however, that we should be more strict with respect to what is said on the stage, than with respect to what is put in a novel; for, if I take my daughter to the play, and if the characters make unseemly remarks, I cannot prevent my daughter from hearing them; whereas it is a very easy matter for me to prevent her reading a novel in which such things are expressed.

But I repeat, the word cuckold should raise a laugh, and that is all. Is not that the effect which it produces at the theatre?

“Aye, this is very fine; my children will be gentlemen,
but I shall be a cuckold unless I look to it.”
(George Dandin, Act I.)

“Truly a useful lesson for our neighbor;
And if all husbands who live in this town
Would thus receive their wives’ adorers,
The roll of cuckolds would not be so long.”
(L’École des Femmes, Act IV.)

“This popinjay, speaking with all respect,
Makes me a cuckold, madame, at his own sweet will.”
(Sganarelle, Sc. XVI.)

You shall learn, knave, to laugh at our expense,
And, lacking due respect, to make men cuckolds.
(Sganarelle, Sc. XVII.)

“His heart was seen to burn,
Despite us and our teeth, with an illicit flame;
And so at last, striving to be convinced,
I learned, nor boasted, he had made me cuckold.”
(MONTFLEURY, La Femme Juge et Partie.)

“What! I myself cast blame and obloquy upon myself!
Myself proclaim the shame of my own wife!
And, although at last I am too well persuaded,
Seek witnesses to prove that she has made me cuckold.”
(Ibid.)

I know that someone will say: “What was all right long ago may not be right now; other times, other morals.”

I will answer: Other times, other customs, other styles of clothes, other hours for meals,—that is all very true; but as to other morals, I refuse to believe it. We have the same passions, the same failings, the same absurdities as our fathers. I am fully convinced that we are no better than they; those passions and vices may be concealed under more polished forms, but the substance is always the same. Civilization makes men more amiable, more clever in concealing their faults; the progress of knowledge makes them better informed and less credulous. But whereby will you prove to me that it makes them less selfish, less ambitious, less envious, less dissipated? No; the men of to-day are no better than those of an earlier day, or than those who will live a thousand years hence, if men still exist at that time, which I will not assert, but which may be presumed. Let us not be scandalized to-day by what made our ancestors laugh; let us not make a show of being so strict, so fastidious—for that proves nothing in favor of our virtue. At the theatre respectable mothers of families laugh heartily at a somewhat broad jest, but kept women make wry faces, or hold their fans before their eyes.

Secondly, when authors go so far in what is called the romantic style, why should people be any more rigorous with respect to the jovial style, in regard to pictures of society? Because I describe a contemporaneous scene, must I be on my guard against allowing my pen too free a swing? Is that privilege reserved exclusively for those who carry us back to past ages, and who array their characters in vast top boots and short cloaks?

While I am addressing my readers, especially those of the fair sex, I cannot resist the temptation to reply to the criticism that has sometimes been made to the effect that I write immoral books.

Books that are merry, that tend to arouse laughter only, may be a little free, without being licentious for that reason. Although sensuality is dangerous, jests never arouse it. A work which makes the reader sigh, which excites the imagination, is far more dangerous than one which causes laughter. Those persons who have failed to see the moral purpose of my novels have not chosen to see it. I do not consider it necessary to be morose, in order to offer a lesson or two to one’s readers. Molière did not chastise the faults and follies of men, and turn their vices into ridicule, with a scowl on his face.

In Georgette, I have sketched the life of a kept woman; she ends in a way not likely to attract imitators. In Brother Jacques, I have depicted a gambler, and shown to what lengths that horrible passion may carry us. In the Barber of Paris two men yield to their respective passions, avarice and libertinage. Both are punished wherein they have sinned. Jean proves that a worthily placed passion may make us blush for our manners, for our ignorance, and may arouse our disgust of bad company and low resorts. In the Milkmaid of Montfermeil, I have tried to prove that money expended in benefactions reaps a better harvest than that squandered in follies. André the Savoyard is the story of a poor child of the mountains; by behaving becomingly, by assisting his mother and brother, by giving all that he owns to his benefactress, he succeeds in being happy and in conquering a hopeless love. Sister Anne is a girl seduced and abandoned. Her seducer, confronted by his mistress and his wife at once, is given a rough lesson. The Wife, the Husband and the Lover presents only too true a picture of the conduct of many married people. The Natural Man and the Civilized Man must demonstrate the advantages of education. If these works have not a moral, it is probably because I was unable to write them with sufficient skill to bring it home to my readers.

But I have said enough, yes, too much, of my novels; and all apropos of this poor Cocu! In heaven’s name, mesdames, do not let the title alarm you. The epigraph of the book must have reassured you to some slight extent: read on therefore without fear, do not condemn without a hearing. Perhaps you will find this novel less hilarious than you imagine; perhaps indeed you will think that I might have, that I should have presented my hero in quite a different guise. But if this novel, such as it is, does not please you, forgive me, mesdames; I will try to do better in another work; for Le Cocu, which I offer you to-day, will not, I trust, be the last that I shall write.

CH. PAUL DE KOCK.

LE COCU

I
A READING ROOM

“Madame, give me the Constitutionnel.”

“They are all in use at the moment, monsieur.”

“Well, then give me the Courrier Français.”

“Here’s the first sheet of it, monsieur. You shall have the rest in a moment.”

“When I read a newspaper, madame, I like to have it whole; with this new fashion of yours, of cutting the paper in two, you sometimes make us wait at the most interesting places, and that is very unpleasant.”

“But, monsieur, we can’t take ten copies of the same paper! The expenses are big enough already! By cutting the paper, it is easier to accommodate a number of people, and the second sheet of the Courrier Français will certainly be returned before you have read the first.”

“That is not certain. I am not one of those people who spend an hour reading a column. I want a whole paper.”

“Will you have the Débats?”

“Very well, give me the Débats.”

The gentleman who insisted upon having a whole newspaper, like the children who insist upon having a dish to themselves at a restaurant, although they often cannot eat half of it, had entered the reading room grumbling; he took his seat upon a bench between two readers, one of whom, a young and courteous man, moved along to make room for him, while the other, who was old and wrinkled, with his hair brushed à la pigeon’s wing, glanced crossly at the newcomer and turned his back on him after muttering in a sour tone:

“Be careful, monsieur, you are sitting on my coat.”

I was standing at the door of the room, where I rarely remain long; I easily obtained a whole newspaper, because I selected a humble literary sheet; and in these days when politics engrosses everybody, mere literature is cruelly neglected. I can readily understand that people are interested in and absorbed by the interests of our country. There are times when I myself read the great newspapers eagerly; but even then I could not pass hours poring over them. What would you have? One cannot make oneself over, and politics has never been in my line. Indeed, I may be wrong, but it seems to me that that would be a most blessed country where the people were never called upon to busy themselves with politics.

I wanted to know what the papers said about the play that was produced the day before at the Variétés. One paper declared that is was detestable, another pronounced it delightful; is it possible to form an opinion upon such judgments?

“Madame, give me the Quotidienne, please, and the Gazette de France, if nobody has them.”

“No, monsieur, nobody has them; here they are.”

I turned to look. One often turns to look when one is not reading anything serious; I wanted to see the gentleman who had taken the Gazette and the Quotidienne. I saw a very tall, straight individual, with smooth, plastered hair, curly behind the ears; with a furtive eye and a honeyed voice; I was on the point of saying, with red ears and a flushed complexion; in truth, he had both these, and if I had looked at him before he spoke, I could have guessed what papers he would have asked for. Some people claim that the face is deceitful; but no, it is not so deceitful as it is said to be, especially to those who take the trouble to examine it carefully.

I still held my paper in my hand but I was no longer reading it. I amused myself by scrutinizing all those faces leaning over the printed pages. It would have made a pretty picture for a genre painter. That stout man, with his elbows resting on the table covered with the conventional green cloth, had the air of a potentate called upon to arbitrate between neighboring kings. Sometimes he protruded his lower lip, dissatisfied doubtless with what was being done; but soon his expression softened, his mouth resumed its usual expression, and a slight nod of the head indicated that he was better pleased with what he was reading.

At his right, a short, gray-haired man was reading with an avidity which was depicted upon every feature. It mattered little to him that people came in and went out, coughed, blew their noses, or sat down beside him; his eyes did not leave for one second the sheet that he held before them, and they gleamed like a young man’s. There was patriotism, glory, liberty in that expression.

Beyond him, a man of uncertain age, a man with a mania; that could be seen at a glance. The lamp must be exactly in front of him, his feet must have a chair to rest upon, and his snuff-box must be placed beside his paper. If all these conditions were not exactly fulfilled, then he was perfectly wretched and had no idea what he was reading. I soon had a proof of it: his neighbor moved his snuff-box with his elbow, whereupon he raised his eyes angrily and glared at the offender, muttering:

“It seems to me that you have room enough, and that it isn’t in your way!”

It was several minutes before he could resume his reading in peace, and he did not do so until he had replaced his box at the same distance from his hand as before. But soon a more serious accident happened: as there were many people in the room, a newcomer ventured to take the chair upon which his feet were resting. Thereupon the man with the mania was completely upset; after glancing askance at the person who had presumed to take such a liberty, he rose, walked to the desk, angrily threw down the newspaper and a sou, and left the room, saying:

“It’s outrageous! it is impossible to read the news when one is interrupted and disturbed every moment.”

The man with the smooth hair had taken a seat in the corner at the end of the room. From time to time he cast a furtive glance about him; then he resumed his reading, but very quietly, without moving, without the slightest change of expression.

Just beyond him, a stupid faced man had been leaning over the same sheet for an interminable time; but he was not asleep, as I thought at first. That man was, so I was told, the terror of all reading rooms. He regularly took four hours to read an ordinary newspaper, and six to read the Moniteur. If those who let newspapers had many customers like him, they would have to charge by the hour, as at billiards.

I was about to return to my literary review, but my attention was distracted by a female voice which rang in my ears; anything of the feminine gender always distracts my attention. I instantly abandoned the regular customers of the reading room, and looked into the next room at the right, which was filled with tables covered with books; for at that establishment books as well as papers were let; and in truth it was wisely done, for in these days, in order to earn one’s living, it is none too much, in fact sometimes it is not enough, to do two things at once.

As I was standing between the two rooms, it was easy for me to look into the one devoted to books: I saw a woman of some twenty years, with a bright, wide-awake face. Her dress indicated that she lived near by; her head was uncovered; a black silk apron à corsage fitted her snugly; but her feet were in list slippers which were much too large for her, and she also had a thimble on one of her hands, which were covered with old gloves of which the fingers were cut off. She tripped in, smiling, and placed a package of books on the desk, saying:

“Here! we have devoured all these already!”

“What! why, you only got them yesterday!”

“Oh! we read fast at our house; my aunt doesn’t do anything else, and my sister has a sore thumb and couldn’t work; she often has a sore thumb, my sister has; and my brother much prefers reading novels to practising on the violin. I confess that I like it much better too, when he is not practising; it’s so tiresome to have a violin forever scraping in your ears; oh! it sets my teeth on edge just to think of it. I have a horror of a violin—What are you going to give me? We want something nice.”

“I don’t just know, you read so fast; before long you will have read all the books I have got.”

“We want something new.”

“New! that’s what all the subscribers say; they think that nothing is good except what is new; and yet we have some old novels which are far ahead of the modern ones. ”

“Bah! you say that to get me to take your Cleveland, your Tom Jones and your old Doyen de Killerine again.”

“The Doyen de Killerine is a very good book, mademoiselle, and——”

“Madame, I don’t take any interest in a hunchback hero with crooked legs and patches over his eyes. No! no! what I like is a handsome young man, very dark and well-built, with a noble carriage; he is all right,—you can imagine him and fancy that you are looking at him. When he makes love, you say to yourself: ‘I’d like to have a lover like him;’ and there’s some pleasure in that.”

The proprietress smiled; I did the same, while pretending to be engrossed in my paper. The young woman fluttered from one table to another; she would take up a book, open it, then put it back on its shelf, saying:

“We have read this; we have read this. Bless my soul! have we read everything?”

“Here, mademoiselle,” said the woman who kept the room, “here’s something interesting and well written.”

“What is it?”

“La Femme de Bon Sens, ou La Prisonnière de Bohême.”

“Let’s see whom it is by: translated from the English by Ducos. Why, this was published in 1798! Are you making fun of me, to give me such an old novel as this?”

“What difference does it make how old it is, when I tell you that it is good?”

“I tell you that its age makes a great deal of difference; we like pictures of contemporary manners. A novel more than twenty years old cannot depict the manners of to-day.”

“But it may depict the passions and absurdities of society; those things are of all times, mademoiselle. That is why people still enjoy seeing Tartufe, the Misanthrope, the Etourdi, although those works are certainly not new.”

“Oh! it all depends on the taste. But I don’t want the Femme de Bon Sens. Besides, I don’t like the title; it seems to be an epigram.”

“Well, here is something new—the Bourreau de——”

“Enough! enough! thank the Lord we have never cared for executioners—bourreaux—! we don’t like the literature of the burying ground, the manners of the Morgue. It is possible that such pictures may be true to life, but we have no desire to go to those places to find out; we would shun with horror a street or square where preparations were being made to execute a criminal; and you expect us to enjoy reading books where the author persists in describing such horrors in detail, in presenting ghastly pictures! Oh! it seems to me, madame, that a man must have a very bad opinion of women to think that they will enjoy such reading, that such tableaux can possibly have any attraction for them. It is equivalent to coupling us with the wretches who rush in crowds to look on at an execution; and I did not suppose that there could be any glory in writing for those women!”

I could not resist the desire to look up from my paper; we like to meet people who think as we do, and as I agreed absolutely with that young woman in her views regarding literature, I looked at her with satisfaction. Chance willed that she should look at me at the same moment. I smiled, no doubt, for she made a funny little face and skipped away to another part of the room.

She soon returned with four volumes, and said:

“At last, I believe I have found one that we haven’t read: Eugène et Guillaume. I will take this. It’s by Picard; it ought to be good.”

“You should not always trust to the author’s name, mademoiselle; however, when it is by a writer who knows how to write, one is sure at all events to have something which will not offend in style, even if the plot or the incidents are not well done. You say that you will take Eugène et Guillaume?”

“Yes, but I must have something else with it. Four volumes! why, they will hardly last one evening. By the way, have you anything new by the author of Sœur Anne? He is my favorite, you know.”

I could not help looking at the young woman with still greater satisfaction, for I am very intimate with the author whom she named.

“No, mademoiselle, I have nothing by that author that you have not read. But here is something that came out yesterday.”

“Ah! give it to me, give it to me.”

“I don’t know just what it is, but so far as newness goes, I will warrant it.”

“Let me have it.”

“Will you promise not to keep it long?”

“Yes, yes; you know that it is only a matter of one evening with us.”

“You will be very careful about cutting it?”

“Yes, yes! I must run now, or my aunt will say that I have been gossiping.”

The young woman took all the volumes under her arm and went out, after casting another rapid glance in my direction.

She was succeeded by a woman with a round cap and calico wrapper. She brought back only a single book, which she laid on the desk, saying:

“Great heaven! we had hard work to finish it! I thought that we would never see the end!”

“It is true that you have had the book nearly a month.”

“Oh, dear me! we don’t read fast at our house; you see, as a general thing, my man reads to me while I am working; and as he still has the catarrh, he stops at every comma to cough. Never mind, it’s mighty interesting. I cried hard with that poor girl who spends fifteen years in the underground dungeon, with nothing but bread and water to eat. She must have had a good stomach, I tell you, not to be sick.”

“Do you want something else?”

“Yes, to be sure. Something about robbers, if you please, and about ghosts, if you have anything, because a novel with robbers and ghosts in it can’t help being interesting. Oh! and then I want something with pictures, some of those lovely pictures of crimes. I am very fond of pictures, I am; and then you see, I say to myself: ‘a novel that they don’t spend the money to put pictures in, why it can’t have Peru behind it.’ Don’t I hit the mark?”

“Here is something, madame, that will interest you greatly.”

“What is it?”

“The Ghosts of the Nameless Château, or The Brigands of the Abandoned Quarry.”

“Ah! what a splendid title! what a ring there is to it! Let’s look at the pictures. A man eating a skeleton. Bless my soul! that must be good. I don’t want to see any more; I’ll take the Ghosts, and I’ll go and buy some jujube paste for my husband, so that he won’t cough quite so much when he’s reading.”

The worthy woman who loved pictures was succeeded by an elderly man who also wanted a novel. He was asked what sort of story he wanted; but it mattered little to him: he wanted it to read in bed at night, something that would put him to sleep right away. What he wanted was found at once.

After him came a lady on the decline. She brought back a volume of memoirs, and she wanted more memoirs; according to her, memoirs were the only proper thing to read. When a lady has passed the age for making conquests, I can understand that memoirs seem instructive to her and also pleasant reading; to her the past has more charm than the present. Being no longer able to tell us of what she does, she desires that we should be interested in what she has done; that is one way to keep people talking about her. After a life of adventures, she considers that to cease to occupy the public attention is a living death. Poor creature! I am sorry for her; she dies twice over. But see how mistaken she is! she falls into oblivion while seeking immortality; and there are some excellent mothers of families, simple, virtuous women, who nevertheless do not die altogether, for all who have known them treasure their images and their memories in the depths of their hearts.

The lady of the memoirs went away with eight octavo volumes under her arm. Next came an old gentleman powdered and musked as in the days of the Regency. He wore a little three-cornered hat which did not approach his ears, and a silk muffler over his coat, although it was only the first of October. This gentleman nodded patronizingly to the proprietress and placed two volumes on her desk.

“What the devil did you give me this for?” he said; “it’s a wretched, detestable book.”

“What! didn’t you like it, monsieur? Why, it has been generally praised.”

“I promise you that it will not be praised by me!”

“Then monsieur does not want the sequel? There are two more volumes.”

“No, indeed, I don’t want the sequel. It was as much as I could do to read three pages.”

“Was that enough to enable you to judge?”

“Yes, madame; I always judge by the first few lines. I want something good, something useful—a romance of the times of chivalry, for example.”

“I have Amadis de Gaule.”

“I have read that.”

“Geneviève de Cornouailles.”

“I’ve read it.”

“The Chevaliers du Cygne.”

“I’ve read it. I’ve read all the old books of that sort. Give me a new one.”

“Why, romances of chivalry are seldom written nowadays.”

“What’s that! seldom written? Why aren’t they written, pray? You must have some written, madame; you must order some from your novel writers.”

“They say that they are no longer in vogue, monsieur.”

“They don’t know what they are talking about; there is nothing else so good; that is the true type of novel. But these modern authors do not understand the taste of their readers. They write books in which they aim to be bright and realistic. They draw pictures of society, as if such things could be compared with a description of a tournament! In the old days they used to write much better novels. Those of the younger Crébillon were not without merit; those of Mademoiselle de Scudéry were a little too long, I admit; but Le Sopha, Le Bijoux Indiscrets, and Angola—those are fine stories, sparkling with delectable details!”

“If monsieur would like L’Enfant du Carnaval, by Pigault-Lebrun, that too is full of very amusing incidents.”

“No, madame, no; I don’t read such books as that. What do you take me for? That is so broad! why, there’s a certain dish of spinach, which——”

“Which makes one laugh, monsieur, whereas your Angola makes one blush, or even worse.”

“Madame, give me a romance of chivalry. I want to teach my grandson, and certainly that is the only sort of reading that can be at once useful and agreeable to him.”

“Would monsieur like Don Quixote?”

“Don Quixote! fie, madame! your Cervantes is an impertinent fellow, a knave, a sneak, who presumes to ridicule the noblest, most gallant, most revered things in the world! If that Cervantes had lived in my time, madame, I would have made him retract his Don Quixote, or else, by the shades of my ancestors, I swear that he would have passed an uncomfortable quarter of an hour!”

The proprietress pretended to have a paroxysm of coughing in order to conceal her desire to laugh. As for myself, I could not contain myself, I burst out laughing and the paper fell from my hands. The man with the muffler turned in my direction; he eyed me indignantly and put his right hand to his left side, whether in search of a sword, in order to treat me as he would have treated Miguel Cervantes, I do not know. But, instead of a weapon, his hand came into contact with nothing more than a bonbon box; he opened that, and took out two or three pastilles which he put in his mouth with a dignified air, and said to the woman:

“Come, let us have done with this. What are you going to give me, madame?”

“Perhaps monsieur is not familiar with the story of the Quatre Fils Aymon?”

“I have read it three times, but I shall be glad to read it again. Give me the story of the Fils Aymon, and I will let my grandson meditate upon it; it will not be my fault if I do not make a Richardet of him.”

The gentleman put the book under his muffler; then he flashed an angry glance at me, and probably proposed to make a very dignified exit; unfortunately, as he glanced at me, he failed to see a lady who was coming in; and when he turned, he collided with her; the lady’s hat knocked off his three-cornered one, which was carefully balanced on his head. The little old man picked up his hat and pulled it over his eyes, muttering: “What are we coming to?” and went out, slamming the door so viciously that he nearly broke all the glass, which action I considered by no means worthy of an old chevalier.

The lady who had knocked off the little hat was young and rather pretty; a half veil thrown back over her hood did not conceal her features; indeed, her eyes did not indicate a person who shrank from being noticed; far from it. But there was in her dress a mixture of coquetry and slovenliness, of pretension and poverty; she had in her hand a pamphlet which she tossed upon the desk, saying:

“I have brought back the Chevilles de Maître Adam; how much do I owe you?”

“Six sous, mademoiselle.”

“What! six sous for a farce which I have kept only three days,—just long enough to copy my part?”

“That is the price, mademoiselle. You gave me thirty sous as security; here’s twenty-four.”

“Why, it’s an exorbitant price, madame—six sous! I hire very often, but I have never paid so much as that. It would be as cheap to buy the thing. How much does it cost?”

“Thirty sous, mademoiselle.”

“Great heavens! how they are putting up the price of plays nowadays! It’s an awful shame! But I must have the Mariage de Figaro, to learn the part of Chérubin, which I am going to play on Sunday on Rue de Chantereine. I can’t learn my parts unless I copy them; writing seems to engrave them on my brain. I copied Nanine in one night and I knew it the next day. But six sous! that’s rather hard. People think that it doesn’t cost anything to act in society. I should think not! there’s no end to the expenses. Costumes, rouge, bundles to be carried! Never mind, give me Figaro. I have never played in a burlesque yet, but my teacher told me that I ought to be very good in it, because I am not knock-kneed. Keep what I paid you; that will pay for this.”

The Mariage de Figaro was handed to her. She turned over the leaves of the pamphlet, muttering:

“Oh! how short it is! almost no long speeches, and I am so fond of lengthy dialogues! I am sorry now that I don’t play Suzanne. But I will copy both parts; then I can play the man or the woman as they want. I am not particular.”

The actress-apprentice stuffed the pamphlet into her bag and went out, winding about her body an old shawl which looked as if it had often done duty as a turban for Zaïre or Mohammed.

It must be very amusing to let books; you see a great many people and hear amusing things; there are people who instantly lay bare their folly, their absurdity, their wretched taste; but the business requires patience, especially when one has to do with such customers as the chevalier in the muffler.

I was about to return my newspaper and pay for it, when I heard a very familiar voice even before the person to whom it belonged had entered the door. I turned and saw my friend Bélan, who, in accordance with his custom, shouted as if he were talking to a deaf person, and found a way to occupy the space of four people, although he was very slim and his height exempted him from the conscription. But Bélan kept his arms in motion all the time, stood on tiptoe to increase his height, threw his head back, and went through the antics of a bear in a cage.

As he opened the door, Bélan spied me; he came toward me, exclaiming:

“Ah! I was looking for you, Blémont, my friend; I have just come from your rooms; they told me that you might be here, and here you are.”

“Hush! hush! don’t talk so loud,” I said to Bélan, whose shrill tones caused a revolution in the reading room. “Wait a moment; I am at your service.”

“My dear fellow, I have come about a very serious matter. I will tell you about it, and you will see whether——”

“Hush, I say; these people reading the newspapers, whom you are interrupting, don’t care anything about your affairs; that isn’t what they came here for.”

“That is true, but——”

“Come on;” and taking Monsieur Bélan’s arm, I dragged him away from the reading room.

II
OF THINGS THAT OFTEN HAPPEN

“Now, my dear Bélan, say on; we are on the boulevard, and you will not disturb anybody; but I advise you to lower your voice a little, for I don’t see the necessity of taking all the passers-by into your confidence.”

“Lower my voice, my friend! it is very easy for you to say that. But when one is as excited, as agitated as I am, it is perfectly justifiable to shout; it relieves one. Oh! mon Dieu! how will all this end?”

“You begin to alarm me, Bélan. What is it all about, pray?”

“Parbleu! love, intrigue, a woman—always women! as you know, I care for nothing else.”

I could not forbear a glance at the little man. I knew that he was very well-built in his little way, and that many taller men had not calves as plump and shapely as his. But his face was so ridiculous—his turned-up nose, eyebrows absurdly high, heart-shaped mouth and big eyes formed such a comical whole, that I could not understand how he could ever inspire love; I could imagine it much more easily of an ugly face which was pleasant or intellectual; but I suppose that I am not a good judge, for Bélan was generally supposed to be a favorite with the ladies, and, as he had just said himself, he was constantly mixed up in intrigue. To be sure, Bélan was rich, and money is a potent auxiliary; many self-styled seducers owe their success to it alone.

Bélan saw that I was scrutinizing him. He stood on tiptoe again, and said to me in an offended tone, for the little man is easily hurt and irritated:

“You look as if you were surprised that it is about a love intrigue. Does it astonish you that I turn the heads of the ladies?”

“No, my dear fellow; but I am astonished that you are so excited, as it is nothing more than a thing to which you must be accustomed.”

“Ah! but it is not always so serious as it is to-day.—You must know that I am on the best of terms with Madame de Montdidier?”

“Faith, no, I didn’t know it.”

“What! you didn’t know that? A rake like you—a man after my own heart!”

“You do me too much honor.”

“To be sure, I haven’t mentioned it to anybody, for I am discretion itself; but such things are always noticed; ordinarily the husband is the only person who does not detect them.”

“Has he detected something this time?”

“Listen: Montdidier is a quick-tempered man, brutal even, so his wife says; and more than that, horribly jealous.”

“All this does not prevent him from being——”

“No, such things never do prevent it; on the contrary, they make one want—However, you will see that it necessitated extra precaution and prudence. He is not one of the husbands who go half-way to meet you, who constantly ask you to act as their wife’s escort, to go with her to the play or to walk; one of those husbands, in short, who seem to say to you: ‘Make me a cuckold; I should like it.’”

“It is true that there are some like that.”

“What I had to do was to deceive an Argus, an Othello; I had to invent some stratagem day after day. Luckily I am never at a loss.”

“You are very fortunate.”

“To-day Montdidier dined out; a ceremonious dinner which he could not avoid attending. Thereupon we laid our plans. His wife pretended to dine early, and then she said that she was going to see her aunt; she did leave the house, in fact, but she joined me at a little restaurant on Boulevard du Temple. Everything passed off as we had agreed; we had an excellent dinner, et cætera, et cætera!”

“Yes, many et cæteras, no doubt.”

“I beg you to believe that there were a great many. In the evening, Hélène—that is the name of my inamorata——”

“The name suits her very well.”

“That is so, on my word! I hadn’t thought of that. Well, Hélène had to go to join her Menelaus. Ha! ha! that is very amusing—Menelaus——”

“And you are Paris!”

“Just so, I am Paris. What a pity that I cannot laugh now!—Well, Hélène was to join her husband at Giraud’s, who gives a reception to-night. You know Giraud, a loquacious fellow, who thinks that he’s a business agent because he has three boxes standing on his desk, and who has a mania for trying to marry everybody, and that merely that he and his wife may be present at the wedding?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“I was to go to Giraud’s too, but not until later; we did not want to arrive together. People are talking enough already, and I have such a terrible reputation.”

“Well?”

“Well, just now we sent out for a cab, and Hélène and I got into it. I ought to have let her go alone; but what can you expect? It is always so hard to part! That woman is exceedingly passionate.—Well, we were in the cab. You know that Giraud lives on Rue Poissonnière; I had told the driver to put me down at the corner of the boulevard. We were going along quietly enough, when suddenly we felt that we were thrown against the side of the cab; Hélène fell against the door, and I fell upon her; it was all because of an accident to the cab—one of the hind wheels had broken. We shouted like madmen. Hélène pushed me away with her hand, which she thrust into my eye, saying that I was stifling her; and I said to her: ‘Take your hand away; you are putting out my eye!’—Can’t you imagine the picture?”

“I observe that you had ceased to say sweet things to each other.”

“Faith! that we had; I believe that we were on the point of insulting each other. Just see how a broken wheel changes the nature of one’s feelings. Luckily we were more frightened than hurt. A crowd gathered about our cab. I succeeded in opening the door and jumped out first. But imagine my stupefaction when I saw her husband before me—yes, Montdidier himself, craning his neck to see what had happened.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“I haven’t an idea; when I saw him, I didn’t give him time to speak to me; I turned so suddenly that I nearly upset a peddler who was behind me. I pushed everybody out of my way, and ran to your room without stopping.”

“And your unfortunate companion,—did you leave her there?”

“Would you have had me offer her my hand, and play the gallant with her before her husband? It seems to me that I followed the wisest course. But still, if Montdidier recognized me, and I am afraid he did; if his wife called my name; if—for he must have seen his wife get out of the cab—O heaven! such a hot-tempered, jealous man!”

“He is capable of doing his wife some violence.”

“His wife, yes, no doubt, and me too. She was forever saying to me when we were together: ‘Ah! if my husband knew, he would kill me! he would kill me!’”

“In that case he might very well try to kill you too.”

“It is terrible, it is most distressing. It isn’t that I am afraid to fight—you know that it isn’t that, because I have proved my courage; but the sensation, the scandal the thing will cause. And then, in reality, I’ve nothing against Montdidier. He always received me cordially, and invited me to dinner. I bear him no grudge at all.”

“You bore nobody a grudge but his wife.”

“No joking, my dear fellow; it is too serious a matter. This infernal mania for intrigues! But it is all over now; I don’t propose to deceive any more husbands. It is most absurd and it is immoral too; I am angry with myself for ever having done it.—What! are you laughing at me again?”

“Yes, I can’t help laughing; you remind me of the sailors who pray to God during the storm and laugh at Him when the weather is fine.”

“I don’t know if I resemble a sailor, but I do know that I feel very uncomfortable. This adventure so soon after dinner—the charlotte russe lies heavy on my stomach. Come, my dear Blémont, let’s not laugh; help me to get out of this fix; I will do as much for you, and you may need me soon, for you are a terrible fellow too,—the terror of husbands. Great God! how you have maltreated the poor devils!”

“If I can be of any service to you I shall be glad to, but I don’t quite see how, unless I make Montdidier think that it was I who was in the cab with his wife; but that would not rehabilitate the reputation of his Hélène, and that is what we must think of first of all.”

“That is so, that is what we must think of; although, since she put her finger in my eye, I am not in love with her at all. It is amazing how ugly she looked to me at that moment!”

“She has not always looked ugly to you. She has been kind to you, and you must try to acknowledge it by saving her good name.”

“Yes, she has been kind to me, but I don’t want any more of her favors. Oh, even if it can all be straightened out, I say again, no more flirtations with married women, no more illicit love-affairs. Unmarried girls or widows, women without entanglements,—they’re all right; with them one doesn’t have to hide all the time, to make long détours and hire cabs.”

“All such dangers are what give piquancy to that sort of intrigue.”

“Thanks; that same piquancy is very pleasant. Oh! just let me get out of this scrape, and I will turn over a new leaf, I will become incorruptible so far as the ladies are concerned. But if I am to have time to turn virtuous, Montdidier must not blow my brains out.—Come, my friend, let us think what it is best to do.”

“Go to Giraud’s; you can see whether Montdidier is there with his wife; and according to the way he behaves to you, you can easily judge whether he recognized you, and how he has taken the thing.”

“Go there and expose myself to his fury, to his wrath, before everybody? surely you don’t mean it, my friend?”

“A man of breeding doesn’t take society into his confidence in such matters.”

“I told you that Montdidier was a brutal fellow.”

“If he thinks that he has been wronged, he won’t go to a party with his wife.”

“That is true; but there is another way to make sure, and that is for you to go to Giraud’s. If our husband and wife are there, you can watch them, and you will be able to tell at once on what terms they are; furthermore, you might slyly give the lady to understand that you have just left me. What do you say? Oh! my dear Blémont, do me this favor; go to Giraud’s.”

“I will do it solely to oblige you, for the business agent’s receptions are not very interesting; and this evening I intended to go to see some very agreeable ladies.”

“You can see your ladies to-morrow, they will be in the same place. Besides, perhaps they are married ladies, and who knows that I am not saving you from some unpleasant scrape?”

“To listen to you, one would think that no one ever called upon a lady except with the design of making a conquest.”

“Oh! you see I know you. Come, Blémont, sacrifice your ladies to me; consider that I am between life and death so long as I do not know what to expect.”

“To oblige you, I will go to Giraud’s.”

“You are a friend indeed. It is almost nine o’clock, and the reception is just at its height. To-night there is to be singing and playing. Be prudent, and if our couple are there, watch them closely.”

“I’m like the confidential friend in a melodrama.”

“I will wait for you at the café on the corner of the boulevard; I will drink a glass of sugar and water. If everything goes well, if I can safely show myself, you will have the kindness to tell me so.”

“Very good.”

We quickened our pace, and when we reached the corner of Rue Poissonnière, Bélan grasped my hand and shook it violently.

“My friend,” he said, “I will wait for you at the café opposite. Don’t say that I am there, don’t mention my name.”

“Never fear.”

I had taken a few steps when I felt someone grasp me from behind; it was Bélan again; he had run after me, and he said most earnestly:

“My dear Blémont, I trust that this adventure will cause you to reflect seriously, that it will reform you as it will me. We must mend our ways, my friend. For my own part, I swear on the faith of Ferdinand Bélan, that the loveliest woman in Paris, if she is not free——”

I did not wait for the end of the little man’s sermon; I smiled and left him, and walked up the street toward Monsieur Giraud’s.

III
THE GIRAUD FAMILY

Monsieur Giraud’s was a most amusing household; there was nothing extraordinary about it, however, for the absurdities that one met with there are common in society; but in order to be comical, things never need to be extraordinary.

Monsieur Giraud was a man of forty years of age; he had been a government clerk, a notary’s clerk, a lottery collector; he had done many things, and I fancy that he had done nothing well; but he was as prying and inquisitive as a concierge, and he even pretended to be a ladies’ man, although he was very ugly and his breath made his coming perceptible three yards away; which did not prevent him from speaking right into your face, the ordinary mania of people who have that infirmity.

Madame Giraud was about her husband’s age. She was neither ugly nor beautiful; but unfortunately she was as pretentious as he, she always dressed like a provincial actress, and above all was determined to appear slender, at the risk of being unable to breathe.

Then there was a son of eleven, who was the very picture of his father and who still played with a Noah’s ark; another son of four, who was allowed to do exactly as he pleased, and who abused the license to such an extent that there was not a whole piece of furniture in the house; and lastly, there was a little girl of eight, who assumed to play the mistress and to whip her two brothers, to show that she had already reached the age of reason. Add to these an ill-tempered dog which barked for five minutes at every new arrival, and a stout cat which always wore a collar of corks and had a plaster on its head, and you will know the whole Giraud family. I say nothing of the servant, because they changed servants every fortnight.

I do not know whether those people were rich—I am not in the habit of prying into things which do not concern me—but I do not think that they were in such comfortable circumstances as they chose to make it appear. I have an idea that Monsieur Giraud, who tried to marry all the bachelors whom he met, exacted a commission—droit—for such marriages as he arranged; and it surely was not the droit du seigneur.[A]

[A] The droit du seigneur was the privilege enjoyed by the feudal lord of first sharing the bed of every newly-married woman among his feudatories.

I reached the house. I went up to the third floor. I heard children crying and recognized the voices of Mademoiselle Joséphine Giraud and her older brother. Blended with them were the strains of a piano and a flute, from which I concluded that the party was at its height.

I entered the dining room. A maid whom I did not know was filling glasses with sugar and water; I thought that she tasted it to make sure that it was good. The brother and sister were quarrelling over a piece of cake. At that moment Monsieur Giraud came from the salon, carrying in his hand a lamp with a globe; he came toward me with his lamp.

“Is it you, my dear Monsieur Blémont? Delighted to see you. Ah! why didn’t you come a little earlier? Céran just sang, and he was in fine voice; it was wonderful! And we have just had a concerted piece for the flute and piano. Two amateurs; and they played it with extraordinary fire. This infernal lamp won’t burn; I don’t know what’s the matter with it. Come in, come in. We have a lot of people. There will be more singing. And there are some very pretty women; there are several marriageable ones, my dear fellow, and with good dowries. If you should happen to want—you know, you will have to come to it at last.—The devil take this lamp; the wick is new, too.”

I entered the salon, but it was very difficult to move there; in the first place, the room was not large, and the ladies were all seated in a circle which no man was permitted to break as yet; so that one must needs be content to walk behind the ladies’ chairs, at the risk of disturbing some of them, or of treading on the feet of the men who were standing in the narrow passage. I know no greater bore than a party where the ladies are drawn up in that way, like borders in a garden, not talking with the men, and intent solely upon staring at one another from the top of the head to the soles of the feet, in order to see what they may criticise. To add to the discomfort which always prevails in such an assemblage, the salon was very dimly lighted: a large lamp, the mate of the one I had seen in Giraud’s hands, diffused only a vague light; and a few candles, placed at considerable distances apart on the furniture, were not sufficient to supplement the light furnished by the lamps. All this, added to the silence of the ladies and to the low whisperings in which the gentlemen ventured to indulge, imparted a touch of gloom and mystery to the function; one might have imagined oneself at Robertson’s theatre during the phantasmagoria.

I spied Madame Giraud in the passageway. She saw me too, and tried to come to me by pushing aside several gentlemen, and smiling at those who moved only half enough, so that they might have the pleasure of rubbing against her. At last we met. As I could not understand the behavior of those gentlemen, who talked in low tones as if they were at church, I ventured to inquire for the hostess’s health in my ordinary voice, which drew all eyes toward me for a moment; it did not produce an ill effect however, for several young men, who probably had not dared to break the ice, at once began to talk more freely, and the mysterious whisperings became less frequent.

“If you had come sooner,” said Madame Giraud, “you would have heard a fine performance. Ah! we had something very fine just now.”

I was tempted to reply that it was not at all fine at present, but I did not do it; in society it is not safe to say all that one thinks; one who did so would be very unwelcome. In a moment, Madame Giraud exclaimed:

“Where on earth is Monsieur Giraud? What is he doing with his lamp? This one won’t go now! How unpleasant it is!—What do you think of that young woman by the fireplace? Forty-five thousand francs in cash, and expectations. That is not to be despised. You will hear her in a moment: she is going to sing something Italian. Ah! how angry Monsieur Giraud makes me!”

At last Monsieur Giraud reappeared, proudly carrying the lamp, which diffused a brilliant light. He placed it on a table, saying:

“It will go now. There was only a little thing to fix.”

“You must do the same with the other one now,” said Madame Giraud, “for, as you see, that won’t burn.”

“Ah! that’s so. Well! I’ll take it out and do the same thing to it.”

Madame Giraud detained her husband as he was going to take the other lamp, and said to him in an undertone, but not so low that I could not hear her:

“Just fancy that Dufloc refusing to sing!”

“The deuce! really?”

“He says that he has a cold.”

“It’s just spitefulness. It’s because we haven’t invited him to dinner.”

“We must start something, however. There’s no life at all in the thing.”

“We had better begin the dancing right away.”

“No, monsieur, it’s too early.”

“Then try to get Montausol and his wife to sing, or Mademoiselle Dupuis. Arrange that, while I attend to the lamp.”

The husband and wife separated, and I, taking advantage of the renewed light, thought about fulfilling my mission, and I passed the company in review, to see if Montdidier and his chaste spouse were present.

There were in truth some very pretty women in that salon, and they would have been still more so if, instead of the yawns which they strove to dissemble, their faces had been enlivened by pleasure. There was one especially, near the piano; she was evidently unmarried. She was charming; her face betokened sweet temper and intelligence, and those are two qualities which one rarely sees in the same face. Lovely fair hair, not too light, blue eyes not too staring, a pretty mouth, a very white skin, pink cheeks, and refined taste in her dress and the arrangement of her hair; it seemed to me that there was refinement in every curl. She did not seem to be bored, which fact indicated that she was accustomed to society.

That young woman’s lovely eyes caused me to lose sight of Bélan and his errand. But I suddenly spied Madame Montdidier. She was talking and laughing with the lady beside her. That seemed to me a good sign: if she had had a scene with her husband, it seemed to me that she would not be in such good spirits. To be sure, in society, people are very skilful in concealing their sentiments. I determined to look for the husband; a man is less adroit in concealing what he feels. Even he who is not in love with his wife feels that his self-esteem is wounded when he is certain that he is betrayed. That feeling should be visible on the face when it is so recent. Poor husbands! how we laugh at them so long as we are bachelors! For my part, I hoped to laugh as heartily when I should be married. In the first place, I flattered myself that I should have a virtuous wife; a man should always flatter himself to that extent; and then—if—Bless my soul! is it such a terrible thing? I remembered La Fontaine’s two lines:

“When one knows it, ‘tis a very trifle;
When one knows it not, ‘tis nothing at all.”

I did not discover Montdidier in that salon. I thought that he might perhaps be in the bedroom, where they were playing écarté. I tried to go there; but it was not an easy matter. I wondered if no one would make bold to break the circle formed by those ladies, and I determined to seize the first opportunity.

The dog barked; that announced new arrivals. That dog played to perfection the part of a servant. The newcomers were ladies. So much the better; it would be necessary to break the circle in order to enlarge it. And that is what actually happened. As soon as I saw an opening, I stepped in. A young man, who was not sorry for an opportunity to approach a certain lady, followed my example; then another, and another; the old story of Panurge’s sheep. The circle was definitely broken. The men mingled with the ladies; it became possible to move about, and it was to me that they owed it! I had caused a revolution in Giraud’s salon; a revolution, however, that did not cause anybody’s death.

I had instinctively drawn near to the attractive young woman whom I had admired at a distance. She seemed to me still more attractive at closer quarters. I forgot that Bélan was waiting before a glass of sugar and water, for me to bring him life or death. It was hard for me to leave the place where I was.

But the piano began again—someone was going to sing. It seemed to me that I might remain long enough to hear the performance. It proved to be the Montausols, who were about to give us a duet. They must have been a very united couple; one of them never sang without the other. Imagine a short but enormously stout man, whose violet cheeks seemed on the point of bursting when he drew a breath, and who consequently was a frightful object when he sang in a stentorian voice that vibrated like a bass-viol. His wife was very short too, and at least as stout as her husband; she seemed to suffer terribly in her efforts to produce from her chest shrill tones that pierced the drum of the ear. The couple had a passion for difficult pieces; they proposed to regale us with grand opera. A lady was seated at the piano. The husband glanced at his wife, puffing like a bull during the prelude; the wife looked at her husband, raising one of her hands to mark the time. Each seemed to say to the other:

“Now, stand to your guns! Let us carry this by storm! Let us deafen them!”

The recitative began; at the third measure the audience no longer knew where they were. The husband and wife hurled their notes at each other as two tennis players drive the ball with all their strength. When one of them made a mistake or lagged behind, the other’s eyes flashed fire, and he or she moved his whole body in order to restore the time.

As I had not sufficient self-control to watch the two singers with a sober face, I turned my eyes toward that young woman who was close beside me; that was the best way to forget the music. She was not laughing, but I fancied that I could see that she was biting her lips. It is a fact that one is sometimes sorely embarrassed to keep a sober face in a salon. She had raised her eyes toward me; she seemed more embarrassed than before, and turned her head away. Perhaps my persistent scrutiny had offended her; perhaps it was ill-bred to gaze at her so fixedly. I did not think of that. I did it, not so that she should notice me, but because I took pleasure in looking at her. I made haste to turn my eyes in another direction, to give attention to the music. That wretched duet went on and on. The husband and wife perspired profusely. It occurred to me that they should be treated like those gymnasts to whom the spectators shout to stop when their performances become too terrifying.

I was amusing myself by watching our melomaniacs, when the lights suddenly went down; Montausol leaned over the music, and during the pauses in his part exclaimed impatiently:

“Snuff the candles, snuff the candles, I say! We can’t see at all.”

But the darkness was not due to the candles; it was the lamp which Giraud had fixed, which had suddenly lost all its brilliancy. Madame Giraud hastily summoned her husband, who was still busy over the other lamp. Giraud appeared with a huge pair of scissors in his hand and exclaimed:

“I don’t understand it at all; it can’t be the oil, for that is new.”

“Papa,” said the little girl, “I saw my brother Alexandre putting little lead men in the lamp yesterday.”

“Parbleu! if that little rascal has been playing with the lamps, I don’t wonder they won’t burn. My wife lets him play with everything! Some day he’ll upset my desk.”

“It is impossible for me to scold my children,” said Madame Giraud to the people nearest her. “As soon as they seem to be unhappy, I am ready to be ill. And then little Alexandre is so cunning, so sweet!”

The mother was interrupted by a loud noise in the reception room; the dog barked and the little girl appeared at the door of the salon, crying:

“My little brother just upset the waiter with the glasses on it.”

This incident turned the whole household topsy-turvy: the mother ran to her broken glasses; the father left his lamps to try to catch his son; and little Alexandre ran between everybody’s legs and finally crawled under a sofa, sticking his tongue out at his father.

The duet came to an end amid this uproar; indeed the singers had continued to sing after the other guests had ceased to pay any heed to them. So the Montausols left the piano, in evident ill humor. They took seats behind me, saying to each other:

“They won’t catch me singing at their house again!”

“I should think not. These people don’t know what good music is.”

“No, they must always have something new! We will go away after the punch.”

“Yes, if there is any.”

I left the salon and walked into the bedroom. I saw Montdidier talking with several men. I could detect nothing unusual in his face, but he was talking earnestly. I drew near with apparent indifference. Indeed, I was at liberty to listen with the rest; there was no secrecy about it.

“Yes, messieurs,” said Montdidier, “I arrived just as the cab tipped over. My wife was coming from her aunt’s and was on her way here. But the one who had the worst fright of all was poor Bélan. He was passing the cab, so it seems, when the hind wheel came off; when he saw the cab toppling over in his direction, he thought that he was a dead man; and as the window in the door was open, he jumped through into the cab in order not to be crushed. He is very small, you know. My wife told me that he came in as nimbly as a monkey. Then, finding that the cab didn’t move, he opened the door and escaped. My wife is convinced that, in his excitement, he did not recognize her; and that is probably true, or else he would at least have offered his hand to help her out of the cab. Ha! ha! ha! ha! Poor Bélan! I will have a good laugh at him when I see him!”

And Monsieur Montdidier began to laugh again, as did his auditors; I followed their example with all my heart; in fact, I was the one to laugh the most heartily. And so Montdidier, seeing how greatly amused I was, came to me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying:

“Did you hear about my wife’s adventure?”

“Yes.”

“And her meeting with Bélan? Wasn’t it most amusing?”

“Exceedingly amusing!”

“I would give a napoleon if Bélan would come here this evening, so that I could have a little fun at his expense.”

I made no reply, but I disappeared in the crowd in order to obtain for that unfortunate husband the pleasure that he desired. It seemed to me no more than fair that he should have a little pleasure.

I left the house unnoticed. I hastened to the café where the anxious lover awaited me; I found him before his third glass of sugar and water, pale and disturbed, drawing no good augury from my long absence. I made haste to reassure him, and told him laughingly what I had learned.

While I was speaking, Bélan’s features recovered all their serenity. Before I had finished he was leaning over the table and holding his sides with laughter.

“This is charming! It is delicious! That will do, Blémont, that will do. I shall die with laughter.—So I jumped in through the window! Oh! these women! They have ideas, inventions for every emergency! I was a fool to be worried.”

“That is what I told you a little while ago, but then you were not in a condition to listen to me.”

“Yes, I admit, I was in torment—not for myself, but for her. But it is all right; let’s not think any more about it, except to laugh at it. Waiter, take out the price of three glasses of water. I can’t be at Giraud’s soon enough. Is it a brilliant affair? Are there many people there?”

“It is not exactly brilliant, but there are a great many people, and I noticed some very pretty women.”

“Pretty women!—Wait till I arrange my cravat.”

“But you know, Bélan, that this adventure was to have reformed you; that you swore never again to have anything to say to the ladies.”

“I did not include all ladies; those who are free are not included in my oath. And then, deuce take it! a man may say that in the first excitement. Let us go to Giraud’s; I will sing; I know a new song. You will suggest to them to ask me to sing, won’t you?”

“You evidently are determined that I shall be your confederate.”

Bélan replied only by making a pirouette; he was in a state of frantic gayety. We walked to Giraud’s, and I advised him not to come in until a few moments after me; I did not wish to have the appearance of having gone to fetch him, and I tried to return unseen, as I had left.

I found Giraud in the reception room, staring in dismay at his two lamps, which were on the point of going out. He did not see that I came in from outside, for he was entirely engrossed by his wicks; and he said as he handed one of them to me:

“This is incomprehensible. You will bear witness that I am putting in new wicks; we will see if they char like the others.”

“Yes, I see that you take a great deal of trouble to entertain us.”

“Oh! when they once begin to burn well!—Théodore, Monsieur Théodore, will you be kind enough not to touch the cakes! For shame! A great boy of your age!—He is more of a glutton than his little brother.”

“Let me take one, papa; I want it to play at having dinner.”

“Play at having dinner, at eleven years! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t touch the cake.—But it’s very slow inside! My wife don’t know how to keep things going. We ought to begin to dance. Monsieur Blémont, it would be very kind of you to start the dancing.”

“You know very well that I don’t play the piano.”

“No, but you might tell my wife to ask somebody to play a contradance. We don’t lack players.”

“Before I do your errand, pray tell me who that pretty young woman in pink is who was sitting near the piano?”

“In pink, near the piano—with gold ornaments in her hair?”

“No, she hasn’t any gold in her hair; she is a blonde, rather pale, and exceedingly pretty.”

“A blonde, pretty—you see there are several here in pink. Look you, when I have fixed my lamps, you must point her out to me.”

I saw that there was nothing to be obtained from Monsieur Giraud at that moment, so I returned to the salon. A gentleman had seated himself at the piano, but not to play for dancing; it was to sing, to play preludes and detached passages, as he happened to remember them. Beside him was a friend, who, when he had finished one fragment of a tune, instantly asked for another, saying:

“And that air from Tancrède. And the romanza from Othello. And that pretty bit from the overture to Semiramide.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Try to remember that.”

And the gentleman played on, began, stopped, branched off to something else; in short, acted as if he were at home; you will understand how entertaining that was to the company. It had been going on for a long while, and the gentleman seemed to have no idea of stopping; it was as if the piano had been placed there for him, and we were too fortunate to have the privilege of listening to the preludes, the flourishes, and whatever he happened to remember. I have met in society many original creatures like that gentleman.

Bélan had been in the salon for some time; he had gone in before me. I saw him talking and laughing with Montdidier, and I guessed the subject of their conversation. Madame Montdidier looked uneasily at Bélan, for she did not know that he was forewarned of what he should say; but she was reassured when she saw that they seemed to be on the best of terms. Poor Montdidier did not seem to me to be so ill-tempered and so jealous as his wife represented. The ladies like to say that a man is very jealous of them; it flatters their self-esteem; and then too there would be no pleasure in deceiving men who did not care.

In vain did Madame Giraud bustle about to find a singer of either sex; every virtuoso had some reason for refusing. That annoyed the hostess, who was anxious to be able to say that she had had a concert before the ball, and who saw that everyone was doing his utmost to avoid listening to the essays of the gentleman at the piano. She made up her mind at last to say to him that the company desired a contradance; and the gentleman left the piano with a nonchalant air, running his hands through his hair and humming a fragment of Rossini.

I determined to invite the young woman whom I found so attractive; not that I intended to make a declaration during the contradance; such things are done only at a public ball, or possibly at a wedding party at a restaurant; but I proposed to try to talk a little, if she seemed to be in a talkative mood. There are many young women with whom it is impossible to obtain more than three words in succession when they are dancing. I arrived just in time and my invitation was accepted; we danced. I tried to say something besides: “It is very hot,” or: “This is a very pretty dance.” It is really very hard to think instantly of something to say to a person whom one does not know, especially when one would like to depart from the usual commonplaces.

But Giraud returned with his two lamps resplendent with light. There was a subject of conversation.

“We needed them; there is nothing so dismal as a badly-lighted ballroom; is there, mademoiselle?”

“That is true, monsieur.”

“There are some ladies here, however, who might prefer a half light.”

She contented herself with smiling.

“You have not sung, mademoiselle?”

“I beg pardon, monsieur, I sang one song.”

“Then it must have been before I came. That makes me deeply regret that I came so late.”

“You didn’t lose much, monsieur.”

“I cannot believe you as to that; but if—Ah! it’s your turn.”

The figure interrupted our conversation; it was most annoying, for perhaps we had made a real start.

After the figure I tried to renew the conversation.

“Will you not sing again, mademoiselle?”

“I sincerely hope not; I have paid my debt and that is enough.”

“Are you not fond of music?”

“Yes, very fond of it,—with people whom I know. I do not see the necessity of entertaining people whom one has never seen, and who often listen only from politeness.”

“You judge society already with——”

The deuce! another figure. At last the final figure came and the dance was at an end. No matter, I had had an opportunity to decide that the young woman was not a fool. Perhaps she would not have said as much of me.

I seized Giraud as he was about to turn up his lamps, which were already beginning to go out.

“You saw me dancing with that young lady opposite us?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was my partner whom I was asking you about just now.”

“Oho! that is Mademoiselle Eugénie Dumeillan.”

“Who is Mademoiselle Dumeillan?”

“She is the daughter of Madame Dumeillan, who is sitting beside her.”

“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I have no doubt that that young lady is the daughter of her father and her mother; but when I ask you who she is, I mean, what sort of people are they? What do they do? In short, I ask in order to learn something about them. How is it that you, who are a mine of information, do not understand that?”

“I do, I do. But, you see, she isn’t on my list of marriageable women. However, she is of marriageable age, but they haven’t begun to think about it yet; whereas that tall brunette yonder, in a turban—my dear fellow, she has a hundred thousand francs in cash. That’s not bad, is it? Ah! if I were not married!—Wife, look after your son Alexandre; he will upset the tea-things, and all the cups will meet the fate of the glasses!”

“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I care very little about the amount of that tall brunette’s dowry. Can you tell me anything more about the ladies opposite?”

“I beg your pardon. The mother is a widow; Monsieur Dumeillan was deputy chief in some department or other, I don’t know what one; however, he was a deputy chief and he left his widow four or five thousand francs a year, I believe. Mademoiselle Eugénie has had an excellent education; she is an accomplished musician and she will also have something that an aunt has left her; I don’t know just how much, but I can find out. She will not be a bad match; she’s an only daughter. Would you like me to speak in your name?”

“Don’t play any such trick as that on me! Who in the devil said that I proposed to marry? Can’t a man open his mouth about a woman without thinking of marrying her?”

“I don’t say no; but as one must come to that at last——”

“Papa, my brother Théodore is stuffing pieces of sugared orange into his pocket.”

It was Mademoiselle Giraud who made this announcement. Giraud left me to whip his older son. Thereupon Bélan approached me.

“Haven’t you told Giraud to ask me to sing, that he doesn’t mention it?”

“Mon Dieu, Bélan, let us alone with your singing! We’ve had quite enough of it! We prefer to dance.”

“That is because you have not heard me; I know very well that I should have given pleasure; I learned a tune on purpose. By the way, you don’t know—Hélène treats me coldly, yes, very coldly; she doesn’t like it because I ran away so suddenly when I saw her husband. Can you imagine such a thing? As if I could guess that she would invent a story on the instant! However, she can be mad if she chooses, it’s all one to me; I no longer care for her in the least; I still see her putting her hand in my eye when we tipped over. She wasn’t pretty then. I have views on that little woman in black yonder—do you see, a stout party, with an ardent glance; that is promising.”

“But she is married; her husband is playing écarté; he is a receiver in the Registration Office.”

“Good! so much the better, we will play some fine tricks on the receiver.”

More dancing; this time Mademoiselle Eugénie was at the piano. She played with much ease and taste. I regretted that I was not a musician; I had given painting the preference. Painting is a delightful art, but it does not afford the same advantages in society as music. In a salon, people will neglect the painter to pet and coddle the musician: in truth, one does not always think of dancing and singing.

The quadrille was only half through when the two lamps went out once more. The last two figures were danced in a half light, or rather in semi-darkness. Everybody laughed while Madame Giraud scolded her husband, and he exclaimed:

“Faith! I give it up, I am wasting my time. Théodore, tell the maid to bring more candles.”

Théodore left the salon, but only to pay a visit to the sideboard in the dining-room. A third contradance was formed without any improvement in the light; it began, accompanied by the cries of Madame Giraud, still calling for more candles; by the lamentations of Giraud, who kept raising and lowering the wicks of his lamps to no purpose; by the howling of the three children who were quarrelling over the sweetmeats, and by the barking of the dog, who escorted all the departing guests to the door, yelping at their heels.

Bélan, who was dancing opposite the stout party, paid little heed to the noise and thought only of performing his figures; but the semi-darkness which reigned in the salon prevented him from seeing a slice of orange which Monsieur Théodore had dropped from his pocket; as he tried to execute a slide, Bélan slid in good earnest, and fell between the legs of his vis-à-vis.

The ladies shrieked with terror. Bélan rose, holding his side and swearing that he would not have fallen if he had not trodden upon something. The little Giraud girl picked up the crushed slice of orange and cried:

“It was my brother who threw that on the floor.”

And the father left the salon, giving Bélan his word that his son should be punished when everybody had gone.

That contradance was the last; the candles threatened to follow the example of the lamps, and the dancers were afraid of falling in with slices of orange when they balanced their partners.

Everybody departed. I went downstairs at the same time as Mademoiselle Dumeillan and her mother. I offered the latter my hand, while looking at the daughter only; I assisted them into a cab and bowed. That was as far as I could go at a first meeting.

I heard someone laughing and humming behind me. It was Bélan, following the lady in black and her husband; as he passed he whispered in my ear:

“I am following her, it’s all right. As for La Montdidier, that is all over, it’s broken off, we are sworn enemies. Adieu, I must pursue my conquest.”

A moment later Montdidier and his wife passed, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired youth who had stood behind madame’s chair all the evening.

I smiled as I remembered Bélan’s purpose to be virtuous, and I could not forbear exclaiming:

“Oh! these men! these women!”

IV
A PAIR OF LOVERS

I lived on Rue Meslay, in a large house where there were apartments for all sorts of persons, even for those who had no money; and where, consequently, the man who passed the night working to earn his living used the same staircase as the man who passed the night amusing himself; the only difference was that the former went up higher. But even under the eaves there are pleasures and love and some very charming faces. The man who knows how to find them is not afraid to go up rather high.

I knew that there were at the top of my house—that is to say, of the house where I lived—some small, unplastered rooms, with cracks in the walls and loose doors and windows, where the chimneys smoked, where one froze in winter, where the rats and mice came every night to visit the occupants, and which, none the less, the landlord let for the highest price that he could obtain; however, he would not accept everybody as a tenant, but insisted upon having none but quiet people. I had never been up to inspect those little rooms. It was not for lack of inclination, however, for I had met several times on my staircase a very pretty girl, who, as I knew, occupied one of the most modest apartments on the fifth floor. She had not the aspect of a common working girl, nor had she the wide-awake air of a grisette, and yet she was almost that, for she worked for her living. She made wreaths, so the concierge told me, and mended linen when people chose to give her any to mend. But she seemed so young that she inspired little confidence in the people to whom she went to ask for work; and yet one may be quite as honest at sixteen years as at forty. Honesty is in the blood; when one must look to time and experience for it, it is never built on a very solid foundation.

Little Marguerite had not been able to obtain a room in the house without difficulty. The landlord considered her too young and did not want to let a room to her; he was surprised that she should have quarters of her own so early. But the girl had a certain air of candor which disarmed the landlord’s sternness; she swore that she was very quiet, that she made no noise and never stayed out late; and he let a room to her for a hundred and thirty francs a year. It was necessary to make many wreaths to earn that amount.

Despite her innocent air, Mademoiselle Marguerite had a lover; but when a girl has but one, when she receives only him and goes out only with him, she is justified in saying that she is quiet, and even honest. Honesty does not consist solely in innocence. I once had a maid who was absolutely virtuous, and who stole my cravats.

I knew nothing of all these details when I first met the girl on the stairway. When I saw those small features that indicated that she was barely fifteen, those great light-blue eyes, that tiny mouth, that tiny figure—for, except her eyes, everything about Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed to be tiny—I made eyes at her, that is to say, I looked hard at her, and tried to make her look at me; but she paid no attention to my ogling and ran quickly down the stairs. Another time I ventured upon a few words, a compliment or two, but she did not reply; after that I ceased to ogle her or to speak to her, for I am not obstinate, and according to my belief, in order to please a woman one must please her at the outset.

Once, however, Mademoiselle Marguerite had rung at my door; when I found that she had come to pay me a visit, I did not know just what to think; but the girl, whose eyes were swollen with tears and who was sobbing pitifully, gave no thought to the impropriety of what she was doing. She came to ask me if I had seen her cat, which had disappeared that morning. On learning that I had not seen her poor Moquette, she darted away like an arrow, paying no heed to the consoling words which I attempted to offer her.

Thereupon I said to myself: “That is a virtuous girl; for I consider it virtuous to be faithful to her lover.” I talked a little about her with my concierge, and what I learned confirmed me in my opinion.

“Yes, she is very quiet,” said the concierge, “except when she is running after her cat, which she plays with as if she was only five years old. But after all, she is very young still. And she has a friend who is almost as young as she is. He’s a very nice fellow, too. But they’re as poor as Job! A room with nothing in it but a bed, and such a bed! four pieces of wood, which fall apart as soon as you touch ‘em, a little sideboard that ain’t worth more than fifteen sous, four chairs, a wash bowl and a little three-franc mirror; how can anyone get along with that? That’s what Mademoiselle Marguerite calls her household! But still she pays her rent, and there’s nothing to say.”

“Her lover is a workman, I suppose, an apprentice?”

“No indeed! he’s a dandy, a gentleman, in fact; but he seems to think that she’s well enough off as she is, or else he can’t do any better; and I give you my word that the girl eats potatoes oftener than anything else. But as long as she can see her Ernest and play with her cat, she’s as happy as a queen.”

Since I had known all this, I had regarded the girl with a friendly interest simply. Some time after, that interest became still greater. I overheard involuntarily a conversation between Mademoiselle Marguerite and an old count who lived on the same landing with me. Monsieur le comte was an old rake; there was nothing extraordinary in that; we are all rakes more or less. He, too, used to ogle our young neighbor, and one day, when I was about to go out, my door happened to be ajar, and the following dialogue reached my ears:

“Listen, listen, my pretty little minx; I have a couple of words to say to you.”

“What are they, monsieur?”

“In the first place, that you are a sweetheart.”

“Oh! if that’s all, it is——”

“Listen, my dear love, I wish to make you happy.”

“Happy? Why, I am very happy, monsieur.”

“A girl can’t be happy when she lives under the eaves, in a wretched, poorly-furnished chamber. I will give you a pretty apartment and money to buy whatever you want.”

“What’s that, monsieur? What do you take me for?”

“Come, come, Mademoiselle Marguerite, don’t play the prude; when a girl has a lover, when she lives with a young man, she should not be so severe.”

“Because I have a lover, monsieur, is that any reason why I should listen to such things?”

“Your little popinjay of a lover gives you nothing, and will drop you the first thing you know; whereas I will agree to give you an allowance, and, if you behave yourself, I——”

“I beg you to say no more, monsieur, and never speak to me again; if you do, I will tell Ernest that you called him a popinjay, and how you have been talking to me. Ah! he will teach you a lesson.”

“What’s that? You insolent, impertinent little hussy!”

“Bah! you old fool!”

And with that, the girl ran quickly upstairs. Monsieur le comte returned to his room grumbling, and I said to myself:

“She must really love her Ernest, since she prefers poverty with him to comfort with another;” and I was almost ashamed of having made some few sweet speeches to her, for, without being constant oneself, one may well do homage to constancy.

I was curious to see her lover; but probably he came early in the morning and went away late, or not at all. One day, however, I met him; and I was surprised to find that I knew him; I had met him several times in society. He was a young man of excellent family, not more than twenty years old; he was a comely youth, but he had a mania for writing for the stage, and had not as yet succeeded in having any of his plays produced, except a few unimportant things at some of the boulevard theatres. His parents did not approve of his taste for the drama, and desired to force him to enter the government service; but he always found a way to delay until the place was filled; and his parents, who were not at all satisfied with him, gave him very little pocket money. Poor fellow! I understood why his little mistress had potatoes oftener than quail.

I knew him only by his family name; I did not know that his name was Ernest. When we met on the stairs, he smiled and we bowed. I did not try to stop him, he always went up so rapidly. I understood that he was more anxious to be up there with her than to talk with me.

It was a long time since I had met Marguerite and her young lover. On returning from Giraud’s party, I noticed much commotion in my concierge’s lodge; the husband and wife were both up, although it was after midnight, and one of them was ordinarily in bed by eleven o’clock. An old cook who lived in the house was also in their lodge; they were talking earnestly and I overheard these words:

“She is very ill; the midwife shook her head, and that’s a very bad sign.”

“Who is very ill?” I asked, as I took my candle.

“Why, monsieur, it’s little Marguerite; she has had a miscarriage.”

“What! was that poor child enceinte?”

“You don’t mean to say that you haven’t noticed it, monsieur? She was four and a half months gone.”

“Is not Monsieur Ernest with her?”

“Oh! he is like a madman. He has just gone home; it’s only a few steps away. He took our little nephew with him, so as to bring something back with him probably; for there ain’t anything at all upstairs.”

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the gate. Someone opened it and Ernest came into the courtyard with a mattress on his head; the young man had not hesitated to endanger his fine clothes by doing the work of a porter; when it is a question of helping the woman one loves, such things are not considered. Moreover, at midnight, the streets are not crowded.

The little nephew came behind, bringing an armchair covered with Utrecht velvet; I saw that young Ernest, without the knowledge of his parents, had despoiled his own chamber in order to provide his young friend with a little furniture.

“It is high time that you came back, monsieur,” said the concierge, with that alarming manner which heightens the effect of bad news. “Mademoiselle Marguerite is very sick; there’s complications. In fact, she is losing all her blood, and you know it can’t go on long that way.”

The young man uttered a cry of dismay, and throwing the mattress to the ground, ran up the stairs four at a time, without stopping to listen to anything more. I remained in front of the concierges’ lodge, both of them being too old and too lazy to offer to carry up the mattress; as for the little nephew, it was all that he could do to climb up with the chair, and the cook was there solely to gossip. I soon made up my mind: I took the mattress on my shoulders and I went up with it to the fifth floor.

I reached the door of little Marguerite’s bedroom. It was not locked, and yet I dared not go in. I knew that the girl was so poor; and one should be especially careful when dealing with poor people. Perhaps she and her lover would be offended to think that I had ventured to come up. And yet, since she was so ill——

While I was hesitating, standing at the door with the mattress on my shoulders, I heard a shrill voice say:

“Send for a doctor, monsieur; I won’t be responsible; you must have a doctor, she needs one very bad.”

A very weak voice, which I recognized as the young girl’s, said:

“Stay here, Ernest, don’t leave me. I feel better when you are here.”

I pushed the door open and dropped the mattress in a corner of the room, saying:

“I will go out and call a doctor; stay with her, as it does her good.”

“Oh! yes, yes, do go,” said Ernest; “oh! how grateful I shall be to you!”

I heard no more; I descended the stairs rapidly and nearly overturned the concierge’s little nephew, who had only reached the third floor with his chair; I believe that the little rascal sat down on it at every landing. At last I was in the street; I ran at random, looking about for some shop that was still open, where I could inquire if there was a doctor in the neighborhood.

Where should I apply? Everybody was in bed; I saw many midwives’ signs, but a midwife was not what I wanted. I ventured to ring at several doors; I jerked the bells and made an infernal noise.

“Who is there?” the concierges asked me; and I shouted:

“Isn’t there a doctor in the house?”

They answered me with abuse, or not at all; people are not polite when they want to sleep.

I knew two doctors, but they lived so far away that the poor child would have time to die before they could get to her. What was I to do? I did not wish to return alone. I was tempted to cry fire. That method, which has been employed in several plays, might serve in real life as well; one always has to frighten one’s fellow-citizens, to obtain anything from them. Then, when everybody had come to the windows, I would call for a doctor.

I was about to give the alarm, when two men passed me, talking with great earnestness. I recognized Ernest’s voice; it was he, in fact; fearing that I would not return quickly enough, he had followed me; but he had thought to ask the nurse for the address of a doctor, and he had found one. I ran after him, and he thanked me, although I had been of no service to him. We returned, walking rapidly, without speaking; poor Ernest had but one thought, to save his little Marguerite. We arrived. Ernest went up to his mistress with the surgeon. I remained in the hall, going upstairs and down in my excitement. I had simply said to Ernest:

“If you need anything, I shall be here.”

How long the minutes seemed to me! Those young lovers loved each other so dearly! the poor girl was so sweet! if she should die, how her lover would grieve for her and regret her! To lose such a long future of happiness! Ah! Death goes sadly astray when it closes eyes of sixteen years.

It seemed to me that an hour had passed since the doctor went up. But I heard steps coming down, and someone called me; it was Ernest. Joy gleamed in his eyes, and he cried:

“My friend, my friend, she is saved; there is no more danger!”

“Ah! I am so glad to hear it!”

We shook hands. He had called me his friend, and a few hours earlier we had hardly known each other; but there are events which bind two people more closely than sixty evenings passed together in society. It was one of those events which had happened to us.

The surgeon came downstairs and Ernest ran to meet him.

“Are you going, monsieur? Then she is out of danger?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, have no fear; everything is all right now, and as it should be; I will answer for her; all she needs now is rest.”

“But you will come to-morrow morning, won’t you, monsieur?”

“Yes, I will come to see her to-morrow.”

With that the doctor went away and Ernest followed him to the street door, gazing at him, and listening to him as to an oracle. Ah! that is a noble art which gives us the means of saving the lives of our fellowmen. The man who has saved the life of a person whom we love ceases to be a man in our eyes, and becomes a god.

I was about to go to my room, but Ernest said to me:

“Come up with me a moment; it will please her.”

I followed him. The girl was lying in her bed, which in truth did not seem to be very soft; however she had, in addition to her ordinary bed, the mattress that her lover had brought. The midwife was seated in the armchair, the magnificence of which was in striking contrast to the few pieces of furniture with which the room was supplied; she had her feet on a foot-warmer, although she was sitting directly in front of the fireplace; to be sure, the fire was a very modest one. There was nothing about the woman to indicate sensibility; one could see that she was there to practise her profession and that was all; and from her unamiable expression and the glances that she cast about her, I could see that the poverty of the room made her apprehensive that she would not be well paid for her services; however, she had agreed to pass the night there, and the young man was very grateful to her.

Ernest walked very softly to the bed; but the girl instantly held out her hand to him, saying:

“Oh! I am not asleep, I have no desire to sleep; but I am very comfortable now. The only thing is that I am afraid it will tire you to sit up all night; you are just getting over a sickness yourself, and you are not strong yet. Go home; you know that I am out of danger; the doctor said so, and since madame will stay——”

“Oh, yes, I will stay,” said the midwife, in a sour tone, “although it puts me out; but still—great heaven! how cold it is in this room! the wind blows everywhere. A fine fire that! just two sticks! ain’t there even a pair of bellows here?”

Ernest hastily fetched the bellows, and handed them to the woman; then he returned to the bed, saying:

“You must know, my love, that I shall not leave you. But here is Monsieur Blémont, who was good enough to go out to call a doctor, when he came up an hour ago; we haven’t so much as thought of thanking him.”

“Ah! that is true, my dear.—I beg pardon, monsieur, pray excuse me; but I was in such pain then——”

“You owe me no thanks, for it was not I who found your doctor.”

“No matter,” said Ernest, “you showed some interest in us, and I shall never forget it.”

“What a miserable pair of bellows! Not two sous’ worth of wind! it must be pleasant here in freezing weather!”

I turned toward the woman; I should have liked to impose silence upon her, for it seemed to me that her indiscreet remarks must be painful to the two lovers. But I was mistaken; they were not listening to her. Ernest was holding his darling’s hand, and she was gazing lovingly into his eyes; after their fear of an eternal separation, it seemed to them that they had recovered each other. They were entirely absorbed in their love. But Marguerite sighed, and after a moment I heard her whisper to Ernest:

“What a pity, my dear! it was a boy!”

Poor child! although hardly able to keep herself alive, she wanted a child, because every woman is proud to be a mother, and a child is an additional bond between her and her lover.

I was about to leave them when there was a loud noise outside; it was a crash of broken glass, and it seemed to be on the roof near the window of the chamber in which we were.

The midwife uttered a cry of terror, and ran behind me, exclaiming:

“It’s thieves! did you hear, monsieur? They’re coming in the window. We must rouse the whole house.”

I confess that I shared the opinion of the nurse, and I was about to open the window to see what was afoot, when Marguerite, who, instead of showing signs of alarm, had smiled faintly, motioned to me to stop, and said to us:

“Don’t be alarmed, I know what it is; I am used to that noise now; it is my neighbor, Monsieur Pettermann, going into his room.”

“Who on earth is Monsieur Pettermann, and why does he make such a noise going into his room?” asked the midwife.

“Monsieur Pettermann is a tailor, and works in his room; but he gets drunk at least three times a week; on those days he always loses his door key; then he climbs out on the gutter under the window of the landing and crawls along, at the risk of breaking his neck, to his own window, puts his fist through a pane so that he can throw back the catch, and gets into his room that way. Ask Ernest if we haven’t heard him do it more than a dozen times.”

I could not help laughing at Monsieur Pettermann’s habits, while the nurse exclaimed:

“Oh! the idiot! he gave me a fright. The idea of walking on a gutter! and when he is drunk, too!”

“If he was sober, madame, he probably wouldn’t take the risk.”

“But some day this neighbor of yours will break his neck.”

“So I have often told him. The day after, when he has his window mended, he swears that it shall never happen again. The concierge has already threatened to warn him out if he doesn’t enter by his door, and doesn’t come home earlier.”

At that moment we heard someone storming and swearing on the landing. Monsieur Pettermann, having entered his room, had succeeded in opening his door, which was fastened only by a spring lock.

“Perhaps he wants a light,” said Marguerite; “it very seldom happens that he asks me for anything; but he may have seen that we haven’t gone to bed here.”

We heard a knock at the door, and a hoarse voice stuttered:

“I say, neighbor, haven’t you g—g—gone to bed, n—n—neighbor? What would you s—s—say if I should ask you to l—l—light my little c—c—candle-end?”

I was curious to see neighbor Pettermann, and before Ernest had had time to drop Marguerite’s hand, I opened the door.

The tailor was still young, with a frank, honest face; but the habit of drinking too much had made his nose purple and swollen, and his dress was marked by a lack of order which also betrayed his intemperance.

On seeing me, he opened his eyes and said:

“Hello! have I made a mistake? This is funny. Ain’t this my neighbor’s door, or has she moved?”

“No, monsieur,” said Ernest, “but don’t shout so loud; she is sick. What do you want?”

“Ah! she is sick, is she, poor little woman!” And Monsieur Pettermann walked toward the bed, saying: “Are you sick, my little woman? What’s the matter with you?”

Ernest stopped the tailor, who was reeking with liquor; and he, always very polite, although tipsy, fearing that he had done something wrong, stepped back to the armchair in which the midwife was seated, and sank upon her lap, saying:

“I beg pardon, that’s so; it’s none of my business. Ah! prout!”

“Will you get up?” cried the nurse, striking the tailor in the back. He turned about, stammering:

“Ah! I was sitting on one of the fair sex, although I hadn’t a suspicion of it.—Excuse me, my little woman, I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.”

“Give me your candle and let me light it for you,” said Ernest; “for that is what you want, I have no doubt.”

“Yes, neighbor, if you would be so kind. I couldn’t use my flint because I scratched my right hand a little, while getting into my room.”

Not until then did we notice that the poor fellow’s right hand was covered with blood, two of his fingers being badly cut. The girl pointed to a closet in which there were some rags, with which Ernest hastily bandaged the tailor’s hand. He made no objection, but said:

“Oh, mon Dieu! it’s nothing at all, a trifle. I don’t know what was the matter to-night, but I broke two panes instead of one.”

“But Monsieur Pettermann, don’t you ever propose to give up your habit of going into your room through the window?”

“What would you have me do? I lose my key—these keys slip out of your pocket without your knowing it, and besides, I believe my pocket has a hole in it. But I promise you that I’ll look after it now, especially as it is going to be hard for me to sew it up.”

“Here’s your candle.”

“Many thanks. Good-night all. Better health to you, neighbor. If you ever need my services, call on me; don’t hesitate.”

“Thanks, thanks, Monsieur Pettermann.”

“No, don’t hesitate; call me; it will be a pleasure to me.”

The tailor returned to his room. I thought that the young invalid must have need of rest, so I too left the room after wishing them good-night. But I wanted to say something to Ernest alone. He escorted me downstairs with the light. When we were both in front of my door, I stopped and looked at him, and I held my peace; for I really did not know how to broach the subject.

Ernest, who did not suspect that I wished to say anything to him, wished me good-night and was about to go upstairs. I caught his arm to detain him; I felt that I must make up my mind to speak.

“Monsieur Ernest, I am delighted to have become better acquainted with you; I hope that our acquaintance will not stop here.”

“I thank you, monsieur. I hope so too. I tell you again that I shall not forget your interest in my grief to-night. There are so many people who would have laughed at my distress, and who would have blamed it.”

“Such people never see in love-affairs anything more than momentary pleasure; the moment any pain enters into them, they think they should be broken off.”

“Ah, yes! you are quite right. But good-night, I must go.”

“One moment more. I wanted to say to you—First of all, I pray you, excuse me; I trust that what I am going to say will not offend you. Young men can afford to speak frankly. Although I am five or six years older than you, I remember very well that when I was eighteen, and was still living with my parents, I was sometimes sorely embarrassed to give presents to my mistress. Now listen: your young friend has met with an accident that will entail expenses which you did not expect so soon. A young man who lives with his parents is sometimes short of money. Allow me to offer you my purse. You can repay me when you are able.”

Ernest shook my hand warmly as he replied:

“I thank you for your offer, Monsieur Blémont; it does not offend me, for I do not consider it a crime to be short of money, and I will not make a pretence of being well supplied with it, for that would give you a poor idea of my heart, after seeing that poor child’s bedroom. My parents are well-to-do, as you know; but they treat me very harshly, because I do not do absolutely what they would like. They think also that at my age, a young man should not want to spend money upon a mistress. Perhaps they are not wrong, after all. I assure you, however, that the privations which Marguerite and I suffer, far from lessening our love, do in fact increase it. Should we not become attached to a person in proportion to what she has suffered for our sake? Marguerite is so young and so pretty, that, if she chose, she could have wealthy lovers with whom she would enjoy all the luxuries of life; she prefers to remain poor with me. But we are not to be pitied for that, for we love each other better than money. However, this embarrassment will only be temporary, I hope; I have two plays accepted, and if they are successful——”

“Then you accept my offer?”

“Oh, no! I never borrow money when I am not certain of being able to return it. That is a principle from which I shall never depart.”

“But when you have plays accepted, which are going to be produced——”

“A play is never a certainty; it is a cast of the dice. I thank you a thousand times; but I have something left with which to face the present. As for the future, we will hope, we will build castles in the air.”

“I am sorry that you refuse.”

“And I am very glad that you have made the offer, for you are the first one of my friends to suggest anything of that sort, and yet you have been my friend for only a few hours.”

“It is a fact that one often passes his life with people to whom he gives the name of friends, but who have none of the feelings of a friend.”

“Good-night, Monsieur Blémont. If you have time to come up for a moment to-morrow, we shall be glad to see you.”

“Yes, I will come to enquire for my neighbor. Good-night.”

Ernest went up to the fifth floor and I went into my room.

V
LOVE AGAIN

I went next day to visit my neighbor on the fifth floor and found her alone with her lover; the midwife was no longer there; Ernest had taken her place, no less from inclination than from necessity; for the lovers were happier not to have a third person with them all day, and what would be a privation to others is a satisfaction to lovers.

Ernest was seated beside his friend’s bed; I was afraid that I was in the way, and I intended to remain only a moment, but my visit lasted more than an hour. “Pray don’t go yet,” they said every time that I rose to take my leave. Why was it that the time passed so quickly, that we got along so well together? It was because we all three allowed our real sentiments to appear, because we talked freely of the things that interested us, and because we poured out our hearts without reserve. Marguerite spoke of the child that she hoped for, and her eyes, fastened on Ernest’s, seemed to say to him:

“We can make up for this lost time, can we not?”

Ernest smiled and spoke encouragingly to her; then talked about his two plays that had been accepted; they were his children, too. For my part, I talked to them of the theatre, balls, and love-affairs. I told them, without mentioning any names, the adventure of Bélan and Hélène. That made them laugh heartily. I was not aware that I spoke with more interest of Mademoiselle Dumeillan than of others; but when I mentioned her name, I noticed that Mademoiselle Marguerite smiled and that Ernest did the same.

At last, after one of my anecdotes, Ernest said to me:

“My dear Monsieur Blémont, I should say that you were in love.”

“In love! I! with whom, pray?”

“Parbleu! with the fair-haired young lady who talks so well, who plays the piano so charmingly, who has such a sweet expression.”

“What! Have I said so to you?”

“No, but we guessed it from the way in which you talked of her; didn’t we, Marguerite?”

“Yes, yes; you are certainly in love with the young lady in pink.”

“Oh! I give you my word that——”

“Don’t swear, monsieur; you would not tell the truth.”

“Mademoiselle Eugénie is very pretty, it is true; but I hardly know her.”

“Acquaintance is easily made.”

“I do not know whether those ladies would care to receive me. By the way, what you say suggests to me the idea of going to see Monsieur Giraud and talking with him about it. Perhaps he won’t be fussing over his lamps to-day. I think that I will go there; I will lead the conversation to the subject of those ladies, as if unpremeditated.”

“That is right: go; then you must come back and tell us how you progress.”

I confess that the devoted love of those two young people made me long to enjoy a similar happiness. Perhaps the thought of the charming Eugénie had much influence upon my reflections. I was twenty-six years old, and I was already weary of commonplace love-affairs. Still it is very amusing to have three or four mistresses and to deceive them all, at the same time; to have them make a row, follow you, watch you, threaten you, and become more passionately enamored of you with each infidelity. And the poor husbands that you make—Oh! they are most amusing too! But amid all such enjoyments, it seemed to me that my heart was sometimes conscious of a void. Did not Ernest and Marguerite enjoy a more genuine happiness than I? I did not know, but I proposed to try it and find out.

I had eight thousand francs a year. That is not a fortune, but it is a competence. Moreover, I had gone through the regular course of study and had been admitted to be an advocate; that was something; to be sure, I had not tried many cases since I had been entitled to wear the gown. Pleasure had too often diverted my thoughts from my profession; but if I married, I should be more virtuous; indeed, I should have to be.

My father was dead; he also had been at the bar. He left me an honorable name, which I made it my pride to keep without stain; for one may have three or four mistresses at once without impairing one’s honor; especially when one has neither violence nor seduction with which to reproach oneself; and God be praised! we live in an age when it is easy to make love without resorting to such methods. I know very well that it is not strictly moral to deceive husbands. But example is so contagious! and then there are so many of those gentry who neglect their wives! Is it not natural to console them?

My mother, who passed her summers in the country, and her winters in Paris at a whist table, would certainly be very glad to have me married; she had three thousand francs a year which would come to me some day; but I never thought of that; when one loves one’s parents, one must always hope that they will not die.

I indulged in these reflections, I could not say why. After all, I had no purpose of marrying, or at all events of entering into one of those marriages which are arranged beforehand by parents or friends. If I married, I should have to be very deeply in love, and to be absolutely certain that I was dearly loved in return.

As I walked along, musing thus, I reached Giraud’s door. Should I go upstairs? Why not? I would pretend that I had lost a cane, a switch, the night before. I never carried one, but no matter. It was two o’clock, and I thought that Giraud would be in his office. I went up, and found the door on the landing open. The three children, dressed like little thieves, and as dirty as ragpickers, were in the reception room, playing with the dog, on whose head they had put their father’s black silk night-cap. I noticed that the rooms had not been put to rights. The maid was sweeping the salon, and told me that Giraud was at home. I supposed that he was in his office; but the little girl called out to me that her papa was dressing her mamma, and I dared not venture to enter Madame Giraud’s chamber. Someone went to call monsieur and I waited in the dust, pursued by the broom.

At last Giraud appeared, wringing his hands and making wry faces.

“Good-morning, my dear Blémont.”

“I am distressed to have disturbed you; I came up as I was passing, to——”

“You do not disturb me in the least; on the contrary, you have put an end to my sufferings. I was doing my utmost to fasten my wife’s dress. Ah! my thumbs! heavens! how they ache! I couldn’t succeed in doing it, and yet she pretends that her dress is too big; I don’t believe a word of it. Françoise, go and fasten my wife’s dress.”

“But, monsieur, you know very well that madame says I go about it awkwardly, that I’m not strong enough.”

“Never mind, go; you can finish the salon afterward.”

I supposed that we should go into his office and that we should find a fire there, for it was not warm; but Giraud invited me to sit down on the couch, saying:

“I don’t take you into my office, because it hasn’t been put to rights yet. Lord! how my thumbs ache!—But we can talk as well here; the fire will be lighted as soon as the salon is swept. Is it late? I haven’t found time to dress yet.”

“Why, it is after two o’clock.”

“Mon Dieu! and I have three appointments for this afternoon, to interview people who want to be married.”

“I do not wish to detain you.”

“Don’t go; they must wait for me. In truth, nothing is ever done here.—My friend, marriage is a very fine thing! I hope that you will soon take your place in the class of respectable married men.”

“Oh! I have time enough.”

“You must be tired of a bachelor’s life?”

“No, indeed.”

“Did you see anyone at my party yesterday who interested you? Come, tell me about it.”

“Oh, no! that isn’t what brings me here; but I thought that perhaps I left a pretty little stick of mine last night.”

“A stick! you must ask the children about that; they are the ones who find everything that is left here. They are as smart as little demons.—Théodore, Alexandre, daughter——”

“Oh, don’t disturb them.”

“Yes, yes; I am not sorry to have you see them, they are so cunning in their answers.”

I dared not say that I had already seen the cunning creatures. Their papa continued to call them. Théodore appeared on all fours, carrying Alexandre on his back, the latter having the dog in his arms. The better to imitate a horse, Théodore had put on long paper ears, and the little girl was whipping him behind with a bunch of quills.

I laughed at the picture, and Giraud considered it very amusing at first. But in a moment he recognized his black silk cap on the dog’s head, and he did not laugh any more.

“What, you rascals! you have taken my silk cap to put on Azor!”

“I did it to make a Croquemitaine of him, papa.”

“I have forbidden you a hundred times to touch any of my things.—And you, mademoiselle, what are you whipping your brother with?”

“Papa, with——”

“With a bunch of quills that was on my desk—very expensive quills, rooster’s quills, which I keep to write my circulars with. Who gave you leave to touch anything on my desk? But just come here, Monsieur Théodore. What did you make those ears with?”

“With a paper that was on the floor, papa.”

“On the floor! God bless me! it is Monsieur Mermillon’s letter, in which he tells me in detail what his daughter’s dowry will be! You little villain! to make horse’s ears with my letters! Some day he will take thousand-franc notes from my desk to make horns with. I will deal with you, young man.”

Giraud started to run after his son, but I stopped him; I heard madame calling in an angry voice:

“Giraud! Giraud! aren’t you coming to finish dressing me? Françoise doesn’t know how to fasten my dress; that girl is frightfully awkward.”

“There, there it is,” said Giraud; “she is going to send her back again because she don’t fasten her dress quickly enough. It is always the same story. Faith, I don’t care, let her fix herself! Just look at my thumbs; I haven’t any flesh left round my nails.”

Someone half opened the bedroom door; Madame Giraud stood at the entrance half dressed, and behind her came the maid, who resumed her broom, muttering:

“Ah! what a dog’s life! as if I came here to squeeze her waist in!”

At sight of me, Madame Giraud took one step backward, then three forward, and exclaimed:

“Oh! pray excuse my disorderly appearance, Monsieur Blémont, but Monsieur Giraud is a terrible man; he never finishes dressing me! But I can’t remain half dressed. I give you my word, monsieur, that this dress is too big for me.”

“And I give you my word, wife, that my thumbs are sore.”

“Bah! you are a tender creature; and I have three calls to make before dinner, and you know that we dine at Madame Dumeillan’s, who has a box at the Porte-Saint-Martin.”

“That is so, we dine out. Just imagine, my dear Blémont, that we have so many invitations that we don’t know which to accept.”

“They dine early too. Oh dear! how unfortunate I am! I shall never be ready in time.”

Madame Giraud had said enough for me. Delighted by what I had learned, I walked toward her.

“If you will allow me, madame, perhaps I may be more successful than your maid.”

Madame Giraud smiled most graciously at me and instantly turned her back, saying:

“How kind you are, Monsieur Blémont! What, do you really mean that you——?”

“With great pleasure, madame.”

I was not a novice at fastening dresses; I took the belt on each side, and although I hurt my fingers a little, the dress was fastened; and I did it as if it had cost me no effort at all.

“That’s the way,” cried Madame Giraud triumphantly; “that’s the way; isn’t it, Monsieur Blémont?”

“Yes, madame; it’s all right now.”

“There, Monsieur Giraud, you see. When one knows how—and monsieur did not seem to make any effort.”

“No, madame, none at all.”

“Faith, my dear fellow,” said Giraud, “if you will come here every day when madame is dressing, you will do me a great favor.”

“Hush, Monsieur Giraud; you ought to be ashamed.—Excuse me, Monsieur Blémont; I must go and finish dressing. A thousand thanks.”

Madame returned to her room, and Giraud invited me to sit down in a corner of the salon that had been swept; but I took my hat and bade him adieu; he escorted me as far as the landing, saying:

“My friend, marry. Believe me, it is the happiest state. I have three superb matches at your disposal.”

“All right, we will see.”

“If your stick is found, I will put it away.”

“Oh! I am inclined to think, after all, that I didn’t leave it here. Adieu.”

So Mademoiselle Eugénie would be at the Porte-Saint-Martin Theatre that evening. The Girauds would be with them, so I should have an excuse for going to pay my respects to them. And yet those Girauds were so stupid, so ridiculous, with their mania for marrying everybody; I was sorry to find that they were intimate with those ladies. But perhaps it was only a society intimacy; one of those in which people call on one another merely to pass the time, but do not care for one another.

I awaited the evening not too impatiently, for I was not in love. I desired to see the young woman again because I had nothing better to do, and because my eyes, fatigued by feigning love so long, ached to rest upon other charms in order to recover a little of the fire which they had lost.

I went to the theatre late, for I desired that they should be there when I arrived. I cast my eyes over the boxes, and I discovered the ladies in an open box on the first tier. The mother and Madame Giraud were in front, Mademoiselle Eugénie on the second bench. I did not see Giraud; probably he had some marriage to arrange that evening. There was a vacant seat beside Mademoiselle Eugénie. Did I dare? But the box was theirs and I could not presume to go in; it was essential that I should be invited.

The young woman seemed to me even prettier than the night before. Her simpler gown and headdress added to her charms. She did not see me, so I was able to scrutinize her at my leisure. There was a seat in a box near theirs; should I take it? No, that would be showing my desire to speak to them too plainly.

The performance had begun. They did not see me, although I had drawn nearer to them. Madame Giraud was entirely engrossed by her figure. I was sure that she was suffocating. She did not know enough to look in my direction.

Someone opened the door of their box,—Giraud, no doubt. No, it was a young man; he saluted the ladies and Mademoiselle Dumeillan smiled upon him; she talked and laughed with him! It was well worth while for me to go there to see that! Mon Dieu! how stupid a man can be! I was jealous, and all on account of a person whom I hardly knew, and to whom I had not said a word of love. Was not that young woman at liberty to have a lover, ten lovers indeed, if she chose? I blushed at my folly, and to prove to myself that she was absolutely indifferent to me, I went at once to the box next to hers, for I did not see why the presence of those ladies, who were almost strangers to me, should prevent me from talking with Madame Giraud, whose dress I had fastened that morning.

I entered the box. I did not look at Mademoiselle Eugénie; indeed, I pretended not to see the ladies. But in a moment Madame Giraud called to me:

“Good-evening, Monsieur Blémont. How kind of you to come to see us! So you remembered that I said that I was coming here to-night with these ladies?”

The devil take Madame Giraud with her memory! I replied very deliberately:

“No, madame, I did not know, I had no idea—but I agreed to meet somebody here; that is why I came.”

Then I bowed coldly to Madame Dumeillan and her daughter, after which I turned and looked at the audience. But Madame Giraud soon began again to talk to me; she was inclined to overwhelm me with marks of friendliness since I had succeeded in fastening her dress.

I pretended to listen to Madame Giraud, but I had no idea of what she was saying. I was listening to the young man who was talking to Mademoiselle Eugénie. His remarks were very vague; he had nothing particular to say to her, and talked about nothing but the play. I felt that my ill humor was vanishing. I turned toward the ladies and joined in the conversation, but I did not rest my eyes on Mademoiselle Eugénie. I should have been sorry that she should think that I had come there on her account.

Before long the young man took leave of the ladies and returned to his party. He left her; did that mean that he was not in love with her? I cast a furtive glance at Mademoiselle Dumeillan. After that young man’s departure she was as light-hearted and seemed to enjoy herself as much as when he was there. I began to think that I was mistaken and that he was not a lover.

Thereupon I moved close to their box, and during the performance I exchanged a few words with Mademoiselle Eugénie. Once my hand touched hers, which was resting on the rail that separated us; the contact was a mere chance; our two hands touched, she hastily withdrew hers, and I did the same, faltering some words of apology. But that lovely hand when it touched mine caused me a thrill of delicious emotion. A simple touch produced such an effect as that! I would have liked to know if Mademoiselle Eugénie—but she was not looking in my direction.

In the next intermission, Madame Giraud, who was talking with Madame Dumeillan, suddenly turned to me and said:

“By the way, madame, Monsieur Blémont is a lawyer; he knows all about the laws, and what rights people have. My husband isn’t very well posted in such matters; his forte is marriages. Consult Monsieur Blémont about your business; he will tell you whether you are in the right or not.”

“I should not dare to annoy monsieur,” replied the mother, “or presume to take his time.”

I eagerly offered my services and asked what the business was; but she could not explain it to me at the theatre; it was necessary for me to look over documents and title deeds. That was just what I hoped. Madame Dumeillan gave me her address, and, while renewing her apologies for the trouble I was about to take, thanked me in advance for calling upon her some morning. She thanked me for something which I would eagerly have asked as a favor! How happy I was! But I succeeded in concealing my delight. I did not again put my hand near Mademoiselle Dumeillan’s; it was especially essential then that I should be careful not to act like a man in love. A novice throws himself at people’s heads, but a clever man knows how to husband his privileges.

Acting upon this principle, when Giraud arrived I paid my respects to the ladies and left the theatre. Had I remained I should have seemed to be looking for an opportunity to escort them home.

VI
I GO TO THE HOUSE

The next day arrived and I hesitated about calling upon the two ladies. Would it not be showing too much eagerness? No, it would be no more than polite; since they chose to have confidence in my talent, I ought not to keep them waiting.

I waited until the clock struck two; then I went to Madame Dumeillan’s. The condition of affairs there was not the same as at Giraud’s. The maid had finished sweeping the rooms. The one who admitted me ushered me into a room decorated without display, but with taste; there was a good fire and I found the young lady of the house practising upon the piano.

Mademoiselle Eugénie left her music to inform her mother of my arrival; I dared not tell her that it was on her account alone that I had come; that would have been going too fast. What a pity it is that one cannot go straight to one’s goal. How much time we waste!

The mother appeared. After the first salutations she explained her business to me and showed me her papers. Eugénie left the salon while her mother was talking to me; and it was well that she did, for I was listening distractedly, and I think that I answered incoherently. After she had gone I was all attention. The mother’s business concerned a small farm which had descended to her husband, and her possession of which was disputed by his brother-in-law. Her right seemed to me incontestable; but I could not read all the papers at once. She thought it quite natural for me to take them away in order to study them at home.

Eugénie returned and we talked of less serious things. The mother was very agreeable; Eugénie was bright and well informed, and although I had not yet become intimate with them, I was already on very good terms with them. After an hour’s visit, I took my leave; I did not need to ask permission to call again, for I had a foothold in the house.

I did not go to Madame Dumeillan’s again for two days. I am a peculiar man; I was determined to conceal my sentiments, and I should have been distressed to have Mademoiselle Eugénie suspect the impression that she had produced upon me. At last I made my second call. I had made a thorough study of the case in which the widow was threatened with a suit. I was persuaded that she was in the right; I so assured her and I offered my services to look after the matter, which I considered as already won. Madame Dumeillan was overjoyed; she thanked me and accepted my offer. I was no longer a stranger in the house; they seemed to look upon me as a friend.

The mother and daughter received much company; but they had one special reception day during the week. On that day there were cards and music and sometimes dancing. Their guests were more select than those one met at Giraud’s; they were an entirely different set. And yet there were some whom I should have been glad not to see there; they were the young men, very attractive young men, who were attentive and devoted to Eugénie. How absurd I was! I had no objection to young women coming there, but as to men, I would have liked to have none but bewigged heads. Those I found extremely agreeable.

For my own part, I think that I was not often agreeable. No one ever is when he is really in love. I liked to see the ladies in private; then I was much happier. If Eugénie played, there was no young man leaning over the piano, ready to turn the leaves for her. If I talked with her, we were not interrupted by some dandy coming to pay her a compliment; and yet I realized that they could not receive me and no one else.

I did not neglect the business that was entrusted to me; the prospect of winning the suit was doubly agreeable to me: I should oblige the ladies and I should give them a favorable opinion of my ability. It did not require much eloquence to succeed; madame triumphed over an adversary who had sued her because he had a mania for litigation. Only two months from the time of my first call, I had the pleasure of bringing the affair to a successful termination.

Although the property at stake was of no great value, Madame Dumeillan thanked me effusively; mothers think a great deal of money. Eugénie thanked me courteously, but that was all. As a general rule our relations were rather cool. Why did she not treat me as she did other men? Had she noticed that I was annoyed when men paid court to her, that I moved away when others approached? Did she not like my disposition? In truth she must have found me far from amiable. I was much less so than any of the other men who visited her mother. I never made any flattering remarks to her, I made no pretence of being devoted or gallant to her. Was that the way for me to succeed in making myself agreeable to her? Yes, I preferred that she should love me as I was! I wanted her to prove to me that she had read my heart, and I did my utmost to conceal from her what was taking place in it! Love sometimes makes us very eccentric.

Sometimes I promised myself to change my manner toward Eugénie; I tried to do as the other young men did who came to her house: to be agreeable and gallant, to laugh and joke when others were about her; but I did not play my part well, my gayety was forced; Eugénie seemed to notice it, and that made me still more awkward.

The young men who were received at Madame Dumeillan’s were all men of breeding; there was nothing in their attentions to Mademoiselle Eugénie which could offend the greatest stickler for propriety. Why then should I take offense? Because I could not be agreeable to her, was it any reason that others should not be? I realized that I was wrong; but I was determined to study and become thoroughly acquainted with Eugénie’s character. I thought her a little inclined to flirt. In a girl of her age, and so pretty, that is very excusable; and besides, are not all women flirts? Yes, all, a little more or a little less; but it is a failing inherent in their nature. But is it a failing? Innocent coquetry is nothing more than a desire to please; that desire leads them to take more care with their dress, with the arrangement of their hair, with their whole personal appearance. What should we say of a woman who neglected all such things? We should blame her, or we should think that she had no taste. Why then should we call that a failing which is done to charm and fascinate us? By their education, by the place they fill in society, women are debarred from occupations in which they would be more successful perhaps than we are; from important negotiations, which they would untangle more quickly than many diplomatists; and from political discussions, in which so many men do not know what they are saying. We have left to women the simple and less arduous occupations of the household; but those occupations, even if they suffice to employ the time, can not furnish sufficient occupation for the mind and the imagination, to prevent them from seeking other employment. Some men think that a needle, an embroidery frame, or a piano ought to be enough to keep a woman busy. I do not think, like Cato, that wisdom and common sense are incompatible with the female mind; I believe that their intellects, their imaginations require other resources than a needle and a piano. They are forced to become coquettes because the desire to please is an employment which occupies the mind and gives it food for dreams; they would be much less coquettish if they were employed upon the same tasks that we are. And then there are so many degrees in coquetry! The sort of which I speak is perfectly natural, and perfectly legitimate for women. Eugénie had no other. She was fond of amusement, that was natural; and yet she never showed any disappointment when her mother declined an invitation to a ball. I was sure that she had an affectionate heart; her eyes sometimes had such a tender expression, and I had seen her shed tears at the performance of a sad play. But that was not sufficient proof that she would ever love passionately.

I was inclined to believe that she took no interest at all in me; she was most cold and reserved with me. She noticed doubtless that I followed her with my eyes, that I constantly watched her. I did not see the sense of going to a house to be dismal when others are merry, and perhaps to make oneself ridiculous. That thought made me blush for my weakness; self-esteem has so much influence on our hearts! I determined to think no more of Eugénie, and in order to forget her more quickly I determined not to call at her mother’s for a fortnight.

It was very hard for me to adhere to that resolution, for I had never passed more than two days without seeing her! However, a week passed, and I had kept my word; on the ninth day I reflected that Madame Dumeillan, who always was very friendly to me and always seemed to be very glad to see me, would think it strange that I had allowed so long a time to pass without calling. After all, if her daughter was cool to me, it was not that excellent lady’s fault, and it should not make me discourteous to her. On the tenth day I decided to call there in the evening.

I did not select a reception day; however, I found some old acquaintances of Madame Dumeillan there who had come to play boston; two ladies and an old gentleman were playing with the mother, and Eugénie was alone, in a corner of the salon, embroidering.

Madame Dumeillan inquired with interest for my health; she had been afraid that I was ill and was intending to send to my apartment the next day. I thanked her, and apologized on the plea of a press of business; then I left the mother to her game and took a seat beside Eugénie.

She bowed coldly to me; she did not raise her eyes and addressed to me only the most trivial remarks; she was not even so polite as to reproach me for having allowed a long time to pass without calling. It seemed to me then that that young woman was as odious to me as she had been fascinating; if I had dared, I would have taken my hat and left the room instantly; but that would have been discourteous.

Ah! if we had loved each other, how much we should have found to say at that moment, when we were practically alone in the salon, for no one paid any heed to us! But we must needs confine ourselves to exchanging a few meaningless words! Sometimes we were several minutes without speaking; she would not raise her eyes from her work. Ah! how I should have delighted to destroy that embroidery, which seemed to engross her so completely!

A half hour passed in this way. She continued to work with the same assiduity, and I was still beside her, saying little and sighing involuntarily. Suddenly the door of the salon opened; it was Monsieur Gerval, one of Eugénie’s most persistent suitors, who often played and sang with her in the evening. This Gerval was a good-looking fellow and very agreeable; so that he was one of those whom I detested most heartily. I am sure that I changed color when he came in; I instantly felt an enormous weight settle down upon my chest. While Monsieur Gerval went to pay his respects to Madame Dumeillan, I walked quickly to the corner of the room where I had placed my hat; for I did not propose to stay a minute longer; I wished that I were a hundred leagues away; I was angry with myself for having come. I already had my hat in my hand and was on the point of leaving the room without a word to anyone, when a hand clasped mine, pressed it gently, and detained me; at the same moment Eugénie, for it was she, said to me in a tone which I had never before heard from her lips:

“Why are you going away? To pass a fortnight without coming and then go away like this! Really, I can’t understand you. What have we done to you here, that you should stop coming?”

I stood like a statue. That soft voice, in which there was reproach and affection at the same time, that hand which still held mine, and those eyes which looked into mine with a fascinating expression—all those things startled me, but also caused me a thrill of happiness hitherto unknown to me. One must have loved truly to understand all that I felt at that moment. I squeezed her hand frantically, and it returned the pressure; then she gently withdrew it, still looking at me. All this was the affair of a moment, but that moment decided the rest of my life. Eugénie loved me; she had read my heart, and I felt that I could not live without her, that Eugénie henceforth would be all in all to me.

I thought no more about going away. Eugénie returned to her seat and Gerval came to speak to her; but I was not jealous any more, Gerval had ceased to be offensive to me; it had required only an instant to change the whole current of my thoughts. I returned to Eugénie’s side. While talking with Gerval, she succeeded in looking only at me. The young man suggested to her that they should sing together. She looked at me again, and seemed to ask me if that would be agreeable to me. I added my entreaties to Gerval’s. She consented to go to the piano, but on her way there she passed close to me and our hands met. When she sang with Gerval a duet in which two lovers sing to each other of love, her eyes addressed to me the words that she sang. Ah! when two hearts understand each other, there are a thousand ways of proving it.

After that duet, Gerval proposed another; she declined on the ground of a sore throat, and returned to her seat by my side. Gerval remained for some time; it seemed to me that he was less merry, less sparkling that evening than usual. At last he said good-night and left.

I drew nearer to Eugénie; she still held her work, but she was not working; our eyes met often; we talked in undertones; I had so many things to say to her now, and yet we exchanged only a few words; but our glances were more eloquent than our speech.

How rapidly the time passed! I was so happy with her! The card players finished their game, and Madame Dumeillan called to her daughter to give her her purse. The others were going away, and I must needs do the same.

“I hope that it will not be so long before you come again,” said Madame Dumeillan kindly. And Eugénie, as she passed me, whispered:

“You will come to-morrow, won’t you?”

My eyes alone answered, but she must have understood them; I saw a loving smile upon her lips. I went away, drunk with love and pleasure. I returned home hardly touching the ground. It seemed to me that my happiness bore me aloft and transported me to the third heaven,—that is to say, if there is a third heaven.

As I went upstairs, I thought of my young lovers on the fifth floor. I had neglected them sadly for some time! But I had been constantly depressed and jealous and in ill humor, and the picture of their love would simply have aggravated my suffering. Now I could safely go to see them. I should not be sad and gloomy with them, and they would understand my happiness.

It was only a quarter-past eleven, and I decided to see whether they had gone to bed. I went upstairs, knocked and mentioned my name; Ernest opened the door.

“Where on earth have you been?” he said, laughing; “it’s a month since we’ve seen you.”

“He has just come from his Eugénie,” said little Marguerite. “Oh! how happy we look! It seems that our love-affair is progressing finely!”

“Yes, very well indeed. Ah! I am the happiest of men to-night! She loves me, I am sure of it now; she prefers me to all the men who have made love to her; and yet I was much less attentive, much less agreeable than the others.”

“What difference does that make? One is always agreeable when one is in love.”

I told them all that had taken place that evening between Eugénie and me. They listened with interest, they understood me, for they loved each other dearly. When I had finished my story, I sprang up and danced about the room; I could not keep still.

“Look out!” said Marguerite; “you’ll smash everything. Why, don’t you see how fine it is here now, monsieur?”

I had not so much as looked about the room. In fact, there was some change: the wretched bed was replaced by a low bedstead of painted wood, but very neat and clean. There were curtains and a canopy above the bed. The chairs, which I remembered as almost all broken, had been replaced by six new ones; and a black walnut commode had replaced the little sideboard. Lastly, there was almost a good fire on the hearth.

“Do you see how fine it is?” said Marguerite; “my Ernest gave me all this. His play has succeeded. Oh, it is very pleasing indeed, his play is! When the author was called for and his name was given, I was so happy that I longed to shout: ‘It was my little man who did that!’—He has a great mind, has my little man!”

“Will you hold your tongue, Marguerite?”

“No, monsieur, I propose to talk. We are not so poor now as we were. See, look at my mantel, see those two cups and the porcelain sugar bowl! That box is to put the money in for the week’s expenses. When there’s anything over, I put it in a Christmas box. Oh! we are very happy now!”

Poor child! how little she needed to esteem herself rich! So many people would have considered that chamber a wretched place still. I congratulated her and admired everything that she showed me. I complimented Ernest on the success of his play. I shared their happiness most sincerely; it made me happier to see how happy they were. I remained with them for more than an hour, talking of Eugénie and of our love. They told me of their little plans for the future, of the hopes in which they indulged,—very modest hopes, which proved that, being engrossed by their love, they knew neither ambition nor vanity.

I had not begun to think of retiring, and I believe that we should have passed the whole night talking thus; but suddenly we heard a loud noise on the roof, and broken glass falling on the leads and into the yard. I was startled at first; but I soon recovered myself and began to laugh as I glanced at Ernest and Marguerite, who did the same. It was Monsieur Pettermann breaking into his room.

VII
THE PRELIMINARIES OF HAPPINESS

I went every day to see Eugénie, for I did not see why I should continue to conceal my love. She loved me, she knew that I adored her; was it possible that her mother was not also aware of our sentiments? I had never dreamed of making Eugénie my mistress. My only desire and hope was for an enduring happiness. Eugénie should be my wife. I was sure of her consent, but it would be necessary to have her mother’s as well.

I believe that that good woman had divined my sentiments long before; parents are not always deceived by our little stratagems, by our affectation of coldness and ceremony; but when they pretend not to see, it means that they secretly approve our inclinations. Madame Dumeillan saw that I went there every day, and one does not go every day to a house where there is a pretty woman, unless there is love underneath. Eugénie pouted when I was late, and scolded me when I suggested going away; her mother heard it all and simply smiled. I saw that our love was no longer a secret to anyone.

Eugénie no longer called me Monsieur Blémont; she called me Monsieur Henri, and Henri simply, when we were alone. How pleasant it is to hear the woman we love call us for the first time by our Christian name, without that depressing monsieur! From that moment a stronger bond united us, a more tender intimacy existed between us. Eugénie could love as dearly as I; I read all her thoughts in her eyes; she no longer tried to conceal from me what she felt. I had found the woman that I desired: beauty, charm, wit and virtue. Yes, virtue; for Eugénie was kind, easily moved, and submissive and affectionate to her mother; I never heard her utter a murmur about complying with her slightest wish. I had judged her to be very coquettish, but I was mistaken; she loved the amusements of her age, she abandoned herself to them frankly and without reserve; but that is not coquetry. She laughed with those who tried to please her, but she gave false hopes to none of them. Now, when at her mother’s receptions, young men came to pay court to her and to make complimentary speeches, she no longer laughed; their flattering words bored her; her eyes sought me and followed me incessantly; and when she could escape from the crowd, she would come to me and whisper:

“Henri, I no longer enjoy society; I like it much better when you alone come to see us.”

Perhaps Eugénie was a trifle too susceptible; she yielded too readily to first impressions. I found that she would sometimes take offence and sulk for several days on account of a remark misunderstood, or a perfectly innocent act; but I was sure that that trifling defect would disappear with time and experience. I believed also that Eugénie would be jealous, yes, very jealous; she changed color and was evidently disturbed when I happened to talk a long time with the same lady. But, far from blaming her for that sentiment, I was secretly overjoyed by it; that jealousy was a new proof of the love that I inspired in her. I should have been very sorry to have her indifferent when I was talking with a pretty woman; for then I should have thought that she cared but little for me. Moreover, I had not hoped to find a perfect mortal; they say that such do not exist. And if there were such a thing as a perfect woman, I should not care to marry her; I think that a man would be bored with her.

Eugénie agreed to teach me music; she declared that I had a sweet voice and that I sang with taste; we began our lessons at once. I did not make rapid progress, but as we enjoyed the lessons, and as they gave me an opportunity to be with Eugénie, to tell her again and again that I adored her, she gave them to me often, and I could not help becoming a musician. In my turn, I was to teach her painting; she had some idea of drawing and earnestly desired to be able to use a brush; and I had no doubt in a short time she would do honor to her master.

Every day increased my love for Eugénie, and every day I obtained new proofs of her attachment to me. Those delightful hours which I passed with her, but always in her mother’s presence, made me long for a still greater happiness. Why should I delay to settle my fate? Eugénie, I felt sure, would accept joyfully the title of my wife.

Thus far I had spoken to her of love only, not of marriage. But what need had I to utter that word? And could Eugénie mention it to me? A well-bred young lady doesn’t ask the man who is making love to her if he proposes to marry her, for she cannot assume that he has any other purpose. She who asks such a question always places herself in an unfavorable position; it is as if she said: “I will love you when I am sure that you will marry me.” A wretched sort of love that, which one can order or countermand at will!

One day I went to Madame Dumeillan’s. It was about noon. By an extraordinary chance Eugénie was alone; her mother had gone to pay a visit, and Eugénie had succeeded in excusing herself from accompanying her; she hoped that I would come. She told me so with that charming smile which transported me and filled me with rapture; she gave me her hand, which I pressed ecstatically; then I seated myself beside her, very close, as close as I possibly could. I talked to her of my love; I told her—as I had told her a hundred times before—that I was happy only with her. But one is never weary of listening to protestations of a passion which one shares; when such assurances tire us, it means that our hearts are beginning to change.

As I talked with Eugénie, I passed my arm about her waist for the first time, and I drew her lovingly toward me; but she gently extricated herself and rose, saying:

“Come, monsieur, come to the piano, you must take a lesson this morning.”

I felt incapable of looking calmly at the notes; I detained Eugénie by the hand.

“Let us continue to talk, please! We have plenty of time for the piano.”

“We can talk while we practise.”

“It would be impossible for me to practise this morning.”

“Why so, monsieur? Do you mean that you are tired of your music lessons already?”

“Oh, no! but I have so many things to say to you! It so seldom happens that I find you alone!”

“Does mamma’s presence prevent you from talking with me? Don’t we talk hours at a time every evening, while they are playing cards?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the same thing; it’s much pleasanter to be alone! Dear Eugénie! I would like to pass my life with you and nobody else!”

“Oh! you would very soon get tired of that!”

“Tired of being with you! Impossible! But perhaps you yourself would not be willing to sacrifice to me the attentions of this mob of young men who sigh for you.”

“Oh! how mean it is to say that! When I am bored to death everywhere where you are not! Do you mean to say that I listen to the compliments and flattery of a lot of young men? Nonsense! come to the piano, monsieur!”

“Just a moment!”

I adored her, I was certain that she loved me, and yet I trembled at the thought of mentioning the word marriage! What a strange thing! To hesitate, to be embarrassed about mentioning to the person you love, a bond which you both desire! I had never hesitated with a pretty woman about overcoming her modesty and abusing her weakness; it seems to me that it requires more courage to behave oneself than to misbehave.

I held Eugénie’s hand, which she abandoned to me; I could not speak, but I covered her hand with kisses. I did not know if she guessed all that was going on in my heart; but a deep flush covered her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in order to avoid mine. At last I stammered in an undertone and with an almost shamefaced air:

“Eugénie—will you be my wife?”

She did not answer, but her hand pressed mine affectionately; her bosom rose and fell violently; I met her eyes, which she tried to avert, and they were wet with tears. How sweet are the tears which pleasure causes one to shed! I fell at Eugénie’s feet, reiterating my oath to love her all my life.

I was still at her feet—one is so comfortable in that position before the woman whom one adores! It has been said, I believe, that nothing is more absurd than a man at a woman’s feet; that may be true with respect to a woman who resists us, but with her who loves us, I can see nothing absurd in that position—I was still at her feet, when the door of the salon opened; it was Madame Dumeillan. She found me at her daughter’s feet.

I was not confused at being surprised in that attitude, for I had no guilty designs; and Eugénie herself looked at her mother without alarm; but she said to her, with a blush:

“Mamma, he swears that he will love me all his life; he asks me if I will be his wife.”

The mother smiled; we had told her nothing new. But I ran to her, seized her hands and pressed them in mine, and begged her not to stand in the way of my happiness and to call me her son.

“What answer has Eugénie given you?” asked Madame Dumeillan kindly. “I am inclined to spoil her a little, you know; if she doesn’t want to marry you, I warn you that I shall not force her.”

As she said that, the good woman glanced at her daughter mischievously; she knew very well that my love was returned. Eugénie threw herself into the arms of her mother and concealed her sweet face upon her breast; she could not speak, and I myself had hardly the strength to do so. Madame Dumeillan took her daughter’s hand and placed it in mine. Eugénie’s face was still hidden, but her hand answered my pressure. Her mother put her arms about us and held us to her heart. What a blissful moment! Shall I ever enjoy a purer happiness?

This first outburst of enthusiasm passed, Madame Dumeillan exclaimed:

“Well, on my word! I am acting very thoughtlessly for a mother! Here I am joining your hands, and I do not even know whether you have your mother’s consent, whether an alliance with our family will be agreeable to her.”

“Oh! yes, madame, I have no fears in that direction. My mother will be overjoyed to see me married; the choice that I have made cannot fail to please her. I have never yet mentioned it to her because first of all I wanted to know whether Eugénie,—whether mademoiselle your daughter——”

“Nonsense! say Eugénie, monsieur; you have that privilege now; you give him leave, do you not, my daughter?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Dear Eugénie! oh! how kind you are, madame! But I will go at once to see my mother; I propose that she shall come herself to-morrow.”

“Oh, dear me! give her a little time.”

“No, madame, we must move quickly in order to be happy. You have given your consent, may I not be in haste to call you my mother, too?”

“To call her your wife, you mean, you rascal!”

“Well, yes, I am crazy to call her my wife! Dear Eugénie! I am so happy! I will hurry to my mother’s.”

“So soon! Why, he is mad, on my word!”

“You will come again this evening, Henri?”

“Can you ask me such a question?”

I kissed Eugénie’s hand and Madame Dumeillan’s, and hurried from the house, to go to my mother. Ah! I was very happy; and yet I longed to be a few weeks older, in order to be even happier. But we are forever longing to grow old, and if we had our whole lives at our disposal, we should use them up in a very short time.

My mother was not at home. What a nuisance! She had gone out to make some calls. Upon whom? Where should I look for her? I went away, informing the servant that I would come again. I went away, but I had no idea where to go. My mother lived on Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule, and I knew no one in that neighborhood. Eugénie lived too far away for me to return there, for I intended to go to my mother’s again soon. I determined to walk about on the boulevards in the Marais; they are less frequented there than elsewhere, and I could think of my Eugénie without being distracted by the crowd.

I walked there for fifteen minutes, then returned to my mother’s; she had not come in, and I must needs walk still longer. What a bore! I should have had time to go to see Eugénie; away from her, I seemed not to live.

A little man passed me, turned about, then stopped, barring my path. I had paid no attention to his performance, but he called out:

“I say! what in the devil are you thinking about, that you don’t recognize your friends?”

It was Bélan. I shook hands with him.

“I beg your pardon, my dear Bélan, but I did not see you.”

“You were terribly preoccupied. You were thinking of your love-affairs, I’ll wager.”

“Faith, yes; I don’t deny it. I was thinking of the woman I shall adore all my life.”

“Oho! how exalted we are! I recognize myself in that!”

I was like a child, I longed to tell everybody what made me happy. I told Bélan of my love and of my impending marriage to Mademoiselle Dumeillan. The little rake made a pirouette and clapped his hands, crying:

“The deuce! you are going to be married? On my word, there is a secret sympathy between us: I am thinking of marrying too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In fact, I am fully decided upon it; I am tired of bonnes fortunes. And then, when your life is always in danger, it becomes wearisome after a while. Since my adventure with Montdidier—you remember?”

“Oh yes! perfectly; it was that day that I first saw Eugénie at Giraud’s.”

“Oho! so you met your future wife at Giraud’s, did you? Then it was they who arranged the marriage?”

“No indeed. Madame Dumeillan sees them very seldom. For my part, I have never mentioned them to her; it doesn’t seem to me that I need Giraud to arrange a marriage for me.”

“Never mind; as it was at his house that you met the young woman, he will be furious if he isn’t invited to the wedding, if he doesn’t manage the whole thing, if his wife is not near the head of the table, and if his three children aren’t allowed to stuff their pockets with dessert.”

“In that case I fancy that he will have a chance to be furious.”

“To return to myself, my dear fellow, I must tell you that since my adventure with Madame Montdidier, I have had some very disagreeable times: obliged to jump out of the window of an entresol; another time, to pass the night on a balcony, where I caught a cold that cost me eight bottles of syrup; and lastly, to avoid being surprised by a husband, compelled to hide in a chest, where I nearly stifled! I stayed in it an hour, and when they let me out, I was purple; my breath was all gone; faith! that completely disgusted me with love-affairs and intrigues; and like yourself, I propose to have done with them. I am courting a young lady who lives on Rue de la Roquette. I am going there now. You may have seen her at Giraud’s—Mademoiselle de Beausire?”

“I don’t remember seeing her.”

“Ah! she is a very handsome girl; regular features, aquiline nose—I am very fond of aquiline noses—extraordinary eyes, small waist, beautiful figure,—everything is there!”

“Everything,—you are sure?”

“Bah! you wicked joker! yes, I am sure of it. Anybody can see that at once. I am paying most assiduous court to her, and I have reason to believe that she does not look upon me with indifference. Not long ago, while we were playing games at her mother’s house, she chose me to whisper a secret to; she came to me blushing, and said in my ear: ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’ I was enchanted!”

“I don’t wonder.”

“Yes, for ‘I don’t know what to say to you’ meant: ‘I am afraid of saying too much.’”

“With a well-disposed person it might mean that.”

“Since then I have made no secret of my intentions. Indeed, she is an excellent match; she has a dowry of eighty thousand francs, and brilliant expectations. Her family is noble. And look you, my dear fellow, I confess that, in order to make myself more attractive to the mother, I ventured to put a little de before my name; it was Giraud who advised me to do it. I am now called Ferdinand de Bélan.”

“Oho! so you have ennobled yourself on your own authority?”

“My dear fellow, I believe that I have a right to do it; while searching through my family papers, I discovered that one of my ancestors was an officer of the kitchen to Louis XV, and a man had to be of noble birth to fill that post. It was during the Revolution, no doubt, that my father dropped the de, from fright.”

“But I have often heard you profess the most profound contempt for titles, and make sport of old parchments.”

“Oh! a man often says a thing, you know, just so as to seem to have an opinion;—You must see my future wife, you must see her, that’s all I say. And my mother-in-law—a superb woman still, and with such a manner! she used to be at court, so she is a little strict in the matter of etiquette; but she adores her daughter and she has sworn never to part from her!”

“So you are going to marry two women at once, are you?”

“Oh! that is merely a figure of speech. But this is the time of day when the ladies are visible. Adieu, my dear Blémont; I invite you beforehand to my wedding; for I propose to have a magnificent wedding party at Lointier’s; his rooms are superb. I have already in my mind the two costumes which I shall wear on that great day, and the steps I shall perform to open the ball. I trust that I shall go to your wedding, too?”

“Really, I don’t know whether we shall have any celebration. That will be as Eugénie wishes; I assure you that I do not give any thought to that.”

“Well, I dream every night of weddings, banquets and dances; twice I have tipped over my somno, thinking that I was opening the ball. Really it is very nice to be married: if anyone would assure me twelve thousand francs a year, I wouldn’t remain a bachelor. Adieu, my friend: I must hurry to wait upon those ladies.”

For my part, I went again to my mother’s, and that time I found her. She had not finished asking me about my health when I began to tell her of my love-affairs; and I did not stop until I had begged her to go to Madame Dumeillan’s with me at once.

But my mother did not share my eagerness, which indeed made her smile. She was very glad that I was thinking of settling down, and she had no doubt that I had made an excellent choice; but she fell back on the heartless conventional phrases:

“We must see; we must make sure; we must not be in a hurry.”

Not be in a hurry when one’s happiness is in the balance! ah! parents never choose to remember the time when they were in love! I urged and entreated my mother to go at once to see the ladies. She calmly called my attention to the fact that it was four o’clock, that she was dining out, and that it was too late for her to call upon Madame Dumeillan that day. All that I could obtain from her was a promise to go on the following day; she even gave me permission to inform the ladies that she would call.

I had no choice but to make the best of it. I left my mother, and I would have sworn that, before I reached the foot of the stairs, she had already forgotten my visit, and was wondering what partner she would have at whist that evening.

I returned to Eugénie after dinner. Nowhere else could I be patient and find means of passing the time until the day when I should be her husband.

Unluckily, it was the evening of Madame Dumeillan’s reception; many people came, and we could not talk. My eyes expressed to Eugénie all the impatience that I felt because I was unable to talk to her of my love; and her glances told me that she shared my annoyance. At that moment, society was most disagreeable to us. If all those people had known how pleased we should have been to see them go!

However, the card tables being arranged, I hoped to be able to approach Eugénie at last; but behold, Monsieur Giraud and his wife arrived. After the usual greeting and exchange of compliments, Madame Giraud took possession of Eugénie, and her husband joined me. He talked to me in what, as I thought, he intended as a sly tone. He had evidently heard that I was paying court to Mademoiselle Dumeillan; he thought that perhaps I would ask him to negotiate my marriage, to speak for me, to arrange the provisions of the contract. Poor Giraud! I saw what he was driving at; I pretended not to understand his hints and allusions. When he mentioned Eugénie, I changed the subject. He was offended; he rose and left me. That was what I wanted. I was sure that his wife was going through the same manœuvres with Eugénie. Bélan was right: those people would never forgive us if we married without letting them have a hand in it; but we could do without their forgiveness.

Madame Giraud walked away from Eugénie with evident displeasure. Eugénie glanced at me with a smile; I had guessed aright the subject of their conversation. The husband and wife met and whispered earnestly together; then they walked toward Madame Dumeillan and surrounded her, one at her right, and the other at her left; she could not escape them. They evidently proposed to try to learn more from Eugénie’s mother; but I knew that they would waste their time, that Madame Dumeillan would tell them nothing; she invented an excuse for leaving them after talking a few moments.

Giraud and his wife were very angry. They came toward me again, and I expected that they would hurl epigrams at me and tear me with their claws. I was not mistaken; Madame Giraud began, speaking to her husband so that I should hear:

“It is very amusing, isn’t it, Monsieur Giraud?”

“Yes, Madame Giraud, very amusing; there is a great deal of diplomacy here.”

“Yes, they make a mystery of something that is everybody’s secret.”

“Aha! they evidently take us for fools.”

“It seems that way to me.”

“Wouldn’t anyone say that it was a question of uniting two great powers?”

“Perhaps they are afraid they will have to invite us to the wedding.”

“Great heaven! weddings! we have no lack of them; in fact, we have so many that it is fairly sickening.”

“I declined an invitation to another to-morrow. And there is poor Bélan who has already invited us to his, which is to be at Lointier’s.”

“That young man will make a very good husband. Does he get along all right with Madame de Beausire?”

“Oh, yes! since I went to see the mother-in-law, all the obstacles have disappeared. There are some people who aren’t afraid to let me take a hand in their affairs, and who are greatly benefited by it.”

“Let us go, Monsieur Giraud; we still have time to go and see our good friends who have that expensive apartment on Rue de la Paix, and whose daughter you found a husband for two months ago.”

“You are right; I am sure that they expect us to have a cup of tea.”

The husband and wife disappeared without a word to anyone. And those creatures were offended with us because we found it natural and convenient to manage our own affairs! But in society it takes so little to make enemies, especially of narrow-minded people.

The guests began to leave, and I found a moment to talk with Eugénie. I told her that my mother would come to see her the next day. She blushed and sighed as she replied:

“Suppose she doesn’t like me? suppose she isn’t willing to have me for her daughter?”

Not like her! who could fail to like her? I was not at all disturbed. I reassured Eugénie, and I left her at last when the clock so ordered, as I had not as yet the right not to leave her at all.

On returning home, I met Ernest coming down from his mistress’s room. Since I had been spending all my time at Madame Dumeillan’s, I had sadly neglected my friends of the fifth floor. Ernest reproached me for it mildly, but they were not offended; they knew that I was in love, and thought it quite natural that I should think of no one but my love. But Ernest said to me:

“I hope that you will come to see us sometimes, although Marguerite will soon cease to be your neighbor.”

“Is she going to move?”

“In a week. She is not going to live in an attic any longer, thank heaven! Poor child! she has been miserable enough; she has made so many sacrifices for me, that I may well be glad to offer her a pleasanter position at last. Thank heaven! my affairs are prosperous. I have been successful, my friend, and I have made money. I have not squandered it at the cafés or restaurants, because I have always remembered Marguerite, in her attic, poor and destitute of everything. You see that, whatever my parents may say, it is not always a bad thing to have a poor mistress, for it has made me orderly and economical in good season.”

“I see that you are not selfish, and that you are not like many young men of your age, who think that they have done enough for a woman when they have taken her to a theatre and to a restaurant,—pleasures which they share with her,—but who cease to think about her as soon as they have left her at home.”

“I have hired a pretty little apartment on Rue du Temple, nearly opposite the baths. That is where we are going to live; I say we, because I hope that before long Marguerite and I shall not be parted. It matters little to me what people say; I propose to be happy, and I shall let evil tongues say what they will.”

“You are right, my dear Ernest; happiness is rare enough for a person to make some sacrifices to obtain it. I am going to marry my Eugénie! I have attained the height of my ambition!”

“I might marry Marguerite too; but we are so happy as we are! Why should we change? Besides, we have plenty of time, haven’t we? Adieu, my dear Blémont. You will come to see us, won’t you?”

“Yes, I promise you that I will.”

VIII
MARRIAGE.—A MEETING.—THE BALL

My mother went to see Madame Dumeillan, and they suited each other. It is a miracle when two women of mature years suit each other. My mother found Eugénie very attractive; she complimented me on my choice, and she was very hard to suit, too. I was overjoyed, in ecstasy. The provisions of the contract were very soon arranged by the two ladies, each of whom had but one child. For my part, I hurried forward the wedding day to the best of my ability. And yet, I was very happy. I passed three-quarters of my afternoons and all my evenings with Eugénie. If the ladies went out, I escorted them. Our approaching union was no secret, and many young men congratulated me on my good fortune. Some of them sighed as they glanced at Eugénie; perhaps they were in love with her. Poor fellows! I pitied them; but I could do nothing for them.

It was decided that I should retain the apartment which I occupied. It was large enough for my wife, and I had it decorated carefully in accordance with her taste. It would not have been large enough if Madame Dumeillan had come to live with us, as I expected at first. Eugénie too hoped that she would not leave her; but Madame Dumeillan said to her affectionately but firmly:

“No, my child, I shall not live with you. When a man marries, he wishes to take but one wife; why give him two? I know that Henri is fond of me; that he would be glad to have me live with him; but I know also, my children, that a young couple often have a thousand things to say to each other, and that a third person, no matter how dearly loved, is sometimes in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial disputes, the presence of a third person may be most harmful, and may prolong for a week what need have lasted but a moment; it checks the outpouring of love and intensifies the bitterness of reproach. But I will live near you, and I shall see you often, very often. And whenever you want me, you will always be able to find me.”

Eugénie was obliged to yield to her mother, and for my part, I considered that Madame Dumeillan was right.

Should we have a wedding party? That was a question which I asked myself, and which I was tempted more than once to put to Eugénie. But a little reflection convinced me that I should be wrong not to celebrate my marriage. To please me, Eugénie would pretend that she did not care about a ball; but at twenty years of age, possessed of innumerable charms, endowed with all the graces which attract and subjugate, is it not natural for a woman to long to show herself in all the glory of her happiness? Is that not a marked day in her life when she is called madame for the first time, although she has not absolutely ceased to be a maiden; when she has not as yet the assurance of the former, but on the contrary has all the shrinking modesty of the other in an intensified form? Yes, at the age of love and enjoyment, it is essential to have a wedding party; doubly so, when one marries the object of one’s passion; for happiness is always an embellishment. My Eugénie needed no embellishment; but why should I not have a little vanity? Why should I not be proud of my triumph?

So it was decided that we should have a wedding party: that is to say, a grand breakfast after the ceremony, and in the evening a supper and ball at Lointier’s. I determined to look to it that my Eugénie should have magnificent dresses for that great day; not that she could possibly be more beautiful in my eyes, but I wished that she should enjoy all those triumphs which mark an epoch in a woman’s life. I gave her leave to be a coquette on that day.

The moment of my happiness drew near. We turned our attention to the list of guests. For the breakfast there would be very few, enough however to make sure that they would not be bored, and that it should not have the aspect of a family party. For the evening, many people were invited; the salons were large, and it was necessary to fill them. We simply tried to make sure that in the throng none of those fine gentlemen should worm themselves in, who are known neither to the groom nor to the bride, nor to their relations, but who boldly present themselves at a large party, where, under cover of their decent exterior, they consume ices and often cheat at écarté.

We had already written a multitude of names; I had not forgotten Bélan, and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugénie and her mother with a smile, I said to them:

“Shall we put down their names too?”

“I am sure that I know whom you mean!” cried Eugénie. “Henri is thinking of the Giraud family.”

“Exactly.”

“Why invite them?” asked Madame Dumeillan; “they are terrible bores, and their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying.”

“I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their house that I first met Eugénie. And then our invitation will please them so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so.”

“Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them.”

So Giraud’s name was put down on the list. At last, the solemn day arrived. I rose at six o’clock in the morning, having slept hardly at all. I could not keep still. What should I do until eleven o’clock, when I was to call for my mother, and then for my Eugénie? To read was impossible; to draw or to paint was equally impossible. To think of her—ah! I did nothing else; but it fatigued me and did not divert my thoughts. After dressing, I went all over my apartment, where I was still alone; I made sure that nothing was lacking. I hoped that she would be comfortable there. That apartment, which I had occupied four years, involuntarily reminded me of a thousand incidents of my bachelor life. That room, that little salon had seen more than one female figure. I had received many visits. When a lady had promised to come to breakfast or to pass the day with me, how impatiently I counted the minutes! How, until the time arrived, I dreaded lest some inopportune visitor should ring the bell in place of her whom I expected! How many kisses, oaths and promises had been exchanged on that couch! And all those things were so soon forgotten!—Ah! I was very happy in those days too!

But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed reading them over; but suppose Eugénie should find them! I determined to burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?

I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them, I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time passes amid such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last farewell to bachelorhood.

I set them afire, not without a faint sigh. At last my bachelor amours were burned, and only a pinch of ashes remained; some day nothing more will remain of all the riches, of all the marvels of this earth.

Those were very serious thoughts for a wedding day, but they served to pass the time, and that was something. Moreover, extremes always meet: the happier one is, the more disposed is one’s mind to melancholy thoughts. A grocer weighing sugar, or a postman delivering letters, does not feel such impressions.

But I almost forgot something else; for since I had thought of nothing but Eugénie from morning until night, it was not surprising that I had not set all my affairs in order. I had once amused myself by painting miniatures of some of the ladies whose letters I had just burned. Those portraits were in the desk upon which I painted; there were eight of them.

Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why destroy them? In the first place, Eugénie would never see them; and even if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk, whence I thought that they would never come forth.

Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was left which could possibly offend Eugénie’s eye. No, she could come there now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those rooms than such as she should choose to receive.

It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I were at my mother’s a little before the hour. If only the carriages did not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it in my buttonhole?

The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to speak, but his wife did not give him time.

“Monsieur,” she said, “this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your happiness, which will last forever.”

While his wife glibly delivered this speech, the concierge tried to slip in a few words, but he did not succeed. I took the bouquet, gave them some money and dismissed them. A wedding day would have little charm if one must submit to many congratulations of that sort. At last a carriage arrived. I went downstairs and passed rapidly before a long line of cooks and some gossiping old women who lived in the house, who were stationed in the courtyard to see me, as if a man who was going to be married had his nose placed otherwise than usual on that day.

I was driven to my mother’s, and found that she had just begun to dress.

“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and read the newspaper.”

Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.

At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.

We arrived at Madame Dumeillan’s. Eugénie was ready; I was confident that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been possible.

One of our witnesses kept us waiting. There are people who would not hurry one iota to please others, and who know of nothing in the world that is important enough for haste. I could not live with such people.

At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor’s office. I was not allowed to escort Eugénie. On that day everything was subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his wedding than on his wedding day.

I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved and was weeping. Dear Eugénie! I thought of nothing but loving her forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do it.

It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was over!

I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said to them: “until this evening;” and they replied with a low bow.

We drove to Lointier’s, where a handsome breakfast awaited us. But a wedding breakfast is generally a decidedly gloomy affair. The bride can hardly be expected to laugh, and even when she is happiest, she is thoughtful and talks little; the grandparents are always intent upon preserving their dignity. For my part, I was engrossed, or rather annoyed, by the reflection that it was still early in the day. There were in the party some jokers, or persons who tried to joke; one stout gentleman, a kinsman of my mother, regaled us with some of those superannuated jests concerning the occasion and happiness that awaited us; but his sallies met with no success; nobody laughed at them, and he was forced to keep to himself the ample store of bons mots with which I am sure that he was provided. I was delighted, because I considered such jests very bad form; they should be left for the weddings of concierges or servants; the modesty of a young woman who has but one day of innocence left should be respected; and we should assume innocence in those who have none.

Eugénie and I were at a distance from each other; we could not talk, but we glanced furtively at each other and our eyes mutually counselled patience.

The clock struck five, and the ladies left to change their dresses. I escorted my wife to the carriage which was to take her home with her mother. I would have been glad to go with her, but Madame Dumeillan and my mother persuaded me that it was my duty to remain with the guests who were still at table. Eugénie leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:

“Oh! we shall be much happier to-morrow, my dear! we shall not be separated then, I trust.”

Dear Eugénie, you were quite right. I had to return to the table, because it pleased some of our guests to eat and drink through four hours. If only I had been hungry!

We left the table at last, at six o’clock. Several of the gentlemen began to play cards. As courtesy did not require me to watch them lose their money, I left the restaurant and drove to my wife’s house.

The hairdresser had just arrived, and she had abandoned her lovely hair to him. Really, those hairdressers are too fortunate, to be able to pass their fingers through those lovely locks and to gaze constantly at the pretty head which is entrusted to them. That one took at least three-quarters of an hour to arrange Eugénie’s hair, as if it were difficult to make her look charming! But women are wonderfully patient with respect to everything that pertains to their toilet.

Her hair was arranged at last; but they took her away, for she was not dressed. My wife was not yet mine; she was still in the grasp of the conventionalities of that day. I was fain to be patient, until I once had possession of her. But that night I would bolt all the doors, and no one should see her the next morning until I chose.

I saw that Eugénie would not be dressed for at least an hour, so I went out and tried to kill time. I jumped into one of the carriages which were waiting at the door, and was driven to the Tuileries. I alighted on Rue de Rivoli, and entered the garden. The day was drawing to a close; the weather was gloomy and uncertain. There were very few people under those superb chestnuts toward which I walked. I was delighted, for I do not care for a promenade where there is a crowd; the people who stare at you or jostle you every moment prevent you from dreaming, from thinking at your leisure.

I rarely went to the Tuileries; to my mind that great garden was melancholy and monotonous; but on that day it seemed pleasanter to me, for I could think freely of my wife. My wife! those words still had a strange sound to me. I was married, I who had so often laughed at husbands! Had I been wrong to laugh at them, or should I prove an exception to the rule?

I walked at random. Finally I found myself in front of the enclosure where the statues of Hippomenes and Atalanta stand. That reminded me of a certain assignation. It was three years before, in the middle of winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow; the garden, the benches were covered with it, and it was very cold. But I had an assignation, and on such occasions one does not consult the thermometer. It was with a certain Lucile, who, for decency’s sake, called herself Madame Lejeune, and who mended cashmere shawls. She was very pretty, was Lucile. About twenty-three years old at that time, with a pretty, shapely figure, and an almost distinguished face which did not betray the grisette. I had an idea that her portrait was among those that I had preserved. She was accustomed to love madly for a fortnight; during the third week she calmed down, and ordinarily she was unfaithful by the end of the month. As I had been warned, I considered it more amusing to anticipate her, and to take up with another before the fortnight had expired. She did not forgive me; her self-esteem was wounded, for I have no idea that she would have been more constant with me than with others; but she tried to make me believe that she would have, and whenever I met her I could always detect a flavor of bitterness in her speech and anger in her glance.

It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan’s, at the Pavillon-Français. It was one of the red-letter days of my bachelorhood.

Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugénie. I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile on her lips.

“You must admit,” she said, “that the snow is all that is needed to make the resemblance complete.”

It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her.

“You here, madame?”

“Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in search of memories.”

“I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I passed these statues, I remembered a certain assignation, one winter, and I confess that I was thinking of you.”

“Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?”

“If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less—you can hardly detect the difference.”

“Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!”

“I do not see that I have said anything to you that——”

“Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?”

“Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball.”

“Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?”

“Lovely.”

“A widow or unmarried?”

“Unmarried.”

“How old?”

“Twenty years.”

“Has she—you know what?”

“I can tell you that better to-morrow, if I should happen to see you.”

“Are you the best man?”

“Better than that.”

“Better than that! What! Do you mean—Oh, no! that is impossible. You are not going to be married?”

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because you don’t do such crazy things as that.”

“I don’t know whether marriage is always a crazy thing, but I can assure you that I was married this morning, and that, far from regretting it, I congratulate myself upon it.”

“Oh! if it was only this morning, that is easy to understand.—What! are you really married, Henri? Ha! ha! how amusing it is!”

“What is there so amusing about it?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Poor Henri! You are married! Upon my word, I can’t get over it. But I promise you that it gives me the very greatest pleasure! Ha! ha! ha!”

Lucile’s sneering laughter had an ironical note that began to irritate me. I bowed to her and turned away, but she detained me.

“By the way, one moment, monsieur; it is probable that I shall not have the pleasure of talking with you again for a long time, for a married man doesn’t go out without his wife. So yours is very pretty, is she?”

“Yes.”

“And are you very much in love with her?”

“More than I have ever been.”

“Oh! how frank!”

“Why shouldn’t I say what I think?”

“To be sure. Then you must try to make her love you more than you have ever been loved. Ha! ha!”

“I think that that will not be difficult.”

“Do you think so? You may be mistaken.”

“Excuse me, madame, if I leave you; but my wife must have finished dressing, and I must return for her.”

“If your wife is waiting for you, why, go, monsieur; and see to it that she never waits for anybody else. Ha! ha!”

I saw that Lucile had not forgiven me. I left her. I was unable to conceal the vexation that that woman caused me to feel. I jumped into the carriage which took me back to Eugénie. She was waiting for me; the sight of her, a single word from her lips, speedily dissipated that slight cloud. Eugénie was dazzling; her charms, her graces, her lovely dress, everything combined to add fascination to her aspect. I took her hand.

“It is time to go to the ball; let us start,” said Madame Dumeillan and my mother. I held Eugénie’s hand, I was looking at my wife, and I had forgotten everything else.

Our appearance in the salons was greeted with a flattering murmur. Words of praise rang in my ears, and I admit that they flattered my heart too; it was my wife who was the object of universal admiration. Eugénie blushed and lowered her eyes; but it would have been difficult for her to avoid hearing the compliments which were rained upon her as she passed.

There were many people already there, and my acquaintances came forward to greet me. Giraud took my hand and pressed it. I felt inclined to be friendly with everyone, I was so happy! The men crowded about my wife to obtain the favor of dancing with her; they took their numbers, and I overheard one of them say that he was number twenty-six. Judging from that, it was evident that I could not look forward to dancing with my wife that night. But I made the best of it, and invited other ladies to dance.

I spied a little man, pushing and jostling everybody to make a passage for himself; it was Bélan, escorting a young lady who was at least a head taller than he, and with whom he was about to dance. When they passed me, they stopped, and he said to me:

“My friend, this is Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire, of whom I have spoken to you so often.”

I bowed low before Mademoiselle Armide, who was neither beautiful nor ugly, and whose eyes were almost as large as her mouth; but there was in her face and in her whole person something stiff and prim which smelt of the province a league away.

People crowded around Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide to see them dance. The little man danced very well; and as he had a very good figure, he had procured tight trousers, a tight coat and a tight waistcoat; there was not a fold to be seen on his whole body; if his face had been black you would have thought that he was a little negro in puris naturalibus.

Between the contradances I struggled through the crowd, to try to introduce to my wife a crowd of people whom I hardly knew, but who said to me:

“Won’t you present me to madame?”

At midnight the crowd had become so great that it was difficult to move. Did I know all those people? No; but I had told several of my acquaintances to bring their acquaintances, and that sort of thing extends very far sometimes. However, it was a brilliant affair. There were lovely dresses and very pretty women; the men were well-dressed, and I saw none of those expressionless, ignoble faces, none of those old creased caps which one is surprised sometimes to see at a fashionable party, where however they often have more right to be than most people; for those unattractive, common faces which we see in corners at a wedding party usually belong to some uncle or some cousin whom it was impossible not to invite.

Three times I found Giraud eating ices or carrying them to his wife. He had brought only two of his children; the two older ones; that was very considerate of him. I was so happy that I asked Madame Giraud to dance, and she seemed highly flattered by that courtesy. But what did it matter to me with whom I danced when it was not Eugénie? I no longer thought of paying court to ladies; other times, other ideas.

“Your ball is delightful,” said Bélan, leading me into a salon where card playing was in progress, but where it was possible to move about. “There are at least four hundred people here.”

“Faith! I should be hard put to it to say how many there are here. If they are enjoying themselves, that is all that is necessary.”

“It will be like this at my wedding. What do you think of Armide?”

“She is very attractive.”

“And her eyes?”

“They are superb.”

“They are extraordinary, are they not? Well, my dear fellow, she has everything like that,—wit, talents, and such an air of distinction! Did you see us dancing together?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t we get along well?”

“It is a pity that you are a little short beside her.”

“Short! you are joking. She is a little tall! However, when a man is built as I am, it is worth three inches of height. I certainly wouldn’t change figures with that tall, lanky man in front of us. Those tall fellows are always awkward. Have you seen Madame de Beausire?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come then, and let me present you to her. You will see a woman who hasn’t a single touch of the plebeian; she is the type of true distinction.”

I submitted to be led away; I did whatever anyone wanted that night. I saw a tall, yellow woman who resembled a piece of old tapestry, and who looked as if she had never laughed since she came into the world. I made haste to bow and to run away. It seemed to me that one must necessarily catch the spleen in Madame de Beausire’s company.

The supper hour arrived; at last the ball was drawing to a close; and although I was not exactly bored, still I should have been very glad to be at home with my wife.

The ladies were conducted to their seats. I looked after the comfort of everybody; I saw that the tables, large and small alike, were properly waited upon.

“Pray rest a moment and eat something,” people said to me.

Much I thought about eating! I preferred to hurry the supper of that multitude.

I found Giraud and his two children sitting at a small table with three young men. Giraud had a currant cake on his knees, and he had slipped a bowl of jelly under the table, not choosing to pass it, for fear it would not come back to him. I called for fish, chickens, and pâté; I covered his children’s plates with cakes. Giraud was in ecstasy; he shook my hand, murmuring:

“This is one of the finest weddings I have ever seen, and God knows that I have seen a tremendous number of them!”

Madame Giraud, who had been obliged to leave the large table when the other ladies rose, walked behind her husband and children at that moment, with an enormous reticule hanging on her arm. While pretending to pass the gentlemen what they wanted, I saw that she kept opening the bag and thrusting cakes, biscuit, and even pie crust into it. Giraud, seeing that I had noticed his wife’s manœuvring, said to her angrily, as she was trying to force some macaroons into her bag:

“What on earth are you doing, Madame Giraud? What sort of manners are these? You are putting macaroons into your bag!”

“Just for Azor, my dear, the poor beast. He is so fond of macaroons, you know. They would be wasted, so what harm does it do? I want poor Azor to have a little of the pleasure of this party.”

“You know very well that I don’t like such things, Madame Giraud.”

I appeased Giraud, who pretended to be very angry; then I walked away, in order to leave his wife at full liberty; and she ended by making a perfect balloon of her bag.

Meanwhile, the tables were gradually deserted; many people returned to the ballroom, but many others entered their carriages, and I considered that the latter acted wisely.

The ball was more agreeable perhaps, because it was more comfortable to dance. Eugénie continued to be invited, and I must needs content myself with dancing opposite her; but there were figures in which we took each other’s hands, and then how many things we said by a soft pressure! it seems that the heart, that the very soul, passes into the beloved hand which presses ours lovingly.

The ranks became thinner. My mother had gone, and Madame Dumeillan was only awaiting our departure to follow her example. It was five o’clock. The daylight was beginning to show through the windows, and to lessen the brilliancy of the candles. The number of ladies diminished every moment. I went to Eugénie’s side.

“I am tired of dancing,” she said, “and yet I am afraid to refuse.”

“Why, it seems to me that we might venture to go now.”

She lowered her eyes and made no answer. I concluded that I had done enough for others and that I might think of myself at last. I took my wife’s hand and led her from the room; Madame Dumeillan followed us; we entered a carriage and drove away. We had to take Madame Dumeillan home first. It was a short distance, but it seemed very long to me. The nearer one’s happiness approaches, the more intense one’s impatience becomes.

We spoke but little in the mother’s presence. At last we reached her house, and I alighted. Madame Dumeillan embraced her daughter; it seemed to me that their embrace was interminable. Selfish creatures that we are! it did not occur to me that that was the last embrace in which a mother would hold her daughter, still a virgin, in her arms, and that I should have all the rest of my life to enjoy my privileges as a husband.

Madame Dumeillan entered her house. I returned to the carriage, and we drove on. At last I was alone with Eugénie, with my wife. I believe that that was the sweetest moment that I have ever known; it had seemed to me that it would never arrive. I put my arms about Eugénie; she wept when she embraced her mother; but I embraced her, and she ceased to weep, for I overwhelmed her with caresses, and unfamiliar sensations made her heart beat fast.

At last we reached my apartment, our apartment. The servant who was to live with us, and who had been in her mother’s service, was waiting for us in the concierge’s room, with a light; but it was broad day; we needed no service. My wife and I entered our home. I led her by the hand, I felt that she was trembling and I believe that I trembled too. It is a strange effect of happiness that it suffocates one, that it almost makes one ill.

I closed the doors and shot the bolts. I was alone with my wife! At last there was no third person with us! We were at liberty to love each other, to tell each other of our love, and to prove it!

IX
THE HONEYMOON.—BÉLAN’S WEDDING

How happiness makes the time fly! A fortnight after I became Eugénie’s husband it seemed to both of us that we had been married only the day before. That fortnight had passed so rapidly! It would be very difficult for me to say how we employed the time; we had no leisure to do anything. In the first place, we rose late, we breakfasted tête-à-tête, and then we talked; often I held Eugénie on my knees; people can understand each other better when they are close together.

We made a multitude of plans, our conversation being often interrupted by the kisses which I stole, or which she gave me. We were much surprised, when we glanced at the clock, to find that it was almost noon and that we had been talking for two hours. Then we had to think about dressing to go to see Madame Dumeillan, and sometimes to take a walk or drive. We continued to talk while we dressed. I would ask Eugénie to sing me a song, or to play something on the piano. If I chanced to have a visitor, or a client who kept me in my office fifteen minutes, when I came out I would find my wife already impatient at my long absence, and we would talk a few minutes more to make up to ourselves for the annoyance caused by my visitor. At last we would go out; but we always acted like school children and chose the longest way, so that it was almost dinner time when we reached my mother-in-law’s. We had been to the theatre twice since we were married; we preferred that to going to parties. At the theatre we were still alone and could talk when the play was dull; but in society one is never free to do whatever one pleases. We always returned home early, and we were always glad to get home. But, I say again, the time passed like a flash.

My wife found my apartment much to her liking; she told me that it was a pleasure to her to live where I had lived as a bachelor. She often questioned me about that period of my life, and listened to my answers with interest and curiosity; but I did not tell her everything; I slurred over many episodes; for I had discovered that Eugénie was jealous. Her brow darkened when there were women in my adventures, and she often interrupted me, saying angrily:

“That’s enough, hush! I don’t want to know any more!”

Then I would kiss her and say:

“My dear love, I didn’t know you then.”

But, despite my caresses, her ill humor always lasted some minutes.

However, it was necessary that we should do something else than talk and embrace. Eugénie agreed to teach me to play on the piano, and I to give her lessons in painting. But first of all, I began her portrait. That was an occupation which took an endless time, for we were constantly distraught; when I looked at my model, and she fastened her lovely eyes upon me and smiled affectionately at me, how could I always resist the desire to kiss her? And she would pout so prettily when I failed to lay aside my brush for a long while! At that I would rise and rush to my model and embrace her. Such episodes led me to think that painters must be very self-restrained, to resist the temptations they must experience when they are painting the portrait of a young and pretty woman. A woman whom we are painting looks at us as we wish her to look; we request a very sweet glance and smile, and she exerts herself to make her expression as pleasing and amiable as possible; for a woman always desires her picture to be fascinating.

For my own part, I had never needed to resist my desires, for I had painted none but my mistresses; but when one must needs scrutinize in detail innumerable charms, and stand quietly by one’s easel—ah! then, I repeat, one must be most virtuous, and that particular sort of virtue is not the characteristic quality of painters.

Despite our frequent distractions, I worked assiduously at my wife’s portrait; in ten sittings it was finished, and I was delighted with my work; the likeness was striking. Eugénie herself uttered a cry of surprise when she saw herself; but she feared that I had flattered her. No; I had not painted her, to be sure, as she was in company, when she looked at everybody indifferently, but as she was when she looked at me while I was painting her, with eyes overflowing with love. It seemed to me that I had done wisely to select that expression; for it was for myself and not for others that I had painted her portrait.

Next, I must needs paint my own; Eugénie insisted upon it. That was a much less amusing task, and I feared that it would be a long one. I had already given myself several sittings, and it seemed to me that it did not progress satisfactorily. Eugénie was not satisfied; she said:

“You have given yourself a sulky, sober look; that isn’t the way you look at me.”

“My dear love, it is because it is a bore to me to look at myself.”

“Oh! wait a moment, I have an idea. I will sit beside you; then, when you look in the glass, you will see me too, and I trust, monsieur, that you will not make faces at me.”

Eugénie’s idea impressed me as a charming one. Thanks to her invention, I was no longer bored when I sat for myself; for she was always there beside me, and when I looked in the mirror she was the first thing I saw; my portrait gained enormously thereby; I was able to paint myself as she wished, and she was as well pleased as I had been with hers.

I had her portrait set in a locket which I always wore; she had mine set in a bracelet which she always had on her arm. We were not content to have each other in reality, we must needs have each other’s image as well; if we could have possessed each other in any other way, we would have done it. But is it a mistake to love too dearly? Her mother and mine both declared that we were unreasonable, that we were worse than lovers; but Eugénie and I were determined never to change; we liked each other well enough as we were.

My wife insisted that I should begin to learn the piano; and I showed her how to use a brush. Those lessons were most delicious to us; and they occupied a large part of the day. I realized however that piano playing and painting would not make me eminent at the bar. Since my marriage I had neglected the Palais, and paid almost no attention to business; but when I would propose to study, to shut myself up in my office, Eugénie would detain me, saying:

“What is the use of worrying yourself, of tiring your brain over your Code and your Pandects? Are we not rich enough? Are we not happy? What is the need of your trying cases, of your tormenting yourself for other people? Stay with me, give me a lesson in painting, and don’t go to the Palais.”

I could not resist my wife. My mother scolded me sometimes for what she called my laziness. Love is not laziness, but a happy love makes us unfit for anything except making love.

Three months passed almost as rapidly as the first fortnight of our married life. But I had learned to play On Dit qu’à Quinze Ans on the piano, and Eugénie was making rapid progress in painting. A new subject of rejoicing added to our happiness: my wife was enceinte. We leaped for joy, we danced about the room, thinking that we were to have a child. We talked of nothing else, we made no plans for the future in which our son or daughter had not a share. Good Madame Dumeillan shared our delight; my mother complimented me, but without enthusiasm, and as if it were a very trifling matter; whereas it seemed to me that it ought to mark an epoch in the world’s history.

We went into society very rarely, and we had been to but two balls since our wedding. But one morning we received cards and an invitation to the wedding party of Monsieur Ferdinand de Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire. Eugénie was not far enough advanced to fear that dancing would injure her; moreover, she promised to dance only a little; so we determined to go to Bélan’s wedding, where I had an idea that we should find something to laugh at. My wife agreed with me. Bélan had been to see us twice since we were married, and Eugénie considered that he made himself rather ridiculous by his chatter and his affectations. As for the Beausire family, the little that I had seen of them seemed to me rather amusing.

The invitation included, upon a separate sheet, an intimation that we were expected to attend the breakfast also.

That was a pleasure of which we determined to deprive ourselves. We mistrusted wedding breakfasts, which are about as amusing as an amateur concert or a parlor reading; we had made up our minds to go to the ball only, when Bélan appeared in our apartment.

The little dandy bowed to the floor before my wife, which was not a difficult feat for him; then he shook hands with me and said with an air of triumph:

“Did you receive our invitations?”

“Yes, my dear fellow. First, let us congratulate you.”

“I accept your congratulations with pleasure. I certainly have reason to be flattered by the preference accorded me. I had seventeen rivals, three of whom were millionaires who owned iron foundries, factories or coal mines; and two marquises, one of them with six decorations; but I beat them all; and like Cæsar, veni, vidi, vici. We may rely upon you, may we not?”

“Oh yes, we shall be at your ball.”

“And at the breakfast?”

“As to the breakfast, we cannot promise.”

“Oh! I beg your pardon, but I insist upon a promise. It would be horrid of you to fail us. We have invited only a small number of people for the morning, but most select. Two of my wife’s uncles, three cousins, and five aunts, all of whom are women of my mother-in-law’s type. Great heaven! my mother-in-law has done nothing but weep since our wedding day was fixed; she drenches at least four handkerchiefs a day, and she doesn’t let her daughter out of her sight. That embarrasses me a little in my effusions of sentiment, but my time will come. However, you must attend all the festivities. I address my entreaties to you, madame; Henri will not refuse you.”

Eugénie had not the heart to refuse; she glanced at me and we promised. Bélan thanked my wife and kissed her hand, then he asked me for two minutes in my office.

“Have you any lawsuit on hand?” I asked him when we were alone.

“No, but I want to consult you. Having just married a woman whom you adored, you will be able to tell me——”

“Tell you what?”

“I don’t know just how to put it. You know that I have been, like you, a lady’s man, never embarrassed in a tête-à-tête. I was like a flash of powder.”

“Well?”

“Well, it is very strange, but with Mademoiselle de Beausire, although I adore her, the effect is entirely different. It seems to me that I dare not squeeze the end of her finger. In short, I do not feel the slightest inclination to be enterprising. I confess that that worries me and makes me anxious; I don’t sleep at night; and the nearer my wedding day approaches, the more apprehensive I feel.”

“Ha! ha! Poor Bélan! nonsense! don’t be afraid! Real love, love that is too ardent, sometimes produces the effect which you complain of; but it does not last. And besides, what have you to fear with your wife? You are sure that she won’t escape you. She isn’t like a mistress, who often refuses to give you a second assignation when she is not pleased with the first. With one’s wife, what doesn’t happen the first night, will happen the second.”

“True; it might not happen till the eighth even. You make me feel a little easier in my mind. You see, Mademoiselle de Beausire—such a well-bred young woman as she is—isn’t like a grisette. Oh! with a grisette, it goes all alone.—And then the mother-in-law is always there!”

“I imagine that she won’t be there on your wedding night.”

“Faith! I wouldn’t swear to it. She does nothing but talk about not being parted from her daughter, and says that she can’t sleep away from her. I believe that she means to sleep in a closet adjoining our bedroom.”

“That will be very amusing for you!”

“It is that sort of thing that keeps going through my head and takes away my natural ardor. But no matter, between now and my wedding I will have everything I eat flavored with vanilla; I will even have some put in my soup. Adieu, my dear Blémont. We rely upon you. Your wedding was very fine, but just wait till you see mine. That’s all I have to say.”

Bélan went away. So we were simply compelled to attend the breakfast; we had promised. However, perhaps it would be more amusing than we thought. Indeed, there are parties which are so tiresome that they are actually comical. The only remedy was to make the best of things; they say that there is a good side to everything.

Eugénie gave her attention to her dresses; for she must have two for that day. I urged her not to lace herself too tightly; you can guess why. A woman should think about being a mother rather than try to make herself slender; but that is what she often forgets.

Bélan’s great day arrived. A carriage came for us, the coachman, and the groom behind, both dressed in apricot livery. I was compelled to admit that that feature already excelled my wedding, and I expected to see some magnificent things. We were to meet at Madame de Beausire’s, where I had never been. It was an old house, on Rue de la Roquette. We passed an old concierge; we ascended an old staircase, upon which rose leaves had been scattered profusely. I was sure that that was an idea of Bélan, and I did not consider it a very happy one, for it nearly caused my wife to fall; but I caught her in time, and she said with a smile:

“We were married without rose leaves, my dear.”

“Yes, my dear love; it was less romantic, but there was no slipping.”

We entered an apartment of extraordinary height, on the first floor. It was so high that I could hardly distinguish the mouldings of the ceiling. We were announced by an old servant, who seemed to have been weeping; perhaps that was a custom of the house. We were ushered into an immense salon, where Bélan, who was doing the honors, produced the impression of a dwarf amid a lot of Patagonians. We discovered a row of old faces, a sort of continuation of the tapestry of which Madame de Beausire had given me a specimen. The men were solemn, sententious and pretentious; the women stiff, affected and painted. There were a few people of our own set, but only a few. I concluded that Bélan had not obtained permission to invite many of his acquaintances. The poor fellow did not seem at his ease amid the Beausire family; he was afraid to be jovial, he dreaded to be dismal; he hovered about his new kindred, who did not talk for fear of compromising their dignity.

The groom was delighted when we arrived; he felt more at ease with us.

“You will see my wife presently,” he said to us; “just now she is with her mother, who is finishing her toilet, weeping.”

“What! is your mother-in-law weeping still?”

“Yes, my friend, that woman is a regular fountain.”

“But what is she weeping for?”

“Grief at separating from her daughter. And yet she does not propose to separate from her, for she declares that she will sleep in the same room with us.”

“In the same room? Ha! ha! that is rather strong.”

“I swear to you that that is what she says. Indeed, I believe that she hoped that I would not sleep with my wife; but on my word, despite all my respect for Madame de Beausire, I refused to give in on that point, and I think that Armide was glad of it. But here come the ladies.”

The bride entered, escorted on one side by an old aunt with a nose like a snail’s shell, and on the other by her mother, who, with her tall, spare figure, her red eyes, and her leaden complexion, really looked like a ghost.

From the sighs heaved by those ladies, one would have thought that they were leading a second Iphigenia to the sacrifice. The relations came forward and delivered congratulations of the same style as their costumes. In the midst of it all, the bridegroom was the person to whom the least attention was paid. When he addressed his wife, she made no answer; when he turned to his mother-in-law, she took out her handkerchief and turned her back on him; and if he accosted any of the relations, they pretended to pay no attention to him.

We started for the church, each man escorting a lady; I gave my arm to my wife; for I did not see why I should deprive myself of that pleasure in favor of those creatures. We went downstairs, in the conventional order, Bélan at the head, escorting his mother-in-law. The rose leaves produced a wonderful impression.

“This is lovely!” said an old aunt; “it’s like a procession!”

“It’s an idea of mine!” cried Bélan; “I thought of it last night, while thinking of my wedding; and I am delighted that——”

Bélan had reached this point in his speech, when a tall cousin, who was escorting the bride, slipped down two steps and fell, dragging the fair Armide after him.

Shrieks arose on all sides. Thank heaven, Armide had fallen decently, and had made no exposé for the benefit of the company, which would have been most unpleasant for the husband, who hoped to be the first to behold her charms; and which would probably have made the mother-in-law sob anew.

The bride was quickly assisted to her feet, and the tall cousin rose unassisted, uttering a most vulgar oath and exclaiming:

“The devil take the rose leaves! A man must be an infernal fool to scatter them on a staircase! I have hurt my scrotum.”

Bélan was speechless with confusion at the accident due to his idea.

“Monsieur de Bélan, you must have all this swept away,” said the mother-in-law; and the bridegroom replied with a low bow:

“Yes, Madame de Beausire, I will look after it.”

Our betrothed were united in a small church in the Marais. Nothing extraordinary took place during the ceremony, except that the mother-in-law used two handkerchiefs, and that Bélan made horrible faces in his attempts to weep with her, but without success.

I had hoped that the breakfast would be at a restaurant; but we were bidden to return to the mother-in-law’s. That certainly required courage. Eugénie and I looked at each other, vowing, albeit a little late, that we would never be caught in such a scrape again.

The bridegroom went ahead, doubtless to have his rose leaves swept away. I was sure that he would do the sweeping himself rather than expose himself to his mother-in-law’s wrath.

A long table was laid in the dining-room. We took our seats; I was between the old aunt with a nose like a snail’s shell and the tall cousin who had fallen so hard on the stairway; my wife was a mile away from me, between two old uncles with lace cuffs and curly wigs. How we were likely to enjoy ourselves!

I expected to see Giraud and his wife at the breakfast, for Giraud had been declaring everywhere that it was he who had arranged Bélan’s marriage. But evidently the mother-in-law had not deemed them worthy of that honor, and we should not see them until evening.

The bride kept her eyes on the floor and did not eat. The mother-in-law looked at her daughter, wiped her eyes, and seemed not to realize that there was anybody there. We sat at the table two minutes without touching anything, no one having been requested to serve. Bélan, uncertain whether he was expected to do the honors, glanced at his wife and his mother-in-law in turn, and faltered:

“Who is to serve? Does Madame de Beausire desire me to serve?”

But Madame de Beausire replied only by blowing her nose and sighing.

I looked at my wife; I had such a mad desire to laugh that I dropped my knife and fork on the floor, so that I might indulge it a little while fumbling under the table. I chose to be considered awkward rather than discourteous.

At last an old uncle, who had not come to the wedding simply to look at the dishes, although that would have been more dignified than to eat them, drew an enormous pie toward him and gave the signal for the attack. We decided to breakfast, notwithstanding Madame de Beausire’s sighs; but we did it with a decorum and gravity which were interrupted only by the noise of the plates and the forks.