Frédérique, vol. 1

Returning to the Dablémar function, I drew a long breath of delight; a pleasant odor of patchouli and muslin replaced the fumes of mulled wine, which were intensified on the other side of the corridor by a multitude of other emanations. The temperature, too, was endurable, and the faces of the guests did not glisten with drunkenness and perspiration, which impart to the countenance a gloss that does not embellish it.

My first care was to look about for Madame Sordeville. I discovered her talking with her friend Frédérique, and with them was a young man whom I had not yet seen.

This new personage was twenty-eight to thirty years of age, and was dressed in the height of fashion. He was very dark, and his hair, artistically parted and curled, was beautifully glossy. A long, pale face, regular features, black eyes somewhat sunken, a small, tightly closed mouth, a slight, carefully trimmed moustache, made him a very good-looking fellow; but a self-sufficient, conceited air, which almost amounted to impertinence—that too I observed in my scrutiny of that young man, who, at the very outset, and for some reason which I could not explain, made a most unpleasant impression on me.

We often feel sympathies or antipathies for persons we do not know; and when we are in a position to become better acquainted with such persons, it rarely happens that the instinctive prevision of our hearts is not justified. So that we must have a sort of second-sight, of the heart, which warns us when we are in presence of a friend or an enemy.

This gentleman was talking with the two ladies, with a familiarity that seemed to denote a close intimacy. Was he probably the lover of one or the other? Suppose he were of both? Such things have been seen. One thing was certain, and that was that there was no trace of the discreet lover about him.

You will consider that I have a low opinion of women. It is not of women alone, but of the world in general that I have such an opinion. It is not my fault; why has it so often given me reason to think ill of it?

I did not approach them, for the presence of that handsome dandy annoyed me; but I watched them. I must have been very dull-witted not to discover with which of the two ladies he was on most intimate terms. There are many little nothings by which people always betray themselves, unless they are constantly on their guard; and even then!

Ah! my mind was made up! A hand placed a little too familiarly on the fellow's knee, a long glance, which said things that are not said in public, told me that he was intimately associated with Madame Dauberny. I was conscious of a joyful thrill, for I had feared for a moment that it was with my charming partner, and, frankly, that would have distressed me. Therefore, I was certainly in love with her.

I walked toward the group, and spoke to Madame Sordeville, who replied with her usual affability. But while I was talking with her I noticed that my fine gentleman with the moustache eyed me from head to foot with something very like impertinence! I wondered how long that would last.

There are such people in society; people whose impertinent glances force you to pay them back in their own coin in a way which is almost a challenge, and which signifies plainly:

"Have you anything to say to me? I am waiting, and I am all ready to reply."

As that superb lion did not cease to stare at me, I stared back at him in the manner I have described. He lowered his eyes and turned his head. That was very lucky! But you may be quite certain that from that moment my gentleman and I could not endure each other.

As it seemed to annoy him to see me talk and laugh with the charming Armantine, I put all the more fire into my conversation; and as she laughed very readily, I continued to incite her to laughter.

Madame Dauberny whispered in the young man's ear; I noticed that he frowned slightly and compressed his lips. Was she telling him what she had done to help me out of my predicament? What difference did it make to me whether her action pleased or displeased the fellow? Madame Frédérique no longer seemed to me so attractive as before; no, she certainly was not pretty. Moreover, what she had said to me in our last interview had cooled my feeling for her considerably.

Madame Sordeville was engaged for the next contra-dance, but she promised me the next but one. Her partner came to claim her. The superb Frédérique stood up with her dark-eyed swain. What was I to do during that quadrille? It is a terrible bore not to dance at a ball in polite society, where you know no one.

I concluded to find Monsieur Sordeville, remembering the advice Madame Dauberny had given me before her cicisbeo's arrival.

I discovered Armantine's husband in an adjoining salon, in a group of men, most of whom were decorated; he was not talking, but listening to the others. I walked toward him, and he came to meet me.

"Aren't you dancing, Monsieur Rochebrune?"

"I am resting."

"I'll wager that my wife isn't; she is indefatigable!"

"Madame Sordeville is dancing, it is true; and Madame Dauberny, too—with a young man whom I had not noticed before—a dark young man with a moustache."

"Ah, yes! Saint-Bergame. He came very late, as usual; one produces a greater effect by making people wait for one. Ha! ha! But you must know him, if you have been a friend of Madame Dauberny from childhood. You must have met him often at her house."

Again Monsieur Sordeville's smile was tinged with mockery. I answered, this time without embarrassment:

"I saw nothing of Madame Dauberny for a long time, until very recently."

"Then it must have been during that time that she made Saint-Bergame's acquaintance; their liaison is hardly six months old. But he is on a very intimate footing with her, none the less; however, that is easily seen."

The tone in which Monsieur Sordeville said this left me in no doubt that he had the same opinion that I myself had formed concerning the relations between these two. But if he believed it, it seemed strange to me that he should allow his wife to be so intimate with Madame Dauberny as she seemed to be. Was there not reason to fear that the evil example might be contagious? or was Monsieur Dauberny's conduct such as to excuse his wife's? or again, was Monsieur Sordeville one of those philosophical husbands who look upon all such things as mere trifles undeserving of their attention? I was tempted to believe that the last conjecture was nearest the truth.

"Who is this Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" I asked, after a moment.

"Hum! I have no very definite idea. However, he represents himself as a journalist. But nowadays, you know, a man is a journalist just as he is an advocate. Everybody writes for the newspapers, or at least tries to create that impression."

"I know that the profession of journalist is an honorable one, when it is carried on without prejudice or passion, when one writes with impartiality. I will not say, with spirit and good taste, for those qualities should be indispensable prerequisites of admission to the guild. Unluckily, it is not always so. Since newspapers have become so numerous, all the unappreciated poets, all the unsuccessful authors, have turned journalists. These gentry, having failed to induce anyone to produce their plays, fall furiously upon those authors who succeed. Luckily, the real public does substantial justice; often, indeed, the very extravagance of the insults heaped upon a man of talent simply intensifies the public interest in him. And, after all, it is a pitiable thing, it seems to me, to pass one's life tearing to tatters those who produce! It is the old story of the he-goat in the fold: he does nothing, and attacks whoever wants to work."

"You don't seem to be fond of journalists?"

"I think very highly of them when they are intelligent and their criticisms are decent. I once knew a very popular literary man, who laughed till he cried over the savage attacks that the journalists made upon his works. 'If I were not successful,' he would say, 'those fellows would not honor me with their hatred. They would not say anything about me unless it were to offer me some patronizing compliment. Ah! my dear fellow, congratulate me! Everybody cannot have enemies.'—But, to return to Monsieur Saint-Bergame: for what newspaper does he write?"

"Really, I can't tell you; for some new sheet—more than one, perhaps. He has the reputation of being very bitter, and prides himself on it."

"He has no reason to. Nothing is so easy as to say unkind things; the conversation of cooks and concierges is principally made up of them."

"I believe, too, that Saint-Bergame has had a long play in verse accepted at the Odéon, or at the Français, or perhaps at the Théâtre-Historique. But he's been talking about it a long, long while, and nobody else ever mentions it."

"And are these monsieur's only titles to the admiration of his contemporaries?"

"I know of no others. However, he's a good-looking fellow, dresses well, and follows all the fashions. He's a beau cavalier; so you must not be surprised if all the ladies fight for the honor of capturing him."

"Oh! I am surprised at nothing."

"But do you not cultivate the arts, Monsieur Rochebrune? I should say that I had heard of songs and ballads of which you are doubly the author, having composed both words and music."

"Yes, monsieur, that is true. But one is no more a literary man because one can write a ballad, than one is a composer because one has composed an air and worked out a piano accompaniment for it."

"Mere modesty on your part, monsieur; you can't make me believe that a man can compose an air without being a musician."

"One may be like Jean-Jacques, who had not the slightest conception of counterpoint."

"I don't know whether Rousseau was a consummate musician, but I wish that somebody would give us something equal to his Devin du Village."

"I am with you there, monsieur, although it should have a new orchestration."

"My wife is a fine performer on the piano, and she has a good voice; we have music at our house on Thursdays; that is the day the music lovers assemble. If it would be agreeable to you to hear them and to join them——"

"You are too kind, monsieur; it will be a very great pleasure to me. I can listen to music twelve hours at a time, without tiring."

"We shall rely upon you, then, monsieur, on Thursdays especially. But you will be welcome at any time. Do you know our address?"

"No, I do not."

"Here is my card."

Having handed me his card, Monsieur Sordeville walked away. On my word! a charming husband! he anticipated my dearest wish. And yet, he did not act like a simpleton. Oh, no! he certainly was not one of those obliging husbands who see nothing of what goes on under their roofs. Madame Frédérique was right in her prediction that he would invite me. I was decidedly puzzled; but I could see nothing in it at all that augured ill for me. Madame Sordeville was very pretty, very captivating. I felt that I should love her passionately. I did not know whether she was inclined to follow her friend Frédérique's example, but I had permission to call at her house, and that was something.

As soon as the quadrille was at an end, I once more approached the spot where the two ladies had established themselves. Monsieur Saint-Bergame was still with them; but he did not frighten me—he bored me, that was all.

I cannot say whether the invitation I had just received had given me an air of triumph; but when she saw my face, Madame Sordeville smiled and exchanged a glance with her friend. I would have given—I cannot say how much, to know the meaning of that glance.

Monsieur Saint-Bergame said to Madame Dauberny, with a curl of the lip, and an affectation of familiarity:

"Do you expect to stay here long?"

"Why not? I am in no hurry; my mind is at rest; Monsieur Dauberny won't sit up for me."

"This party seems to me intolerably dull."

"You are exceedingly polite! For my part, I am enjoying myself immensely."

"Oh! you enjoy yourself everywhere, madame!"

"That is creditable to my temperament, at all events."

"There's a curious mixture of faces here—it's not homogeneous."

"Very good! try to write an amusing article about it; it will be a windfall to you."

"On my word, you are very sharp this evening!"

"I thought that you were used to it."

"The next contra-dance is mine, you know, madame?" I said to Madame Sordeville.

"Yes, monsieur, to be sure; I have not forgotten it."

Her manner as she made that reply was charming. Women have a way of saying the most trivial things which gives them enormous value in our eyes. That depends considerably, however, on one's frame of mind.

The orchestra began to play a polka. I looked disconsolately at my pretty partner.

"Do you polk?" I asked.

"No. I waltz, but I don't polk."

"But I do," said Madame Dauberny, holding out her hand. "And you know how well we danced together. Suppose we see if we can succeed as well here as at Monsieur Bocal's ball?"

What an extraordinary woman! she said that as if we had known each other ten years. She was very pretty in my eyes at that moment. I hastened to take her hand, and we began to dance. I enjoyed it all the more because I had observed Saint-Bergame's horrible scowl.

We danced for some time without speaking, and, vanity aside, I believe we performed very creditably. After we had twice made the circuit of the room, I could contain myself no longer.

"Doesn't that gentleman who was with you polk?" I murmured.

"I was sure that you would ask me that!"

And she began to laugh. In truth, my question was most idiotic. But I am very prone to say such things. I am always conscious of it afterward, which is a little late. For fear of making a fool of myself again, I did not say another word. Thereupon my partner asked me:

"Have you spoken with Monsieur Sordeville again?"

"Yes, madame."

"And he invited you to his house?"

"Yes, madame."

"What did I tell you? We guessed as much by your radiant expression just now."

I knew then the meaning of the glance they exchanged when I approached them. But I did not like that: "We guessed as much"; that identity of thoughts and sentiments was by no means pleasing to me. I have always noticed that the women who tell each other everything, their inmost thoughts and the most secret impulses of their hearts, never have anything left to confide to their lovers. With them they act, but do not lay bare their hearts. Friendship is almost always injurious to love. That is not my understanding of a profound sentiment, a genuine attachment.—But what am I moralizing about?

I took the indefatigable Frédérique back to her friend. The handsome dandy was no longer there. I heard Madame Sordeville whisper:

"He has gone. He said he was going away; he was furious."

"Really? That doesn't disturb me in the least!"

But my gentleman had not gone. I saw him not far away. If he was jealous of me, he was sadly astray: I was thinking exclusively of Madame Sordeville and waiting impatiently for the quadrille, so that I could talk with her more freely.

That moment arrived at last. I stood up beside my partner; each cavalier did the same. O blessed moment! What an excellent invention is dancing!

I felt that I must make the most of my opportunity; I told Madame Sordeville that her husband had invited me to come to their house. She smiled, but made no reply. I could not rest content with that.

"May I hope to be so fortunate, madame, as to obtain from your lips a confirmation of the invitation I have received?"

"Whatever my husband does is well done, monsieur, and I can only approve it."

That was a courteous reply, but nothing more. It seemed as if my fair partner were distraught. It is never very flattering to one's self-esteem to have the person to whom one is talking thinking of something else; and when that person is a woman with whom one is in love, it is much more mortifying. I was on the point of making a declaration of love, but it did not pass my lips. Could it be possible that she was nothing more or less than a coquette who had been amusing herself at my expense? Nonsense! Had I already forgotten all that she had done for me that evening? Wounded self-esteem often makes us very unjust. I determined to wait and not to go so fast, either in forming my judgments, or in my love.

When the dance came to an end, many of the guests prepared to go away. Madame Sordeville rejoined her friend, who also seemed disposed to retire. What was there to detain me there? I had permission to call upon the charming Armantine, and that was all that I could expect.

I left the restaurant. As I passed the rooms where the Bocal wedding party was still in full blast, I heard a good deal of noise. Was it merrymaking or quarrelling? Faith! Balloquet must take care of himself; and I went home and to bed.

On the day following that night which I had so well employed, I did not wake until after noon. I went over in my mind the events of the preceding evening. When one has done so much and heard so many anecdotes, one may be pardoned for being a little confused.

Madame Sordeville's pretty face very soon presented itself to my memory. Now that I was no longer excited by the illusions of the ballroom and the strains of the music, I tried to determine what sort of woman she was, and whether I could reasonably hope for success if I should make love to her.

She was pretty, well formed, graceful, amiable—yes, and intelligent; at all events, she possessed that sort of wit that gives sparkle to a conversation; I could not say as yet whether it had any substantial foundation. In that respect, women are much more deceitful than men; they are much more skilful in throwing dust in one's eyes. Too often the flow of words and bright sallies is only a sort of froth that will not stand the test of time.

Madame Sordeville was undoubtedly a flirt. It is often said that all women are; but there are gradations. There are the amiable flirts who give a pungent flavor to love; there are others who do not give a lover one moment's peace or rest; and, frankly, a woman who takes pleasure in tormenting one is a sorry acquaintance. But I had not got to that point; perhaps the lady in question would never be anything to me, albeit her husband seemed to be not at all jealous.

The anecdotes that were told at our dinner the day before recurred to my mind; one of them especially had made a deep impression on me, and I was surprised that I had forgotten for so long a time that young girl of Sceaux—that unhappy Mignonne, toward whom Fouvenard had behaved so abominably. As if it were not enough to abandon her after having made her a mother, he must needs force her, against her will, into another man's arms! That was a perfect outrage! The law punishes men for less than Fouvenard had done—and all because she loved him! Unhappy girl! and to think that she was on the point of becoming a mother! I simply must see her, and try to alleviate her misery. Perhaps she was in utter destitution. He said Rue Ménilmontant, No. 80. I determined to go there; but I hoped that he had lied to us; that his Mignonne did not exist. It would be too execrable, if it were true.

I rang for my servant, and he appeared. He was a simple-minded fellow, but trustworthy, I was confident; and as that is the rarest of qualities in all ranks of society, I kept Pomponne in my service, although he was very often guilty of the most stupid blunders, and was of such a prying, inquisitive turn that I often had to reprove him.

Pomponne gave me all that I required for my toilet; but, as he walked about the room, I noticed that his manner was unusually idiotic, a symptom which always indicated that he had something to say and did not know how to go about it. So that it was necessary for me to give him a lead.

"Have you been making a fool of yourself since yesterday, Pomponne?"

"Me, monsieur! what makes you ask me that? You didn't tell me to, did you?"

"Why, you don't usually wait for my instructions to do that. Are there any letters for me?"

"No, monsieur."

"Did anybody call while I was asleep?"

"Call?"

"Yes, call."

"I don't think so, monsieur."

"You don't think so? Aren't you sure?"

"Oh, yes! I am sure."

"What the devil's the matter with you this morning, that you seem so much more stupid than usual?"

"Why, it seems to me that I'm just the same as usual."

"Come, brush my hair, and be quick about it! It's late."

You must know that Monsieur Pomponne was an excellent hair dresser; that and his trustworthiness, you see, made him rather a notable personage. He had studied the trade of hair dressing for some time; he gave it up, so he told me, because, as he had a fine lot of hair, his head was constantly used for beginners to practice on, and that got to be rather tiresome.

"And the love affairs, Pomponne—how do they come on?"

My servant blushed; he was not an accomplished rake, you see.

"Oh, monsieur! I haven't any love affairs!"

"Ah! so you choose to play the close-mouthed lover with me?—What about the maid-servant of the old gentleman opposite? you haven't made love to her, you rascal, have you?"

"Oh, monsieur! I may have laughed a little with her; just in a joking way, that's all."

"We all know what it means to laugh with maid-servants."

"However, I think I'm going to lose her—poor Mademoiselle Rosalie!"

"Is she sick?"

"No, monsieur; I mean that she's probably going to leave the house. She has discharged her master."

"Discharged her master? You mean that her master has discharged her, of course?"

"No, monsieur; I give you my word that she told me: 'I don't want any more of my master; I've given him his papers.'—And she added: 'I said zut! to him.'"

"The deuce! Mademoiselle Rosalie's language is rather décolleté, I should say! Why is she leaving her master? He's rich and a widower—an excellent place for a servant, especially for one who says zut."

"It seems, monsieur, that her master doesn't like to pay her."

"Nonsense! that can't be. My old neighbor is noted for paying promptly and not having any debts."

"I beg pardon, monsieur: they have had a dispute. You see, Mademoiselle Rosalie has a funny custom; she gets a commission for everything."

"I don't understand. Doesn't she get any wages?"

"Yes, monsieur; she has three hundred francs."

"Well?"

"Well, that don't make any difference; when she does an errand—for instance, when her master sends her with a letter to one of his friends, or anywhere else—well, that's fifteen sous; she charges a commission of fifteen sous. When she has to wash the windows, it's twenty sous. When she scrubs, it's twenty-five sous; do you see?"

"Perfectly. So it's just the same as if he hadn't any servant; that's very convenient!"

"She calls that putting the masters where they belong."

"Just try putting me where I belong! I'll discharge you on the instant."

"However, it seems that Rosalie's master never found any fault with all that; but the other night he told her to warm his bed; and when she charged him twelve sous for it the next day, that made him mad. I says to her: 'I must say, mamzelle, it seems to me, you might warm your master's bed for nothing!'—'Well, I guess not!' says she; 'he'd get into the habit of having it done every night!'"

"Peste! there's a servant who will make her way in the world."

"She's making it, monsieur; she tells me that she takes thirty-six francs to the savings bank every month."

"And her wages are only twenty-five! She has the saving instinct, sure!"

While I was talking with Pomponne, I noticed an odor that was not customary in my apartments.

"Pomponne," I said abruptly, "have you been smoking this morning?"

"Smoking, monsieur? You know I never smoke."

"But it smells of tobacco here; not of cigars, but of a pipe, and vile tobacco too."

My servant smiled with an expression which he tried to render cunning, and said in an undertone, leaning over me:

"I know who it is; it's the other one."

"What other one?"

"The man who's waiting out there, in the reception room."

"What! there's someone waiting for me, and you didn't tell me?"

"Oh! he—he said he wasn't in any hurry."

"And you told me that no one had called!"

"He's not a caller. I heard you say once: 'If that person comes here again, and I have company, call me at once; don't let him in.'"

I trembled as I began to realize who the visitor was.

"Can it be——" I faltered.

"Yes, monsieur; it's the party named Ballangier—the one who's so free and easy like, and makes himself so much at home here, just as if he was in his own house."

I felt as if a heavy weight had settled down on my chest. In an instant all my cheerful thoughts had vanished. A feeling of depression replaced them. The presence—the very name—of Ballangier always produced that effect on me.

"Has this—gentleman been here long?"

"About three-quarters of an hour, monsieur, when you rang."

"Didn't you tell him that I had been at a ball, and that I was likely to sleep very late?"

"Yes, monsieur, I said all that. But he just sat down and said: 'That's all the same to me; I've got plenty of time.' And then, he took out a pipe and lighted it. It was no use for me to say: 'You mustn't smoke here; my master don't like the smell.'—He sings out: 'I smoke everywhere! and you can open the windows and burn some castonnade.'"

"Show the gentleman in, and leave us. And if anybody should call while he is here, remember, Pomponne, that I am not at home to anyone."

"Yes, monsieur—as usual."

Pomponne went out, and in a moment the person who was waiting entered my bedroom.

Ballangier was thirty-four years old; he looked older, because he had led a riotous life for a long while. Dissipation and debauchery make a man old prematurely.

Imagine a man of more than ordinary height, who would have had a good figure if he had not acquired the habit of stooping. A refined, regular face, aquiline nose, small, heart-shaped mouth, and very black eyes surmounted by heavy eyebrows; an abundance of hair, once black, but now gray. All this would have formed an attractive whole, had it not been spoiled by a pronounced hangdog air. An expression that was impudent when not made stupid by drink, and manners that were often brutal; in addition, clothes that were always soiled and often in tatters, and the gait of a drummer; this rough sketch may serve to convey an impression of the person who stood before me.

On the present occasion he wore a brown frock-coat that was neither ripped nor torn. It lacked only two buttons in front, but it was covered with spots and stains. His black trousers were shockingly muddy, as were his boots. As for his linen, that was invisible. A frayed black stock encircled his neck, and he held in his hand a round black hat which seemed to have had many hard knocks.

When he entered my bedroom, Ballangier removed his pipe from his mouth. He walked forward, swaying his hips, nodded to me with a smile, and stretched himself out in an easy-chair, saying:

"Here I am! How goes it, Charles?"

"Very well, thanks."

"It seems that you had a bit of a spree last night, and you've had a good snooze this morning. You do right to enjoy yourself. It's such good fun to spree it! I'd like to do nothing else, myself."

"I should say that you had done little else thus far."

"Bah! bagatelles! To make things hum, a fellow must have the needful. Everything's so dear to-day! Those villains of wine merchants and restaurant keepers won't give credit any more!"

"They are wise."

"Why are they wise?"

"Because you have run up bills more than once that would never have been paid if I hadn't paid them."

"Who says I wouldn't have paid my debts? But a fellow must have time! Why are they in such a hurry?"

"You make me blush for you, Ballangier! Am I the person for you to make such speeches to?"

"Well, what's the matter now? Ain't I to be allowed to speak?"

"You might at least save yourself the trouble of lying to me, who know you too well! and who know what your conduct has always been! When a man who has no income desires to meet his obligations, he says to himself: 'I'll work and earn money.'—For, as I have told you a hundred times, there's no other way to obtain an honorable position in the world. You refuse to understand that everybody on this earth has to work, from the smallest to the greatest, from the humblest clerk to the highest functionary, from the artisan to the artist. The very rich men whose lot you envy—for the idle and lazy, the people who do nothing, naturally envy the lot of the rich—those who have great wealth have to busy themselves with investing it, managing their property, overlooking the conduct of the people they employ, regulating their expenses; and if they wish to retain their fortune, I assure you they don't pass their whole life enjoying themselves."

Ballangier lay back in his chair, shook the ashes out of his pipe, and looked at me with a bantering air, as he rejoined:

"What work have you, who preach so eloquently, ever done? What is your employment? I don't know what it is, but I don't think it's very wearisome."

I could not restrain an indignant gesture, for the man's ingratitude was revolting to me; he owed everything to me! But I soon grew calm again; there was one thought before which my anger vanished, and I replied quietly:

"In the first place, I was justified in not taking up any profession, as my father left me fifteen thousand francs a year."

"I don't say that you did wrong; I am not blaming you, my dear fellow, but, that being the case, I wasn't so far out of the way, was I?"

"I beg your pardon. Be good enough to listen to me. Although I had some fortune, I began at once to study law, in order to become an advocate. Some time after, having a passion for the arts, I studied music, painting, and sculpture, in turn; then I turned to poetry, I wrote a poem—a bad one, perhaps, but I devoted my best energies to it, none the less. So you see that I have done something; and if I should lose now what money I still have, I could make a living honestly, and without assistance, with the small talents I have acquired. Can you say as much, you who have nothing, no future prospects, but have never been willing to do anything or to learn anything? who, instead of remaining in the sphere in which you were born, have plunged into a vice-ridden circle, and acquired the tastes and habits and manners of people who are cast out from all respectable society?"

"What's that? what's that? I'm a cabinetmaker! Isn't that a respectable trade? Anyone would think, to hear you, that I worked nights—on the dust heaps!"

"Oh! I don't despise any trade, monsieur. I esteem every man whose behavior is honorable. The mechanic, the artisan, the day laborer, are all entitled to my esteem and consideration when they are honest and upright. I say again, there is no despicable trade; the vicious, lazy, idle people, the drunken debauchees, no matter to what rank in life they belong, are the ones whom we should look upon with contempt and shame. You claim to be a mechanic, but you lie. You are nothing, neither cabinetmaker nor anything else, because you will not do anything, because work is a burden and a bore to you, because you have acquired the habit of passing your time in wine shops and dance halls, or in vile dens of debauchery, where you have associated yourself with wretches who are the offscourings of society! And at thirty-four years of age, you continue this line of conduct! Ah! you are incorrigible; that is evident!"

Ballangier threw his pipe on the floor, exclaiming angrily:

"Damnation! I'm sick of this sort of thing! If I am incorrigible, I don't quite see why you preach this sermon at me!"

"I am entitled to do it; if you had followed my advice, listened to my entreaties, you would not be where I find you now. Furthermore, if my sermons displease you, why do you come here? I told you not to. Do I not send you regularly every three months the allowance that I have consented to make you, although, as you well know, I am under no obligation to do it? Only a fortnight ago, I went myself and handed your quarterly payment to your concierge."

"That's just what I don't want you to do! He kept half of it, the miserly old screw!"

"Kept it! You told me yourself that he was an honest man; and you say that he kept money belonging to you!"

"He claimed that I owed him for loans, and food, and carrying letters—mere trifles!"

"If you owed him, you should pay him."

"I'd have paid him later; he had no right to pay himself. Oh! I know the law, don't I? You ought to know about it, as you studied to be an advocate."

"What do you want to-day? Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to tell you that I am going to move! I can't stay in a house where the concierge has no sense of delicacy. By the way, you haven't a glass of anything to give me, have you? I came out without my breakfast this morning; I've done a good deal of running around, and it makes a man hollow. Come, Charlot, be a good fellow! Don't scowl at Fanfinet! You know that I'm a good friend."

I made no reply, but opened a cupboard containing several bottles of different liqueurs. I took out one of them and a small glass, and placed them in front of Ballangier; who instantly pounced on the bottle and filled the glass to the brim, saying:

"Won't you drink with me?"

"No; I never drink liqueur in the morning."

"As you please; there's no accounting for tastes. You are very delicate, you are; for my part, I'd drink a goblet of rum without winking. This is anisette—a lady's cordial! sweet as sugar! Never mind, it's not bad."

"What are you doing now, Ballangier? Are you working anywhere? Come, tell me frankly."

"I'm going to tell you just how it is. As if I could conceal anything from you! I always pour out my troubles on your breast."

"Why did you come here to-day?"

"I'll tell you all about it. But haven't you something a little stiffer to give me? Your anisette makes me sick at my stomach. Tell me where it is; don't disturb yourself."

"I have nothing else to give you; moreover, I don't choose to give you anything else. If I listened to you, you would drink yourself drunk here. It's quite enough that you should take the liberty to smoke; you know perfectly well that I don't like it."

"People smoke in the most select society."

"Enough of this, monsieur! Why did you come here in spite of my prohibition?"

"Oh! monsieur—what a tone! We seem to be in an infernal humor to-day, monseigneur! Luckily, I'm not easily frightened."

I strove to keep down my irritation; I stood in front of my mirror and arranged my cravat, then finished dressing myself. Ballangier, seeing that I paid no heed to him, poured out another glass of anisette; then, trying to assume a piteous tone, he mumbled:

"I know well enough that I don't amount to much, that I've often done foolish things. That's true; but, after all, youth must have its fling; mine seems to last a good while, but whose fault is it? And it's no time to treat me like a dog, just when I've made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, to straighten myself out and be sensible!"

He paused and glanced at me; but I did not say a word, and he continued:

"Yes, this time, I have reflected seriously. As you said just now, I am no longer young, I must think of my future; and an opportunity is offered me—an affair that would suit me to a T. I have spoken to you about Morillot—a good fellow, who's in the cabinetmaking line; he's no ne'er-do-well, but a worker; and I confess that if I'd listened to him, I'd be in better case than I am. Well, Morillot has gone back to Besançon, where he came from. He always said to me: 'When I have a place for you, I'll write and you can come.'—Well, he's just written to me, and he says that, if I choose to come, he's got just what I want; and that, if I behave myself, I'll soon be able to set up for myself at Besançon. I came here to tell you that."

I listened to Ballangier without interrupting him. I did not know whether I ought to believe him, he had deceived me so often! It was no easy matter to read his face; he could assume any expression he chose; he could even weep, when he thought that would advance his schemes.

"If this Morillot has really made you such a proposition, why don't you go?" I asked at last.

"Ah! you're a good one, you are! That's easy enough to say. But I don't want to go to Besançon dressed like this—all in rags; that would give people a bad opinion of me at the outset. If a man's hide isn't somewhere near decent—you know what fools folks are! And then the journey; and then, I shan't get paid as soon as I arrive. In fact, I haven't a sou, as that rascally concierge kept almost the whole of what you gave him for me. And, anyway, fifty francs a month ain't a fortune! A man can't go far with that!"

"A man can live with that; and if you chose to work, you could have everything you need. How many poor women who pass their days sewing, and sit up half the night to add a few sous to their day's pay, don't earn as much as this sum that seems to you too small! But do you forget all that I have done for you? I have tried every possible means of bringing you back to a respectable mode of life. The more money I give you, the more you spend in those dens of iniquity where you pass your life. I got tired at last of supporting your vices; and I still do too much for you."

"Come! come! let's not get excited! It's not worth while to talk about the past. What's gone by is wiped out. To-day, to replenish my wardrobe, to pay for my journey and incidental expenses, and to keep me till I get paid for my work, I need—dame! I need fully four hundred francs. Oh! I know it's like pulling out a tooth, and that I've cost you a lot of money already; but this will be the last time; and you wont hear of me again. I'll settle at Besançon; they say Franche-Comté is a pleasant country; at all events, I can be happy anywhere."

I reflected, while Ballangier watched me with something very like anxiety. He had lied to me so often that I dared not put faith in what he said.

"What have you to prove the truth of what you tell me?"

"Oh! I suspected that you wouldn't believe me; but I have my proofs."

And Ballangier, feeling in his pocket, triumphantly produced a letter, which he handed to me. It came from Besançon, it was signed Morillot, and it did, in fact, contain what he had said. I had already given him money; but if I could finally rid myself of him and of the fear of meeting him in Paris—— That hope put an end to my hesitation.

I opened my secretary, took out four hundred francs in gold, and placed the money in Ballangier's hand.

"Take it," I said; "and may you at last make a good use of what I give you!"

Ballangier turned purple with pleasure when he held the gold pieces in his hand; he made as if he would throw himself on my neck; but I stepped back and he checked himself, crying:

"That is true, I am not worthy; but I will wait till another time. I propose to become a model of virtue. Sacrebleu! I propose that you shall be satisfied with me at last! I will make it a point of honor! Au revoir, Charlot!—no, I mean adieu! you prefer that, and you're quite right."

He said no more, but walked quickly from the room. And I breathed more freely when he was no longer there.

I felt the need of some distraction to enable me to forget the visit I had just received.

"Ah!" I thought; "I will go and hunt up the poor girl from Sceaux."

I had finished dressing. Pomponne, seeing that I was preparing to go out, planted himself in front of me, like a soldier awaiting the countersign, and said:

"Is monsieur going out?"

"As you see."

"Monsieur has no orders for me?"

"None."

"Will monsieur return to dinner?"

"Come, come, Pomponne! are you going crazy altogether?"

"I don't think so, monsieur."

"Then why do you ask me that question? You know perfectly well that I usually dine at a table d'hôte, and never at home."

"True, monsieur; but you do sometimes dine at home, when you have company, you know.—Ha! ha!"

Monsieur Pomponne felt called upon to laugh slyly and assume a mischievous look; for you must know that I dine at home only when I am entertaining a lady who fears to compromise her reputation by going to a restaurant. There are ladies who decline to go to restaurants, but are perfectly willing to go to a gentleman's apartment. I am far from blaming them; everyone is free to act as she pleases. But it was a long time since I had entertained in my own quarters, my recent acquaintances having had no dislike for restaurants. So I simply informed Pomponne that he was a zany, and left the house.

From Rue Bleue, where I lived, to Rue Ménilmontant is a long distance, but the fresh air and the exercise did me good. I thought of my charming partner, the seductive Armantine's image was constantly before my eyes; and when I spied a woman of her stature and figure, I quickened my pace, in order to overtake her and find out if it were she. I always had my trouble for my pains, which did not deter me from doing the same thing again a few moments later. I have noticed that love always gives as much occupation to the legs as to the mind.

My amorous thoughts cooled a little as I drew near Rue Ménilmontant, a street, by the way, which might well pass for a faubourg. In that quarter I met no more women who reminded me of Armantine. I called her "Armantine" to myself, although that was perhaps a slightly familiar way of speaking of a woman I had known less than twenty-four hours, and who had given me no right to claim that privilege. But when a lover is speaking to himself, is he not at liberty to apply the fondest names to the object of his adoration, and to address her by the most familiar terms, in the ecstasy of his illusions? That injures nobody and affords him so much pleasure! It has often been said, and justly, that: "Men are overgrown children, who must always have some plaything to fondle. With some it is ambition, honors; with others, wealth; with others, peace and repose; but with the vast majority, love."—To these last, the image of the loved one is the persistent idea that guides all their actions.

The number mentioned by Fouvenard was a long way up the street. I was not very far from the barrier, and it was easy to imagine one's self in the country. I presumed that lodgings thereabout were not very dear. At last I found the number I sought. It was a house of great height. As I entered, I began to wonder what I should say to that young woman, whom I had never seen, and what pretext I should allege for my visit. The first step was to find if she really lived there. I found a concierge, almost entirely hidden by two cats and a dog that had established themselves upon her person and covered her face so that only the end of her nose was visible. I asked for Mademoiselle Mignonne.

The concierge managed to push her way through the cats, and responded:

"Mademoiselle Mignonne? Don't know her."

"You don't know her?"

"Faith, no! What does she do?"

"What does she do? Why, she works; sews or embroiders, I believe."

"No such person in the house, monsieur."

So Fouvenard had deceived us; his Mignonne was a creation of his fancy. I was sure of it! I much preferred to find out that he had lied to us, rather than that that poor girl really existed. I had already left the house; but a few steps away, I stopped; I remembered that the girl had a family name also; perhaps she had hired a lodging in Paris under that name. So I retraced my steps to where the concierge sat amid her animals, and said:

"The person I am looking for is named Landernoy; Mignonne is her Christian name."

"Oh! Landernoy—that's a different matter; if you had asked for that name first, you wouldn't have had the trouble of coming back."

"You know her, then?"

"Pardi! to be sure I do, as she lives in the house. Mamzelle Landernoy—Madame, I mean, for we call her madame now, you see; it's properer, considering her condition. I don't know whether you know what I mean?"

"Yes, yes, perfectly; of course, I ought to have said madame."

"Oh! as to that, we know well enough that the only marriage she ever had was at the mayor's office of the thirteenth arrondissement! But then, what can you expect? she's one more poor girl that's made a misstep; but that's no reason for heaving stones at her. The good Lord said we mustn't heave stones at anybody—especially at poor women who've been weak; eh, monsieur?"

The concierge's words led me to forgive her her cats, and I would gladly have shaken hands with her if I had not been afraid of being clawed.

"Madame," I said, "your sentiments do you honor."

"Dame! I say what I think, that's all. And then, the poor thing seems so unhappy! It ain't that she complains the least bit—oh, no! she's proud enough in her poverty! But, in the first place, she can't be happy, because her seducer's gone back on her altogether; that is, I suppose he has; for nobody ever comes to see her now, not even a cat—except mine; they sometimes go and bid her good-day. And then, when she came here, she had a modest little room on the fifth; and now she's left that and taken another one right up under the eaves, with a little round window and no fireplace. In fact, you can hardly call it a room; it's only a closet at best. But, dame! it only costs seventy francs a year, and the other room was almost twice that; and when you haven't got anything but your work to live on—and a woman earns so little—and on the point of being a mother, too!—Still, it don't make any difference; as I was just saying, she don't complain. She's making clothes for the baby; and when I go in to say good-day to her, she always shows me a little cap or a little shirt, and says:

"'Look—this is for him!'—And then she smiles. Poor soul! she never smiles, only when she speaks of her child."

"But what does the poor girl live on, in heaven's name?"

"Oh! she works, she makes linen garments; she sews mighty well; and then, she's got a pretty taste for trimming caps and headdresses; I'm sure she could have kept her first room, if she'd wanted to; but I suppose that she said to herself that, as she was going to be a mother, she must be saving and put a little something aside against the time when the child comes. And, as I tell you, she's making him a pretty little outfit; I'm sure that there's a dozen little caps already."

I was deeply moved by what I had heard. The concierge pointed out the staircase leading to Mignonne's lodging, but, as she did so, she said to me:

"Have you come to give the poor woman an order for some work?"

"Yes, that is my purpose."

"This is what I was going to say, monsieur: since her—lover stopped coming to see her—a fellow with a big beard that I didn't call very good-looking—Madame Landernoy—we call her madame, you know—has got to be sort of wild like; you would say she was afraid. She says to me: 'If any gentlemen come to speak to me, please to say always that I ain't in, that I've gone out; don't let 'em come up.'—As there hasn't been one come for a long while, I ain't had to say anything, but I just this minute thought of her orders. However, if you mean to give her work, that can't disturb her."

"Never fear, madame; my only desire is to try to be useful to your interesting tenant, not to distress her in any way."

"All right, then; go up—way up to the top, as long as you find stairs; then the door facing you. There's nobody but Madame Landernoy up there in the daytime, anyway; the other two rooms belong to servants, who never go up till bed time."

I understood why the poor girl did not wish to receive visits from men. After the plot of which she had been the victim, she must naturally have retained a feeling of aversion for them and must look upon them all with suspicion. In that case, I should not be warmly received, and what was I to say? I had no idea; but, no matter! I was determined to see Mignonne, and even to face her wrath.

I ascended the stairs, the first flights being broad and roomy, but the upper ones very narrow. On the fifth floor I paused to take breath; in front of me was a sort of ladder, the only means of access to the lofts which many landlords have the assurance to call rooms. I know that Béranger said:

"How happy one is in a garret at twenty!"

True, when one is there to make love! but it must be a miserable sojourn when love abandons one there!

I climbed the ladder and found myself in a low, narrow, dark passageway; I distinguished a door in front of me; that was where she lived. My heart beat as if I were on the point of committing some evil deed. Why are we no less excited when about to do good than when about to do evil? I like to believe that the sensation is different.

I approached the door, and was on the point of knocking, when I heard a voice. I listened.

"Yes, you will be warmly wrapped in this, dear child! Another little nightgown; that makes six. Ah! you see, I don't want you to lack anything; you will be my companion, my little companion; you will never leave me, and I shan't be alone any more, then; I shall be very happy; I'll kiss you as much as I choose, all day long, for I shall be the one to nurse you! Some people look as if they pitied me because I am going to be a mother! Ah! they don't understand all the joys and hopes that go with that title! Why, if it wasn't for my child, I should be dead! Oh, yes! I should have preferred to die! If it's a girl, I shall call her Marie; that was my mother's name. If it's a boy, I shall call him—I—I don't know yet. Édouard's a nice name, or Léon. But not Ernest, in any case! Ah! what a horrible name!"

These last words were uttered in a trembling voice, and I heard nothing more. I knocked gently on the door.

"Who's there? Is it you, Madame Potrelle? Wait a minute, and I'll let you in."

The door opened. It was, in truth, Mignonne, as Fouvenard had described her to us: a pale, fair-haired girl, with soft, blue eyes; but the lips were no longer red, or the complexion rosy; grief and lonely vigils, during an advanced stage of pregnancy, had seamed and emaciated that youthful face, whose habitual expression now was one of melancholy.

Mignonne stood as if struck dumb with amazement at sight of me. I removed my hat and bowed respectfully; I was desirous to inspire her with confidence; but as I did not know what to say, and as she seemed to be waiting for me to speak, we stood for several minutes, looking at each other, without a word.

"Monsieur—you have mistaken the room, I think," faltered Mignonne at last, in an uncertain voice. "You did not mean to come to my room; you came up too high."

"No, mademoi—no, madame; I think that I have not made a mistake. I am looking for Madame Landernoy; are not you she?"

"Yes, monsieur, that is my name. What do you want of me?"

Mignonne spoke in a short, sharp tone, which proved that my visit was not agreeable to her. I was still at the door, and she did not ask me to come in. Perhaps she did not wish me to see the wretched place she lived in, and, in truth, what I did see made my heart bleed, for, without entering, the whole room was visible. It was a tiny room, with no light except from a round hole in the sloping roof, the window being opened or closed by an iron bar, as it was so high as to be out of reach. So that she had no sight of anything but a little patch of sky when she raised her eyes to look out. There was no fireplace, but a small air-tight stove. A bed, a commode, a table, a small buffet, a water pail, and six chairs composed the poor girl's furniture. But everything was neatly arranged and spotlessly clean.

Evidently, in my inspection of the room, I forgot to answer the question she asked me, for it was repeated in a still more imperative tone:

"I asked you what you wanted, monsieur; for I don't know you."

"Oh! I beg pardon, madame! I came to ask you—I am told that you do very fine linen work, and I wanted—I had some work to give you to do, if you chose to undertake it."

"Who told you that I did linen work, monsieur?"

"Why—a lady—for whom you have worked."

"What is the lady's name?"

I was sadly embarrassed. I stammered and stuttered, and finally replied:

"Faith! I really don't remember. The lady told another lady, a friend of hers, who told me, because she knew I wanted some shirts made."

"I am not very skilful, monsieur; and the person I work for must not be very exacting."

"Oh! I am not at all exacting, madame; I want some shirts—to wear in the country. If you had the simplest kind of a pattern to show me."

I took several steps forward; Mignonne allowed me to enter her garret; she seemed to have laid aside her distrust. I was conscious of a secret joy, and, while she was looking in a drawer, I took a chair, saying:

"Excuse me, madame, if I sit down; but I came up rather rapidly, and the stairs are quite steep."

"Pray rest, monsieur; I should have offered you a seat; but my room is not very cheerful, and it never occurs to me to do the honors. Dear me! I can't find any pattern. I remember now that the day before yesterday I returned the last shirts I had to make. But you have brought me a pattern, no doubt?"