Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons

LÉODGARD RETURNS TO HIS FRIENDS

All the young men ran to meet Léodgard, for it was really he who was approaching. As they drew near him they were struck by his pallor and by the sinister gleam of his eyes, which avoided theirs.

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

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

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

THE BATH KEEPERS;
OR,
PARIS IN THOSE DAYS

CONTENTS

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

I
RUE COUTURE-SAINTE-CATHERINE

It was two o'clock on a cold, damp morning; the fine snow, which melted as soon as it touched the ground, made the streets slippery and dirty, and Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine,—then called Couture-Sainte-Catherine,—although it was one of the broadest streets in Paris, was as black and gloomy as any blind alley in the Cité to-day.

But these things took place in the year one thousand six hundred and thirty-four; and I need not tell you that in those days no such devices for street lighting as lanterns, gas, or electric lights were known. The man who should have discovered the last-named invention, which, in truth, savors strongly of the magical, would surely have been subjected to the ordinary and extraordinary torture for a recompense.

Those were the good old times!

Everything new aroused suspicion; people believed much more readily in sorcerers, the devil, and magic, than in the results of study and learning and the reasoning of the human intellect.

Was it that men were too modest in those days? If so, they have reformed most effectually since then.

In those days, very few persons ventured to be out late in the streets of Paris, where the police was most inefficient and often worse.

The young noblemen sometimes indulged in the pastime of beating the watch; that diversion was permitted to the nobility. To-day, the prowlers about the barriers are the only class who undertake to beat the gendarmes from time to time; but the gendarmes are not so accommodating as the watch of the old days.

There were not then some thirty or more theatres open every evening for the entertainment of the people of the capital and of the strangers drawn thither by its renown. A single one had been founded and was patronized by Cardinal de Richelieu, who, unfortunately for his glory, had undertaken to add to his other titles thereto the title of author.

But all great men have had their weaknesses. Alexander drank too much, which was infinitely more reprehensible than to write wretched verses; Frederick the Great insisted that he was a talented performer on the flute; and Louis XIV danced in the comédies-ballets which Molière composed for him.

The farces which were then being performed by Turlupin, Gros-Guillaume, and Gauthier-Garguille ended with the daylight, their theatres being in the open air. People dined at noon and supped at six o'clock; and when a worthy bourgeois remained at a friend's house as late as nine o'clock, he looked upon it as a genuine revel, as a youthful escapade, and hurried home at the top of his speed, carrying a lantern, and shuddering with terror many a time as he passed through the lanes which were then called streets, and in which, if he should happen to meet any evil-minded person, he was certain of obtaining no assistance from any house or shop; for when the curfew had rung, everything must be closed, and you might not even have a light in your house, if you wished to read or work, or for any reason not to go to bed.

Why do we call that period "the good old time"?

That is a question I have often asked myself.

Is it because people were not entitled to go to bed, to work, to entertain their friends, to amuse themselves when they had the desire, the need, or the fancy so to do?

Is it because people broke their necks after dark in the streets? because thieves, then called Truands, Mauvais Garçons, Tireurs de Laine, or Coupeurs de Bourses, plied their trade in broad daylight on Pont Neuf and in other localities, laughing in your face if you ventured to remonstrate?

Was it because the shops were dark and filthy, devoid of taste and refinement?

Was it because duels were fought on street corners, or in the public squares, two or four or twelve a day, as unconcernedly as we go boating to-day; and the authorities took no steps to prevent this butchery?

Was it because edicts were promulgated every day whereby such a one was forbidden to wear silk, another to wear velvet, this woman to have a gilt girdle, another to dress in certain colors, which were too brilliant, too conspicuous for her walk in life?

O short-sighted politicians! O paltry critics! who anathematize luxury, who seek to restrict refinement, who censure coquetry, and who do not understand that by such theories you strike at our commerce, our manufacturers, our mechanics—in a word, all our workers!

In heaven's name, what harm is done if a plebeian who has money dresses fashionably, luxuriously even, if such be his taste, his caprice?

Are you afraid that he may eclipse you, who assume to belong to the beau monde? Try to make yourself distinguished by your manners, your bearing, your grace, your courtesy, your language; surely you must know that those are things that cannot be bought!

For my own part, I would be glad to see all the working girls in silk dresses, velvet bonnets, and lace-trimmed caps, and all the workingmen in patent-leather shoes and white gloves.

Where would be the harm?

Is not the picture of refinement more attractive than that of slovenliness, poverty, and want?

Does not the money that a man spends on his dress do him more honor than that which he throws away at the wine shop?

But let us return to Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and to the period when the events that we are about to describe took place.

A young man came out of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois and passed the Hôtel de Carnavalet, before which artists and admirers of sculpture always paused to gaze at the waving lines of the great portal, and the masks and bas-reliefs that adorned the arches of the windows—the work of the immortal Jean Goujon.

Fortunate structure, which the genius of an artist was to make famous forever, and to which, at a later time, a woman of intellect was to add renewed lustre by making it her residence!

But at the period of which we write, Madame de Sévigné had not taken up her abode at the Hôtel de Carnavalet.

The hour was not propitious for halting in front of the mansion, for it was very near Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which at that time extended to Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine; moreover, the person who came from the first-named street did not seem to be in that frame of mind which fits us to pass judgment on the objects of beauty we may meet on our road.

He was, as we have said, a young man. Twenty-five years was his age; he was tall, slender, and well built; there was in his carriage and in every movement the ease of bearing which denotes the man of the world, and the manners which point to familiarity with cultivated society, and which one does not lose, even in low company, when one has inherited them from a long line of ancestors.

In addition to grace of form, this young man possessed a handsome face and clean-cut features; his brow was lofty and proud; his black eyes were large and bright, and surmounted by very dense eyebrows which almost met, thus imparting at times a somewhat sombre expression to the organs of vision below them, which flashed fire when animated by wrath, but could, on occasion, assume an expression of gentleness and tenderness which it was difficult to resist; a small mouth, well supplied with teeth, and shaded by a small moustache; an oval chin adorned by a royale; and a forest of black hair which fell in thick curls over his neck and shoulders—such, physically, was Léodgard de Marvejols.

As for his moral character, this story will instruct us sufficiently therein.

Clad in a handsome doublet of crimson silk, slashed with white satin; knee-breeches of the same material, held in place by a white belt with silver fringe, to which was attached a long sword, with a hilt of the finest steel, ornamented with fringe and bows of ribbon; the young cavalier's feet and legs were encased in funnel-shaped top-boots of yellow leather, with buckles at the instep; spurs affixed to those light boots indicated that they seldom contributed to wear out the pavements. A broad collarette, trimmed with lace, served as a cravat, and a small velvet cloak was thrown over the shoulders and clasped on one side. Lastly, a hat with a pointed crown and broad brim, turned up in front, and surmounted by a long white plume attached by a steel button, was the young man's headgear; and it must be said that it was infinitely more graceful and refined than the hideous hats that we wear to-day.

We must do justice to the "good old times" in this respect: the costumes worn by men were much more graceful, more dignified, more attractive, than they now are; for we must, before everything, be impartial, and award praise as well as blame.

Léodgard de Marvejols walked rather quickly, but sometimes he stopped, like a person who is very much preoccupied, and to whom it matters little that it is two o'clock in the morning, and that the streets are deserted.

At these times he usually thought aloud, or talked to himself—a practice which is more common than is generally supposed; and as the young nobleman had supped very copiously, his monologues were quite as energetic as if he were still accompanied by boisterous revellers.

At this time Léodgard was very near the new convent of the Annonciades Célestes, or Filles Bleues, which one of the mistresses of Henri IV, the Marquise de Verneuil, had founded in the year 1626.

The blue girdle and cloak worn by the Annonciades had already caused them to be styled Filles Bleues; which fact did not prevent those saintlike women from being held in great veneration in their quarter; so that, in broad daylight, people would have been terribly scandalized to hear our young man swear roundly so near that asylum of repentance, and exclaim, as he leaned against the wall of the convent:

"Par la mordieu! if that Jarnonville had not left the game, I should have won twice as much, thrice as much; I was in luck; I should have won until morning. And that D'Artigues, and Cournac—to refuse to take the dice—when I offered them their revenge at lansquenet—that swindlers' game! and when I was losing! God damn me! I would stake my patrimony, my moustaches, my mistress, if anyone would give me anything on them, and my soul, if the devil would take it.—Let me see: how much did I win from them? five or six hundred pistoles at most; and even so, I am not sure that their rose crowns aren't clipped or counterfeit. A noble night's work, on my word! as if that would make up what I have lost! I know that I may continue to win to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow; that I may win as often as I have lost.—Ah! I will win! I must! I must win enough to buy another petite maison, as I have lost mine to that infernal De Montrevers.—Where in the devil am I to take my pretty courtesan, Camilla, to-morrow?—This is strange; I feel dizzy; that Jurançon wine was good, but it is heady.—Where in the devil shall I take my new conquest to-morrow? Cournac refused to lend me his petite maison, on the pretext that he was to have company there. The coxcomb! he boasts of it, but it is a lie; I know from his esquire that when he goes there he is always alone! However, we shall find some place of shelter to take our belle; I am in funds now, and with a well-filled purse one is welcomed cordially everywhere.—Apropos of my purse, let us be sure that I haven't lost it. By hell! I am quite capable of it, I am so dizzy!"

At that thought, the young man hastily put his hand to his belt; but his eyes almost immediately resumed a serene expression, as he felt his purse, which was round and full. He could not resist the desire to take it in his hands and feel the weight of it, saying to himself:

"At last, I am not going home with an empty purse. Ten thousand devils! it is a long time since that has happened to me!"

And Léodgard was about to restore the purse to his belt, when a person who had drawn near to him, quietly and unperceived, caught his arm, saying:

"It is unnecessary; don't give yourself the trouble to put it back."

II
A ROBBER

The man who had halted in front of Léodgard was tall and strong, and seemed rather young than old; he was so strangely attired, that, after meeting him once, it would be difficult not to remember him.

A black doublet fitted close to his body, like a silk shirt; he wore laced half-boots; a leather belt, in which were thrust pistols and a poniard; and a broad baldric, from which hung a short sabre—a sort of dagger with a very broad blade. All this part of his costume was concealed by an ample caftan of olive-green cloth, which had a hood of the same material, and which we may compare to a modern caban.[A] His head was covered with a red cap, trimmed with long wild boar's hair. This cap was pulled down so far that one could hardly see his eyes; only a long, thin nose could be distinguished, the lower part of the face being completely hidden by moustaches and a heavy beard of the same color as the hair on his cap.

[A] A thick woollen cloak, with a hood.

All these details formed a most unprepossessing whole, and gave the man the aspect of a porcupine.

But one was taken by surprise when there came from that bearded face, instead of a harsh and threatening voice, a soft, almost melodious sound; there was in the bandit's speech something mellow and vibrating, which, with a rather pronounced Italian accent, gave it a decided charm.

Léodgard raised his head and was completely taken aback when he saw this individual standing in front of him; but, instead of complying with his suggestion and refraining from putting his purse away, he instantly withdrew his arm, replaced the gold in his belt, and, stepping back, scrutinized the robber; who stood quietly in his place and submitted to the examination, like one who was in no hurry at all and was content to await the convenience of the traveller he proposed to plunder.

"Pardieu! I cannot be mistaken," cried Léodgard, after a moment; "you are the famous Giovanni, the Italian robber, but lately arrived in France, who has already filled Paris with the fame of his exploits, his audacity, and, above all, his address!"

The man in the olive-green caftan bent his head slightly, replying in a flute-like voice, as if highly flattered by the compliment:

"Yes, signor, I am he."

"Ah! By my faith, I do not regret the meeting! Since the beginning of the winter, I have heard so much of you and your prowess, Master Giovanni, that I have more than once longed to make your acquaintance. For you are no ordinary robber—everybody does you that justice; you are ceremonious and well-mannered, and, it is said, very agreeable to the persons you rob. That is a decided change for us; our French thieves are so vulgar, such pitiful wretches! Come, since chance has served me so well to-night, let us talk a little. Have you a few moments to give me before we decide the fate of this purse?"

"I shall be very glad to talk with you, signor; I have time enough, for yours is the last business I shall do to-night."

"And it will not be the most profitable for you, I warn you, Giovanni; for I am not in the mood to give up my purse to you; it is too well filled for that!"

The robber's only reply was a satirical laugh.

Léodgard de Marvejols had found a stone, on which he seated himself; Giovanni remained standing with arms folded, and the conversation began.

"Why did you leave your beautiful Italy to come to France? Would you not be more at ease in the vast plains that surround Rome, or on the slopes of the Pausilippo, or lying lazily beside the blue sea that bathes the feet of Naples, than in this dark and filthy street, beneath this gray sky, in this cold mist which chills us to the bone as it clings to our garments?"

"The sky of Italy is beautiful, signor, but love of change lies deep in the heart of man."

"That is true; I grant you that. Moreover, since the days of Queen Catherine de' Medici, of sinister memory, it seems that all Italians have agreed to meet in Paris. We see your compatriots everywhere—at court, in the city, in exalted positions, in the finances. The Italians have brought us poisons,—with the way to make use of them,—the art of telling fortunes by cards, of reading the stars, of learning the future.—I try in vain to think what they have given us in exchange for all this——"

"Music, signor."

"Ah! to be sure: music! They do, in fact, sing better than we do; but, frankly, I do not think that that makes the balance even. I should have supposed that Concini's tragic end would have allayed to some extent the ardor of your compatriots for living in Paris. But I see that it is not so, and that we have not yet seen the last of the Italians."

"One finds much to entertain one in France, signor."

"That must needs be so, since everybody desires to come here!—But tell me,—for your manners and language seem to denote a man of some education, and that you are not such a devil as you seek to appear, with that shocking cap, in which you probably disguise yourself for a purpose,—what train of events has led you to adopt the hazardous profession in which you are now so famous? Do you feel disposed to tell me?—For my own part, I confess that I am very curious to know your adventures, assuming that you are not resolved to keep them secret."

"Mon Dieu! signor, I am ready to gratify you: the events of my life are very simple—like those that come to multitudes of young men in all lands. I am the son of a most respectable physician of Florence; indeed, my father had amassed some wealth; he desired to make me a dottore like himself, but I had not the slightest calling for the medical profession. By way of compensation, I had a decided calling for gambling, the joys of love, and of the table. I played, and contracted debts. At first, my father paid them; but in time he tired of paying money for me; he besought me to abandon the sort of life I was leading. Que diavolo!—it was too late, the twig was bent! I allowed myself to be led astray by fellows to whom all means of procuring money were justifiable. I left Florence, I changed my name, from regard for my family, and I followed the current. One travels rapidly on that road! As I was dexterous and fearless, I soon left behind all those whose imitator I had been. I became famous at Naples, at Rome, at Milan, throughout Italy. But my description was spread broadcast, and, in spite of the care with which I concealed my features, I was obliged to leave my native land. Then it was that I came to France, to Paris, where I have been plying my trade for six months, in the teeth of the watch, and despite the efforts of the police and of monsieur le cardinal's bloodhounds. However, I will confess to you in confidence that I have as yet found no one among all your lovely Frenchwomen comparable to the pretty girls of Florence and Milan. I have left some tender memories in those cities. Indeed, I would stake my head that I am not yet entirely forgotten there; and on my own part—but, pardon me! I am too loquacious, I abuse your patience.—That is my story, signor; as you see, there is nothing very extraordinary in it."

While listening to the robber, Léodgard had become gloomy and pensive; his head had fallen on his breast, and it was difficult to say whether he was still listening or was lost in thought.

Giovanni, having for some moments refrained from disturbing the silence of the young man to whom he had related his adventures, said at last:

"I beg pardon, signor; I have told you what you wished to know, but the night is hastening, and I must soon think of returning to my lair. So, give me your purse, and I will take leave of you."

"Have you any companions, any confederates?" asked Léodgard abruptly, without answering the robber.

"No, indeed; I am no such fool! I work alone, and I am the better for so doing. If I had had confederates, I should have been caught long ago! As you must know, in all ranks of society, a man is never betrayed, except by his own people. Come, my young gentleman, let us finish our business. I know that this street abounds in memories, and that it is well worth while to pause and consider it. A few steps from here, during the night of June 13, 1392, the Connétable Olivier de Clisson, coming from the Hôtel Saint-Pol, where he had supped with the king, was treacherously assaulted and murdered by Pierre de Craon, chamberlain and favorite of the Duc d'Orléans, brother of King Charles VI. By a most fortunate chance, Clisson wore a coat of mail under his clothes; he received more than sixty sword and knife thrusts which did not reach his body; but he was finally wounded in the head and thrown from his horse; he fell against the door of a baker's shop, which was ajar, and his assassins took flight."

"Malpeste! Giovanni, so you know our history too!" said Léodgard, apparently taking pleasure in listening to the brigand.

"And why not, signor? I have told you that I am the son of a dottore!—And that Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, which you have just left—I have been following you for some time, you see—that Rue des Francs-Bourgeois will always figure in your annals. There it was that two miserable wretches lived toward the close of the last century—two poor brothers, beggars, in short, who possessed the talent of imitating perfectly the baying of a pack of hounds and the notes of a number of hunting horns. Certain leaders of the League formed the plan of using those beggars to lead your King Henri IV into a trap, knowing his passion for the chase. One day when the king was enjoying that sport in the forest of Vincennes, the noise of a pack of hounds, of horns, and of hunters, very distant at first, suddenly drew near; a black man, forcing his way through the underbrush, appeared before Henri IV and said to him in an awe-inspiring voice: 'Did you hear me?'—But neither the king nor any one of his train ventured to follow that man, who, it is said, was to have hurled a lance at the king if he had tried to come up with him. And all this was the work of the Leaguers and of the two beggars from Rue des Francs-Bourgeois!"

"By my faith, Master Giovanni, you have told me something that I did not know!—Pray go on; I see that one cannot fail to profit by your conversation."

"I am extremely sorry, my young gentleman, but I can talk no longer. As I reminded you just now, the hastening night forces me to retire, for I know that my description is so well known that it is impossible for me to show myself by daylight in this costume."

"Aha! that means that you have another for the sunlight? Pardieu! you are wise, for this one is very well known. Those persons who have had dealings with you have not failed to draw your portrait. I have already heard of this olive-green robe de chambre, so to speak, and of this horrible hairy cap."

"In that case, signor, you will understand that it is time for me to disappear."

"Very well! go! what prevents you? You have been too courteous to me for me to seek to cause your arrest. No, no! that would be a downright felony on my part!"

"In that case, signor, add to your complaisance the favor of handing me your purse, and I will go at once."

"My purse!" rejoined Léodgard, with a slight contraction of his heavy eyebrows; "you shall not have it! I told you that I would keep it. But as I do not wish to have made you talk for nothing, I will give you two pretty rose crowns."

"No, my young gentleman; I cannot assent to that bargain; I have told you that I must have your purse just as it is, and have it I will!"

"Come, then, and take it!"

As he spoke, Léodgard sprang to his feet and quickly drew his sword; then he glanced at Giovanni as if to defy him. The Italian did not show the slightest excitement, but simply shook his head, murmuring:

"Oh! I knew that the young Comte Léodgard de Marvejols was a gallant youth!"

"Ah! you know me, do you?"

"Per Dio! Do I not always know those whom I address? Otherwise I should run the risk of wasting my time by attacking poor devils without a sou!"

"But you might often have found me in that condition."

"I know that too; but to-night you played lansquenet at the Sire de Jarnonville's, and luck smiled upon you; that is why I attacked you."

"Clearly, you add to your other talents that of being a sorcerer. All Italians smell of the stake!"

"I should regret extremely, signor, to resort to my weapons; surely you must have been told that that is not my habit! I must always be driven to it. But if you do not give up your purse with a good grace——"

"No, a thousand times no! Do you expect to frighten me, I wonder?"

Giovanni gave the young count hardly time to finish his sentence; he drew his broad sword, and, leaping upon his adversary with a rapidity and address which left him no time to attack, in a few seconds he had sent Léodgard's gleaming rapier flying through the air; and placing the point of his weapon against the young nobleman's breast, with his left hand he swiftly took the purse from his belt, saying, with a slight movement of the head:

"You see, my young gentleman, it was not worth while to go through so many forms!"

And in an instant the brigand had vanished.

As for Léodgard, thoroughly ashamed of his discomfiture, he stood as if stupefied, and could only mutter:

"Beaten! beaten by that Giovanni!—Ah! I will have my revenge!"

III
THE BATH KEEPERS

In the days of royal licenses, when the grocers and apothecaries formed but a single guild, it was the same with the barbers and surgeons.

In the year 1620, forty-eight patents had been granted to barbiers-baigneurs-étuvistes, who were perruquiers following the court. Later, their number was largely increased.

The right to keep hot or cold baths was specially attached to the guild of master perruquiers.

A fashionable bathing establishment, with both hot and cold baths, stood on Rue Saint-Jacques, near the corner of Rue des Mathurins. From a long distance one could see its basins, painted a light blue as the ordinance required; and over the door were these words in huge letters:

BEARDS PROPERLY SHAVED WITHIN; HOT AND COLD BATHS

At this time the price of a bath varied from six to twelve livres [francs]; and when we consider that a livre then was worth almost three times as much as to-day, we must agree that there is a vast difference between that price and the price in our modern bathing establishments, where one obtains five tickets for three francs. The result is a great improvement in respect to health and cleanliness, for everybody cannot go to the river to bathe.

What did the poor people do in those days; for six livres was an enormous sum to them?

If, in the good old times, a bath was such an expensive luxury, on the other hand, the houses where they were supplied bore a very bad reputation; they were, it is said, places of assignation for lewd women, who, because of their rank or condition, were obliged to try to cloak their evil conduct.

Many preachers thundered from the pulpit against these places, which had been adorned with an honest name.

Maillard, in sermons noteworthy for their power and their crudity of expression, said, as he declaimed against the scandal caused by these establishments:

"Mesdames, do not go to the baths, and do not do there what I need not name!"

Sauval tells us that the baths continued their existence for a long time; people did not cease to frequent them until the end of the seventeenth century. They had become so common then that a person could hardly take a step without passing one.

Let us return to our shop on Rue Saint-Jacques. It was kept by a stout old fellow of some fifty years, as strong and bright and active as a young man, whose name was Hugonnet. He was a red-faced compère, hasty of speech and of gesture; his round, full, rubicund face exhaled health and good humor; his little round gray eyes had a slightly mischievous expression; his chin was beginning to become double, and his hair to turn gray; but Master Hugonnet worried little about that; so long as his place was well patronized, whether it was resorted to by cavaliers, bachelors, esquires, courtiers, people from the city, or even from the country, mattered little to him, if the customers paid promptly; for after a profitable day, the bath keeper rarely failed to go to the nearest wine shop, to regale and enjoy himself, whence he commonly returned home tipsy; he called it having "a little point."

The peculiar feature of Master Hugonnet's intoxication was that it totally changed his disposition; and instead of intensifying his passions and his vices, as wine so generally does, it endowed him with qualities of which no one would ever have suspected him when he was sober, and deprived him entirely of those which distinguished him in his normal condition.—For instance, the bath keeper was far from patient; he lost his temper easily, was quick to quarrel, would never give way, and was always ready to fight. To be sure, when blows had once been exchanged, Hugonnet bore his adversary no malice, and would soon be laughing and drinking with him. But in his cups the old fellow became as gentle and timid as a child; disposed to do what anyone desired, he was easily moved to compassion for the misfortunes of his neighbor; and if anyone told him some pitiful tale, it was no uncommon thing to see him weep, and disturb the neighborhood by his groans as he stumbled home. That always indicated that the libations had been copious, the bumpers frequent, and that the bath keeper was completely drunk.

Hugonnet was a widower and had but one child, a daughter, who, when our tale opens, had just reached her eighteenth year. Ambroisine was a fine girl, tall and strong, well set up and shapely. Her foot was not very small, but her calf was symmetrical and of good size; her hand might have been smaller, more tapering, but it was pink and white, and plump.

Her bearing and her gestures were somewhat brusque at times, and gave her rather too disdainful an air; but her smile was so frank and pleasant that it excused any possible rudeness in her manner to persons who did not know her well.

Ambroisine was very good-looking; her hair was as black as jet; her dark brown eyes were neither too large nor too small, and were amply fringed by long lashes of the color of her hair; she fastened them with perfect self-possession upon the person with whom she was speaking; but although they did not express the ordinary shyness of a girl of her years, they were so compassionate to the wretched, so amiable in joy, so fiery in wrath, that they were always fine eyes.

A mouth somewhat large, but well supplied with teeth, lips a little heavy, but ruddy and smiling, a round chin, a high, white forehead, and eyebrows clearly marked without being too thick—such was the daughter of Master Hugonnet, who was usually spoken of in the Quartier Saint-Jacques as La Belle Baigneuse.

Ambroisine's charms undoubtedly had much to do with the popularity of her father's establishment.

Master Hugonnet's house was never empty; it was the rendezvous of young noblemen, of the king's arquebusiers and halberdiers, of lordlings, of country squires and students, of men of the sword and men of the pen, of law clerks of the Basoche, and sometimes of a royal princess's pages.

The ladies who came to the baths—and we have already said that there were many of them—liked to be waited upon, cared for, and dressed by Ambroisine, who was quick, active, skilful, and acquitted herself of her task with a charming good humor which made it a pleasure to employ her.

It is probable that among all the young sparks and popinjays who came to Master Hugonnet's, more than one would have been equally glad to obtain the services of the daughter of the house; but they were obliged to do without them, for La Belle Baigneuse naturally was at the orders of the ladies only. Still, when there was a crowd in the barber's shop clamoring for the good offices of his razor and his comb, Ambroisine, who could shave a beard as surely and rapidly as her father, sometimes consented to lend him a hand, and to attend to the needs of one of the cavaliers who were waiting to be put in trim. The man for whom she offered to perform that service always accepted it as a favor, and strove to impart to his face a most seductive expression; and he never failed thereafter to proclaim all over the city that he had been shaved by Master Hugonnet's daughter, while everyone gazed enviously at the chin which La Belle Baigneuse had lathered.

But such opportunities were rare. Ambroisine was too much occupied with the baths to be often in her father's shop. And he loved his daughter too well ever to require her to do anything against her will. In vain did the young coxcombs, nay, even the great nobles, say to the barber:

"Shall we not see your daughter to-day, Master Hugonnet?" or: "Messire barbier, I have been awaiting my turn a long while, pray send for the fair Ambroisine to shave me"; or "By my sword! I would gladly pay double to be shaved by her!"

To all these and many other like remarks, the good-natured gossip would reply simply:

"My lords, I am in despair that I am unable to gratify you; but my daughter is engaged with some ladies who are pleased to patronize my baths. I have two young men there; but to wait on the fair sex I have only my daughter, who is sufficient for the task, because she is fortunately endowed; and because she does in a few moments the work that would take others an hour. Oh! she is a girl in a thousand, is my Ambroisine! And as for shaving you, I know that she would do that perfectly, too; she is my pupil! Such a sure, light, quick hand! Never has she cut the skin of any man's chin, and yet even I have sometimes done that! it may happen to the most skilful. But, I tell you again, Ambroisine is at the orders of none but the ladies of all ranks who choose to come to my establishment to take baths; and, frankly, that is more suitable. When I see her shaving a gentleman with the dexterity and self-possession which distinguish her, I am proud of my pupil! But, on the other hand, I am humiliated to see her do that work, and I say to myself: 'By Notre-Dame de Paris! this is no place for my daughter!'—Moreover, you have little hesitation in making gallant speeches to her, in saying obscene things.—However, I am not disturbed! If Ambroisine cares to laugh sometimes,—and in our profession one would be very foolish to be too surly,—she is well able none the less to keep in their place those who presume to take too many liberties. My daughter is a determined wench, I tell you; she has a hand as quick and a fist as solid as her father's! And woe to those who take the risk of having it proved to them!"

By such harangues did Master Hugonnet reply to the young men who displayed a too ardent desire to see his daughter. As a general rule, the students, the country gentlemen, and the simple esquires listened to reason; but it was not always so with the young nobles, who considered themselves at liberty to do anything, because they were received at court, and because the lieutenant of police closed his eyes too often to their escapades. When one of them had taken it into his head that he would see Ambroisine, all that the barber could say to convince him that that might not be was of no avail, and sometimes was received in bad part.

But although he was very glad to have noble customers, Master Hugonnet was not of a humor to endure the impertinences of any man whatsoever; the marquis, no less than the humble bachelor, felt the effects of his wrath. And when a young gentleman seemed disposed to take up his abode in his shop, saying:

"I will not go away until I have seen the fair Ambroisine!"

The barber would shout in stentorian tones:

"Well! you shall not see her, triple savonnette! there's no law to compel her to be at your beck and call!"

But the sonorous voice of Master Hugonnet would reach the ears of Ambroisine, who, divining from her father's tone that he was in a passion, would at once leave her work and run to the shop, to put an end to the dispute.

At sight of the girl, the person who had caused all the uproar would begin to laugh and would exclaim, with a bantering glance at the barber:

"I told you that I would not go away without a sight of the charming Ambroisine! I have succeeded, you see!"

Whereupon Master Hugonnet would look sheepish; but a word or two from his daughter would speedily allay his anger, and more than one among the witnesses of the scene would resolve to employ the same method when he wished to see La Belle Baigneuse.

Now that we are acquainted with Master Hugonnet's house and household, we must pay a visit to the establishment of another bath keeper, on Rue Dauphine. That street, which had been laid out twenty years earlier, on the site of the garden of the Augustinians and of the buildings of the Collège Saint-Denis, was already lined by fine houses, and had an air of refinement and a class of inhabitants in striking contrast to Quartier Saint-Jacques.

IV
BATHILDE

The baths on Rue Dauphine were kept by one Landry. He was a man of sixty, but still vigorous and robust, despite his gray moustache, which he wore very long. By his soldierly bearing and the way he carried his head, one could divine that he had seen military service. And Landry was, in fact, an ex-soldier. He had fought under Henri IV, whose name he never mentioned without carrying the back of his right hand to his forehead, or without manifesting his emotion by the change in his voice.

At the great king's death, Landry, then thirty-six years of age, had left the service. Later, although his face was scarred, his martial set-up and his military gait had fascinated Dame Ragonde, a widow with a small hoard. She had married Landry, and they had obtained, by purchase, a license to keep hot and cold baths.

Landry was a tall, thin, stiff individual. He had an uncommunicative air, and his long gray moustache tended to make his expression even less inviting. However, Master Landry was not a bad-tempered man. He had never been known to seek a quarrel with anyone; and when quarrels arose among his neighbors, it was usually he who intervened to restore peace. It is true that his voice was strong and that his moustache produced an imposing effect on the vulgar.

He performed his duties as bath keeper and barber with the scrupulous exactness which old soldiers retain in civil life with respect to everything that they consider a duty. But it was not wise to speak ill of Henri IV or of his minister Sully in the old soldier's presence. When such a thing occurred, a sudden change would take place in the whole aspect of the man; usually calm and cold, he would become as quick to explode as powder; his blood would boil anew with all the fervor of his younger days; and the unhappy wight who had presumed to utter a word derogatory to his idols would be chastised before he had time to apologize.

But such episodes were likely to be very infrequent, for the memory of good King Henri was held in too great veneration by Frenchmen for anyone to venture to impugn it.

Dame Ragonde, the bath keeper's wife, was fifteen years younger than her husband, but she seemed almost as old as he.

She was a tall, thin, yellow-skinned woman. Had she ever been pretty? That she had been seemed more than doubtful. Her small, pale-green eyes were very bright, but they had an arrogant—yes, evil expression; they were eyes of the sort that seem never to look in any direction with any other purpose than that of finding something to blame, to reprove, or to forbid. Her long nose, hooked at the end like a parrot's, made her resemble in some degree a bird of prey. And her thin, bloodless, tightly closed lips seemed destined to open only to emit harsh or bitter words.

Since the day of her marriage to Landry, her second husband, nobody remembered having seen Dame Ragonde smile; indeed, it was not certain that she smiled on that day.

Her voice was shrill and piercing, her words always short and sharp; this fact, by the way, was creditable to the lady; she was no gossip and never said a word more than she had to say.

Who would have guessed that of that union between a man who was not handsome and a woman who was downright ugly a daughter would be born who would prove to be a veritable model of beauty, grace, and charm?

Such, nevertheless, was Bathilde, the only child of Landry and Ragonde.

At eighteen, her beauty had reached its perfect development: she was one of those types which painters delight to find, when they wish to paint a virgin, an angel, or a demon of temptation.

Bathilde was blond, but the tint was not one of those dull blonds in which there is a reflection of white; her long, thick, silky hair verged rather on the chestnut. Her skin had that whiteness in which there is life, and not that dull tone which imparts an aspect of inanition to a living person. On the contrary, the lovely girl's cheeks had a rosy tinge; and at the slightest word of reproof that was addressed to her, they at once became a most brilliant carmine. Large, deep-blue eyes, almond shaped, and shaded by long chestnut lashes; a small, fresh, red-lipped mouth; irreproachable teeth of dazzling whiteness; a chin slightly oval in shape; fine, but clearly marked eyebrows; a noble, beautiful brow, over which thick curls seemed proud to be placed.

Such was Bathilde, who possessed, in addition, a slender, lithe, dainty figure, a remarkably small foot, and a hand worthy to serve as a model.

But a mere enumeration of her advantages affords but a faint idea of the fascination of that young girl, of the charm with which her whole person was instinct, of the sweet melody of her voice, and of the pleasure that one felt in hearing it.

Sometimes one remains unmoved before the most unexceptionable beauty; for that which attracts and captivates us is not so much the perfection of the features, the regularity of the outlines of a face, as its amiable and gracious expression—a second element of beauty which many times exerts more power than the first; but when the two are combined, when nature has endowed a single woman with both, then it is that it is very difficult to avoid losing one's heart and one's reason.

And that lovely, graceful, fascinating girl was the daughter of Landry and Dame Ragonde!

Nature sometimes indulges in such strange whims. Do we not see flowers whose perfume intoxicates us and whose gorgeous colors dazzle our eyes, blooming upon stunted, thorny stalks?

As Bathilde's beauty would have attracted too many gallants, too many seducers, to Master Landry's shop, the girl never appeared there, nor did she wait upon the ladies who patronized her father's baths.

Bathilde had been brought up very strictly; almost always confined to her bedroom, which did not look on the street, the girl never went out except with her mother; and then a long veil, attached to her hood, covered almost the whole of her face, leaving nothing in sight save the end of her nose. If the sweet girl ventured to disarrange the veil and to expose one of her pink and white cheeks to the air for a moment, Dame Ragonde would instantly exclaim in her shrill, harsh voice:

"Your veil! your veil! Take care!"

Bathilde knew what that meant, and would hasten to swathe her lovely face anew.

Certainly, if Master Landry had desired that his establishment should be besieged by crowds of customers, he could easily have gratified his wish: nothing more would have been necessary than to allow his daughter to come to the shop now and then. Bathilde's beauty would have made a sensation, the court and the city would have been stirred to their depths, everyone would have desired to know that plebeian chef-d'œuvre, and, with the inevitable vogue of his place of business, the bath keeper's fortune would have been assured.

But in this respect Bathilde's parents proved that their own honor and their child's virtue were to them treasures more precious than gold.

Some neighbors, knowing how strictly Bathilde had been brought up, said, and with some show of reason, that a mother should be able to watch over her daughter without converting her house into a prison. That to keep a child from knowledge of the world was not the way to protect her from the dangers that are encountered there at every step; and that it was downright barbarity to deprive a girl of all the pleasures suited to her years because it had pleased the Creator to endow her with all those physical qualities which charm and fascinate.

If these or other similar remarks reached Dame Ragonde's ears, it is probable that she paid little heed to them and that they made little impression on her. Immovable in her determination, impassible in her nature, rigorous in her conduct, she made no change whatever in her methods with her daughter.

And as for Master Landry, although he loved Bathilde dearly and was very proud of her, he looked upon his wife as the general whose duty it was to manage the internal economy of his household. As such general, he obeyed her promptly, reserving to himself only the command of the two apprentices employed in his baths.

However, Landry's establishment was prosperous, as were almost all the baths of those days, because they were very few in number.

The neighborhood of Rue Dauphine, which was less thickly populated than Rue Saint-Jacques, already contained some noble mansions and fine houses, occupied by magistrates, members of the Parliament, men of the robe, and rich annuitants. Moreover, the proximity of the Pré-aux-Clercs, which was still a favorite promenade, although some buildings were beginning to be erected there, contributed to attract to Master Landry's baths a more distinguished and more fashionable clientèle, better society, in a word, than the ordinary patrons of his confrère, Master Hugonnet.

Furthermore, although the fascinating Bathilde was concealed from prying eyes, beauty spreads about it a perfume which causes its presence to be divined, and which attracts connoisseurs, even though they are destined to have nothing to show for their pains.

Despite all the precautions taken by Dame Ragonde, she could not prevent her neighbors from talking; they repeated, to whoever chose to listen, that Master Landry had a daughter more beautiful than the marvellous princesses of the Thousand and One Nights; that her surpassing beauty was the reason that her father and mother concealed her from all eyes, because they feared that somebody would take her away from them; and that they destined her for some wealthy foreign prince.

Others declared, on the contrary, that Master Landry's daughter was a monster of ugliness and deformity, and that it was to shelter the poor girl from the ridicule which was certain to be poured out upon her that they were careful to keep her out of sight.

This last version, however, obtained little credence. As a general rule, people do not take so many precautions with an ugly girl, or keep such close watch over one who has no reason to fear the enterprises of gallants.

Mystery always arouses curiosity, and the veil in which Dame Ragonde swathed Bathilde's face intensified the general desire to see it. Extremes are dangerous in everything: the man who puts too many bolts on his door arouses a suspicion that he possesses a treasure.

Chance had brought Landry and his confrère Hugonnet together. One evening, when the latter was returning home, as usual, after a merry evening over the bottle at a wine shop recently opened in the Cité, at some distance from his house, he lost his way. Alone, late at night, the barber wandered for a long while through the dark and muddy lanes which were then called streets, feeling his way along the walls, seeking his own door, and cursing because he did not find it.

Two men, emerging suddenly from a blind alley, walked toward the drunken man, who at once asked them to direct him. But he had applied to a pair of vagabonds, whose only reply was to set about robbing Master Hugonnet of his purse, his cloak, his great fur cap—in fact, of a large part of his clothes. At the outset, as a result of his intoxication, which entirely changed his disposition, Hugonnet placidly allowed himself to be stripped, thinking that he had to do with unfortunate creatures who needed all those things for their families. But one of the marauders having been so imprudent as to strike him on the head, the blow, by sobering the barber, instantly changed the face of affairs. Restored to his senses, and realizing with what manner of men he had to do, he defended himself stoutly; he dealt the two robbers some lusty blows, and they, irritated at meeting with such stubborn resistance from an intoxicated man, were already brandishing the daggers which they proposed to use, when Master Landry appeared upon the stage of this nocturnal attack.

To draw the rapier which he always carried under his cloak, to rush to the assistance of the man who was beset, to attack the two robbers with cut and thrust, to put them to flight, and to restore to Master Hugonnet his cloak, which had fallen to the ground—all this was the affair of a moment for the old trooper of Henri IV.

Hugonnet, completely sobered by the combat, offered Landry his hand and exclaimed:

"Vertudieu! I am inclined to think, comrade, that but for you those scoundrels would have made me pass a bad quarter of an hour!"

"I thank heaven that I arrived in time to offer you my assistance!"

"Sapristi! you went about it in the right way. You seemed to be at home! How you handle your sword! I think that my knaves went off with the marks you made on them."

"It would be a great pity if I did not know how to fight. When one has had the honor of serving under the great Henri IV; when one has fought under him at Arques and Ivry——"

"Do you say that you served with the good king who wanted all his subjects to have a fowl to put in the pot? Shake hands! I am doubly happy to have met you; and, with your permission, I consider myself from this moment one of your friends."

"With all my heart, for you too are a brave man; I saw that by the way you defended yourself against those cutthroats. And yet, you had no weapons."

"Well! I did my best. Besides—I can afford to confess it, now that it's all over—those thieves surprised me rather easily, because I was a little—er—tipsy. I was on my way home from a new wine shop just opened in the Cité. The wine was good—it always is good in a new place—and we did not spare it. When I set out to go home, I missed my way—for the devil take me if I know where I am now!"

"At the Carrefour de Bussy; see, this is the street leading from the Porte de Bussy to the Pré-aux-Clercs."

"In God's name, what road did I take?—I, who live on Rue Saint-Jacques, corner of Rue des Mathurins, where I have baths, hot and cold—Master Hugonnet, at your service; for it is right that you should know whose life you have saved."

"You are a bath keeper?—Pardieu! this is a strange meeting! I, too, am one—Master Landry, Rue Dauphine, near Quai Conti."

"Is it possible!—you are the bath keeper on Rue Dauphine? I have heard of you.—You have a wife, I am a widower. You have a daughter, and so have I. How old is yours?"

"Twelve years."

"So is mine. Parbleu! confrère, our daughters must be friends, as their fathers will be; are you willing?"

"Shake hands, ventre-saint-gris! as our good king used to say."

The two bath keepers shook hands once more. Landry started Hugonnet on the right road, and they returned to their respective homes.

This meeting took place about five years before the time at which our tale opens. Bathilde and Ambroisine were still children; people took little notice of them, for we do not pause to consider whether little girls of twelve are likely to be very beautiful some day. We prefer, and wisely, to wait until they have become so, before ogling them.

Dame Ragonde's surveillance was naturally less active then; being still a mere child, Bathilde enjoyed some liberty. So she was allowed to see her new friend, for Master Hugonnet did not fail to pay a visit to his confrère.

Landry was not expansive; he was not a frequenter of wine shops, and never drank too much; but when he had pressed anyone's hand in token of friendship, that person might be sure that he could rely upon the old soldier's assistance, upon his arm, under all circumstances.

Dame Ragonde had not looked with great pleasure upon this new intimacy contracted by her husband; but she knew that it would be useless for her to try to break it up. Landry was not one of those weathercocks who change their sentiments and affections according to the advice that is given them. The husband and wife each had a will of iron. A concession once made, neither of them attempted to encroach on the other's rights; it was doubtless to this mutual respect for each other's rights and each other's will that they were indebted for the peace which reigned in their household.

The two little girls very soon learned to love each other; there was between them just that difference in humor, in spirit, in temperament, which attracts and binds together, and leads to those strong and lasting attachments which defy time and the blows of fortune.—Observe that we are speaking of friendship, not of love. As to the last-named sentiment, we have never known an instance of it which resisted the slightest test of its strength, when that test was applied with skill!

That which people are pleased to call sympathy cannot be the similitude between two natures. For, put together two gossips, two testy or obstinate or irascible, quarrelsome and satirical characters, and see whether they will love each other, whether they will be able to live together. There would be a constant state of war.

On the contrary, nature created the strong to support the weak, patience to allay irascibility, gentleness to appease wrath, gayety to charm away melancholy.

Bathilde was shy and timid; she trembled at the slightest sharp word, and her gentle and affectionate nature was more inclined to melancholy than to gayety.

Ambroisine was of a very different temperament: active, merry, thoughtless, often angry; she said fearlessly whatever came into her head; frankness lay at the foundation of her character; her heart was susceptible, but it did not like to be sad for long. With her the tears came quickly and disappeared no less quickly.

When Bathilde seemed to be unhappy, when her lovely eyes seemed to express some hidden grief, her little friend would say to her:

"Somebody has been cross to you, I am sure. I can see that you have been crying. Tell me who made you cry, and I will go to him and make him come here and beg your pardon."

But Bathilde would simply look down and murmur:

"It was my mother."

"Did you do anything naughty?" Ambroisine would inquire.

"I asked her if I might go to see you soon."

Ambroisine would not dare to say anything more, but she would turn her head aside and furtively wipe away the tears that stood in her eyes; then she would again look at her friend, seize both her hands, and make her dance around the room, crying:

"You mustn't think about that any more!"

When the girls had reached their fourteenth year, Dame Ragonde began to think that Ambroisine was too lively, too mischievous, too self-willed, and that her companionship might be dangerous for her daughter; she would no longer allow her daughter to go to see her friend under the escort of a servant; she alleged as an excuse the necessity that Bathilde should study; and when Ambroisine came to see her, Dame Ragonde never left them together; she was always by to prevent those affectionate confidences which she believed to be dangerous. Her presence, her stern manner, her curt speech, froze Bathilde's heart, and she forced back those impulsive outbursts of affection which she would have liked to lavish on Ambroisine. But the latter, although disappointed at being unable to chat at her ease with little Bathilde, retained in Dame Ragonde's presence her playful humor, her vivacity, her frankness, and she often found a way to bring a smile to her young friend's lips.

And so, as soon as Master Hugonnet's daughter had left the house, Bathilde's mother never failed to exclaim:

"What an ill-bred child that is! What a bold-faced creature she will be some day! But, patience: I will put this matter to rights."

And as the girls grew older, they were allowed to see each other less and less. On Bathilde's side, the surveillance to which she was subjected became more minute; she seldom went out, and she paid no more visits. At Master Hugonnet's, on the other hand, Ambroisine, when she grew tall and strong, was placed by her father at the head of the establishment; and as a great many people came to the baths, she had little time left to give to friendship.

But as soon as Ambroisine had a moment to herself, she hastened to Rue Dauphine, to exchange a clasp of the hand with her friend.

Sometimes Dame Ragonde, who also had to overlook her apprentices and her servants, was busy at the baths, and Bathilde was alone in her bedroom. Then, what joy for the two friends! with what ardor they took advantage of that moment of liberty! for the older they grew, the more interesting their conversations became. At seventeen, two girls have other things to say to each other than at twelve or thirteen. It is useless to keep them sequestered all the time—they will always have something interesting to tell each other.

Ambroisine especially, who was entirely her own mistress, was certain to have very many things to tell. And so, when a lucky accident enabled the two girls to exchange their thoughts, they would hardly take the time to embrace; questions and answers succeeded one another with astounding rapidity.

"Your mother isn't here? What luck!"

"What a long time it is since I saw you!"

"We are always so busy at home!"

"I am so bored!"

"I haven't a moment to myself during the day; such a lot of fine ladies come to bathe!"

"It's the same way here; but I am not allowed to wait on them."

"I wait on them; I dress them when they don't bring their servants, and that very often happens—they prefer to come alone; I don't know why—or rather, yes, I think that I can guess why."

"Oh! tell me, Ambroisine!"

"No, no, it isn't worth while! Besides, I am not sure; it is just an idea of mine."

"Tell me your idea, please, Ambroisine! Mon Dieu! if you don't tell me anything, if you don't teach me a little, how do you expect me to know anything, when I am always shut up in this room and only go downstairs to dinner; when I see nobody but my father and mother, who hardly ever speak to me? Why do the fine ladies prefer to come to the baths alone?"

"Why, you see, I do not quite know how to tell you.—But, no matter! what difference does it make, after all? Many cavaliers, young men, come to the baths also."

"So they do here, but I never see them. Do you see them?"

"Sometimes—when I go down to the shop, and when I help father; for I know how to shave, I do; I can shave very well when I set about it."

"What! you shave—men?"

"Well! I surely don't shave women, as they have no beards."

"Oh! what a lucky girl you are! what fun that must be!—Do you really dare to take a man by the chin?"

"Well, why not? I assure you that it doesn't frighten me; indeed, I must not be frightened, for if my hand shook I should shave badly and cut the customer.—Don't tell your mother this; for she thinks now that I am too bold."

"Oh! there is no danger of that!"

"To be sure, it may be that my father tells yours."

"Yes; but my father will never say a word to my mother about it—they talk so little!—But these cavaliers whom you shave—they speak to you, I suppose?"

"To be sure—and those whom I don't shave speak to me, too; indeed, I never know whom to answer, for as soon as I go down to the shop they are all after me."

"And you are not afraid?"

"Not a bit; what do you suppose I am afraid of?"

"Indeed, I don't know! but my mother tells me that a young girl runs so much risk when she listens to a man; and you, who listen to more than one, must run a much greater risk!"

"But nothing happens to me, you see! for when the young gentlemen presume to do things that are not nice, or make too—too gallant remarks to me, why, it doesn't take me long to send them about their business!"

"What are the too gallant remarks, and the things that are not nice?"

"Mon Dieu! must I tell you everything? It is strange that you know nothing!"

"Where, then, do you suppose that I can learn anything?"

"The too gallant remarks—those are when men tell us that we are pretty or attractive—that they love us, that they adore us."

"Oh! but it must be nice to have that said to you! Is it necessary to be angry? what a pity!"

"One must be very angry when they add: 'Love me, I implore you; reciprocate my love, give me your heart; I will be faithful to you!'—and a lot of oaths, of which they don't mean a word!"

"Ah! do you think that they don't mean a word of them? In that case, why do they say them?"

"Because it amuses them. But if we listened to them, they would say much more."

"And the things that are not nice?"

"That is when these fine fellows presume to suit the action to the word. The ones who do that are the boldest; they take your hand, and, while pretending to admire it, they don't hesitate to kiss it; or they put an arm about your waist, and, if they can catch you napping, they try to kiss you."

"What! are there men so presumptuous as that?"

"Indeed there are! the presumptuous ones are much more numerous than the respectful ones; that is a great pity, for if it were not so——"

"Well?"

"Why, one might talk with them a little."

"Have they ever tried to kiss you?"

"Yes, indeed, and more than once; but I know how to defend myself. I box their ears, and I don't do it with any gentle hand, either."

"What! you box your customers' ears?"

"When the customers make too free with me; but no matter how well you defend yourself, sometimes you cannot escape the kiss."

"Have you ever been kissed, Ambroisine?"

"Mon Dieu! yes! some of those little pages are so quick, and some of the young nobles so audacious! There is one in particular, Comte Léodgard de Marvejols—you must have heard of him?"

"I! why, you forget that I hear nothing, see nothing, know nothing!—What about Comte Léodgard?"

"Oh! he's a terrible scapegrace, I tell you! a rake, a roisterer, a seducer! There is only one opinion about him, and not a week passes that he does not set people talking about him. He abducts girls, yes, married women even; he beats their fathers or husbands; he fights duels, cudgels the watch, passes whole days and nights in gambling hells, gambling and drinking; in short, he is worse than the devil!"

"O mon Dieu! how frightened I should be of him! He must be very ugly, isn't he?"

"Why, no, and that is just what deceives you; unfortunately, he is not ugly at all; for if he were hideous to look at, he would be much less dangerous. He is a handsome young man, with a forest of long black hair, and eyes of the same color, that shine like carbuncles; and when he looks at you, he has a way of giving them such a benignant expression! You would think sometimes that he is a little saint; but you very soon find out your mistake."

"What a pity! A scapegrace is a reprobate, and that ought to appear on his face. Has that young nobleman ever tried to kiss you?"

"I should say so! there was a time when he came to our place every day; he laid traps for me, tried to make appointments with me, and brought me presents."

"Presents?"

"Which I never received.—It did no good for me to lose my temper, to fly into a passion, to threaten to scratch him—that only made him laugh; he declared that I was even prettier when I was angry.—As you can imagine, it is when my father is not at home that they torment me so; for he would not stand it. But one day I lost my patience: Comte Léodgard had seized my hands, in spite of my struggles, and he was just about to kiss me, when I called father. If you had seen how quickly he took the young nobleman up in his arms and set him down in the street! The count was frantic; he drew his sword and rushed at father. But you know Master Hugonnet—it isn't wise to irritate him. In an instant, he had seized Comte Léodgard's sword and had broken it across his knee. The count strode away, uttering the most horrible threats, swearing that he would teach father what it costs to lack respect for a great nobleman. Father began to laugh, and in a moment he had forgotten all about it. But, for my part, I confess that the count's threats frightened me, and for a long time after I trembled whenever father left me, when he came home later at night than usual; but that was three months ago, and nothing has happened."

"And the young man has not been to your shop again?"

"Oh, no! not since that time."

"In all this, you have not told me why the fine ladies who come to the baths prefer not to bring their servants with them?"

"Ah! what a memory you have!—Well, I have noticed very often that there is a young gentleman below who knows one of the ladies; when she leaves the bath, the young man is there, waiting for her; they talk together, they go away together; so, you see, when a lady knows that she will have a cavalier to escort her home, she does not need to bring a servant."

"If you knew, Ambroisine, how I love to listen to you—you tell me things that are so entirely new to me! Oh! please tell me some more of your adventures!"

But when Ambroisine was about to gratify her friend, perhaps they would hear Dame Ragonde's slow, regular steps approaching. Thereupon, the subject of conversation would instantly be changed, and they would talk exclusively of serious or religious matters until Bathilde's mother said:

"You have talked enough; bid your friend adieu, it is time to separate."

Thereupon Ambroisine would leave her young friend; but all that she had heard furnished Bathilde with food for thought for many days.

V
AN OLD MANSION.—AN OLD NOBLE

Alone in a large and handsome room, richly furnished, the hangings of which, however, were very old and seemed to denote, on the part of the proprietors, a profound respect for whatever had belonged to their ancestors, an old man sat in an enormous easy-chair, whose carved and gilded frame seemed as ancient as the hangings, before a desk on which lay several boxes, books, and papers, which he was apparently engaged in examining with care.

Sometimes he paused in his labors; his brow was clouded, his expression stern, and a deep sigh escaped from his breast.

The Marquis de Marvejols was at this time nearly seventy years of age. He was a tall, spare man, who still carried his head erect, whose gait was firm and his grasp strong, while his proud and assured bearing would have held in respect anyone who should attempt to impose upon him.

The old man's face was handsome, although severe. His white hair left bare a large part of his forehead, on which could be seen a scar caused by a blow from a lance; his moustaches and his beard, also snow-white, harmonized well with that martial countenance, which seemed to defy all dangers; and if the old marquis's keen gray eyes ordinarily wore a haughty expression that inspired fear rather than confidence, on the other hand, the extreme urbanity of his manners soon made one forget the stern and imposing effect of his general appearance.

Knee-breeches and doublet of violet velvet, a leather belt, a very high ruff, funnel-shaped top-boots, with spurs attached—such was the old man's costume, which had something military about it. Over all this he wore a long cloak, trimmed with ermine, which descended almost to his spurs.

Pushing aside with an angry gesture the papers he had been examining, Monsieur de Marvejols threw himself back in his chair, and turned his eyes upon several large portraits which hung on the walls. Two represented cavaliers with helmets on their heads, and their hands on their swords; a third was that of a young man wearing the little cap in vogue in the time of Henri III; and the fourth was the portrait of a young and lovely woman with a little boy on her knees.

In the immense apartments of olden time, space was not spared; people were not shut up, as we are to-day, in the foul atmosphere of rooms six and a half feet in height; the lungs had an opportunity to do their work freely and the chest must have been in much better case.

In those days, it was easy to find room in a salon for those huge full-length portraits, which are ordinarily larger than life. Indeed, one sometimes saw them hung in two rows, and the furniture never reached to the frames.

To-day, in the apartments which our architects measure out for us so sparingly, we must renounce all thought of having large canvases, fine paintings of vast historical subjects, and in many cases even the full-length portrait of one of our ancestors, unless we choose to take the risk, when we sit down, of striking our heads against the painting at the first unpremeditated movement we chance to make.

The Marquis de Marvejol's mansion was on Rue Royale, where one may still see, in our day, some relics of the magnificent apartments of an earlier time. But what a difference! Although, on the outside, it still presents a reasonably well preserved image of what it was under Louis XIII; although it is still red and white, with its bricks surrounded by courses of stone, with its slated roof, its light balconies, its tall windows set in stone frames; although it has retained its low, dark, heavy galleries, which seem to have been built to defy the ages and the elements—on the other hand, the interior of its various wings is no longer the same, and, except in some few instances, the grandeur and magnificence of the olden time have entirely disappeared.

But at the time of our narrative there were, in the neighborhood of the Hôtel de Marvejols, the Hôtels de Lesdiguières, de Guémenée, de Sully, d'Effiat, d'Aumont, de Chevreuse, de Chaulnes, de Saint-Paul, de Liancourt, etc., etc.