Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons

AMI FRIGHTENS THE DOCTOR

"But the groaning seemed to come nearer; suddenly it changed into a loud barking, and an enormous dog rushed from the room I was about to enter, planted his front paws on my chest, and glared at me with eyes that were far from gentle!"

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XIII
PAUL AND HIS DOG
VOL. I

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

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

PAUL AND HIS DOG

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]

I
A MASQUERADE AT THE OPÉRA

What a crowd! how eager all these people are to make their way into the ball-room! they begin to push and elbow one another even in the street, in front of the entrance to the theatre; the carriages move too slowly to suit the persons inside or the police officers whose duty it is to keep all vehicles in motion.

See those maskers; those dominos have hardly time to alight from their coupé, for the coachman must move on instantly to make room for the confrère behind him; many persons even alight before they are in front of the theatre, hoping to reach their destination more quickly.

It is evident therefore that they must be afraid of not finding room, of not being able to crowd their way into that sanctuary of pleasure, of folly, rather; and yet one can always get in, at any hour. Though the hall be overflowing with people, though the foyer be full to suffocation, though it be impossible to move in the corridor,—it makes no difference: one can always find a way to slip into the vast throng.

People push you, bump against you, tread on your feet, force you to go to the right when you want to go to the left. You do not find the person you are seeking, you are separated from your companion; if you have arranged yourself with great care and elegance, in a few minutes your clothes are rumpled, torn, stained.—But what does it matter! you are at the Opéra masquerade.

You are speedily bewildered by the noise made by the multitude that surrounds you; the heat becomes stifling; add to this the odor of the bouquets and of the perfumery used by the ladies, and lastly the strains of the enormous orchestra playing galops, waltzes, polkas, mazurkas, with a swing, a precision, a vigor which makes your legs twitch; and do not be surprised if you begin to feel like a different man, if your brain whirls, if your heart beats more rapidly, if you suddenly become inclined to play pranks, to enjoy yourself—no matter how.

But you do not intend to have come to the Opéra ball for nothing. You aspire to an intrigue, a conquest, an unexpected meeting. You seek pleasure, no matter under what form it presents itself, and you often pass several hours in the quest, or rather, in quest of the unknown.

Ah! it is so provoking when a domino with a graceful figure, a tiny hand and a well-arched foot takes your arm, saying:

"I know you!"

I know you! those three words, uttered by an unfamiliar voice, but by a woman who takes your arm, clings to it familiarly, leans toward you and looks into your eyes in a very alluring way—those three words disturb you, excite you, toss you at once into the field of conjecture. No matter how many times you may hear them during the night, they always produce their effect, and especially, as I said just now, if the masker who says them to you has a pretty figure, a pretty hand, pretty eyes—all of which make one desire or hope for a charming face.

First of all, you try to identify the person who speaks to you; you examine her eyes, the lower part of her chin, which the mask imperfectly conceals; you pass in review the feet, the arms, the figure, the hair. You listen attentively to the tone of the voice, which is never perfectly disguised to a very sharp ear.

But when all these have failed to give you any information; when you abandon the idea of recognizing your companion, then you proceed to imagine a woman to match your ideal. Behind the mask that covers her face, you place lovely, intellectual features of the sort that you most affect; your imagination takes fire—you have met the woman of your dreams, you are beginning to fall in love; a few seconds more, and you will have a full-fledged passion on your hands. But no; it will not go so far as that. You will restrain yourself, for there is always a reverse side to the medallion; and that reverse side the sirens themselves are blundering enough to show to you. You have not had your lady on your arm ten minutes, when she says to you:

"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"

Ah! what a tumble your imagination takes at that! how suddenly your dreams of a woman of fashion, distinguished, mysterious, passionate, are transformed into humble flower-makers, corset-makers, waistcoat-makers, and sometimes something even humbler!

"Aren't you going to ask me to take something?"—can it be that a woman of breeding, a woman of the beau monde, or even of the beau demi-monde, would ask that question?

No, that has the savor of a grisette, or a fillette, a league away! I am aware that Carnival has its license, and that, with the face masked, one may venture to say things that one would not say with the face exposed. But it is none the less certain that that unlucky phrase is almost equivalent to the unmasking of your conquest, and brings you down at once from the fertile land of illusions to the much more arid regions of reality. And then, as if they instantly divined the wishes of your fair companion, the dealers in bonbons and oranges always arrive at the moment the question is asked. You are too gallant to refuse, moreover, you probably know that, if you should refuse, your conquest would at once drop your arm, saying:

"Bah! what a skinflint! Thanks! I've had enough of your acquaintance; it ain't worth the cost of a stick of sugar candy!"

Plume yourself then, if you can, upon having been that damsel's escort, upon having felt her arm lean upon yours and her hand respond to the pressure of your hand; alas! there is no excuse for pride.

But, you will tell me, there are exceptions; ladies of the best society, pretty bourgeoises, even women of honorable name, indulge in the pleasure of the masquerade; there is no danger of their unmasking, you may be sure! on the contrary, they disguise themselves with the greatest care, in such wise as to turn aside all suspicions and to deceive everybody who knows them. But those things which they never succeed in concealing are their elegant manners, their distinguished bearing, their refined language.

Yes, there are, doubtless, some of those ladies at the Opéra; they have longed to satisfy their curiosity by a glimpse of one of these orgies.

Sometimes a more powerful motive leads them thither; they desire to surprise a disloyal lover, to confound him, to unmask his treachery; or,—and this is much more agreeable—they have consented to come secretly into this crowd, because they know that they will meet here someone whom it is impossible for them to see elsewhere; and perhaps, under cover of the mask, they will consent to let fall from their lips a sweet confession which you would never have obtained otherwise.

It is true that there are these exceptions, and that you have a chance of falling in with one of these ladies. Indeed, it would distress me to rob you of the many illusions in which the charm of a masquerade consists; but I must remind you that these comme il faut ladies are not at the ball to enter into an intrigue; it is always an intrigue already begun that brings them there. And then, what probability is there that one of them will come to you, take your arm, and say: "I know you!" when she does not know you and has not come to the ball on your account? Are you not convinced now that you will not intrigue with one of these ladies?

No, you are not, because in your heart you consider yourself a sufficiently attractive youth to take the eye of a nobly-born dame, who may not have come on your account, but who would be very glad to make your acquaintance. That is your idea; it is very pleasant to you to believe that! Very well, believe it! If it makes you happy, you are wise. Cradle yourself in the sweetest illusions, let your imagination run riot, though you have nothing to show for your stick of candy.

On a certain night, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-six—it was Mi-Carême, and consequently the last day of license permitted after the Carnival. It was therefore the last Opéra masquerade, and so it was magnificent in respect to numbers, uproar and eccentric costumes. There were, as always, numbers of pretty little women dressed as débardeurs,[A] that is to say, in high-necked shirts, velvet or satin breeches with broad bands of brilliant colors, sash tied behind, and on their heads a sort of foraging-cap covered with flowers and worn over the ear in the true swaggering style.

There were Pierrots of all colors and sizes, a few ladies dressed à la Pompadour, many gypsies, and some of those young men who are determined to attract notice at any cost, and for that purpose adopt a costume to which it is difficult to give a name. One, dressed in knee-breeches of spangled satin, wore high postilion's boots and a Turkish jacket; on his back he had a quiver, on his head a saucepan by way of helmet, and fastened to the saucepan, a plume of enormous size. This plume, which waved in the air three feet above the crowd, could be seen from one end of the hall to the other. It must have been fatiguing to have that immense thing on one's head; but what do not people do at a masquerade, to attract attention?

Another represented a savage or a bear, it was hard to tell which. He had made himself a sort of crown with those little brooms which are sold for three sous. He carried an umbrella in one hand and a fan in the other. The more extravagant one's costume, the more trouble one takes to be seen by the multitude.

But the orchestra gave the signal for a quadrille. As a general rule, all those maskers who are costumed in character dance, for they aim to display as much extravagance in their dancing as in their costumes. Unluckily for them, there are officials whose duty it is to moderate their enthusiasm and to call them to order when they put too much laissez-aller into their steps. In heaven's name, what would they do if they were not watched!

The quadrille almost always ends in a general galop. Thereupon everyone joins in and is whirled away in the vortex. The innumerable sets are confounded in a resistless torrent of gallopers which roars around the ball-room, in five, six, sometimes seven rows at once; all galloping and jumping and running! Woe to the unlucky wight who stumbles! the torrent stops only with the music, and he would inevitably be trampled under the feet of the dancers.

But do not be alarmed, nobody falls; they all are sure-footed and agile performers; and those pretty little female débardeurs, who seemed to you but now so slender and delicate, are often the most intrepid of all in that mad galop in which one must not pause.

Toward the end, the orchestra quickens the time; then it ceases to be a dance; it is a genuine delirium, a frenzy; shouts and singing blend with the music, and the whirling mass passes before you like a railroad train. At that moment, the sight is truly miraculous, truly interesting to watch; and we know many people who go to the Opéra ball solely to sit in a box and watch the galop at their ease. In truth, I doubt whether anything similar can be seen elsewhere.

Two dominos had just entered one of the proscenium boxes. The first, pearl-gray, trimmed with rich lace, was worn by a tall, slender woman whose well-developed figure it outlined sharply. Despite her disguise, one could divine that the costume covered a person well accustomed to the noisy demonstrations of the maskers and to the eccentricities of the dancers. There was something bold and determined in her manner, and, as she watched the galop which was then at its height, the gray domino seemed neither surprised nor fascinated; she gazed at that rushing torrent, not like a person enjoying an entertaining spectacle, but like a person at the theatre who pays no attention to the play that is in progress, but is solely occupied in looking for someone among the audience.

The second domino was black; it was worn by a person of medium height and decent demeanor, in whose appearance there was nothing to attract attention. She, however, seemed to take much pleasure in watching the galop, and from time to time uttered exclamations eloquent of the surprise which that frenzied dance caused her.

The two ladies had seated themselves at the front of the box, where, in all probability, their seats had been engaged. The gray domino, whose eyes were fastened on the dancing throng, was certainly looking for someone; the black domino, who was looking for no one, cried from time to time:

"Oh! look there, my dear! how they push one another! See! that tall Pierrot has taken his partner in his arms and away he dances with her! Mon Dieu! suppose he should fall! And see that Marquise Pompadour with her wig half off; she's going to lose her wig! look, Thélénie!"

"Yes, yes, I see; but I beg you, my dear Héloïse, not to make so many exclamations; anyone would think you had never seen anything."

"But I haven't ever seen the Opéra ball. I've been to Valentino, Sainte-Cécile, and the Salle Barthélemy."

"Enough, enough! for heaven's sake, keep quiet, and above all things, remember not to call me by name when you speak to me. You must see that it isn't worth while for me to disguise myself carefully if you are going to shout my name in the ears of everybody who passes."

"I only mentioned your given name."

"And that's just the one that people know best; and as it isn't so common as yours, anybody would know it was I."

"That's so; your name's a very pretty one—like a name in a novel; did your parents give it to you, or did you take it?"

The gray domino did not think it best to answer this question except by a slight shrug, which clearly signified: "Mon Dieu! how stupid you are!"

But the black domino, who perhaps did not understand pantomime, went on talking none the less.

"For my part, I'd rather be named Thélénie than Héloïse: Héloïse is very common, and then it seems there's some story about a Héloïse and her lover, a Monsieur Abelard. I don't know it myself, it must be an old story, for I've never read it in the papers. But it seems that it's laughable, for the men who make love to me say: 'O lovely Héloïse, I'd like to be your lover, but not your Abelard!'—I always pretend to understand, for I don't want to seem ignorant; I wouldn't dare ask them to tell me about the adventures of those two, so I just laugh and say: 'Tell me, why don't you want to be my Abelard? you're very hard to suit!' Then they laugh harder than ever.—I say, Thélénie, you know such a lot of things, you've had an education—tell me that story, won't you?"

Tall Thélénie, for we know now the pearl-gray domino's name, thanks to her companion's prattle, suddenly placed her hand on the black domino's and said:

"Hush! I think I see him—that young man dressed as a postilion, at the left, with a dairymaid on his arm; look, I say!"

"That postilion—Monsieur Edmond! oh, no! his nose is much longer."

"No, no, you are right; it isn't he!"

"Is Monsieur Edmond to be disguised as a postilion?"

"How do you suppose I know how he's disguised, or if he is disguised? I am not even certain that he's at the ball; and yet I have a shrewd idea that he'll come; it's the last masquerade, and he's so fond of sport."

"Bless me! it's natural at his age! how old is he?"

"Oh! how you pester me with your continued questioning, Héloïse!"

"Mon Dieu! how touchy you are to-night! Is it my fault, I should like to know, that you've quarrelled with your lover, that he plays tricks on you! When that happens to me, I console myself very quickly; I take another, and very often that brings back the old one, who is angry because I do as he does, and becomes much more in love than before! But you must know that method—all women employ it and it invariably succeeds."

"Yes, I know it, and I used to make use of it; but now—I can't act like that with Edmond."

"It seems that you are really caught, my dear! An experienced woman like you! I'm amazed!"

"You're amazed at everything to-night!"

"That proves that I am not blasé, and that's something."

"Do you say that to insult me?"

"Hoity-toity! now I'm insulting her! On my word, you're in a murderous mood! If I had known, I wouldn't have come to the ball with you. To be sure, you paid for my domino; but I could have found someone else to pay me that attention. I came to the ball for fun, not to quarrel."

"Come, come, Héloïse, don't lose your temper. I am in an ugly mood to-night, that's true; my nerves are all on edge, for I don't know where he is, the traitor, and I want to know. I still love him; I love him; and remember, he is the first man who ever introduced me to that sentiment."

"Indeed? If you said that to him, I should believe it was humbug, as we always say to our last lover: 'Ah! my dear! you are the first man who ever taught me what love is!' but you've no reason for lying to me; I don't dare to say again that you astonish me; you might tell me again that I am astonished too much."

"My dear Héloïse, my life has been decidedly agitated, I admit; I don't set myself up to you as a pattern of virtue!"

"You are quite right, for I shouldn't believe you."

"I will even tell you honestly how old I am,—a thing that women do not often admit to each other. I am thirty-two; as you see, I should have had some experience."

"Thirty-two! Well, without flattery, you may lie fearlessly on that subject, for no one would think you more than twenty-eight at most."

"At thirty-two, with my face and figure, I thought that I might still fascinate a young man of twenty-six."

"That you might! I should say so! Why not, I should like to know? Is a woman old at thirty-two? For my part, I hope to make conquests at forty-five; but I have plenty of time before me, thank God! I am in my twenty-third year."

"I have had more than one liaison, it is true, but I tell you again, Edmond is the first man I ever loved—with love; and when a woman feels that sentiment so late in life—why, it's very violent, so violent that it makes her capable of anything!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! you frighten me, my dear! But don't get excited; it will pass away."

"I wish it might, but I have no hope of it."

"If he loved you, and you were sure of it, in a little while you would cease to love him; it has always worked that way with me."

"Hush! hush! here comes someone I know; above all, don't turn."

The door of the box was open, and a gentleman had entered. He was a man of about forty, but still very handsome; tall, with a fine figure, regular features, a distinguished face, and a piercing, ironical glance; in his brown eyes, which were rather too heavily shadowed by his lashes, there was almost always a mocking look, which, however, was quite in accord with his always mocking speech.

An extremely yellow and bilious complexion detracted somewhat from the advantages which this gentleman would naturally have owed to his physique; but there are ladies who prefer yellow skins to white ones, and whose preference does not stop short of the mulatto.

This personage, as he entered the box, toyed with a beautiful gold-rimmed eyeglass, which was suspended about his neck by a light hair chain. He remained on his feet for some time, closely watching the pearl-gray domino. But, since his arrival, the two ladies at the front of the box pretended to be gazing with interest at the ball, where the galop had just come to an end; and neither of them turned.

Annoyed by the persistence with which the two dominos showed him only their backs, the newcomer stepped over a bench and seated himself behind them. Then he tapped the gray domino's shoulder lightly and said to her in an undertone:

"My fair friend, it's of no use for you to persist in not turning, and to force your companion to follow suit, which seems to be very distasteful to her; it doesn't prevent my recognizing you. I watched you just now from below; your black eyes shone like carbuncles; those eyes betray you, my love; when you don't wish to be recognized, assume the costume of Fortune, and wear a bandage over them."

"I don't know what you want with me," said Mademoiselle Héloïse's companion, carefully disguising her voice; "my eyes shine, you say? so much the better; I am delighted. I have no reason to hide them. If I don't turn round, you may be sure that it's not on account of you, whom I don't know, and whom I have no desire to know!"

"Ah! my dear Thélénie! If I hadn't recognized you already, your last words would have left me in no doubt as to your identity! A person may disguise her face and figure, or change her voice,—that's all very well; but she must remember also to change her mental habit and her mode of speech. You have always had a considerable leaning toward impertinence; and you yielded to it again just now when you said that you had no desire to know me. Tell me, am I not right? Take my word for it, and profit by this advice—if you want to puzzle anybody and to avoid being identified, be good-natured, indulgent, and don't speak unkindly of anyone; then I promise you that people won't recognize you."

The tall Thélénie with difficulty repressed an angry exclamation; however, she forced herself to laugh as she replied:

"Ha! ha! ha! that is all very pretty! Well, why aren't you disguised as a magician, since you pretend to be able to tell everyone so exactly what sort of person she is?"

"Oh! I don't disguise myself any more; my time for that has passed."

"True; you are too old for that."

"There are many older than I who continue to disguise themselves. It is not age that prevents a man from making a fool of himself, it's the degree of pleasure he finds in doing it. See, look at that tall Polichinelle just passing you, with two Swiss women on his arms; that is old Simoulin, the lorettes' banker. He is more than fifty years old, but that doesn't prevent him from disguising himself still; he must have intrigues, love-affairs, mistresses; he imagines that he still makes conquests—an old idiot who doesn't understand yet that his money is the only thing that attracts the women. He has done many foolish things for them; he has already consumed three-fourths of his fortune, and the rest will probably go the same way. Then all these beauties, for whom he will have ruined himself, will turn their backs on him and order their maids to shut the door in his face if he has the audacity to call on his former mistresses.—Isn't that true? But I am telling you nothing new. You know it all better than I do, for you have been intimately acquainted with that beggarly Polichinelle.—And that tall young man yonder, dressed to represent Gille.[B] His costume is well chosen, at all events. Poor fellow! what a haggard face, what hollow cheeks, what a dull, brutish expression! Ah! he was once a good-looking fellow. He's a Hungarian; why in the deuce did he leave his country with such a well-filled wallet? He wanted to know Paris, to enjoy himself here! I don't know if he has enjoyed himself very much—I trust so. But to run through a hundred and fifty thousand francs in six months—that is rather a rapid pace; nothing less than a princely fortune will stand that sort of thing. Now this young Hungarian is obliged to borrow until his worthy father chooses to send him some money. But the father keeps his pockets buttoned; he thinks that his son has been rather too magnificent. You know this young foreigner also, my dear—know him very well, in fact. But it isn't he whom you are looking for in this throng; it's little Edmond Didier—your latest passion! I say your latest—I think so, but I wouldn't swear to it. You have had so many! Have you made a memorandum of them all, with a view to writing your memoirs some day? If you have not, you are making a mistake, for I assure you they would have a good sale. I will engage a copy in advance."

The gray domino made no reply, but one could see from her nervous movements that she could hardly restrain her wrath. The black domino, who was tired of keeping silent, thought that she was doing an excellent thing in suddenly observing to the gentleman who was talking to her friend:

"Mon Dieu! my dear man, you must see that you bore us to death. For heaven's sake, leave us in peace! We didn't come to the Opéra to listen to your ragots—silly backbiting."

The gentleman laughed heartily.

"Ha! ha! ragots! not a very refined expression! My little Héloïse, your friend ought to give you lessons in refined speech, otherwise you might compromise her; and she didn't bring you here for that."

"I say! do you know me, too?"

"Bah! you little bungler! you give yourself away at once; really you are not shrewd enough to accompany Thélénie; but you are not pretty, that is why she gives you the preference!"

"I am not pretty! well, upon my word! this long yellow-face is very polite!"

"Ha! ha! ha! I see, mesdames, that you are really going to be angry; I will leave you."

"That will give us great pleasure."

"I forgive Héloïse her ill-humor; she simply obeys the orders that are given her. But I am very sorry that Madame de Sainte-Suzanne does not act differently. When one has been on very intimate terms with a person, and when one is aware that that person knows exactly what one's worth is, one should always be affable with that person; it is not clever to adopt a different course. Good-evening, mesdames. My dear Thélénie, if I see young Edmond, I shall not fail to tell him that you are looking for him, and to describe your costume, so that he may recognize you."

Thélénie turned suddenly, and seizing the gentleman's arm as he was about to leave the box, said to him, no longer seeking to disguise her voice:

"Oh! don't do that, Beauregard; I beg you not to do that; for I don't want Edmond to know that I am here."

"Well, well! so you know me now! Ha! ha! this is amusing; I was beginning to think I had made a mistake myself."

"Come, Beauregard, don't be so spiteful! don't betray me! What motive can you have for injuring me? Have I ever done anything to you?"

"You? oh! you certainly have done no more to me than to other men. And yet—there is a certain matter—But let us not talk of that here; this place would be ill chosen for a serious conversation. I will see you again, and then, I hope, you will answer my questions frankly. I will leave you now, and if I see young Edmond, I will tell him nothing."

"Do you promise?"

"Do you want me to swear?"

"No, that is not necessary."

"You are right; between ourselves, you and I know what to think of oaths."

And the gentleman, with a very slight inclination of the head, left the box in which the two dominos were.

II
EDMOND AND FRELUCHON

In a pleasant little bachelor apartment, on the fourth floor, but in a house occupied by most excellent tenants, on Rue de Provence, a young man hardly twenty-six years of age was impatiently pacing the floor of a bedroom which was used also as a salon. He glanced constantly at a small clock on the mantel, and muttered:

"Almost ten o'clock, and Freluchon doesn't come! Does he expect me to pass my whole evening waiting for him? Oh! these people who are never on time ought to be fined! I'll give him five minutes more, and then, if he hasn't come, so much the worse for him—I shall go! After all, he won't have any difficulty in finding me."

The young man who said all this to himself was named Edmond Didier. I have told you his age; I will add that he was a very comely fellow, well-built, above middle height; that he had blue eyes shaped a little like those of the Chinese, but with a sweet and tender expression to which the young man owed many conquests. His nose was well-shaped, although it was not aquiline—there are some very pretty noses which are not aquiline; his mouth was intellectual, his teeth suited to the mouth, his forehead broad and open, his chestnut hair very fine and silky, and always arranged simply and without that horrible parting which imparts to the heads of the most dandified men the aspect of those wax models which you see in hair-dressers' windows.

Young Edmond, as you will see, was a very good-looking fellow, especially if we add that all these features combined to form a whole in which there was much character; for you might bring together a pair of large eyes, a pretty mouth, a Greek nose, and handsome hair, and therewith form a whole which would have no expression at all. We often observe this in women, and say as we look at them: "There's a beautiful statue!"

Do not you consider that that which has animation is to be preferred, even though it be less beautiful?

Young Edmond, whose parents had retired to the provinces with a moderate fortune, had received from his uncle some sixty thousand francs, which he had invested in a business house where he was supposed to work, but where he did not work, because he had none too much time to amuse himself, and because he hoped that the thirty-six hundred francs which he received as interest on his investment would suffice for his amusements.

Edmond was good-natured and clever; nature had endowed him with a delightful voice, because of which he was very popular in salons. He sang ballads with almost as much soul and taste as poor Achard, who sang so beautifully and who required so little urging; and who died so prematurely, when he was still in the heyday of his talent, leaving behind him so much love, so many friendships, and such deep and lasting regret!

Edmond Didier had a warm heart and rather an unreliable head; he was easily moved and generous, but forgetful, changeable and careless. He lost his temper quickly and recovered it as quickly; he was naturally light-hearted, but had fits of melancholy when he dreamed of a Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, whom he would have liked to awaken.

Every day he resolved to turn his mind to something, to work, to try to become a capable man, a man qualified to fill an important post or to manage a business house; but the current of pleasure whirled him along; he always had some new song which an attractive woman had begged him to sing at her next reception; and how can one refuse a woman who tells you that it is her greatest joy to hear you sing? So that he had to study the song instead of going to the merchant who had his funds, to study bookkeeping.

Ah! if the ladies knew how seriously they interfere with a young man's duties! especially with those of a young man who asks nothing better than to have them interfered with!

Now you know young Edmond Didier, who, after trying to be content with the income of his sixty thousand francs, had begun to encroach upon his principal.

At last the bell rang and Edmond hastened to open his door. Another young man, very short and very slender, with a long, peaked face, a long, pointed nose, shrewd eyes, something of the marten in his face and much abandon in his bearing, entered the room, with his hands in his pockets, crying:

"Sapristi! how cold it is!"

The newcomer's name was Freluchon; he had inherited money from his mother and from his uncle, and his pockets were always full. He spent it freely, but he did not throw it out of the window; he devoted much time to pleasure, but he occasionally took a turn in business or speculated a little on the Bourse. He was generally very fortunate in what he undertook, and often succeeded in making more than he spent. He was three years older than Didier, whose intimate friend he was.

He was a good fellow, that is to say, he was always ready to do what anyone wanted him to do, so long as it was not a bore to him. Beneath a frail and sickly appearance, he was blessed with the strength of a Hercules, and could kill an ox with a blow of his fist. Men of that type as a general rule never seek a quarrel with anybody.

"Here you are at last!" cried Edmond as his friend entered. "It's very lucky. I was just going away. You're a full half-hour behindhand."

"First of all, have you a fire? On my word of honor, I am frozen!"

"Oh! we can warm ourselves at the young ladies' room, as they're waiting for us; it's not worth while to settle down here."

"But I say it is; the order of the day and the line of march are changed.—Ah! good! there is a fire; with a little blowing and another stick, it will go all right."

"What is there new? Why aren't we going to Henriette's, where Amélia was to join us? That was all arranged this morning."

"Yes, but since this morning, many things have happened.—Where in the devil do you keep your bellows?"

"There, in that corner.—Come, Freluchon, I should be very glad to know what all this means."

"Just a moment,—when the fire's well kindled; good! now it's blazing up. A fine invention is fire; it must have been the sun that suggested the idea. The Peruvians worship the sun, and I believe I am descended from them. I too worship the sun—especially in winter; in summer I would gladly do without it."

"When you've finished, perhaps you'll answer me."

"How impatient he is! Let us go softly—piano, as the Italians say.—My dear fellow, this is what has happened: we went much too fast with those young women—so-called flower-makers! We made love to them, they listened to us; they are very pretty. Now, that is all very well, but we undertook to dazzle them by our generosity—there's the foolish blunder! Not content with treating them to superfine dinners, set off with iced wines which they poured down like Prussians, we began at once to give them presents. You gave your Amélia a beautiful opera glass which you used at the theatre, and I handed over a dainty gold-rimmed eyeglass which I had lent to Henriette, who assured me that it was perfectly adapted to her sight. When those damsels saw that they had only to wish in order to obtain, they said to themselves: 'We must wish for something else.'—They took us for great nobles or for gulls—perhaps for both—and determined to hold us to ransom."

"You always think that somebody is trying to cheat you. Why think that of those young flower-makers, who seem to be fond of work and to lead orderly lives? I have been to Amélia's only three times, but I have always found them at work making flowers."

"So have I; but I have noticed that it was always the same flower that was under way. It seems that it's a difficult one to make!"

"They don't seem to be hard up; they have some very pretty mahogany furniture, which they pay for by pleasure."

"Yes; as for that, I have never doubted it. Indeed, Henriette told me, in the beginning of our intimacy, when I complimented her on her lodgings, that she had paid for it all by her work and by the way she passed her nights; but as they lie constantly, they forget one day what they told you the day before. Here's a proof of it—look."

"What is this letter?"

"A billet-doux that I received from Henriette this morning; she doesn't write badly, I must do her that justice; and not a mistake in spelling! That's very nice for a flower-maker, but it's all the more dangerous. Take it and read it."

Edmond took the letter that his friend handed him and read as follows:

"My dear Freluchon:

"A terrible catastrophe has befallen me; my furniture, which I thought was paid for, is not. The upholsterer is going to compel me to leave my apartment instantly, if I do not pay four hundred francs on account. Be kind enough to lend me that amount, which I will pay you very soon. Otherwise you will not find me at my rooms, as I shall be turned out, and I have no idea where Amélia and I will go. You may hand the money to the woman who brings this letter; but be sure to seal it.

"Your loving and faithful friend,
"HENRIETTE."

"Well! what do you say to that?"

"Why! I say—but what reply did you make? did you send the money?"

"I'm not so foolish, I tell you! In the first place, this letter is altogether too much! What does she mean by 'her furniture, that she thought was paid for, but is not?' And this upholsterer who will have her turned out of her apartments if she doesn't pay him? An upholsterer may take back his furniture, but he doesn't turn you into the street by that. The trick was too plain; and in order to write such stuff to a man, one must take him for a goose. As I don't care to be likened to that bird, I instantly informed the messenger that I was terribly distressed, that I was in despair, but that I was unable to hand her anything for Mademoiselle Henriette, and she went away with that answer.—Bigre! four hundred francs at one slap, for a flower-maker—that's too magnificent! You aim too high, my love!"

"Well! what next?"

"Why, there is no next."

"Didn't Henriette send to you again?"

"Not at all! she made the best of it, like a brave heart. She said to herself: 'There's a young buck who isn't such an ass as I thought.'—And I am sure that I have gained greatly in her esteem; that pleases me."

"I can see nothing in all this to interfere with our going now to call for the young ladies and taking them to the Opéra ball, as we agreed."

"Ah! you can't, eh? Well, when I went out for a stroll before dinner, I thought I would find out if the catastrophe had had any results, and I walked as far as Rue de Saintonge, where our turtle-doves had their perch. I asked the concierge: 'Is Mademoiselle Henriette in?'—Thereupon that counterfeit Swiss looked at me with rather a bantering expression, and replied:

"'No, monsieur, those young women have gone away.'

"'Will they return soon?'

"'Return! oh! I fancy they won't return here; they carried off their belongings very cunningly in little bundles, and then they skipped. The landlord came and made a row with me about it, and said that I didn't ought to let anything go out of the house. But what can you expect? the women nowadays wear skirts puffed out like balloons, so, you see, those girls could have stuffed their whole wardrobe underneath. Ah! those skirts are very deceitful; they'll be the cause of many poufs.'[C]

"'But,' I said to the man, 'what is the landlord afraid of? Those young women had some very nice furniture, and I don't suppose they put their mattresses and their wardrobes with glass doors under their skirts, did they? And this isn't a furnished lodging-house; they had their own furniture, didn't they?'

"'That is to say, they had their own furniture to pay for; the upholsterer wanted to carry it away this morning; but not much—the landlord must be paid first and they owed him for three quarters. For all that, it's mighty unpleasant; it always ends in a row! When the upholsterer found that he couldn't carry away his furniture, he was crazy. "You ought not to have let those women go!" he said; "I'd have had them put in prison." And so on and so forth. Have I any right to keep tenants from going out, I'd like to know?'

"'No, certainly you haven't any such right; a concierge's authority doesn't go so far as that; perhaps it may come, though, I shouldn't be surprised! They do some pretty rough things already, but they haven't got to the point of imprisoning tenants.'

"'Never mind; when we let rooms to two girls together again, it will be hotter than it is now!'

"'Do you think there's less danger when they are alone?'

"'Certainly, one can keep a closer watch on them then; but when there's two of 'em, why, they do nothing else besides going back and forth before one's eyes, and it's impossible to know who goes in and out—so one gets totally bewildered.'

"That, my dear fellow, is the conversation I had with the concierge of those damsels, who strike me as being decidedly a bad lot. You see that it's no use for us to go to their last lodgings to look for them."

"I see that the letter wasn't so far from the truth, when it said that they would be turned out if they did not pay."

"They succeeded in escaping unaided. I asked how much the upholsterer claimed: it was eight or nine hundred francs, I believe; but if I had turned in four hundred francs, do you imagine for a moment that they would have given it to their creditor? Ah! how little you know of that breed! They would have vanished with my money, that's all!"

"Do you think so?"

"In other words, I am sure of it. 'Brought up in the harem, I know all its devious ways.' These girls pass their lives making poufs; then they make a trip to England, to try to make the conquest of some lord; and when they don't succeed in that, they are obliged to sell everything, even to their chemises, to pay for their return trip to Paris. I tell you that I know the whole business, step by step."

"It's a pity! I regret Amélia, for she was very pretty!"

"There are others! Paris swarms with pretty women. Henriette was very attractive, too; pink and white, Watteau style."

"I am terribly annoyed."

"But you're not unprovided for; you must fall back on your beautiful brunette, whom I christened the Andalusian—your Madame de Sainte-Suzanne, a woman almost comme il faut; at all events, she is pleased now to affect the manners of one."

"I told you that I had broken with that lady; she insisted on having me always at her side, and questioned me about every step I took; I had to render her an account of my most trivial acts, and it was downright slavery! A little more and she would have confined me to my room. You can understand that that sort of thing didn't suit me!"

"Bless me! not unless you're an absolute idiot. Still, there are men stupid enough to allow their mistresses to lead them by the nose. There's Dutaillis, for example; he can't take a step for fear of a row! When he goes out, it's: 'Where are you going?' When he comes in: 'Where have you been? what makes you so red? why are you so pale? why is your collar so rumpled? where did you pick up all that mud?'—There's no end to it. And the jackass takes a world of pains to prove that he's no redder than usual, and that his collar rumpled of itself because it wasn't well starched! And the prettiest part of it all is that he'll end by marrying his Virginette! What a grovelling future I foresee for the poor wretch!—Your chimney is in bad order, it doesn't draw."

"I don't know whether Madame de Sainte-Suzanne flattered herself that I would marry her; I don't think she went so far as that; but she was atrociously jealous."

"Did she carry a dagger in her garter?"

"No, but she had several in her room, and very beautiful ones, encrusted with jewels."

"They were gifts."

"However, I must do her justice: people told me she was a very covetous woman and had ruined several of her adorers; but when I attempted to give her rather a handsome present, she refused it; she would accept, or rather take, nothing from me except a big lock of hair."

"The devil! that's much more dangerous; she'll probably make some kind of a spell with your hair, some charm that will force you to love her. For my part, I never give away any hair; I sell it, especially as I shall be bald very early in life. Ah! then I'll make them pay dear for it."

"Thélénie has beautiful black hair, very long and thick."

"Ah! that makes a lovely ornament for a woman! When I have a mistress with handsome hair, I lose no time in removing her comb and arranging her hair like a Bacchante's. But you must be careful; several times, when I have supposed that I was dealing with real hair, upon removing the comb suddenly—without asking permission—I have seen the whole business fall: bands, curls and chignon! And then they flew into a rage with me.—I am more prudent now and always ask if I may touch."

"Thélénie has jet-black eyes, too; you rarely see eyes of such a pure black."

"Why, it seems to me you're still in love with her!"

"Oh, no! not at all. I made her acquaintance, as one makes many acquaintances, by chance. She is a beautiful woman, always dressed with no less taste than style. Such a conquest is always flattering to a young man; but I soon saw that there was not the slightest sympathy between that woman's temperament and mine; she is imperious and exacting, and, as I said, very jealous."

"And you have broken with her?"

"I haven't set foot inside her door for a week."

"That's not very long. Hasn't she written to you?"

"Indeed she has, letter after letter; but I don't answer them."

"Very good! but take my advice and wear a coat of mail when you are out late at night."

"Bah! what nonsense! Tell me, what motive for revenge can that woman have? I didn't take her away from anybody else, I made her no promise of marriage; I never swore that I would pass my life at her feet."

"It would have made your knees ache."

"I am sure that it's simply her self-esteem that makes her anxious to renew our intimacy; she is vexed because I was unfaithful first."

"She isn't used to that."

"Never mind—I regret Amélia; I have only known her a week."

"And you haven't had time to tire of her yet, eh? Well, console yourself; I'll bet you something that we shall find those two young women at the Opéra ball."

"You think so? It isn't probable, they've no money."

"A grisette may have no money to pay her rent, but she always has enough to go to the ball. I thought that you were farther advanced in such matters, Edmond; you still have much to learn, my son."

"Very well! if they're at the ball, so much the better; no matter how much they may be disguised, I am very sure that I can recognize Amélia; she has a funny little accent that she can't lay aside."

"And what about me! how shall I recognize Henriette? She has a very distinct mark, a raspberry; to be sure, I doubt if she'll let me look at the place where it is, in the ball-room."

"Let us start; we'll go into the Café du Passage for a little while."

"One moment! Chamoureau is coming. We can't go without him."

"What's that! Chamoureau coming? What on earth induced you to ask that donkey? If he were amusing, or unpretentious, I wouldn't say a word; a man may be stupid and a good fellow; but he isn't that sort. And then, since he lost his wife, he pulls out his handkerchief as soon as she's mentioned! He is forever lamenting and weeping for his Eléonore!—Great God! let him weep for his wife, let him regret her—I wouldn't prevent him; but I have no inclination to share his grief. That you should sigh with him—that's all right, I can understand that; for his wife was very nice. You were always at their house; you took madame to the theatre and to drive."

"It was Chamoureau's wish."

"And that suited you very well. I am not blaming anybody. Indeed, Chamoureau has the head of a fellow to whom that sort of thing is sure to happen. But frankly, why do you want him to come and groan in our ears? Surely he won't go to the masquerade with us."

"You think so, my dear fellow, but you don't know Chamoureau at all; he is infinitely more amusing than you think. He's a man to be studied; I propose this evening to put you in a position to judge him. But hush! I hear someone blowing his nose on the stairs; it must be he."

III
A WIDOWER

The doorknob did, in fact, turn at that moment, and the person of whom they were speaking entered Edmond's room.

Monsieur Chamoureau was a man of about thirty-five years of age, who appeared fully forty; not that his face was lined or his features altered; on the contrary, his ears were red and his complexion ruddy. But he was already blessed with a protruding paunch and had only a bunch of light hair on the top of his head, quite separate from that which still adorned his ears and the base of his skull. The good man's features were not repellent: his eyes were of the blue seen in faïence; his nose, which was a little too long, was very straight; his mouth was small and delicate, his teeth were very handsome, his chin was well-rounded and embellished by a little dimple that would have made a chubby-cheeked angel envious, and his light whiskers were very unkempt. He was of medium height, but not well-built; his calves were conspicuous by their absence, and his knees often met when he walked. All this, however, did not prevent Monsieur Chamoureau from considering himself a very handsome man.

"Well! here's Chamoureau at last!" said Freluchon, offering the newcomer his hand. "I knew he would come, for he promised."

"Good-evening, messieurs. Monsieur Edmond, it is very presumptuous of me to come to your apartment like this, but Monsieur Freluchon asked me to; I don't quite know why, for you two are going to enjoy yourselves, you think of nothing but ending your Carnival in good style, while I—Ah! God!——"

Here Monsieur Chamoureau drew his handkerchief and blew his nose at great length.

"You did very well to come, Monsieur Chamoureau. Come to the fire and warm yourself."

"Sapristi! how fine you are, Chamoureau! You have a brand-new coat, I do believe, and trousers too, eh?"

"Yes; one must dress decently."

"We think of amusing ourselves, Monsieur Chamoureau, that is true; but it's not a crime. And you yourself, if you could divert your thoughts in our company, where would be the harm?"

"I, divert my thoughts! Ah! Monsieur Edmond, when a man has met with such a loss as mine, there is no possible distraction. It is all over; I must bid pleasure adieu forever."

"Forever! that's a terribly long time. It's two months already since you lost your wife."

"Two months and four days, monsieur; and it seems to me as if it were yesterday. Ask Freluchon if I didn't tell him so when I dined with him to-day."

"You did; you said it while we were eating that lobster with Marengo sauce, that was so good."

"A little too much garlic, my friend, a little too much garlic; it was pretty well seasoned, but you can get it even better at Javault's on Rue de Rivoli, opposite the Hôtel de Ville."

"You think that it's better there?"

"Oh! I am sure of it, my dear fellow! that's an excellent restaurant. And when you happen to want a truffled snipe à la provençale, just order it in the morning when you go out to walk; it will be all ready for you at six o'clock, and you can tell me what you think of it."

"You seem to know the good places, Monsieur Chamoureau."

"What would you have? my knowledge goes back to the time of my marriage; Eléonore liked good things to eat and we often dined at restaurants—with Freluchon. He always went with us; my wife liked to have him because he knew all about wines and I knew very little. My wife would say: 'If Freluchon doesn't come with us, we shall have some wretched madeira.'—But he never refused to come, the dear fellow."

"It was a pleasure to me."

"To be sure, where my wife was, one could never be bored; she had so much wit!"

"Ah! she was agreeable, was she?"

"Agreeable! Eléonore! Why, monsieur, she was a very superior woman—a regular bluestocking! She could have written her own memoirs if she had wanted to; but she wouldn't do it, she was too bright for that. She just sparkled with fun, with imagination. I shall never find another woman like her, never! never! What a loss I have sustained! I can never be consoled; when I lost her, I lost all!"

Monsieur Chamoureau drew his handkerchief again and began to weep.

"Come, come, Monsieur Chamoureau," said Edmond, "you must be reasonable!"

"It's too much for me, my dear friend. I feel that I am no longer of any account on earth, bereft of my Eléonore!"

Freluchon seized the tongs and began to stir the fire, saying:

"Chamoureau, do you remember the trick she played on an old lady one day?"

"Ah, yes! at Saint-Cloud!"

"At Saint-Cloud, just so; it was at a restaurant, one very hot day in summer."

"Yes, yes; there was only one small salon with two tables vacant."

"That's right. Eléonore—I mean your wife——"

"Mon Dieu! that makes no difference, it wasn't worth while to correct yourself. You were intimate enough with us to call her Eléonore.—Go on."

"When we entered the small salon, your wife noticed the grimace and the disdainful expression which our appearance called forth from an old lady covered with jewels and laces, who occupied the other table."

"Yes, yes, she noticed everything, Eléonore did! What an eye!—Go on."

"Your wife asked the waiter in an undertone who that person was who put on so many airs, and the waiter replied:

"'She's a very rich lady, who has a carriage below. Sometimes she comes here to dine all alone, and she usually has a private room; but as they were all taken to-day, they put her in here, where she wanted to be alone just the same. She's very angry because we put somebody in with her; although we assured her that they were very nice people. She said to me: "Serve them as quickly as you can, so that they won't stay long."—But you mustn't disturb yourselves; stay as long as you choose.'

"'Never you fear,' said Eléonore—your wife; 'I'll wager that we will stay longer than she will. Oho! indeed! so we offend that lady, do we? that's a great pity! In that case, I propose to make myself at home.'

"With that, she took off her hat and shawl, and, at a sign from her, we removed our coats. The old lady muttered between her teeth. After the soup, Eléonore said to us: 'You are still too warm; pray take off your waistcoats and cravats; we don't come into the country to be uncomfortable.'"

"Yes, yes, I remember; we took off all those things. The old woman with the jewels rapped angrily on the table with her fork. Ah! how amusing it was!"

"Finally, at a sign from your wife, I put my hand to my belt, saying: 'Faith, my trousers are too tight! With your permission?'

"At that the old woman jumped from her chair as if she were moved by a spring, upsetting her plate and glass and smashing everything on the table, and rushed from the room, crying: 'What an outrage! they're going to make savages of themselves! It is shocking! it is frightful!'"

"And meanwhile, we three—Ha! ha! ha! we nearly died laughing."

"Your wife was almost helpless!"

"With good reason. When I think of it—Ha! ha! what a joke! Ha! ha! ha! I can still see that old woman when she thought Freluchon was going to appear in his shirt! Ha! ha! ha!"

When he saw Chamoureau laughing with all his might, Edmond began to believe that the widower's grief was less incurable than he had hitherto supposed.

But Eléonore's husband soon ceased to laugh and began to sigh once more, saying:

"You can understand, Monsieur Edmond, that one couldn't be bored in the company of so clever a woman."

"Yes, I can understand it."

"The fact is, that with her there was a constant fire of bons mots, sallies and repartees, eh, Freluchon?"

"That's so; in conversation she had the knack of forcing one to be agreeable; she imparted her own wit to others."

"Exactly! So that now there's a void in my life, which I shall never succeed in filling, alas!"

"I beg your pardon, but with time, the greatest griefs are allayed."

"Time won't have any effect on mine. Oh, no! I can feel it in the depths of my soul. Dear Eléonore! O God! O God! hi! hi! hi!"

And Monsieur Chamoureau produced his handkerchief again and put it to his eyes.

"Your wife had many agreeable social accomplishments, also," said Freluchon.

"I should say so! she had them all!"

"She sang very well."

"That is to say, she had a ravishing voice, a voice which would not have been out of place at the Opéra-Comique."

"There was one song in particular that she used to sing so sweetly. It was——"

"Oh! I know what you mean! it was the song from La Fanchonnette."

And Monsieur Chamoureau began to sing:

"La! la! la Fanchonnette
Vous chantera landerirette;
La! la! la Fanchonnette
Vous chantera landerira!
Ah! ah! ah! ah!"

"Oh! she used to sing that roulade differently from that," said Freluchon; "she marked her notes. Listen! like this:

"Ah!—ah!—éh!—éh!
Oh!—oh! oh!—éh! éh!—ah! ah!"

"That's so. But that last roulade—Listen! I will sing it as she did:

"Oh!——— oh!—"

"Exactly! it was just like that."

"And then her air from Les Fraises—how she could sing that! Listen, Freluchon:

"Ah! qu'il fait donc bon,
Qu'il fait donc bon
Cueillir la fraise
Au bois de Bagneux,
Quand on est deux,
Quand on est deux!"

"Excellent! I imagine I am listening to your wife!"

Chamoureau continued:

"Mais quand on est trois,
Quand on est trois,
Mamzelle Thérèse!
C'est bien ennuyeux,
On est bien mieux
Quand on est deux!"

"Perhaps I haven't the words just right, but I'll swear to the tune."

"Ah! qu'il fait donc bon,
Qu'il fait donc bon
Cueillir la fraise—"

"Yes, yes, we know that," said Edmond, who was beginning to have enough of Chamoureau's singing; but he immediately resumed:

"And the air from Galathée, which Madame Ugalde sang so beautifully—how well Eléonore sang it!

"Déjà dans la coupe profonde
Tout s'éclaire d'un nouveau jour
J'y vois les caprices du monde—"

"Sapristi! is he never going to stop singing?" said Edmond in an undertone to his friend, who had turned his head away to laugh. "For heaven's sake, make him keep quiet a moment!"

"Ah! that will be hard, my boy. When a man who has lost his wife begins to sing, there's no reason why he should stop—I say, Chamoureau, we know that tune, too!"

But Chamoureau did not hear; he was shouting at the top of his voice:

"Verse encore!
Verse encore!"

The two young men were compelled to listen to the whole of the selection, to which Monsieur Chamoureau added some impossible roulades. When he finally ceased, Freluchon said to him:

"Do you know, Chamoureau, you have a most surprising voice for a widower!"

"Oh! I sang much better when my wife was alive. We often sang duets together; there was one she was especially fond of."

"Great heaven!" muttered Edmond, "does he propose now to sing duets all by himself?" And to change the subject, he said: "Monsieur Chamoureau, have you been to any of the balls during this Carnival?"

"To balls! I!" exclaimed the widower, resuming his grief-stricken expression. "Oh! my dear friend, you forget my sad plight, my misfortune! Is it possible for me to think of amusing myself when my heart is still full of my grief? when my eyes are always looking for Eléonore—for I do look for her all the time, and there are moments when I forget that I have lost her; then, when I hear a woman cry, or speak rather loud—Eléonore always spoke loud—I turn round, thinking that it's she; and then I realize that it was only a delusion and I have to go back to the ghastly reality!—Ah! then, you see, I fall into such utter prostration—the suffering is terrible! You do not suspect how I suffer!"

Chamoureau took out his handkerchief and put it to his eyes.

"Yes, yes," said Edmond, "I see that you are quite inconsolable."

"Yes, monsieur, inconsolable is just the word; you could not express it better!—O Eléonore! you may flatter yourself that you were dearly loved—may she not, Freluchon?"

"Parbleu! of whom do you ask the question?"

"Ah! I do you justice, my dear friend; you regret her almost as keenly as I do! But we will weep for her together—that affords some relief."

"I say, Chamoureau, how lovely your wife was at a ball! How well she danced!"

"Why, my dear fellow, she was Terpsichore in person! she was so light——"

"Yes, your wife was extremely light."[D]

"And so graceful! She didn't dance like other people; she had her own peculiar way of dancing; many women tried to imitate her and failed."

"That is so; she had a way of doing the avant deux. I don't know what the steps were, but it was fascinating."

"I know, I remember perfectly; look, Freluchon, I'll show you."

And Monsieur Chamoureau rose, assumed the third position, hummed a dance tune and began to take steps and go through evolutions, saying:

"Wasn't it like this, eh? How's this for her little swagger, her free-and-easy way?"

"Yes, yes, that's it."

"And the poule—I'll just show you. Come and be my vis-à-vis, Freluchon—I can do it better. Forward, give the right hand. Tra la la la—tra la la la—la la la. Cross over! balancez! salute your partners!—Monsieur Edmond, come, be the lady—in the pastourelle figure.—Tra la la—tra la la."

But Edmond was unable to comply; he was laughing too heartily at Chamoureau's dancing.

The latter stopped at last, after a pirouette which he came very near ending on his nose, and, seeing that Edmond was roaring with laughter, he said:

"What on earth makes you laugh like that? Do you think I dance badly?"

"No, no! on the contrary, you leap like a chamois! But it occurred to me as I watched you going through your steps, that you might imitate your wife much better by going to the Opéra ball with us."

"Oh! upon my word!—you surely don't mean it, Monsieur Edmond! I, go to the Opéra ball—with the burden of grief that I have on my heart!"

"Why, that is an additional reason: it will dissipate your grief."

"Oh! never! on the contrary, nothing can dissipate it, and——"

Freluchon planted himself in front of Chamoureau and said, assuming a very solemn expression:

"Look you, my dear fellow, do you expect to fool us much longer with your inconsolable grief?"

The widower stood thunderstruck and stammered:

"What's that! fool you! What does this mean? For what reason do you ask me that, Freluchon?"

"For the reason that, when a man really has a great sorrow in his heart, he doesn't laugh and sing and dance as you have just been doing; nor does he know where one should go to eat snipe à la provençale."

"All that was in memory of Eléonore, and——"

"You regret your wife, I don't doubt that, and she was well worth the trouble. But I tell you again that you ask nothing better now than to be consoled, and above all to make new conquests."

"Little devil of a Freluchon! What an astonishing creature!—Do you really think that I might make conquests?"

"I will go so far as to promise you some to-night, if you come to the Opéra with us."

"To the Opéra ball with you, my boys! Far be it from me to say that it would be distasteful to me, because, after all, one might as well listen to reason; a man always ends by being consoled, a little sooner or later; but the world is what I dread! What will the world say if I am seen at the masquerade, so short a time after—my calamity? The world is so unkind!"

"Parbleu! if you're afraid to be seen at the ball, there's one very simple means of avoiding it—disguise yourself."

"True, that is an idea. But men don't wear masks, I believe."

"No, but with a fancy costume, a wig, a little rouge and a false nose, I'll undertake to make you unrecognizable."

"Oh! if you'll answer for that, it's all right, I'll run the risk and go with you. By the way, do you disguise yourselves?"

"Oh, no! it isn't worth while; we are not afraid to be recognized!"

"And where shall I find a costume?"

"I know a costumer where you will find a lot to choose from."

"You see, Freluchon, from the moment that I make up my mind to disguise myself, I insist upon being well costumed; I want something that will favor me, something—er—original."

"Let us go softly, Chamoureau, softly! Just now, you were afraid of being recognized, and now you want to attract attention!"

"One may attract attention without being recognized. Suppose I should dress as a woman?"

"The devil fly away with you! As a woman? Why, a man can't make conquests in a woman's clothes; the fair sex dislikes us when we assume its skirts, and it is quite right; when a man rigs himself up in that way he is good for nothing but to arouse laughter or contempt."

"Yes, that's true; I won't dress as a woman; but how shall I dress, then?"

"You can decide at the costumer's and dress there; it's within a few steps of the Opéra."

"All right. But my clothes?"

"The costumer will send them to your concierge."

"Deuce take it! no; I can't have that; I have no desire to go home in a Carnival costume, so that every one may know that I've been to the ball in disguise. A business agent—and sometimes clients call very early in the morning!—A Carnival costume would not inspire confidence."

"Well then, as I live very near the costumer's, let him send your clothes to my apartment; then you can go there and put them on when you please."

"Bravo! in that way, all the proprieties will be observed!"

"Come, messieurs, I trust that we may start now. It is nearly twelve o'clock, and before Chamoureau is dressed——"

"Yes, yes! let us start. Forward, and vive la gaieté!"

"Faith, yes! one must divert one's thoughts; it's an excellent thing."

And the widower went dancing after the two young men.

IV
SCENES AT THE MASQUERADE

A few moments after the tall gentleman named Beauregard had left the box where the pearl-gray domino and her friend were seated, a Spaniard entered the ball-room, arm-in-arm with a short young man with a long, thin nose. The reader will at once recognize Chamoureau and Freluchon. The widower wore a costume resplendent with spangles and gold braid. His cherry-colored doublet was heavily trimmed with very rich embroidery, his white satin shortclothes, slashed with red, were decorated with spangles and bows; a gold-fringed sash confined his waist; the flaps of his huge yellow top-boots fell a little too near his ankles, his leg being too deficient in calf to hold them in place. A large ruff about his neck did duty as a cravat; over his shoulder was thrown a small light-blue cloak, lined with white satin; and lastly, he wore on his head a little velvet cap, also blue, covered with false jewels, and surmounted by two enormous white plumes which drooped over the cavalier's left shoulder. To complete his disguise, Chamoureau had donned a brown wig with long curls falling over his neck. He had covered his face with rouge, and, in addition, he wore a false nose to which a pair of moustaches was attached, reaching from ear to ear.

All this formed such a unique whole that everyone in the room turned or stopped short, in order to have a longer look at the Spaniard; and Chamoureau, overjoyed by the effect he produced, and convinced that everybody considered him magnificent, said in Freluchon's ear:

"How they stare at me! eh? I am very glad I chose this costume. I must be superb; I read admiration in every eye! Say, Freluchon, am I not superb?"

"It is a fact that you are well worth looking at; if you should make them pay ten sous each, it would be none too much."

"Oh! you are always joking! But I don't see so rich a costume as mine in the whole place; I am covered with spangles."

"It's enough to make one's eyes ache to look at you; you produce the same effect as the sun!"

"Do my plumes float gracefully?"

"Like a swan on a lake."

"Is my cap well placed?"

"Like a vane on a steeple."

"There's nothing wrong but these infernal boots, which keep falling; they are too big."

"It may be that your legs are too much like spindles."

"What a pity to be obliged to wear a false nose with all this!"

"Why is it a pity?"

"Dear me! it's easy to see that. As I am the possessor of rather an attractive face, if I hadn't this false nose, I should be even more fascinating in this costume, and I am sure that I should make conquests in swarms."

"By Jove! that's true; I entirely forgot that you were a handsome man!"

"Still, my wife used to repeat it often enough: 'Ah! how handsome he is, my Chamoureau!'"

"Yes, to the tune of the Postilion de Longjumeau.—But after all, you know, you're under no compulsion to keep your false nose on, if you want to take it off."

"Oh, no! the deuce! someone might recognize me then, and I should be compromised!"

"Try to make a conquest with your nose."

"That's quite possible—Damn these boots!"

And Chamoureau halted to raise the flaps.

"So you are inclined to make a little acquaintance, my inconsolable widower?" asked Edmond, who was walking beside Freluchon and had overheard the Spaniard's last words.

"Oh! my dear Monsieur Edmond," he replied, after adjusting his boots, "you will understand that my heart, my poor heart, will have no part in it! Henceforth nothing will ever touch that; it is dead to love. Eléonore has carried with her all the sentiment it could possibly contain—dear Eléonore!"

"Are you going to shed tears, Chamoureau? they will spoil your rouge."

"No, no, I said that just as I would have said anything else."

At that moment a man dressed as a Swiss woman, with long locks hanging down his back and a number of little brooms in his hand, halted in front of Chamoureau, crying:

"Ah! my hearties! what do I see? A sunbeam disguised as a Spaniard! How brilliant it is! how it gleams! Are you just from Peru, my ducky? It is at the very least Le Cidre or Gusman with a sheep's foot, who knows no obstacle! Isn't he fine, the coco! But while you had the cash, Gringalet, you should have bought some calves, for you lack 'em altogether! and your parapetted boots will fall on the floor!"

The crowd had stopped and formed a circle to listen to the Swiss woman who had attacked the Spaniard.

Chamoureau, being rather disconcerted, began by making sure that his false nose was secure, then muttered:

"If I have no calves, it's fair to presume that I don't care for them."

"How now! is that all you've got to say for yourself, you poor thing? Did you spend all your wit to buy your costume? What a simple air the great clown has! He must be some keeper of turkeys who's been dismissed, and is entirely out of his element when he's no longer surrounded by his flock."

Chamoureau, sorely vexed to be called a keeper of turkeys, retorted sourly:

"Since when have the Swiss been fishwomen, and presumed to insult people like this?"

"Bravo, Chamoureau!" said Freluchon, "that's not bad; go on; drive the nail home!"

"Since they have sold little brooms for flies. Ah! so you're getting angry, Rodrique!—Come, Rodrique, have you any pluck? We'll fight a duel, I with my broom and you with your nose; is it a bargain? You'll have the advantage, as your nose is longer than my broom."

The roars of laughter from the crowd increased Chamoureau's vexation; he hastily dropped Freluchon's arm, for he was laughing louder than the rest, and gliding into a throng of masks, tried to overtake Edmond, who was hurrying after a little débardeur in whom he fancied that he recognized his grisette Amélia. As he was not at all desirous to have Chamoureau always hanging on his arm, he said to him:

"Why did you leave Freluchon?"

"Because he laughed like a fool at the absurd nonsense that a man dressed as a Swiss woman has been spouting at me for the last few minutes; he is a low creature and said the coarsest things to me. The blood was beginning to go to my head, and I left the place, because I might have allowed my anger to carry me beyond bounds."

"For heaven's sake, my dear Monsieur Chamoureau, do you think it necessary to take offence at all the nonsense maskers say to you? If you do, you ought not to come to the ball, and above all things you shouldn't disguise yourself."

"That's so, of course; you are quite right. I was wrong to attach any importance to that foolish talk, it's a Carnival scene and nothing more. Still, I have an idea that Freluchon knew that Swiss woman.—My nose makes me terribly warm, especially because of the moustaches."

"Take them off."

"No, I'm afraid of being recognized.—Drat these boots!—there are some very pretty women here—they're too large, they'll fall down over my heels, and I shall end by walking on them."

"Take them off."

"What's that? you want me to take off my boots, and walk about in my stockings?"

"Why, yes, rather than be discommoded."

"I am not discommoded, for I dance in them."

"What are you complaining about, then?"

"My dear Monsieur Edmond, it seems to me that you don't listen very closely to what I say; you're not interested in our conversation; are you looking for someone here?"

"Parbleu! at a masked ball one should always be looking for someone."

"Ah! indeed! well, that is an idea; but who in the devil is there for me to look for?"

"I thought that I recognized Amélia in a pretty little débardeur who ran away from me. Yes, it must have been she."

"Who's Amélia?"

"A very pretty flower-maker; an animated, saucy face, eyes full of fire, a charming figure, and nineteen years at most."

"Fichtre! how exactly that would meet my views—longing to love, as I do; for at my age, you understand, it makes no difference how much a man may suffer from grief and regret, nature, powerful, fruitful nature always cries out within us and makes us understand that we are not on earth to give all our thoughts to the dead.—Ah! there goes a domino who looked into the very whites of my eyes. What a look! there were a great many things in that look.—We were saying that your Amélia is very attractive, and only nineteen; is she free?"

"Yes, since she left me."

"How long since you parted?"

"This morning."

"That's not long; so it's to be hoped that she hasn't replaced you yet."

"I wouldn't swear to it."

"If she is still free, and we find her, will you permit me to apply for the vacancy?"

"I permit you to do whatever you choose, absolutely."

"Ah! you're very good, on my word! you're not like Freluchon, who will never turn his ex-mistresses over to me; and yet it seems to me that he owes me that much.—A little débardeur, you say? what color? what sort of head-dress?"

Edmond, who was tired of Chamoureau's company and had been trying for several minutes to devise some way of getting rid of him, suddenly exclaimed:

"Did you hear that pink domino who just passed us?"

"No; what did she say?"

"She said to the shepherdess on her arm: 'That Spaniard yonder has turned my head. I tell you, my dear, I'd like to catch him!'"

"Really! you heard that?"

"And the shepherdess replied: 'Very well! speak to him, puzzle him.'

"'Oh! I don't dare, my dear.'"

"She said she didn't dare, eh? Well, I will dare. Where is this pink domino?"

"Look—over yonder, near the Polichinelle. Go quickly, or you'll lose her."

Chamoureau voluntarily dropped Edmond's arm, to run after the person in a pink domino whom he had pointed out.

Having thus rid himself of the widower, young Edmond thought of nothing but finding his last mistress, with whom he was still in love, probably because she had ceased to run after him. Only that morning he had seen Amélia, and they had been on the best possible terms; so that if she avoided him now, it could only be because Freluchon had refused her friend Henriette the money she asked him to lend her.

Why should she espouse Henriette's quarrel? Still, as she lived with her friend, when the latter was obliged to quit her domicile, Mademoiselle Amélia also was turned into the street.

Edmond said all this to himself as he glided through the crowd, running after every woman he saw in a débardeur's costume. He caught one by the arm, but saw that she was not the person he sought, just as she said to him:

"If you'll treat me to supper, I'll stay with you—if not—no, thanks!"

"I would gladly invite you to supper, if I were not looking for someone, whom I took you for at first; but as I hope to find her, I shall sup with her."

"Bah! let her go! She'll sup with three other men perhaps; don't run after her. You're good-looking, I like you; come, dance with me."

"I am sorry to refuse you, but I don't want to dance now; later, I don't say that——"

"Oh, yes! with the other; good-night, little donkey!"

The little débardeur ran away from Edmond, to join the dance; and almost at the same moment the young man's arm was taken by a little blue domino, who said to him:

"She's not the one you are looking for; whom are you looking for, Edmond Didier?"

"Ah! you know me, do you?"

"Yes, I know you very well; also your friend Freluchon with whom you came to the ball. But I don't know the tall greenhorn disguised as a Spaniard, who came with you two, and who was on your arm just now. Mon Dieu! what a stupid-looking creature! and how wretchedly he carries his costume! Such a figure too! Who on earth is that scarecrow?"

"Do you know that you are very inquisitive? you ask such a lot of questions one on top of another!"

"It's because I like to know about things. Won't you answer me?"

"Oh, yes: the Spaniard is a friend of Freluchon, very well-to-do, a business agent, who has just lost his wife and is now trying to find a place for his heart."

"For life?"

"Oh, no! just for a term of years. If you desire to form an agreeable connection, I commend him to you."

"Thanks; he's too clumsy; he does nothing but pull up his boot-flaps, and I am tempted to offer him a pair of garters to keep them in place."

"You would do him a great service."

"Is he better looking without his nose?"

"He's not at all bad-looking."

"What is the idiot's name?"

"It is perfectly evident that you aspire to make a victim of him."

"Oh, no! you are mistaken; but perhaps I might like to have a little fun with him. What's his name?"

"What I am going to do is rather indiscreet perhaps, but as he will be delighted to be mystified, I will tell you his name: Chamoureau."

"Cha——"

"Moureau."

"Oh! how well the name suits the man! Chalumeau would be even better, for he looks like a stick; but never mind, Chamoureau is not bad. Ha! ha!"

"And now tell me how you happen to know me?"

"Well; try to guess."

"Faith! I confess that I haven't the faintest idea."

"You have answered only one of my questions. Won't you tell me now what woman you are looking for?"

"Oh, no; such things aren't to be mentioned! As to the Spaniard's name, that's all right! but I won't tell you the name of the person I would like to meet; guess it, if you can."

"It should be the fair Thélénie—Madame de Sainte-Suzanne, if you prefer."

"Ah! you also know——"

"That you have been her lover. Who doesn't know that? But are you so no longer? have you ceased to love her?"

"You are becoming too inquisitive again; I shall not answer that."

"You are unfaithful to her, I see; who in the world has succeeded in captivating you? Come, my little Edmond, take me for your confidante; that's a very modest rôle for me to assume."

At that moment Freluchon rushed up to them, seized Edmond's arm and led him away, saying:

"They're right over there, both of them—dancing. I recognized their Andalusian steps. Henriette is dressed as a Folly; come at once; they don't propose to be recognized, but we'll bring them to it."

Edmond instantly threw off the little blue domino's arm and hurried away with Freluchon.

Two women, each wearing a small mask of velvet, without a barb, and dressed, one as a sort of débardeur, that is to say, in a high shirt, velvet trousers with broad satin bands, a fringed sash and a round hat covered with flowers; the other as Folly, with a fool's bauble in her hand, bells on her arm and legs and cap, around her waist, everywhere, in short,—were dancing with two men whose costumes were eccentric to the last degree.

One, in a Greek tunic, with deerskin breeches and riding-boots, wore a Roman helmet. The other, dressed as a Cupid, with quiver and arrows, had on his head the sort of head-covering usually assigned to Don Quixote, that is to say, a dish turned upside down.

The dancing of these gentlemen was in keeping with their costumes; it was very daring. The man in the helmet whirled his arms about like the wings of a windmill, with terrifying rapidity. The Cupid kicked up his heels almost in the face of his vis-à-vis, and from time to time, when he was doing the cavalier seul, threw himself flat on his stomach and executed the evolution known as the spider. As yet, the two little women had ventured upon nothing more than permissible cancan steps.

"The devil!" said Freluchon, planting himself behind the Folly; "those bucks have a style of dancing that's rather risky for their partners. Look out, Henriette; that Cupid will land his foot in your eye, and that's more dangerous, I assure you, than a kick somewhere else!"

The Folly pretended not to hear and went on dancing.

Edmond meanwhile, standing behind the little débardeur, said to her:

"My dear Amélia, I am very much afraid that your Roman will carry away your nose while he imitates a windmill with his arms; that would be a pity!"

The débardeur, like the Folly, made no reply; but a slight movement of the shoulders betrayed her, and seemed to say:

"Oh! let me alone; you bore me!"

A moment later Freluchon called loudly to his friend:

"I say, Edmond, they turned me out of my lodgings this morning, because I hadn't paid my rent or for my furniture! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Just imagine that my furniture, which I thought was paid for, wasn't!—Well! it didn't take away my spirits; on the contrary, it put me just in the mood to dance and enjoy myself!"

"But I, who lived with you—where am I to sleep?" rejoined Edmond with a laugh; "here am I too without a home!"

"Never fear! we'll find some Roman or some Cupid to give us shelter!—And to think that for lack of four hundred francs I missed the finest match!"

"Nonsense! really?"

"Yes, my dear fellow, a superb match! a flower-maker, thoroughbred, who would have brought me as her dowry, in addition to her virtue, of which I will say nothing, the most agreeable disposition to have me shut up at Clichy,—with or without an eye-glass—in a very short time."

The little woman disguised as a Folly suddenly walked up to Freluchon and said to him under her breath, but in a voice that trembled with anger:

"Monsieur Freluchon, if you don't stop your spiteful remarks, I'll see that you're punished by my partner."

"Ha! ha! ha! so you recognize me now, O fickle Henriette!"

"Yes, I recognize you, but I no longer know you; when a man treats a woman as you treated me this morning, and leaves her in a horrible plight without coming to her assistance, he's a rat! yes, he's worse than a rat, he's a toad![E] and I don't have anything to do with toads!"

"Ha! ha! very pretty! that word, in your mouth, has a wide meaning—inasmuch as your mouth is not small. Is it because you are covered with bells that you put on so many airs to-night? Bless my soul! if you had asked me for nothing more than bells, I'd have given them to you. I didn't know that you were so fond of them as all this! But really, seeing how enthusiastically you dance, and especially these innumerable bells with which you are loaded down, I confess that I can hardly mourn over your terrible plight of this morning.—Come, leave your Don Quixote, who looks to me amazingly like a vender of theatre tickets, and come to supper with us. I'll give you as many kisses as you have bells; isn't that a seductive prospect?"

Meanwhile Edmond was saying to the débardeur:

"Look you, my dear Amélia, after the quadrille, leave your Roman, who looks to me too much like a claquer, and take my arm. We were not at odds this morning, why should we be now? You are wrong to espouse your friend's quarrel. Henriette will make you do all sorts of foolish things; you are too nice a girl to dance with such fellows!"

The young grisette seemed to hesitate; but every time that her friend passed her, she said earnestly:

"Don't speak to these fellows! You know what I told you; it's all over between us if you go back to Edmond. My dear girl, women must stand by each other, or else these men will make fools of us."

"Ah! the pretty bells! Mon Dieu! what a lot of bells!" cried Freluchon, still laughing as he watched Mademoiselle Henriette. "I have seen many Follies, but none that approached this one in the matter of bells! I say, Edmond, if a poodle wore as many bells as this, he'd be mistaken for a mule. Oh! how tickled I should be to have bells on all my clothes instead of buttons!"

The Folly was beside herself with rage; she whispered in her Cupid's ear. The Cupid—Don Quixote was a tall, solidly-built fellow, who had every appearance of being a formidable athlete. He walked up to Freluchon, planted himself directly in front of him, and said in a voice that seemed to issue from a cavern:

"I say, counter-jumper, ain't you about through bothering my partner? Understand that if you don't leave her in peace, her and her bells, I'll knock off your hat with the top of my boot and send it up to the gallery."

"Oho! my handsome Cupid, that's a trick I should be delighted to see," retorted Freluchon in a mocking tone. "Really, it would please me immensely if you should succeed."

"Ah! you want to see it, do you? well, look!"

As he spoke, the Cupid suddenly threw up his leg, expecting to kick Freluchon in the face. But he, by a gesture as quick as thought, seized the leg in its passage, and grasping the ankle in his right hand, squeezed it so hard that the Cupid made a horrible grimace and cried:

"Ten thousand million milliards! Let me go, you hurt me, you squeeze too hard! Let me go, I say!"

"If you had struck my face with your foot, wouldn't you have hurt me, you second-hand Cupid?"

"Look here! just let him go this minute, will you!" observed the gentleman dressed as a Roman, approaching Freluchon with uplifted arm, while the latter still held the Cupid by the leg.

But the little fellow, with his left hand, struck his new adversary a blow that sent him reeling backward; there the Roman fell in with Edmond, who gave him an additional push, while Freluchon suddenly released the Cupid's leg with a violent jerk, so that he fell on his back among the dancers.

Thereupon there was a great outcry on all sides, and, as usually happens, the police appeared on the scene and ordered the combatants to leave the ball-room with them, to explain their conduct elsewhere.

Mesdemoiselles Henriette and Amélia took advantage of the moment when the young men were surrounded to glide among the dancers and disappear.

This scene had taken place almost in front of the box in which the pearl-gray domino and her friend Mademoiselle Héloïse were seated.

A few moments earlier, a little blue domino, the same who had questioned and mystified Edmond, had come to report to the fair Thélénie the result of her conversation with the young man. But when she saw the man she was looking for talking with the little débardeur, and observed the quarrel that followed their conversation, Thélénie at once divined that the woman disguised as a débardeur was the woman for whose sake the man she loved had come to the ball.

Having watched with some anxiety the brief scrimmage which took place during the quadrille, she rose hurriedly and left the box, muttering:

"I will find that woman, and I will see to whom he sacrifices me!"

A few moments later, Edmond and Freluchon returned in triumph to the ball-room. Their adversaries, whose too delirious style of dancing had already been remarked, had been turned out, and when Freluchon offered them his card, they had declined it, saying:

"Thanks! it isn't worth while; we've had enough."

"And now," said Edmond to his friend, as they returned to the ball-room, "let us try to find those girls again."

"Thanks," said Freluchon; "you can look for your Amélia, if it amuses you, but from this moment I no longer know Henriette! I can forgive a woman her infidelities, her lies, her tricks, her humbug! But when a woman tries to make two men fight, I see nothing more in her than an evil-minded wretch whom I despise, and I never speak to her again."

V
CHAMOUREAU'S STICKS OF CANDY

Chamoureau had hastily left Edmond, to run after a pink domino whom Edmond had pointed out to him as having expressed a desire, as she passed them, to make a conquest of the Spaniard.

Our widower pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd, jostled by this one and tossed aside by that one; but at last he succeeded in overtaking the domino who had been pointed out to him, and who had on her arm a poorly dressed shepherdess, without a mask, whose common face suggested a fruit woman enjoying the Carnival.

Chamoureau took his stand in front of the domino and gazed amorously at her. She seemed to pay no heed to him, but pushed him aside so that she could pass. The two women left the dancing enclosure and walked toward the foyer.

But our Spaniard followed them, and they were no sooner in the foyer than he once more placed himself in front of them.

"Well, well! are we bound to find this tall Spaniard in front of us all the time?" said the pink domino to the shepherdess. "Is he chasing us? What on earth does he want of us?"

"My dear, you or me must have made a conquest!"

"Do you think so? Then it must be you, as you are not masked."

"But he seems to be looking at you."

"He looks to me like a big simpleton."

"We might as well have some fun with him while we're waiting for our men to join us."

"We must make him treat us to something."

Notice that this is the constant refrain of the ladies whom one meets at public balls.

While the two women whispered to each other, Chamoureau, with one hand on his hip, assumed a seductive smile and kept his eyes fixed on the pink domino, who finally said to him in a voice that seemed in the habit of crying fish for sale:

"What makes you look in my eyes like that, my handsome Spaniard? Do you know me? If you do, say something to prove it, instead of standing there staring at me like a porcelain dog!"

"I do not know whether I know you, fascinating domino," replied Chamoureau, still smiling, "but I certainly should be most happy to make your acquaintance; and if you have no objection, why then—it seems to me—you understand——"

"Pardi! it isn't hard to understand. You want to make a conquest; you're a seducer—anyone can see that at once!"

"And what about me, do you mean to seduce me too, Spaniard?" inquired the shepherdess, showing an assortment of teeth of different sizes; "you'd find it hard work, for d'ye see, I've vowed an everlasting hatred to men!"

Chamoureau made a faint grimace at the shepherdess's language; but he assumed that she was the pink domino's maid, and he said to her:

"No, I have never cared for shepherdesses; they're too pastoral for me! My homage is addressed solely to your companion—this fascinating domino."

"But suppose I am ugly, my dear man? for you don't know me!"

"Ugly! you can't be that, with such a shapely head, such brilliant eyes! I am sure that you are adorable."

"You might well be cheated, my boy! there's nothing so deceptive as a mask!"

"For my part," interposed the shepherdess, "I don't try to cheat anyone. You can see at once what I look like; then, if I make a conquest, people know what to expect anyway!"

"Fichtre! yes," said Chamoureau to himself, "one can be certain that he hasn't to do with a bluestocking! This shepherdess would do well to leave the pretty domino for a while; but perhaps, when they know me better, they'll consent to separate."

"Tell me, my handsome Spaniard, why do you wear a false nose and moustaches? Are you flat-nosed, that you disguise yourself so?"

"No, I can assure you that I am not flat-nosed."

"Then does your real nose make you so very ugly?"

"I have never been told that I was ill-looking."

"People may have thought so!"

"It is not probable!"

"What a conceited creature!—Well, take off your nose, if you want us to believe you."

"Ah! my pretty domino, you ask me to do something of great importance to me. I have many reasons for not wanting to be recognized!"

"Bosh! you say that to put on airs. Maybe you're some great personage? Are you a State official?"

"No, not exactly; but I have a very good position in society, and I have to be careful."[F]

"Do you move people?" said the shepherdess; "so does my uncle!"

"No, no, I didn't say that. You misunderstood me, little shepherdess."

"Take off your nose, or I shall think you haven't got one underneath."

"Oh! what a shocking supposition! It may be that later, pretty domino, when we are tête-à-tête——"

"Nay, nay, Lisette! My dear man, when you make love to a woman, you must begin by showing her your nose. Isn't that so, Laïde?"

The shepherdess, who answered to the name of Laïde, replied simply:

"How hot it is here! God! how hot it is! And I'm eating dust! My chemise is just sticking to me. I'd like to take something, just the least bit refreshening. Ain't you thirsty?"

"Why, yes, I wouldn't mind a sip! My throat's all parched."

Chamoureau realized that that was the moment to show his gallantry; he offered the domino his arm, saying:

"Accept my arm and some refreshments, lovely masker; I will escort you to the buffet."

"I will accept everything! for this invitation proves to me that you are a noble Spaniard.—Come along with us, Laïde!"

They made their way to one of the buffets which were at each end of the foyer.

"What will the ladies take?" inquired Chamoureau. "Gooseberry wine—lemonade—that's the best thing there is to cool you off."

"I prefer punch," said the pink domino.

"So do I," said the shepherdess; "it's much healthier than all those other things, and I can drink two bowls of it without getting tight."

This naïve admission of the shepherdess made Chamoureau shudder. Luckily for him, punch is ordinarily served in glasses in the foyer. Three glasses were placed before the Spaniard and his guests. The domino and the shepherdess tossed off the punch as if it were champagne, although it was scalding hot. The widower had hardly wet his lips when the ladies had emptied their glasses.

"It's hot! terribly hot! I can't swallow it as you do," said Chamoureau; "it would burn my throat!"

"Ah! the poor boy is afraid of burning himself. I say, ain't you a man? But we ain't going to stay on one leg, I suppose, are we?" said the shepherdess.

"What do you mean by that, girl of the fields?"

"Ah! he don't understand! Where are you from, old no nose? Did they bring you up in a closet?"

"It means, my dear, that we will take another glass of punch; that will make the second leg," said the pink domino, squeezing the Spaniard's arm with great force; and he, delighted to be squeezed, called at once:

"Waiter, more punch for these ladies!"

"And yourself?"

"Oh! if I should take any more, it would make me dizzy!"

"What an oyster!" whispered the pink domino in the shepherdess's ear.

"We need that kind," was the reply; "they're the attraction of the ball; I have always liked oysters myself."

More glasses of punch were brought, which the two women put out of sight as quickly as the first. Then Chamoureau lost no time in paying the bill and leading his companions away from the buffet, for fear they would express a wish to go on three legs.

Meanwhile, our Spaniard, thinking that the punch with which he had regaled the ladies entitled him to become enterprising, ventured, in the crowd, to place one hand on a spot where the pink domino might have worn hoops. She turned upon him instantly, saying:

"Have done with such pranks, false nose! What sort of behavior is that? what do you take me for?"

"Lovely masker, my hand went astray involuntarily."

"Look out that it don't go astray again in that direction."

"I only did it to find out——"

"Whether I wore steel skirts, eh?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I don't need such things; I'm plump enough not to wear substitutes.—What in the world's the matter with your boots?"

"Nothing. They're too big; they keep falling."

"Why didn't you wear hoop-skirts on your legs? they wouldn't be out of the way."

"Are you free, pretty domino, or under the control of a husband?"

"What makes you ask me that? Do you want to marry me?"

"Why, when one desires to form a loving intimacy, isn't it natural to find out, first of all, the situation of the person one desires?"

"Aha! so you desire me, my tall hidalgo! in that case, you are going to treat me and my friend to a stick of candy; if you don't, I won't allow you to desire me."

"Oh, yes! candy!" cried the shepherdess. "Besides, I promised to take some home to my little brother. And then, all the women have a stick in their hands. It takes the place of a fan; it looks very nice."

Chamoureau considered that the ladies who go to the Opéra ball are decidedly gluttonous, but it was impossible to draw back.

They were near the other buffet at that moment; the pink domino and the shepherdess selected a stick of candy each, and they did not take the smallest.

"How much?" asked the Spaniard.

"Ten francs."

"What! ten francs for candy?"

"A hundred sous each for the sticks the ladies took; two make ten francs."

"Come, my noble friend, pay up!" laughed the pink domino. "You certainly don't mean to haggle, do you? You'll make one believe you're not a noble Castilian at all, and that you learned all you know of Spain in Vaugirard!"

"No, no, I am not haggling!" said Chamoureau, making a horrible grimace under his false nose. "But I'm afraid I haven't the change."

"We'll change a note for you, monsieur."

While our widower took his purse from under his belt and inspected the contents, the shepherdess said to the pink domino in an undertone:

"My dear, there's our men over yonder, by the door, where we agreed. They're looking for us, no doubt."

"In that case, let's be off, while that tall donkey has his false nose in his purse."

Chamoureau changed a forty-franc piece to pay for his candy, and, when he had received his change, turned to where the two women had stood, flattering himself that his gallantry entitled him to the most delicious reward. But instead of the pink domino, his false nose almost came in contact with the eye of a mustachioed individual, who said to him very sharply:

"For heaven's sake, be careful! Sapristi! do you take my face for a full moon, that you try to bury your nose in it?"

Chamoureau made no reply; he was busily engaged in looking for his conquest; but in vain did he gaze in every direction: his two ladies had vanished.

In his amazement, our Spaniard applied to the woman at the desk.

"Do you know which way they went?"

"Who, monsieur?"

"The two ladies who were with me just now and whom I treated to candy at a hundred sous a stick."

"No, monsieur."

"But they were right here, by my side, only a moment ago. I don't understand it at all!"

A crowd of young men and dominos rushed up to the buffet, pushing Chamoureau aside and shouting:

"Come, off you go, Spaniard! You've had enough to drink; make room for others!"

"I beg your pardon, messieurs, I am looking for a lady."

"Go to the deuce! You won't find your lady! Ohé! what a phiz! Ah! now he's losing his boots! Look out, or you'll lose your nose next! Ha! ha! what a ridiculous figure! Oh! that nose!"

At a masked ball, as soon as a few people begin to jeer at a person in disguise, the crowd collects and swells the chorus; and as the widower was a decidedly laughable figure in his ornate costume, and with his false nose and moustaches, bursts of laughter arose on all sides as he passed, and he was followed by people who shouted in his ears:

"Oh! that nose! Look at that Spaniard's nose!"

"That man has been deceived by women."

"He must have made a fool of himself for them."

"Don't you see that monsieur is a foreigner who has come to France to study refined manners?"

"No, no; he's a joker, who made a bet that he would look more like an ass than anybody else at the ball."

"Well, he has won! he has won!"

All these remarks were accompanied by loud laughter which made Chamoureau frantic.

To escape the ovation with which he was honored in the foyer, he rushed through one of the doors, sought the place where the crowd was most dense, and succeeded in reaching the corridor. He went up one flight, and as he neared the top, tore off his false nose.

"I'll take it off," he thought; "if I don't they'll recognize me by it and never stop following me. There—now that I no longer have that nose, I like to think that I shall not be noticed. But it's a very singular thing: I come here masked, or practically so, so that no one may know who I am, and I have to take off my mask to avoid being recognized!—After all, I was suffocating with that nose and those moustaches. I am much more comfortable this way.—But I can't understand the conduct of my two ladies. I treat them to punch and enormous sticks of candy, and they leave me! they disappear without saying a word to me! Perhaps they saw their husbands, or lovers whose jealousy they fear. They dreaded a scene if they were discovered with me. That must have been the reason for their disappearance. I fancy they didn't belong to the first society. Their language was a little free, and the shepherdess's especially wasn't the purest French; but the pink domino had a very neat figure—and no hoop-skirts! I shall find her again, I hope.—With all this I have lost Freluchon and Monsieur Edmond.—But they adore the monster galop, and I am sure of finding them when the time comes for that.—But five glasses of punch at a franc a glass, five francs, and ten for candy,—fifteen francs in all! that's rather high for an intrigue that is hardly begun! If she had even given me an assignation for to-morrow! I should have exacted that before handing over the candy."

As he pursued these reflections, Chamoureau walked along the corridor on the second floor, looking into every box in search of his pink domino.

He had his face against one of the little panes of glass, when he felt a hand on his arm; he turned; a Norman peasant, masked, was hanging on his arm, and she said to him in a wheedling voice:

"Here you are, Chamoureau, my sweet Chamoureau! Ah! what a good idea to take off your false nose, and how much better-looking you are now! When one has a face like yours, one shouldn't conceal it; do you hear, my friend?"

Our widower felt a thrill of pleasure at hearing such compliments addressed to himself. He would gladly have kissed the mask worn by the Norman, to show his satisfaction, but he contented himself with pressing her hand and arm most tenderly, saying:

"What, my charming peasant—do you know me?"

"Do I know you! Why bless my soul! who doesn't know you, O Chamoureau of my heart? It was wholly on your account, to meet you, that I came here."

"Really? But I had no idea myself that I should come. Our party wasn't made up till very late in the evening."

"But I was certain that you would come; my little finger told me."[G]

"Is your little finger such a magician as that?"

"Yes, for it told me that you would be disguised as a Spaniard; that you would have top boots which would cause you much annoyance——"

"By Jove! this is marvelous!"

"That you would make love to a pink domino and a shepherdess; I saw you with them just now."

"It's the truth; I don't deny it."

"You even offered them candy."

"Offered! you mean that they asked me for it."

"It's the same thing. You gave them each a stick; so I hope you'll give me one too, as I came to the ball solely to see you."

"If you came to the ball solely to see me, you ought not to care for candy."

"I care to have you as generous to me as to others—as gallant—as attentive—as amorous; will you be? Tell me, O my Chamoureau! for I love you, I am on fire for you, as you see!"

"Really, lovely Norman, you manifest sentiments which flatter me; but how do you know me?"

"If I should tell you, you would be greatly surprised; but I won't tell you—not here, at all events; later, when you come to my house, we shall see."

"You have a house?"

"Yes, my boy, one of the very swellest in the Chaussée d'Antin."

"Then you are rich?"

"Who isn't rich to-day? unless he's as stupid as a pot!"

"True; your reflection is very clever. And you are free?"

"As free as air!"

"And you will receive me?"

"You shall have the entrée every day. Come this way; there's another buffet, where they sell candy."

Chamoureau submitted to be led to the buffet in the corridor on the second floor; he could refuse nothing to a woman who declared that she had come to the Opéra on his account.

The Norman selected a stick of the same size as those selected by the pink domino and the shepherdess; she drank a glass of gooseberry wine, then took the Spaniard's arm again, saying:

"Mon Dieu! how wise you were to take off your nose! you are a hundred per cent. better looking!"

"But you, charming peasant, won't you take off your mask? You must divine my longing to gaze upon your features."

"It's not necessary, you know me already."

"Really! I know you?"

"Yes, and you like me very much."

"As for that, I can readily believe it; however, I would be glad to see you, so that I may recall where I have seen you before."

"You shall see me at my house on Rue de la Pépinière, opposite the barracks."

"What number, and whom shall I ask for?"

"The number's of no consequence, you'll see me at my window."

"But where shall I look for your window? This is rather vague."

"I'll toss you a bouquet."

"Very good; but still I——"

At that moment, a young man who wore no mask walked along the corridor, arm-in-arm with a little woman dressed as a dairymaid, to whom he was talking very earnestly. Instantly Chamoureau's companion stopped, crying:

"It's he! it's Adolphe! Ah! the traitor! the monster! I am sure he's with Malvina!"

And dropping the arm that she held, the Norman peasant ran after the couple and halted in front of the young man.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "so I've caught you, you villain! you infamous traitor! You couldn't come to the ball with me! Monsieur was sick; he had the colic! And you refused to bring me, to come here with this little minx! But I'm not such a fool, my boy; you don't make me swallow such rubbish; I had an idea that I should catch you here."

"Come, come, Clorinde, don't make a scene; you know how I dislike them! Don't shout so loud!"

"I'll shout as loud as I please, and you can't make me keep quiet, you wicked rascal, for whom I sold my gold chain not a fortnight ago, and who throws my money away on other women!"

"You talk like a fool, Clorinde; if I have spent the money for your chain, I've spent plenty more with you!"

"You greenhorn! you, who had boots with holes in 'em and paper collars! Ah! this is too much, on my word! And you think that I'll let you strut about with your Malvina—for that's Malvina on your arm."

"Not at all, you are mistaken; it's a masker whom I met by chance, and whom I tell you to treat with respect."

"Ouiche! I'll treat her with respect; your charmer doesn't seem to have any tongue; she doesn't open her mouth! If it isn't Malvina, why doesn't she speak? But we'll soon see."

During this dialogue, the little dairymaid, who seemed to be all of a tremble, clung to her escort's arm; but the Norman suddenly snatched away her mask and cried:

"Ah! it wasn't Malvina! Ah! I was mistaken, was I? You are caught, traitor! As for you, little one, you know what I promised you if you ever went with Adolphe. I don't go back on my word—take that!"

As she spoke, the peasant dealt the dairymaid a powerful blow on the cheek; the latter attempted to take her revenge and to return the blow she had received from her jealous rival; but as Monsieur Adolphe had taken advantage of the battle to make his escape, the Norman ran after him, crying:

"It's no use for you to run away—I'll find you. Come, Adolphe, don't run; I am not angry any more. Malvina has what she deserves, that's all I wanted."

And the peasant disappeared in the crowd, while the little dairymaid replaced her mask and tried to readjust her disordered costume.

"Oh! the fishwoman!" she exclaimed; "is it possible that there can be such ill-bred women! But she shall pay me. I'll go to see her man—the fat hosier who is ruining himself for her; I'll tell him about all the games she plays on him. Bless my soul! there's enough of 'em to cover the city wall."

One gentleman had been a silent spectator of this scene, which, however, seemed exceedingly distasteful to him. The reader will guess that it was Chamoureau, who saw his second conquest escape him with the stick of candy which he had presented to her.

"How is this?" he said to himself at last; "she assured me that she came to the Opéra this evening solely to see me, and she was on the watch for one Adolphe! She told me that she loved me, that she was on fire for me, and she leaves me to go and kick up a jealous row with that young man—and she beats the girl he has on his arm!—The deuce! what a wench! it's a bad move to deceive her. She told me that she was very rich, that she had a fine house on Rue de la Pépinière. The little dairymaid declares that she is kept by a hosier. What am I to believe out of all that? The one thing that is certain is that she has run after her Adolphe. I am very sorry that I bought the candy for her! but she said such pleasant things to me and pressed my arm so affectionately! O these women! I'll not trust them again; and yet it would be very cruel to have come to the Opéra ball without making a single acquaintance! What would those fellows think of me?"

In his disappointment, Chamoureau decided to go up another flight. There were fewer people in the corridor on the third floor, but the couples were more amorous in proportion to their scarcity; they talked into each other's faces, gazed into each other's eyes, held each other's arms or waists; and sometimes in the ardor of conversation, the hand strayed over a shapely figure.

Our widower observed all this, and his regret that he was alone became all the keener.

"All these people are very fortunate!" he said to himself; "they have love-affairs, intrigues under way. I am well aware that I too have been intrigué—mystified,—but nothing has come of it; for frankly I believe that I should have been very foolish to walk on Rue de la Pépinière, in the hope that a bouquet would be thrown to me from a window! That Norman must have been lying to me. My wisest course now is to join Freluchon and Edmond, so that I may go to supper with them. Still, it is annoying not to take someone with me to the supper; for I'll wager that each of them will have a little woman! Their luck is beyond my comprehension! I suppose that it's the same as in gambling: some people always win and others never do!"

As he communed thus with himself, Chamoureau noticed a black domino, also walking alone, who had passed very close to him again and again within a few minutes, glancing constantly in his direction. It was a woman above middle height, very slender—too slender, in fact, because she was so everywhere; a few wisps of fair hair escaped from beneath her hood which came well over her forehead. The black mask was provided with a very ample barb; it was impossible to obtain a glimpse of any feature. The domino was simple and shabby, and the shoes were not elegant. But she was a lone woman, who had every appearance of being in quest of an adventure, and Chamoureau also pined for one.

"I will venture once more," he said to himself; "perhaps I shall have better luck this time!" and he approached the thin domino.

"It's very hot, is it not, lovely masker?"

"Yes, it's extremely warm here."

"Still, there are fewer people here than downstairs."

"True; it's much less crowded; it's more comfortable here."

"But I believe the heat ascends."

"Do you think so? it's quite possible; no doubt it does ascend."

"Otherwise it would be cooler here than downstairs."

"Oh! yes, of course; if it were cooler here——"

"They would feel the heat more downstairs."

"She converses very agreeably," said our widower to himself. "She doesn't try to be bright, to make fun of me, as the others did. I like this way better; I feel more at ease with this stranger, and something tells me that I have at last found what I sought. She doesn't try to mystify me; but after all, I prefer that she shouldn't know me; then, if I choose, I can retain my incognito with her."

The black domino stood beside the Spaniard, apparently waiting for him to renew the conversation. He, after pulling up his boots, decided to offer her his arm, murmuring in honeyed tones:

"Will you take a turn or two in the corridor with me?"

"With pleasure."

"You are not expecting anybody?"

"No, I am not expecting anybody."

"You are quite sure? Pardon me for asking the question, but, you see, I have been walking with several ladies, and they all left me abruptly, to run after other men! Frankly, I don't care to take the risk of having that happen again."

"Oh! don't be afraid, monsieur; I am not capable of such conduct. I see clearly that I have to do with a comme il faut gentleman, and if you knew me better you would understand that you can place entire confidence in me. I have never known what it was to make sport of a man—I can safely take my oath to that; and I flatter myself that I enjoy an excellent reputation in the house where I lodge."

All this was said in the tone of a servant applying for a position and announcing her readiness to refer to her former employers.

But Chamoureau was delighted; he was sure that he had found what he wanted, and he pressed the arm that lay in his as he rejoined:

"What you tell me gives me great pleasure. I believe you; there is an accent of truth in your words."

"Besides, you can ask my employers if they are not satisfied with me."

"Your employers?"

"To be sure—the people I work for."

"Ah! you work—in a shop?"

"Yes, monsieur; oh! I don't set up for a princess myself! I told you that I had no desire to deceive anyone."

"That is very nice of you, and I can only praise your frankness. Might I inquire what branch of trade you are in?"

"I work for a shoemaker, monsieur; I sew ladies' shoes."

Chamoureau was not so well pleased with this admission; he would have preferred a milliner or a flower-maker; however, he said to himself:

"After all, there are some very pretty shoe-stitchers; if she is virtuous enough to have only one lover, I shall have made a lucky find all the same; she's a little thin, but she must be pretty. I'll tell Freluchon that she's in the ballet at the Cirque. She's a blonde, and I don't dislike blondes.—Tell me, lovely domino," he said aloud, "did you come to the ball alone?"

"No, monsieur, I came with a friend of mine; but she was looking for someone, and when she met him, I left them; I was afraid of being in their way."

"That was most thoughtful! So then you are free?"

"Yes, monsieur, entirely free!"

"And no previous entanglement—no liaison?"

"Oh! none at all! absolutely none! I can safely swear that it's two years since I have walked alone with a gentleman."

Chamoureau was in raptures at the thought that he was walking with a woman to whom such a thing had not happened for two years. In his enthusiasm he said to himself:

"With this one I can safely try a stick of candy; she deserves it more than the others did; her frankness and innocence are worthy of the prize of virtue!"

And he escorted his domino to the buffet, saying:

"Pray, take something."

"Oh! you are very kind, monsieur, but I am not thirsty."

"She isn't thirsty!" said Chamoureau to himself; "I doubt if I could find another like her in the whole ball!"

And he became the more urgent:

"But do at least take a bonbon."

"You are very polite, monsieur; I don't like to keep refusing."

"I trust you will not."

"I will take a stick of candy."

And the black domino selected one of the smallest, which cost only three francs, thereby putting the finishing touch to Chamoureau's delight. He offered his arm to his conquest once more, saying:

"In that case, if you are free, charming stitcher, will you do me the honor to sup with me and a few of my friends, who will also have ladies with them—that is to say, I assume that they will."

"Yes, monsieur, certainly, and with pleasure."

"You are fascinating! I feel that I love you dearly already."

"And I, too; I shall be very glad to make your acquaintance."

"Do you mean it? Then my appearance is not disagreeable to you?"

"Ah! I should be very hard to suit, if I did not think you a very handsome man! Monsieur must be accustomed to attracting women!"

Chamoureau turned redder than his rouge; the corridor had become too narrow for him; he placed his cap more on one side, pulled up his boot-flaps, and seemed to be walking on a spring-board, ready to jump.

"I don't know whom those fellows will bring to the supper," he said to himself, "but I'll wager that their conquests won't hold a candle to mine! I have an idea that this slender creature resembles the Madonnas we see in the pictures of our greatest masters. However, I'll find out about that; she's a good-natured body, and I am sure that she'll unmask as soon as I ask her to.—Let's go down to the ball-room," said our widower, taking his domino's hand; "we shall find my friends there; they are great jokers; they like the galop and are quite capable of dancing it.—Are you fond of dancing, my dear?"

"I am willing to do whatever anyone wishes, monsieur."

"That's very pleasant in company. In that case, if I ask you to remove this mask—that conceals your features, you will not refuse, will you?"

"Take off my mask! oh, no! I won't take off my mask here; I will at home."

"I presume that you don't keep it on at home; but what is there to prevent your taking it off a moment here, while we are walking in this corridor? You may put it right on again, if you please."

"But why do you want me to take it off?"

"I have just told you: because I long to look upon your features. That is a very natural desire—and since you have admitted that my face was not displeasing to you——"

"Oh! no, monsieur! far from it!"

"I am persuaded yours will be most pleasing to me."

"Oh! I am not very beautiful!"

"I will wager that you say that from modesty; at all events, it is not necessary to be very beautiful in order to please; there are some bright, saucy little faces that are far preferable to regular beauties."

"I have an odd face."

"Well! odd faces are included in what I have just said. Do take off that horrible mask!"

"Oh, no! I don't want to; I won't take it off till after supper, because I am a little less bashful when I have drunk a little pure wine."

"What! do you intend to eat supper with your mask on?"

"Why not?"

"It would bother you a good deal while eating."

"Oh, no! I can turn up the barb."

"Take off your mask, pretty stitcher! I am sure that you're lovely enough to paint, and you postpone it only to make your triumph all the greater."

"I won't take off my mask now; no, monsieur, I'm determined on that!"

"She's very obstinate about it!" said Chamoureau to himself, as he escorted his conquest to the ball-room; "it's simply to increase my desire, to inflame my imagination! Female cunning! I know what that is!"

At the moment that the Spaniard and the domino stepped into the space between the ball-room and the stage, a general galop began—one of those monster galops in which the torrent of dancers rushes and leaps and roars to the strains of music which would make mummies dance. Freluchon and Edmond soon whirled by Chamoureau, the first with his arm about a Marquise Pompadour, the second with his little débardeur. The sight electrified our widower, who said to his domino:

"Suppose we venture? what do you say?"

"I ask nothing better."

With that, the lady threw her arm about her escort and they plunged into the infernal galop. Then they had no choice but to go with the crowd, the torrent; for woe betide the man who stops! He is instantly thrown down by those who come behind.

But the Spaniard's bosom swelled with a noble ardor; he was pushed and jostled, but he went on and on. The heat was extreme, however; and from time to time his domino murmured:

"I am stifling! suppose we stop a minute?"

"No, no; we must keep on!" Chamoureau replied; "don't be afraid; I'm holding you tight; you shan't fall."

But after they had danced for some time, the lady's hood fell back, disclosing a tight fitting black cap on top of which the tower of fair hair was mingled with locks of gray hair combed up from behind. A moment later the tower fell to pieces; then it was the mask's turn to fall—and our widower discovered that he held in his arms a woman of fifty, ugly as the mortal sin, with a thin, sallow, vulgar face that would have been disgusting even in a concierge.

Dumfounded, furious at what he saw, Chamoureau did not hesitate an instant; he dropped his partner, who rolled on the floor among the feet of the dancers; and he lost himself among the spectators.

"I am not surprised now that she proposed to sup in her mask!" he said to himself.

VI
A GENUINE INTRIGUE

The pearl-gray domino had entered the enclosure reserved for the dancers, walking boldly through the crowd, well able to repay in kind those who pushed and jostled her, and paying no attention to the men who spoke to her and tried to detain her by the usual phrases, which such gentlemen do not vary enough.

"Where are you going, lovely domino?"

"Listen to me, my deserted beauty!"

"You are running after him—better come with me."

"If your face resembles your figure, you are the phœnix of dominos."

To all these pretty speeches, tall Thélénie replied only by a very expressive shake of the head. When a man attempted to detain her by taking her arm, she had no difficulty in releasing herself by a sudden movement, saying in a far from encouraging tone:

"I advise you to let me alone, for I assure you that you are wasting your time with me; and that would be a great pity, if you came to the ball with the purpose of making good use of it."

Thélénie's black eyes, full of fire, looked about on all sides for the little débardeur with whom she had seen Edmond Didier talking. She was certain of recognizing her, although there were many similar costumes at the ball; a woman guided by jealousy takes in at a glance the figure, the carriage, the foot, the hand and the slightest movements of the person she believes to be her rival.

In a corner of the ball-room, near the orchestra, the pearl-gray domino, convinced that she was not mistaken, halted in front of a little masked débardeur and said:

"I was looking for you."

"You were looking for me!"

"Yes, you."

"What for?"

"To speak to you, naturally."

"What can you have to say to me? I don't know you—at least, I don't think I know you. But perhaps you're that big Julie who goes to the Café du Cirque so often, near the Folies-Dramatiques, and who always wins at dominoes."

"I am not big Julie; I never go to the Café du Cirque, and I don't play dominoes. But you evidently go there, and I am not sorry to know it."

"I go where I please—what business is it of yours? What are you talking about? If you were looking for me just to say that, it wasn't worth putting yourself out, charming domino."

"I have something much more interesting to say to you; but first tell me this: what do you do? who are you? Not of much importance! I can see that by your manners and your language. No matter—I want to know; are you a milliner, flower-maker, seamstress—or something much lower down? Come—answer me."

"Ha! ha! ha! this is too good, on my word! Madame questions me, and with a tone of authority!—one would think she was talking to a slave! By what right do you ask me all this?"

"By what right? Oh! I'll show you that I have a right. Listen: you are Monsieur Edmond Didier's mistress."

"Oho! so you know that, my tall beauty! Very good! I understand it all now; you're one of Edmond's old ones; a poor creature whom he abandoned for me! Ha! ha! and you've come here to make a jealous row!"

"Well, yes, I was Edmond's mistress, I still am; for, if he has had a caprice for you, it's not what can be called love!"

"Really! you believe that? you think that a man may not love me? Well! you are mistaken, my dear; on the contrary, he loves me dearly, he adores me; he told me so just now."

"Listen, girl, remember what I am going to say."

"If it's a song you are going to teach me, I'll remember it if I know the tune."

"Don't jest, for my words are most serious."

"I don't care if they are; I am never serious myself."

"I forbid you—do you understand?—I forbid you to go to Edmond's rooms again; and if you disobey me, beware! you have no idea to what length jealousy may drive me."

"If it could drive you home to bed now, what an excellent thing it would be!"

"You have heard me—and you will obey."

"Not much! This was a foolish step of yours, my dear; for I have quarrelled with Edmond and I didn't intend to see him again; just a minute ago he begged me to go to supper with him, and I refused; but now that you forbid me to—oh! that puts a different face on the matter; I will accept. I'll make it up with him, and we'll be like turtle-doves again."

"Beware! don't drive me to extremities, you little strumpet!"

"Oh! if I'm a little strumpet, you're a big one! Let me tell you that I snap my finger at you and your threats; and to prove it, there's Edmond now, looking everywhere for me, and I'm going with him."

Edmond Didier was, in fact, coming toward them; he was still looking for his little débardeur. Mademoiselle Amélia ran to him and seized his arm, saying:

"I'm not angry any more, dear boy; I love you more than ever, and I'll go to supper with you. You're glad of that, aren't you?"

The young man, thunderstruck by the sudden change that had taken place in the grisette's humor, stared at her and tried to read in her eyes whether she really meant what she said.

But she continued:

"You're surprised that I am not sulky any longer? Well! who do you suppose you owe it to? I'll tell you; it's that tall mouse-gray domino who's looking at us over there, and glaring at me as if she'd shoot me! She forbade me to go with you! That instantly made me want to do it."

Edmond looked at the masker the girl pointed out; it was a fact that in the eyes which were fixed upon his companion and himself there was a gleam which had in it something fascinating. Those eyes were easily recognizable, for, as Monsieur Beauregard had said, there were no others at the ball which could be compared with them.

Edmond divined therefore who the person was who glared at him so, and, in spite of himself, he was disturbed and embarrassed for a moment beneath Thélénie's burning glance.

"Oh!" he stammered, "that domino told you—forbade you to speak to me, did she?"

"Yes, she's one of your old ones, you must recognize her. Madame is jealous, but I don't care a fig! You're through with her, I hope. At all events, I'm not jealous—I'm no such fool! I prefer to dance. You are going to galop with me."

The pearl-gray domino, whose eyes were still fixed on the young couple, suddenly walked toward them, stopped beside Edmond and said in an undertone:

"So this is the creature for whom you abandon me! She doesn't do you credit!"

"Eh? what's she saying to you?" demanded Mademoiselle Amélia; "some nasty thing about me, I'll bet."

"No, no! nothing at all!" Edmond replied, as he watched Thélénie disappear in the crowd.

"I say yes; that tall giraffe spoke to you!"

"She called me a—monster!"

"Ah! how new that is!"

"Let us galop."

It was toward the end of this galop that Chamoureau had dropped his partner, who lost her mask, her hair and her cap, and had fled as far as possible, leaving the ball-room and rushing aimlessly into the foyer, so great was his fear of being pursued and overtaken by his new conquest.

When he reached the foyer, the unlucky Spaniard dropped upon a bench, saying to himself:

"I have too hard luck! I am pursued by cruel fate! What a face! great God! what a horrible face! I wouldn't have her for charwoman! Why, if I, a business agent, had such a woman in my house, she'd frighten all my clients! And such an old thing! all skin and bone! and a profile like an embroidery frame! When a woman has no more flesh than that, she must be very bold, to go to the Opéra ball, and try to make an acquaintance! I am not surprised that it hasn't happened to her for two years—she must have meant ten!—And I treated her to candy! It's very lucky that her mask fell off when it did! if it hadn't been for that, she'd have come to supper, she'd have unmasked afterward, the wretch! and God knows all the jokes the others would have made at my expense, especially Freluchon, who's a connoisseur in pretty women; for he often used to say to me: 'Chamoureau, your wife's too handsome for one man, it's downright murder!'—He was dancing the galop just now with a handsome wench dressed à la Pompadour, and Edmond with a débardeur; they both have what they want, I'm the only one who has nothing, after paying for so many sticks of candy. But I am done; I have had my fill of intrigues, and if I weren't waiting for those fellows I'd go home. But I can't go without Freluchon, as my clothes are at his room. We are to meet here in the foyer, under the clock. It must be very late. I have had very little sport here, and I've lost my false nose."

And Chamoureau watched the promenaders with a woe-begone expression. He did not notice that a blue domino pointed him out to one of pearl-gray, whispering:

"That's the man; he came with them."

The pearl-gray domino, with whom we are well acquainted, but whom our widower did not know as yet, immediately seated herself beside him and motioned to the blue domino to go.

At first Chamoureau simply moved away a little, to make room for the person who had taken a seat by his side; then, allured by the perfume that emanated from his neighbor, he glanced furtively at her, saying to himself:

"Sapristi! this domino smells good; it's as if a bouquet had sat down here. I ought to have guessed that that other woman didn't amount to anything; she smelt of garlic, and when she got warm dancing—then it was much worse!"

Chamoureau's examination of the pearl-gray domino was wholly to her advantage; in addition to the perfume she exhaled, everything about her was refined, stylish and in good taste. But when Thélénie fastened her great black eyes on him, our widower was speechless with admiration, and in his confusion he could think of nothing better to do than to pull up his boots.

Thus far, Chamoureau had not addressed a word to his neighbor, although he was dying to do so; she, however, saved him the trouble by opening the conversation herself.

"Well, Monsieur Chamoureau, are you enjoying the ball?"

"What! how! madame knows me? I have the honor of being known to madame?" murmured our widower, utterly bewildered to hear the stylish domino call him by name.

"Yes, monsieur, I know you—not very well, I must admit; but well enough to tempt me to seat myself here so that I might talk with you."

"Oh! how flattered I am, madame! What! it was to talk with me that you came here to sit? that is extremely amiable on your part!"

"Oh, no! it is quite natural! Sometimes one passes the whole night here without meeting a person with whom one can talk freely; for, to speak frankly, the company is very much mixed at a masquerade."

"You don't know how fully I realize it, madame! for I myself, a moment ago, was misled by a—a—less than nobody! But you understand—when people are masked!"

"In spite of the mask, monsieur, there are always a thousand things which enable one to recognize the well-bred woman, and which betray all these grisettes, all these prostitutes who come here masked, to try to make dupes."

"That is perfectly true, madame; there are a thousand things that betray one's identity; and, as I sit beside you, madame, those things lead me to believe that I am talking with an extremely comme il faut person."

"Take care, Monsieur Chamoureau, you may be deceived again."

"Oh, no! this time I am sure of my ground!"

"You did not come to the ball alone, did you, monsieur?"

"No, madame, I came with two young men, friends of mine."

"Yes, Messieurs Freluchon and Edmond Didier."

"Ah! madame knows them also?"

"Very little; but I have a friend, a lady, who is very intimately acquainted with one of them."

"Yes, I understand; and it's with Freluchon, I suppose?"

"No, with Monsieur Edmond; and between ourselves, I think that my poor friend has bestowed her affections very ill."

"Yes, indeed, I should say so! If she relies on that young man's fidelity, she is completely taken in."

"He has to my mind every appearance of a ne'er-do-well, hasn't he, monsieur?"

"He's the worst ne'er-do-well in the world! one of those blades who make love to the first woman they see; who have three, four, five mistresses at the same time—I don't know how they manage it! I love the fair sex, there's no doubt of that, and I cultivate it assiduously, but I don't scatter myself about like that. Ne quid nimis! That Latin axiom is my motto. Forgive me for using a dead language, madame; it slipped from my tongue."

"I congratulate you, monsieur, for not behaving as Edmond does."

"Freluchon's no better! Indeed, I think perhaps he's worse! He's a thorough scapegrace, and, as he's rich, he can do more than others; but he's an intimate friend of mine, and I don't propose to speak ill of him, especially as my late wife had much esteem for him."

"Are you a widower, monsieur?"

"Alas! yes, madame; I have lost my Eléonore, my sweet better half! my faithful companion!"

Chamoureau was on the point of blowing his nose, but he checked himself, reflecting that it would be unwise to appear grief-stricken in that lady's company; and, laying aside his melancholy, he assumed a sprightly air.

"Does not madame dance?"

"Oh, no! monsieur, never at a masquerade. But what have you done with your two friends?"

"They are dancing, madame; they must be on the floor."

"Between ourselves, Monsieur Chamoureau, it isn't good form to dance here, unless one is disguised as you are; then anything is allowable; but those gentlemen are not."

"True; but they are not exactly dancing; the galop is the only thing they dance—the infernal galop."

"Oh, yes! I remember: I saw Monsieur Edmond pass just now with a woman dressed as a débardeur—his mistress, I suppose?"

"Yes, that's one of his mistresses; it must be little Amélia; he was looking for her."

"Who is this Amélia?"

"A young flower-maker: nineteen years old, with a piquant, roguish face, eyes full of fire and a lovely figure!"

"You seem to know her very well!"

"I! oh! I don't know her at all; I am simply repeating what Edmond told me about her a little while ago."

"Then you haven't seen this woman?"

"Not yet; but I shall see her before long, as we are all to sup together; Freluchon arranged it all at the costumer's."

"Ah! you are to sup together!"

Thélénie was silent for some moments, apparently lost in reflection. Meanwhile Chamoureau cudgelled his brain to think of something clever to say to her; having had no success, he confined himself to adjusting his cap and pulling up his boot-tops.

"Monsieur Chamoureau," said Thélénie at last, in her sweetest voice, "will you give me your arm for a little promenade—not here in the foyer, for there are too many people here."

"Will I, madame! why, I am only too happy that you should deign to take me for your escort."

And the Spaniard, springing to his feet, offered his arm to the pearl-gray domino, who took it with that lack of formality which a mask sanctions.

Before leaving the foyer, Chamoureau, as proud as Lucifer to have on his arm a stylish woman who left an odor of violets and patchouli as she passed, said to himself:

"Faith, I don't care what happens! I propose to risk another stick of candy!"

Whereupon he led the lady toward a buffet and urged her to take something; but Thélénie dragged him away, saying:

"I am obliged to you, monsieur, but I never take anything here; besides, I think that carrying about sticks of candy is very bad form.—Come, I long to be out of this foyer."

Thélénie had just noticed the tall Beauregard, who was gazing at her with an air of surprise, and with a mocking smile which seemed to say:

"What! you, elegance personified, on the arm of this Spaniard who looks like a genuine buffoon!"

Chamoureau, who had a most exalted opinion of his new acquaintance since she had told him that she never took anything at a ball, walked with her into the corridor, where the domino guided him toward the staircase, saying:

"Let us go up, there are too many people here."

"With pleasure; let us go up."

When they reached the second floor the domino continued to ascend, saying:

"Let us go up farther."

Nor did she stop at the third, but said to her escort:

"Let us keep on."

And Chamoureau made no objection.

"Does she mean to take me up to the small boxes in the dome?" he said to himself. "Have I inspired her with a frenzied passion? But I believe the small boxes aren't open on ball nights. No matter, let her take me where she will; she's a beautiful woman, her figure is enchanting, her hand small, her language distinguished. God grant that I may not find behind her mask any resemblance to that horrible shoe-stitcher! Gad! I am distrustful now!"

The gray domino stopped in the passage leading to the amphitheatre and said to her escort:

"Excuse me, monsieur, for making you come up so high, but I was anxious that we should be alone for what I have to say to you."

"I would have followed you up in a balloon, madame, if you had asked me."

"Oh! you go much too fast perhaps, monsieur, for, after all, you do not know me."

"But I desire most ardently to make your acquaintance."

"Well, monsieur, I shall surprise you, no doubt, but I will not deny that I too should be very glad to know you better, and that it was with that end in view that I took my place by your side just now in the foyer."

"Is it possible that I am so fortunate as to be distinguished by you—so fortunate that a fond hope may be permitted to take root in my heart?"

"Oh! don't go so fast, monsieur; do you think that none but sensual liaisons may exist between two persons of different sexes?"

"I don't say just that; but I have reached the age when love is as necessary to men as the bottle to a child; I say the bottle as I might say the nurse! Madame, should I be too presumptuous if I asked to see your face?"

"It was for the express purpose of showing you my features that I brought you here, monsieur. I am very glad to have you know what sort of person you have to do with."

As she spoke, Thélénie removed her mask and Chamoureau uttered an exclamation, this time of admiration.

Indeed, the first sight of her face might well arouse that sentiment. All her features were beautiful and clean cut; her teeth were beyond reproach, her hair as black as the crow's wing, and her eyes, whose brilliancy we have already noted, were unusually large, fringed by long black lashes, and surmounted by perfectly arched eyebrows. Perhaps that face would have lost a little of its brilliancy in the daylight; there were circles round the eyes and the complexion was a little sallow; but in the gaslight these slight blemishes vanished and left only lovely features and a countenance instinct with animation.

Chamoureau was fairly dazzled.

"Oh! madame!" he stammered; "on my word—I did not expect—I mean—yes, I did expect to see a pretty face—but yours passes all understanding—you are a goddess! I am compelled to admit that Eléonore was only small beer beside you."

This unique compliment brought a faint smile to the lovely brunette's lips.

"Now that you have seen me, monsieur," she rejoined, "do you still desire to make my acquaintance?"

"Do I desire it, entrancing creature! Ah! it is more than a desire now, it is a craving! it is more than a craving, it is——"

"Well, monsieur, I give you permission to call on me, I will receive your visits—but only on one condition."

"I agree beforehand to all conceivable conditions."

"There is only one, monsieur; but you must swear to abide by it; if you should fail, my door would be closed to you instantly."

"That fact should assure you of my obedience, madame; pray tell me what the condition is."

"First of all, monsieur, I must tell you my name: I am Madame de Sainte-Suzanne."

"De Sainte-Suzanne—what a charming name! You must be descended from that Suzanne whom two rakes tried to catch a glimpse of as she left her bath."

"My condition is, monsieur, that you will tell nobody—nobody, you understand—that you know me and that you call on me."

"Agreed, belle dame; although certainly one may well be proud to know you, although one is entitled to be vain of your acquaintance, from the instant that you forbid me to speak, I will not lisp a word."

"Do not forget that promise, monsieur, especially when you are with your friends Messieurs Edmond Didier and Freluchon."

"Oh! I'll be very careful, I know that they are terribly garrulous, especially Freluchon."

"And if my name should happen to be mentioned in your presence, if I should be the subject of conversation, you will listen and keep silent."

"If you wish, I will not even listen."

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, you will listen and remember everything that is said; for I am inquisitive and am anxious to know what people think of me."

"In that case, never fear; I'll open both my ears so wide that I won't lose a word."

"Now, monsieur, I must leave you. See, this is my address;—you may return to your friends and sup with them."

As she spoke, Thélénie handed Chamoureau a card, then hurriedly replaced her mask.

"What is this, fascinating woman! are you going to leave me?" said the Spaniard, tucking the card under his doublet. "I hoped—I dared to think that you would allow me to escort you to your home."

"No, monsieur, it's impossible; I have friends here, and I must join them again. The day after to-morrow, between two o'clock and five, I give you permission to call. Now, adieu; I forbid you to follow me."

And Thélénie ran rapidly downstairs.

"All the same," said Chamoureau, pulling up his boot-tops, "I have made a fine conquest!"

VII
THE DANGER OF FALLING ASLEEP IN COMPANY

Thélénie found Mademoiselle Héloïse in the balcony box; she motioned to her to come with her.

"Do you mean to say we are going already?" asked the little black domino.

"Already! why, it's very late. See, the dancers have plenty of room now, which means that the ball is nearing its end."

"Have you spoken to Monsieur Edmond?"

"No, no, it's of no use; I leave him with his mistress—a flower-maker, my dear; really, it makes me blush to think that I was jealous of such a creature."

"But there are some very pretty flower-makers!"

"What of that? she's a grisette, all the same, and that sort of an affair won't keep Edmond in chains for long. I say again that I regret having lowered myself by speaking to that girl. However, I have just made the acquaintance of a person who will keep me advised concerning my faithless lover's intrigues."

"It's that tall man dressed as a Spaniard, I suppose, that that woman came to tell you about?"

"Exactly; an idiot who thinks he's made a conquest of me.—Come this way, we'll get down more quickly."

As the two women started downstairs, the tall man who had talked with Thélénie in her box, happened to be directly in front of her. He stopped her, saying:

"How is this? you have left your hidalgo? Oh! my dear, you were very foolish to leave him, for you won't find his like at this ball."

"And I am not looking for him, you see, as I am going away."

"Without Edmond Didier?"

"Without Edmond Didier!"

"Whom you leave behind in the company of an extremely pretty little débardeur."

"I am absolutely indifferent to that, as you see!"

"Oh! you conceal your thoughts; it certainly was for some purpose that you consented to pass your arm through that fellow's,—that man had the appearance of a mustard sign."

"That doesn't concern you; adieu!"

"You are in a great hurry."

"I don't see that we have anything more to say to each other."

"Nothing more to say to each other! You always forget that we have, on the contrary, a very serious subject to discuss. But I will come to see you."

"Very well, I am horribly tired. Adieu!"

"You run away as if you had seen Paul Duronceray here."

The name of Duronceray caused the fair Thélénie a painful shock; despite the mask that covered her face it was easy to detect the perturbation which that name aroused in her mind.

She soon succeeded in recovering herself, however, and rejoined in a harsh voice:

"You are mistaken, Beauregard, I run away from nobody; and if Monsieur Duronceray were here, I should not be the one to run away—but you!"

"I! oh, no! for now he ought to thank me, instead of bearing me a grudge."

"Very well! hunt him up then!"

And the pearl-gray domino disappeared with her companion.

Monsieur Beauregard stood for some moments lost in thought; then he shrugged his shoulders and returned to the foyer, saying to himself:

"The fact remains that I have no one to sup with; it is time to be thinking about that."

Chamoureau, having discreetly allowed a few minutes to elapse, that he might not appear to be following the pearl-gray domino, who had forbidden him to do so, decided at last to descend from the amphitheatre passage. Now that he had an intrigue fairly started with a lady as elegant as she was lovely, the widower had none but contemptuous glances for all the women who passed him. He puffed himself out in his ruff, held his head erect with much dignity, squared his shoulders under his cloak, and no longer took the trouble to pull up his boot-tops. He was a man who had arrived; in other words, a man who had what he wanted and who no longer needed to put himself out in order to gain his ends.

Meanwhile he desired to find his intimate friend Freluchon and young Edmond, because he began to feel an inclination to sup.

In the corridor on the first floor a domino stopped him, and Chamoureau shuddered as he recognized the shoe-stitcher's false light hair.

"Ah! I have found you again at last, my dear monsieur!" cried the scrawny creature. "I am so glad! I have been looking for you ever since that unlucky galop, when I fell; you let go with your left arm, I was a little dizzy, and—patatras! And I lost my cap, too, and had hard work finding it; I bruised myself somewhere when I fell, but it won't amount to anything."

"But why were you looking for me, madame?" rejoined the Spaniard, wrapping himself in his cloak, with a savage glare. "I was not looking for you."

"Why, as it's pretty late, I was thinking about supper, as you asked me to take supper with your friends."

"I think I see myself taking you to supper! You had a stick of candy from me, and that's all you will get; for it's not decent to deceive everybody as you do. At your age, and with a face like yours—to try to make a conquest! Go and hide yourself!"

"Let me tell you that you're an impudent wretch, monsieur, and that a man don't talk like that to a woman. When a man has such spindleshanks as yours, he shouldn't put on so many airs. Did anyone ever hear of such a thing! This blockhead flinging a miserable stick of candy in my face! You might stuff it into your nose, your sweetmeat; it would go in. I'll show you what I think of it!"

And the domino hurled her stick of candy at Chamoureau's legs and angrily turned her back on him.

While the widower gazed in stupefaction at the shattered fragments of the bonbon, Freluchon took his arm.

"What the deuce are you doing here," he said, "in rapt contemplation before these broken bits of candy?"

"Faith! I was thinking, as I looked at them, what a pity it is to waste good stuff like that."

"Pshaw! let's go to supper; that will be better fun than staying here. We are just going; we are all downstairs, and I left my Marquise Pompadour to come in search of you; I should say that that was rather kind on my part, eh?"

"Parbleu! you couldn't leave me here and go off without me, when my clothes are at your rooms."

"Come, come; we are going to have supper at Vachette's."

"Why not at the Maison d'Or? it's nearer. You see I never thought to bring a cloak or an overcoat to wear over my disguise. You have a carriage, I trust?"

"A carriage, when there are eight of us! We will run; the weather's fine and that will warm us up."

Edmond was in the vestibule with his little débardeur on his arm; two young men, friends of Freluchon and himself, each accompanied by an unmasked domino, and the little woman dressed as a Louis XV marchioness completed the party. The merry band walked away, shouting oh! and éh! as the custom is during the Carnival, each with his chosen companion on his arm; our widower alone had no one, which fact did not prevent his shouting louder than the others, for he said to himself:

"If I haven't a woman on my arm at this moment, I flatter myself that the one I have captivated is worth more alone than all four of their supper companions."

They arrived at Vachette's, where Freluchon, being a man of forethought, had engaged a private room beforehand. The table was laid; the ladies removed their hoods, caps, gloves, everything that would interfere with their eating; and they all whispered and laughed as they glanced at the Spaniard.

"Who on earth is this tall scarecrow without a lady?" they asked Freluchon; "is he a provincial on his first visit to Paris?"

"No, mesdames," Freluchon replied, "he's a widower who has sworn to remain faithful to his defunct spouse; he's a male Artemis; he is Orpheus, who has lost his Eurydice and is constantly looking for her. If you wish, I will make him weep in a moment."

"No, no, thanks! we prefer to laugh. But why does he wear a disguise if he's so grief-stricken?"

"To disguise his grief; he is persuaded that he has no right to divert himself except in that costume."

"Mesdames, don't you think Freluchon is stuffing us?"

"To table! to table!"

"See, there are ten places, and only nine of us," observed one of the young men.

"True," replied Freluchon, "I ordered supper for ten because I thought that Chamoureau would bring a lady."

"That's so!" cried Edmond; "I hadn't noticed. How's this, my dear Chamoureau, didn't you make a little acquaintance at the ball? What does this mean? how, then, did you pass the time?"

Chamoureau drank a glass of chablis and replied with a triumphant smile:

"I beg pardon, messieurs, I beg pardon! if I haven't brought a lady to supper, that doesn't prove by any means that I am not so highly favored as you are by—by Cupid!"

"The deuce! do you mean it, Chamoureau?" cried Freluchon; "you've been favored by Cupid! Come, tell us about it! When I found you in the foyer, looking, as if stupefied, at the remains of a stick of candy, I supposed that your presents had been repulsed with loss."

"Oh! not by any means! on the contrary my candy was not once repulsed; in fact, I have given away a great deal of it during the night!"

"Really! then you have had a number of intrigues."

"I have had nothing else all night long; I left one woman to take another, and vice versa!"

"What a Lovelace!"