Frédérique, vol. 1

"I was not twenty-one years old when I was married; but I had already loved, or thought that I loved. I was impulsive and passionate. I come from a region where women do not know how to conceal their sentiments, where they sometimes anticipate a declaration; and in my case, 'the accent of the province is in the heart as well as in the language,' as La Rochefoucauld says. At eighteen, I fell in love with a very comely youth—at eighteen, a girl thinks a good deal of physical beauty; and that is natural enough, for we pass judgment first of all on what we see. My rosy-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed young man was two years older than I; but he had the manner of a sixteen-year-old schoolboy: awkward, shy, embarrassed; he did not know what to say to me, and was content to stare at me; but, as his eyes were fine, I considered myself fortunate in having them always fastened on my face. 'He loves me,' I said to myself; 'he must be very much in love with me, to stand in rapt contemplation before me as he does.'—Still, I should not have been sorry to hear a word or two of love from his lips. I tried to furnish him with opportunities to be alone with me; I thought that he would finally speak out. But Gabriel—his name was Gabriel—didn't know enough to seize an opportunity. When he came, and I had a girl friend with me, I would motion to her to leave us for a moment; young girls understand each other very readily. But when she had invented some excuse for leaving the room, Gabriel always felt called upon to take his hat and go with her. You can judge whether I used to fret and fume. But one day, when Gabriel started off on the heels of a peddler I had just dismissed, I detained him by his coat tails, and he was compelled to remain; which he did, blushing to the whites of his eyes, and saying:

"'Have I got anything on my back, mademoiselle?'

"'No, monsieur, there's nothing on your back, but I want to talk with you; that's why I detained you. I was driven to resort to this method, because you always run away as soon as I am alone.'

"Gabriel looked at the floor, playing with a little bamboo cane that he usually carried. I invited him to sit down on a sofa beside me; he did so, but moved as far away from me as possible, and continued to keep his eyes averted, gazing sometimes at the ferrule and sometimes at the head of his stick.

"'Monsieur Gabriel,' I cried at last, irritated by his silence, 'haven't you anything to say to me? Do look at me, at least; before to-day, when you were not speaking, you always had your eyes on me; why, pray, do you gaze at your cane all the time to-day? Come, monsieur, look up, and tell me just what you're thinking about; and come a little nearer; anybody would think you were afraid of me, that I was scolding you.'

"Gabriel made up his mind at last to look at me and to move a little nearer. He was as red as a cherry. He acted like a schoolboy who is afraid of the birch; but he was such a handsome boy!

"'Monsieur,' I continued, 'I see that you don't dare to tell me what it is that makes you sigh so when you are with me. But when a person doesn't explain himself, he doesn't make any headway. As I am less timid than you—as I like to know what to expect—I am going to help you to speak out, for I believe that I have guessed the secret of your heart. You—you—are in love with me, aren't you, Monsieur Gabriel?'

"My bashful suitor began anew to examine the two ends of his cane, which annoyed me beyond words. At last, he stammered:

"'I—I don't know, mademoiselle.'

"'What, monsieur, you don't know? Then you must try to find out. Don't you think me pretty?'

"'Oh, yes, mademoiselle!'

"'Don't you feel great pleasure in being with me?'

"'Yes, mademoiselle.'

"'Then, monsieur, of course you are in love with me.'

"'Dame! it is very possible.'

"And he kept on playing with his stick. Unable to contain myself, I snatched it out of his hands and threw it on the floor.

"'It seems to me, monsieur,' I cried, 'that, while I am speaking to you, you might stop playing with your cane; it looks as if you weren't listening to me, and that's very impolite!'

"The poor boy was thunderstruck by my action. He glanced at his cane out of the corner of his eye, and murmured:

"'I wont do it any more, mademoiselle.'

"Somewhat mollified by his submissive air, I continued:

"'Well, Monsieur Gabriel, as you are in love with me, of course you want to marry me; for my parents say that people ought not to love unless they're going to be married. I don't know how true that is. Would you like to marry me, Monsieur Gabriel?'

"'Why, certainly, mademoiselle, if you think it's possible.'

"'Why shouldn't it be, monsieur? Isn't it true that young men are brought into the world to marry young women?'

"'I don't know, mademoiselle.'

"'What's that? you don't know? For heaven's sake, what did they teach you at your school, monsieur?'

"'Latin, Greek, mathematics, geography, mademoiselle.'

"'And nothing at all about young ladies and love and marriage?'

"'Nothing at all!'

"'Much good it does to send boys to school! it's a funny kind of education they get! However, Monsieur Gabriel, you're in love with me, you love me, you want to marry me; and I ask nothing better than to be your wife. Well, monsieur, you must go to my father and ask him for my hand.'

"'You want me to go to monsieur your papa?'

"'Yes, monsieur, and right away; he's in his study now. Go and prefer your suit.'

"'But—mademoiselle—you see—I don't think I'd dare say that to monsieur your papa.'

"'My papa! my papa! Great heaven! can't you say my father, Monsieur Gabriel? You talk like a little boy of six! This is no time to tremble in your shoes and be afraid; if you don't go and make your request, some other man will be bolder than you; he'll speak out, my father will listen to him, I shall be bound to another, and I shan't be your wife.'

"Gabriel summoned all his courage, cast a glance at his costume, and cried:

"'I will go and speak to monsieur your pap—your father, mademoiselle.'

"'Good! and you must come right back and tell me what answer he makes.'

"'Right away?'

"'Why, of course! Do you think that I am not interested in it?'

"'I will come back, mademoiselle.'

"He walked to the door of the salon, then retraced his steps and picked up his stick, which lay where I had thrown it. I stamped the floor angrily, and said:

"'What, monsieur! you have come back for that?'

"'Because I am used to having it in my hand, mademoiselle; it encourages me. When I haven't it, I don't know what to do with my hands.'

"'When a person's mind is occupied, monsieur, he is never embarrassed by his hands. But go, and hurry back!'

"When Gabriel had gone, I was anxious and impatient; I imagined that I loved that young man with a very profound love. In girls of that age, the slightest sentiment, the most trivial caprice, at once assumes the form of a passion. A pleasing illusion! which lasts too short a time, thanks to you, messieurs, who are so well skilled in opening our eyes to the melancholy reality!"

"My dear Frédérique, the illusions and disappointments are the same in both sexes! You are more affectionate, perhaps, but you are more easily fascinated, too. We change without reason, you change from pure coquetry. There is no more fidelity on one side than on the other."

"Do you think so? That may be true. Let me finish the story of my first love.

"Gabriel was not long away; in about ten minutes he returned; his face was flushed, his eyes gleamed—but not with joy. I must tell you that my father, an ex-naval officer, was not good-humored every day, that his language was often brusque, and that his manners corresponded with his language.

"'Well, monsieur,' I said, 'did you see my father?'

"'Yes, mademoiselle.'

"'Did you ask him for my hand?'

"'Yes, mademoiselle.'

"'What answer did he make?'

"Gabriel began to twirl his cane.

"'If you don't keep your cane quiet, monsieur, I'll throw it out of the window! What did father say?'

"'Mademoiselle—monsieur your father—he is not in a very good humor—he listened to me with a sarcastic expression, and then—then he took me by the hand, and—and put me out of his study. "Go and blow your nose!" he said; "you may come again in ten years and talk about your love."'

"'What! is it possible? My father told you to—to go and blow your nose?'

"'Yes, mademoiselle; and I give you my word I had no desire to.'

"I was petrified. My father's response seemed to me so rude, so humiliating, to Gabriel, that I asked him, looking him in the eye:

"'And you took that without a word?'

"'What would you have had me do, mademoiselle? I could not—threaten your papa, could I?'

"'No, of course not. Well, Monsieur Gabriel, as he looks upon you as a schoolboy, you must show him that you're a man. You must—you must—run off with me.'

"'Run off with you!'

"Gabriel was paralyzed; but I, afraid of nothing, and having no comprehension of the importance of my projected action, continued:

"'Mon Dieu! Monsieur Gabriel, you seem dumfounded. However, it's a very simple matter. You carry me off—that is to say, I run away—to-night, after dinner. No one suspects anything, and it will be easy enough for me to do it. You must be waiting for me at the corner, wrapped in a cloak—do you hear? You must have a cloak,—no one ever abducts a girl without that,—and a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over your eyes. I will wear a long pelisse and a veil. It will be great fun! You must take me—wherever you choose. Then you can write to my father that I am with you, and he can't help consenting to our marriage; that's the way it always ends.'

"'In that case, mademoiselle, I will run away with you; I should like to.'

"'To-night?'

"'To-night.'

"'I will leave the house at eight o'clock; be on the lookout for me.'

"'I will.'

"'And you will wear a cloak?'

"'I have one, mademoiselle; but I haven't a broad-brimmed hat.'

"'Buy one.'

"'To be sure; I didn't think of that.'

"'And think about where you will take me.'

"'I'll think about it.'

"'Now go; until to-night!'

"I can't tell you, my dear Charles, all the thoughts that assailed me as soon as I had persuaded my lover to abduct me. I was glad, and sorry; I looked forward with delight to being abducted, for I had read many novels, and, unluckily, of the sort in which one never finds a truthful line; in which nature, constantly perverted and distorted, like the language of the characters, is made to produce only such individuals as never existed, with an accompaniment of stilted, bombastic phrases; and whose moral is that vice or crime is always triumphant over virtue and honesty. Is it not true, my friend, that those are villainous books, and that if by chance they contain charm of style and poetic thoughts the author is all the more culpable, since he employs his talent solely to disgust us with what is good and beautiful, with what has always been held in respect?

"As I was saying, I was intensely excited, in a sort of delirium, in fact. I had had no mother from childhood! Abandoned at an early age to the care of paid dependents, never having found a heart into which I could pour out my thoughts and feelings, treated by my father like a little girl, or rather like a boy who was left to himself all day to raise the deuce, I had no one but myself. Ah! if my mother had lived! how many, many things would not have happened to me! She would have made me more prudent and careful; and it is probable that you would not be supping with me to-night.

"I had no thought of drawing back. At the appointed hour, I stole out of the house, wrapped in my pelisse, with a veil over my face, carrying a small bundle, in which, I remember, I had put a ball dress, a pair of bracelets, a package of candy, a toothbrush, three pairs of gloves, two cakes of chocolate, a fan, and a shoehorn.

"I found Gabriel waiting for me. The poor fellow was trembling much more than I was; he had the conventional cloak, but his head was almost invisible in an enormous hat like those worn by the porters at the market; it crushed him, made him look small and insignificant, and was not at all the style of headgear that I had hoped to see on my abductor. And, to cap the climax, he still carried in his right hand that miserable switch which had already caused me so much vexation of spirit.

"He came to meet me, and stammered something or other. I took possession of his arm, saying:

"'Let us make haste, we may be followed. Where's the post chaise?'

"'The post chaise? There isn't any. You didn't mention a post chaise.'

"'I thought that you would understand that. Where are you going to take me, then?'

"'Oh! never fear! I have engaged a lodging. Come.'

"I followed where he led. But I could not help saying to him:

"'That's a horribly ugly hat!'

"'Why, mademoiselle, it has a turned-down brim.'

"'So I see! but it's too much of a good thing. You ought to have a hat such as they wore under Louis XIII, with a feather curled round it. You look like a miller.'

"'Dame! you didn't tell me——'

"'Great heaven! must I tell you everything?'

"We halted in front of a furnished lodging house in the heart of the town, into which my abductor escorted me. I considered that very unromantic; I had flattered myself that I was to be spirited away to some venerable château, or to some village inn, where there would be robbers, or, at all events, very dark passages. Instead of that, we were shown into a pleasant, well-lighted room, where a table was laid, but in which there was nothing to suggest that we were to pass the night there. I said nothing, but it seemed strange to me. When we were left alone, Gabriel, who had removed his cloak and his plebeian hat, began to play with his cane.

"'Mademoiselle Frédérique,' he said,'do you like roast duck with olives?'

"You cannot conceive the impression produced upon me by that question, at a moment when I expected my lover to throw himself at my feet with passionate protestations of love.

"'Was it to feed me on roast duck with olives that you eloped with me, monsieur?' I demanded angrily.

"'No, mademoiselle; but we must eat. They won't take us in here unless we order supper; and while we're waiting for them to come for you——'

"'To come for me! Who, pray?'

"'Why, your papa.'

"'My father come here for me! Who can have told him that I am here?'

"'Why, I did.'

"'You? What do you mean? You bring me to this hotel, to conceal me, and you send word to my father!'

"'Why, mademoiselle, it was you yourself who said to me: "You will carry me off, then you will write to my father, and he'll have to consent to our marriage."—I have followed your instructions; I have sent a letter to your papa by a messenger, telling him that I have carried you off and that we are here.'

"'Oh! is it possible that anybody can be such a stupid fool! Why, monsieur, the time to write to the parents is after a few days have passed; when the elopement has made a great sensation, and they have hunted everywhere for the girl, and when—when—things have happened that—— Oh! how stupid you are, monsieur! Mon Dieu!'

"Gabriel was at his wits' end, and I was choking with rage. At that moment, I heard my father's voice in the street. He was just entering the house, with a friend of his, and I heard him say:

"'It's a boy and girl's joke, but I don't like it.'

"The thought of being found there by my father, and of the bundle I had brought, together with Gabriel's dazed look, drove me into a perfect frenzy of rage; and in my longing to be revenged, to vent my spleen upon someone, I seized my lover's cane, and, without taking time to reflect, beat him soundly over the shoulders before he knew what I was doing. Then I opened the window—we were only on the entresol—and jumped without a moment's hesitation. I landed in the street, uninjured, hurried home, and succeeded in creeping up to my room without being seen. I quickly scrambled into bed, so that when my father returned he concluded that the letter he had received was simply a hoax, and never mentioned it. As for little Gabriel, I never saw him again.

"That, my friend, is the story of my first love, if one may fairly give that name to the impulsive fancy of a mere girl, which makes her think that she loves the first fair-haired stripling who sighs when he looks at her.

"A few months after this adventure, another young man paid court to me; but he was not timid, not he! he knew how to speak out, and was not at all embarrassed about declaring his affection; he expressed himself too eloquently, perhaps, for he turned my head with fine phrases which I thought superb at the time, but which would seem quite devoid of sense now. After declaring his passion to me, he asked my father for my hand, and was formally refused. He had not a sou, and I have learned since that he was a very bad character. But at that time I looked upon my father as a tyrant, and when Anatole proposed an elopement, to be followed by a marriage, it seemed to me a perfectly natural proposal.

"However, I hesitated. The memory of my escapade with Gabriel had cooled my ardor somewhat on the subject of elopements, and at first I made some objections. Anatole thereupon drew from under his waistcoat a little dagger with a gleaming blade, swearing that he would kill himself before my eyes if I did not consent to be abducted. A man who proposes to kill himself for love of you! That is magnificent, and not to be resisted. I consented.

"The elopement was carried out without difficulty—I was so poorly guarded! This time I had the pleasure of being abducted in a carriage; but we went only three leagues from the city. Anatole told the coachman to stop at an inn, where we were to pass the night. Ah! that time I was in great danger.

"In the common room of the inn, where we had to wait while a room was prepared for us, we met two ladies on their way to Bordeaux. I fancied that I detected an interchange of smiles and knowing glances between them and Anatole. I was suspicious, but I said nothing. I refused to eat any supper, and went up to the room that had been prepared for me, telling Anatole not to put himself out on my account, but to sup without me. He assented, which was in itself rather ungallant; for there are times when a man ought not to think of eating. Although I had had little experience, it seemed to me that that was one of the times.

"A quarter of an hour later, I opened my door very softly and crept downstairs without meeting a soul. As I passed through a hall into which several doors opened, I heard laughter, and recognized Anatole's voice. I went to the door from which it came, and put my ear to the crack. I cannot describe my feelings when I heard the man who had eloped with me speak of me as a little fool whose head he had turned without difficulty. I heard two women's voices also; they spoke sneeringly of me and laughed at my expense; then they kissed, chuckling over the good times they would have with my dowry. I was furious, and for a moment I was tempted to rush into the room and box my seducer's ears as well as his companions'. But I restrained myself, reflecting that a scandalous scene in an inn would compromise me much more, and that it would be far better to go away without a word and leave Monsieur Anatole to his reflections.

"I had no difficulty in leaving the inn; I found my way to the highroad and entered a diligence going to Bordeaux. To make a long story short, I succeeded in returning home before my absence was discovered; so that my father had no suspicion that I had eloped a second time. That was wonderful luck; but I swore that I would never take the risk again.

"Several days passed before I heard from Anatole, but at last I received a letter from him. He demanded an explanation of my conduct and reiterated his protestations of undying love; in conclusion, he asked for a meeting. You will readily understand that I did not answer the letter. The next day came another, in which he himself appointed a meeting. At that, I went to my father and told him that Monsieur Anatole, whom I could not endure, had the assurance to make assignations with me, and I mentioned the place where he proposed to meet me. My father kissed me in acknowledgment of my trust in him and my prudence, saying that he would take it upon himself to administer fitting chastisement to the impertinent scoundrel who presumed to write to me. In fact, that same evening Monsieur Anatole received from my father's foot a number of blows on a sensitive spot."

Frédérique paused to moisten her lips with malvoisie, and I turned my face so that I could see her better.

After a moment's silence, during which we both seemed to be lost in thought, Frédérique continued:

"Such, my friend, were the results of my first two girlish passions; I was entirely disillusionized concerning the pretty love romances that girls dream of at boarding school. Some time after, my father proposed Monsieur Dauberny to me as a suitable match. I did not know him, but I readily assented. I did not propose to love again, and it mattered little to me whom they gave me for a husband.

"So I married Monsieur Dauberny. As you do not know my husband, allow me to draw his portrait for you. He was thirty-six years old when he married me, and is now forty-four. A man of thirty-six is still young, especially when he is a bachelor. My husband is a handsome man, with regular features; his face has no mobility, but, at first glance, that lack may easily be taken for gravity; at that time he was not so stout as he is to-day. In the early days of our union, I did not dislike him; I simply thought that he did not take enough pains to please me. I was nineteen years old! Frankly, I was well worth the trouble of making love to. Instead of that, my husband already neglected me to go—where? I did not know; but one day I took it into my head to find out. I dressed as a man; I had often worn a masculine costume for my own amusement, and I wore it with as much ease as that of my own sex.

"I played the spy on Monsieur Dauberny; he took a fiacre, and I followed him in a cabriolet. I supposed that he would go to visit some lorette, or perhaps some grisette. I was surprised when I found that his cab turned into Faubourg du Temple, passed the barrier, and stopped at La Courtille, in front of one of the most famous restaurants there. So Monsieur Dauberny frequented La Courtille. But why did he go there? Was it simply from curiosity? from a liking for those popular scenes, with which the court used to divert itself, so they say, at the Grand-Salon on Rue Coquenard? It was necessary to follow Monsieur Dauberny in order to obtain fuller information. I confess that I hesitated a moment. I felt a sort of thrill of terror when I found myself in the midst of a throng so entirely unfamiliar to me, hearing a medley of shouts, oaths, howling, singing, and laughter all about me. But, as you know, I am not fond of retreating. I entered a wine shop which seemed very popular, and followed the crowd past a succession of long counters, looking about for my husband.

"Everybody seemed to be going up a broad staircase, and I did as the others did. Luckily, my costume, being very simple, did not attract attention. Still, several men in blouses had glanced at me as they passed, saying to one another:

"'Who in the devil's this fellow?'

"'I should think he was some English lord's valet.'

"'How sheepish he looks in his coat! One would say he didn't dare to stoop. My eye! see the gloves! There's style for you! gloves! He looks as if he'd been to a wedding.'

"All this was not calculated to put me at my ease. I hastened to take off my gloves, and stuffed them in my pocket; then I cocked my hat over one ear, to give myself a swaggering air, and went up to the first floor.

"I found myself in an enormous room, where there was an orchestra. The centre of the room was reserved for dancing and was surrounded by a railing. But outside the railing were tables, without cloths, with wooden benches beside them. There were men and women eating and drinking at almost all the tables. All those people did not hesitate to talk in loud voices, laugh and sing, or blackguard one another. They kept shouting to the waiters, who had much ado to fill the orders of the customers; and when to that uproar were added the music of the orchestra, in which wind instruments and the bass drum predominated, and the clatter of the dancers, who were not shod in pumps, the result was a bacchanalian tumult quite capable of deafening and stupefying a person, especially one who heard it for the first time.

"The heat was suffocating; the room was filled with a heavy vapor produced by the smoking dishes, the wine spilt on the table, the dust raised by the dancers, and the perspiration, which seemed to be the normal condition of the company. There was a sort of mist before my eyes; they smarted painfully, and I felt that I staggered like an intoxicated person. I leaned against a table. A waiter passed me, carrying glasses of eau-de-vie to several women; I asked him for one of them and swallowed it at a draught, amid the applause of the women who sat about the table.

"'He's doing well, that boy is!' said one of them; 'with his little touch-me-not air, he tosses down his dram like a regular fireman! I give him my esteem!—I say, little one, I engage you for the waltz.'

"I thanked them, saying that I did not waltz, and walked quickly away from the table, for they seemed altogether too kindly disposed toward me. At last, I discovered my husband in the midst of the crowd around the tables. He had just taken his seat at one, at which two women in fichus were already seated dressed like fishwomen in their everyday clothes.

"The brandy I had drunk had restored my spirit; I was no longer afraid, but was inclined to fight anybody who chose to place any obstacle in the way of my plans. I stole cautiously behind Monsieur Dauberny, and seated myself on a bench at the table next to his, and ordered wine, bread, and veal cutlets. I could hear my neighbors' conversation, especially as my husband's companions had voices of the sort that drowns every other noise, even that of a bass drum.

"The two women in fichus were young; one was ugly, while the other had rather pretty features. But such a shameless expression! Such bold eyes, such a voice, such gestures, and such language! I have never been prudish, but I confess that I felt the color rising in my cheeks when I heard that woman's remarks. But it seemed to be much to Monsieur Dauberny's taste; for he sat very close indeed to Mademoiselle Mariotte, as they called her whose look seemed to defy a regiment. I heard her call my husband Bouqueton; that was the name he had adopted for use with his conquests at La Courtille. They were already acquainted, for Mademoiselle Mariotte said to him:

"'Why didn't you come night before last, as you promised, you vagabond? It was all on your account I accepted a salad and a sword knot from the Gârenboule brothers, who made me drink a lot of stuff and play cards with 'em till I won all their cash. If you don't keep your word better'n that, I'll play tricks on you as would give the monkeys the go-by!'

"Monsieur Dauberny apologized, and ordered two or three dishes and several bottles of wine. I expected to see him dance with his belle, but he contented himself with treating her and even making her tipsy. Mademoiselle Mariotte was sentimental in her cups; I heard them kissing behind me, but I beg you to believe that my heart felt no wound. Since I had seen my husband make soft eyes at Mademoiselle Mariotte, I had felt nothing but contempt for him, and contempt, I can assure you, is the sovereign remedy for love; but I had never loved Monsieur Dauberny.

"The caresses became more frequent, but that was a very common occurrence in that den; for there was an incessant volley of them from all the tables. Suddenly my husband's mistress rose and led him away.

"'I believe private rooms ain't for wax figures!' she cried.

"And they went off, arm in arm. That time I had no desire to follow them; I had seen and heard enough. I made haste to pay for the food and drink I had not touched, and to leave that wine shop where sport was so noisy and love so shameless.

"I did not see my husband for several days. I said that I was ill, and kept my room; when he came to the door and asked to see me, I alleged my need of rest as an excuse for not receiving him. I felt such an unutterable aversion for him that even the sound of his footsteps upset me completely. However, before deciding definitely what course to pursue, before letting him know that I was aware of his debauched tastes, I asked myself if it were not possible that he had been led away once by some unusual combination of circumstances; if it would be just to condemn him on the strength of a single act. You see that I meant to deal fairly by him. What I had seen would have been enough to lead many women to consider themselves released from their oaths. But I determined to follow him once more, being fully persuaded beforehand that I should simply acquire fresh proofs of his disgusting habits.

"On the second occasion, instead of putting on a frock-coat and a round hat, I dressed in a blouse, with a workman's cap on my head; I was careful not to wear gloves, and I tried to blacken my hands. In short, I disguised myself as a street urchin. Well for me that I did so! for, instead of leading me to La Courtille, Monsieur Dauberny, who was on foot, went in the direction of the Cité, and in due time turned into a narrow, muddy street, where the houses had a very evil look. I have learned since that it was Rue Saint-Éloy. I remembered the Mysteries of Paris, and I shuddered at the thought that I might perhaps have to follow my husband into a tapis franc! but my costume protected me, and no one paid any heed to me.

"Monsieur Dauberny stopped in front of a hovel that was styled a café, and looked through the window. It must have been hard to distinguish anything, for the glass was covered with a coating of smoke; and Monsieur Dauberny, who probably had not succeeded in looking in, seemed to hesitate, when a man entered the street at the other end and tapped my husband on the shoulder. I recognized the new-comer as one Faisandé, who was very intimate with Monsieur Dauberny, and sometimes came to the house; but the fellow, who was a clerk at the Treasury, had always seemed to me so reserved in his language, he professed to entertain such rigid principles and displayed so little indulgence for the most trivial peccadilloes, that I believed him to be a perfect Cato!"

"Faisandé!" cried I; "a clerk at the Treasury! Hypocrite, tartuffe, and debauchee! Ah! that's the very man!"

"Do you know him?"

"He was at the dinner at Deffieux's, the night that I made bold to attend Mademoiselle Guillardin's ball. He was very much shocked because we were a little free in our talk; he preached morality to us."

"Oh! that's the man to the life! Let me finish my story:

"When Monsieur Faisandé appeared, I stretched myself out on a stone bench in front of the hovel. I turned my face to the wall, and listened to their talk.

"'I was waiting for you,' my husband said.

"'Why didn't you go in?'

"'I am not so well known here as you are. I was not sure that they'd give me the little secret room.'

"'You must say: "I am Saint-Germain's friend,"—that's the name I go by here,—and they'd have taken you there at once.'

"'It seems that you're a regular habitué?'

"'I sometimes pass a whole week here, without putting my nose outside the door.'

"'A week! What about your place?'

"'I let it go to the devil!'

"'And your wife?'

"'The same with her. I have never put myself out for her. A week after my wedding, I slept away from home three nights in succession. A man should always put his wife on the proper footing at the outset. You ought to have done the same with yours.'

"'Oh! my wife pays very little attention to what I do. I can stay away all night if I choose; she won't say anything.'

"'That's all right! But let's go in; the women must be here, waiting for us.'

"'How many are there?'

"'Two each, or rather four each, as there are four of them.—Ha! ha!'

"'Pardieu! that's true. By the way, remember not to call me anything but Bouqueton.'

"'And I am Saint-Germain.'

"'It's a good idea to change our names.'

"'All the better, when you have a grudge against someone: you take his name in some risky affair, and if there's any trouble about it, why, it all comes back on the man whose name you took.'

"'What a devil of a fellow! He thinks of everything; he's far-sighted. Let's go in.'

"My husband and his worthy friend entered the vile resort. A few moments later, three or four urchins of fourteen or fifteen years went in, and I slipped in with them. I was anxious to get a glimpse of the interior of the place. It was very bold, was it not, my dear Charles? But there are days when I would brave the greatest dangers; apparently that was one of the days.

"I found myself in a very large room, but no higher than the ordinary entresol. The atmosphere was so dense with smoke that when I went in I could not see a billiard table at one end of the room. Not for some little time did my eyes become so far accustomed to the mist that I could distinguish anything. There were tables on all sides. A large number of men, of all ages, stood about the billiard table, which was dimly lighted by two lamps hanging from the ceiling. A common kitchen lamp stood on a desk near the outer door. There were no other lights in the room, so that in places it was quite dark. There were, as I say, many people about the billiard table; very few women, but many youths, or rather children, barely fourteen years old, whose worn faces, hollow eyes, and leaden complexions denoted premature debauchery. As for the women! I need not tell you to what class they belonged. There was no noise such as had deafened me at the ball at La Courtille; on the contrary, everybody spoke in undertones, and, except for a few energetic oaths from the billiard players, a forbidding silence reigned. My heart sank when I found myself in that den of iniquity. The dance hall at La Courtille was a veritable Château of Flowers compared with that ghastly café. I stood inside the door, and was about to go out again, when four women entered together. They were all young and shapely, and dressed like the wretched creatures who roam the streets in that quarter; breasts uncovered, eyes inflamed, heads thrown back, and faces upon which all the vices were engraved. Several men in blouses ran to meet them, crying:

"'Ah! here's the siroteuses! We're going to have some sport to-night.'

"'Bonsoir, la fourmi!'

"'Bonsoir, la mouche!'

"But the four women forced their way through the men who surrounded them, saying almost disdainfully:

"'We ain't for you to-night. There ain't no show! We're engaged! Have Messieurs Bouqueton and Saint-Germain got here?'

"'To be sure!' said a woman at the desk, who had been darting fiery glances at me for some minutes. 'They're waiting for you, and the table's set.'

"'The devil! there's going to be a treat, it seems!' cried one of the men.

"'Yes, yes,' said the girls. 'We're going to earn some shiners. And if you behave yourselves, there'll be something for you. Get out of the way! Let us go to work.'

"And the four women hurried to the other end of the room and disappeared through a little door, which closed behind them. I made haste to escape from that horrible place. I believe that it was high time, for the woman at the desk had pointed me out to some men, who were scrutinizing me closely.

"As soon as I was in the street, I ran at the top of my speed. I thought then, and I still believe that I was not mistaken, that I was chased by some men who came out of the café behind me. But some soldiers came along, and I walked beside them until I reached a more frequented quarter. Then I took a cab and went home.

"I cannot tell you what took place in my heart when I was able to reflect calmly on my plight—that I was the wife of a man of honorable birth and breeding, the bearer of an honorable name, who was at liberty to frequent respectable society in Paris, and who had a wife who was young and pretty, and not a fool,—I flattered myself, perhaps!—and that that man was at that moment in one of those sink-holes of vice which are tolerated in great cities because fugitives from justice can be found there; that he was in the company of public prostitutes of the lowest type, and that he would probably pass the night there.

"I trembled convulsively from head to foot, I had paroxysms of passion, and cried in a sort of frenzy: 'And I am tied to such a creature!'

"To calm myself I thought of that hypocrite Faisandé; he too had a wife; I had happened to meet her twice, and I knew that she was young and pretty and had all the qualities of a good wife and mother; she was virtuous, orderly, economical, not coquettish, and she adored her husband! It seems that there is a fatality about it: the worst scoundrels always obtain such phœnixes. Moreover, Monsieur Faisandé had a daughter; but even that did not deter the wretch! He abandoned himself to his abominable tastes, wholly oblivious of the fact that he was a father.

"I, at all events, had no child; and I thanked God for it at that moment. Recovering my strength of will and my courage, I said to myself that in all probability many wives had passed through such ordeals as mine. Ah! if we knew all the family secrets of our friends! This is not romancing, my friend; I invent nothing; it is history.

"I was conscious of a thrill of joy at the thought that I was free; that Monsieur Dauberny had released me from all the oaths that bound me to him. For I did not feel disposed, for my part, to imitate Madame Faisandé, who, although she was aware of her husband's conduct, hardly dared to say a word of reproach, and remained faithful to her vows. That is very fine, but I am not so self-sacrificing! and, frankly, I have never understood that precept of the Gospel about returning good for evil. No, no! let us not forgive an insult, let us not kiss the hand that strikes us; for then the insult and the blow will be repeated. The lex talionis! that is the natural law, and it is my idea of justice!

"Three days passed before I saw my husband; he probably passed them in that den where his friend Faisandé sometimes passed a week. At last, Monsieur Dauberny came to my room one morning and approached me as if to kiss me. I felt as if I were about to come in contact with a toad. I rose hastily, and I doubt not that my face expressed what was passing through my mind, for Monsieur Dauberny stopped in utter amazement.

"'Monsieur,' I said to him, pointing to the door, 'you will never cross that threshold again! More than that, you will never seek to see me or to speak to me. Henceforth we are utter strangers to each other. I will never go out with you; when I dine at home, it will not be at your table; we will have our meals separately. Absolute liberty, monsieur! I shall do whatever I please—absolutely! do you understand, monsieur? And you will not venture to find fault with any act of mine.'

"Monsieur Dauberny, bewildered at first by what I said, tried to demand an explanation. I closed his mouth with these words:

"'I know all about La Courtille, Mariotte, the vile hole on Rue Saint-Éloy, and the four siroteuses!'

"He turned deathly pale and trembled like a leaf; he stammered some words which I could not understand, then bowed, and rushed from the room. Since that day—and that was years ago!—I have not exchanged a word with my husband. We live as I had resolved. Sometimes I don't see him for three weeks; and if we chance to meet, we bow, and that is all. The world has become accustomed to seeing me go about without my husband. What the world thinks about it matters little to me! It is so often mistaken in its judgments that we are fools to worry about it. I have always thought that our own esteem was worth more than the consideration which is often most freely bestowed on people who hardly deserve it."

"Now, my dear Charles, you know the secret of my entire liberty, and of my conduct, which gives rise to so much gossip; of my inviting you to supper to-night with our dear baron, who is sleeping so soundly now; of my having a table of my own, in short, at which I can entertain whom I please, without the slightest concern as to whether anyone will criticise me for it. Are you glad that I have told you?"

"Oh, yes!" I said, pressing her hand with force. "Yes! In the first place, I am proud of having inspired you with confidence in me. And then, too, I—I——"

"You are very glad to find that I am not such a good-for-naught as you thought at first, eh?"

She was right. Her conduct seemed to me now to be perfectly natural, or, at all events, excusable. Frédérique's head no longer rested on my shoulder: she sat up and passed her hand across her forehead, saying:

"I believe it is time for us to think of separating. I feel a little tired, my friend. You will go home with Herr von Brunzbrack, will you not? He is a little—tipsy, and I should be sorry if anything happened to him. And, although he has his carriage here, he is quite capable of refusing to go home."

"Yes, yes; I will put him in the hands of his servants. But just a moment; why need we separate so soon?"

"The clock has just struck half-past three."

"Suppose it has? what does the time matter, when we are so comfortable and our own masters?"

"Oh! as far as that goes, nobody is more uncontrolled than I am now. Stay on, if you choose. But, if you do, you must tell me something, confide in me. Do you fence?"

"Yes; why?"

"Because, if you do, you must come here and fence with me; it's a form of exercise that I am very fond of."

"What! do you really know how to handle a foil?"

"And very prettily too, I flatter myself. I told you that I was a man; so, of course, I have learned the things that go to perfect a man's education."

"Then you must ride too?"

"Oh! that is another exercise that I adore. We will ride together—and you will see that I am not afraid, and that I have a good seat. But you don't seem to be listening to me! What in the deuce shall I talk to him about?—Poor boy, talk to me about Armantine. It is such a joy to speak of the person one loves! And you are very much in love with her, aren't you?"

I confess that at that moment I was thinking much less of Madame Sordeville. So that I replied, rather coldly:

"I was very much in love with her; but her treatment of me to-night cooled me off."

"Oh! when a man is really in love with a woman, monsieur, he doesn't cease to love her just because she flirts a little with other men; on the contrary, he often loves her all the more for it."

"Coquetry has never had that effect on me."

"Go and see Armantine in a few days, in the daytime. I'll wager that she will be very amiable to you."

"So the lady is capricious, is she?"

"Exceedingly capricious."

"That is a failing which I have never been able to endure."

"Ah! but when one loves a woman, one loves her with all her failings."

"My theory is that when one really loves, one is not capricious in dealing with the object of one's love. Consequently, I am persuaded that all these women who have caprices don't know what it is to love."

"Perhaps you are right. But I think that Armantine is in reality very susceptible."

"You think so? You are not sure?"

"How is one to be sure of other people? one is not always sure of one's self."

We sat for some time without speaking; but to me that silence was not without charm. It is often pleasant to think, in the company of a person who is thinking at the same time.

Suddenly Frédérique looked me in the face and said:

"Well, Charles! you don't seem to talk about Armantine?"

"I have so little hope!"

"Oho! monsieur plays the modest adorer! After all, I don't pretend to say that she will yield to you. That is a mystery—the secret of the gods."

"True; but you might tell me whether—whether any previous weakness on her part gives me reason to hope."

"My dear man, it isn't right to ask me that. If Armantine had given me her confidence, I would not betray it. But, frankly, I know nothing about it. All that I can say is that Monsieur Sordeville is not in the least jealous; that he gives his wife her liberty in a way that strongly resembles indifference; that Armantine is pretty, coquettish, likes to be courted; and that all those things may very well lead to certain results. But whose fault is it, if not her husband's? Oh! these husbands! I've learned to my cost not to love them!—Well! what are you thinking about? you are not listening."

"Yes, I am. I was thinking that you—that—— Oh, no! it isn't worth while; I prefer not to say anything."

"My dear fellow, you don't like capricious women, you say, and, for my part, I detest a person who begins a sentence, then stops, and doesn't finish it. There's nothing so impertinent as that, in my opinion! It is almost equivalent to a confession that you had something disagreeable to say, and discovered it in time. Sometimes our conjectures go beyond the truth. Finish what you were going to say, I insist! I demand it! or I am done with you! Come, quickly! don't try to fabricate something, for you would simply lie."

Frédérique pressed me so hard that I had no time to invent a lie, as often happens in such cases, and I replied, almost shamefacedly:

"I was thinking of Monsieur—Saint-Bergame; and I was wondering about a lot of things. You told me that you and he had quarrelled. But are you not afraid of offending him still more, if he knows that you had guests to-night at supper?"

Frédérique compressed her lips and frowned. I realized that I had been indiscreet, that I had no right to ask such questions; but the thought had been at the end of my tongue for some time, and it must escape me sooner or later; it had been tormenting me since the very beginning of the supper.

"What on earth made you think of Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" cried Frédérique at last, with something very like anger. "Would you have liked to have him here? Would you have enjoyed being with him? In that case, you are not like him, for he can't endure you. I don't know why it is, but he is not attracted to you."

"I do not regret the gentleman's absence in the least, far from it! But it surprised me, because——"

"Because you had guessed that he was my lover, eh? Mon Dieu! it did not require much perspicacity to discover that!"

"Well! as you make no concealment of it, you ought not to be angry because I ask the question."

"There are some things that one doesn't conceal, or conceals imperfectly, that one doesn't like to have thrown in one's face, none the less. But you have said a lot of——"

"Stupid things! Finish the sentence, pray! I am like you, I hate unfinished sentences."

"Well, yes! Stupid isn't just the word, but things that people keep to themselves when they think them."

"I beg your pardon. I have the bad habit of saying whatever comes into my mind. It's a serious fault, I admit, and I have often had occasion to regret it in society. I regret it all the more, because I see that it has annoyed you, for you have ceased to tutoyer me; and yet you were the one who said to me just now: 'Let us have no secrets from each other.'"

Frédérique turned her face to mine, with a charming smile, and held out her hand, saying:

"You are right I was foolish to be angry, as we agreed to be like two brothers. Come, give me your hand! That's right! The fact is, you see, that you touched a sensitive chord. I have quarrelled with Saint-Bergame; the wound is still fresh; and wounds in the vicinity of the heart do not heal quickly. I will tell you about it."

"No, it's not necessary. I don't want to know it."

"Oh! but I want to tell you, now. Upon my word, he is trying to prevent my speaking!"

"Because I sincerely regret——"

"Hush! Be quiet, and listen.—You know that Saint-Bergame writes for a newspaper?"

"Yes."

"The newspaper in question has much to say about literature and the stage; and Saint-Bergame writes almost all the dramatic criticisms. I have often thought that his judgments were partial and unjust, and I have not hesitated to tell him so. When I have read in his article, after a play has been successfully produced, that it has failed miserably and been hissed, I have exclaimed:

"'What you have written is false! It's a shame! Why do you cry down that play?'

"'Because the author is not my friend. Because he didn't come to bespeak my good will.'

"'So, because an author is conscious of his dignity, because he doesn't go about begging praise; because, in short, he relies upon your sense of justice, your impartiality, you abuse him and belittle his work! And you call that exercising your profession of critic! In that case, it's a vile profession; you had better be a mason, monsieur, if your talents lie in that direction.'

"But Saint-Bergame always laughed at my anger, and that was the end of it. A few days ago, however, I saw at one of the boulevard theatres a very pretty young débutante, who showed great promise in her part. Saint-Bergame was with me, and echoed my opinion of the young actress's talent.

"'Then, of course, you will speak well of her in your newspaper?' I said. He smiled in a curious way, and answered:

"'We shall see; that depends.'

"'Depends on what? What is there to prevent your writing what you think at this moment?'

"'One of my friends is making love to this débutante.'

"'Well! what has that to do with the article you are going to write?'

"'The girl is playing the prude. She refuses to listen to my friend's proposals, and won't accept his bouquets. That's a familiar manœuvre to increase her value.'

"'But suppose your friend doesn't please her? Isn't she her own mistress, pray?'

"'Bah! that's all mere comedy! She means to lead my friend on. But he has invited her to a nice little dinner to-morrow. I am to be there. If she comes, I exalt her to the skies; if she doesn't, I tear her to tatters.'

"I said nothing, but I cannot describe my sensations. I turned my eyes away so that Saint-Bergame should not see their expression, in which he might read what I thought of him. I waited impatiently for the second day following—that was the day before yesterday. I lost no time in opening the newspaper edited by Saint-Bergame, in which I found an article on the young débutante we had seen. Not only did he criticise her acting, her methods, and her stage manner in the most contemptuous terms, but he also attacked her personal appearance; she is pretty, and he called her ugly; she has a fine figure, and he said she was deformed; she is exceedingly graceful, and he could not find words to describe her awkwardness and her embarrassment; in short, according to that article, she was a sort of monster who had been allowed to go on the stage to amuse the public for a moment.

"I crumpled the paper in my hands and threw it on the floor; I was furiously angry with Saint-Bergame. When he appeared, I threw his abominable article in his face, and told him that he was a dastard; that a man who would empty his gall so on a woman deserved no woman's love, and that I forbade him to darken my doors again. He tried to insist, to turn it into a joke, and called me hot-headed. But when he saw that I was in earnest, I believe that he lost his temper, too, and asked me by what right I presumed to pass judgment on his writings. I made no answer, but locked myself into my room. He went away in a rage, and I have not seen him since."

"And if he comes back?"

"I shall not receive him. It's all over! all over!"

"And you don't regret him?"

"I regret having had any relations with him—that is what I regret. He's a good-looking fellow, and I liked him. But I realize now that I never loved him."

"But if he loves you, he will return; he will beg you, beseech you."

"He will do nothing of the sort. He never loved me, either. It flattered his self-esteem to make a conquest of me, and that was all. He is one of the men who think that a woman is too highly favored when they deign to look at her. Oh! I know him now, I know him too well! I see him now as he is! Besides, he was not faithful to me, I am sure. How do I know that it was not he himself who was making love to that actress? Ah! my dear Charles, how does it happen that a connection so intimate, which is sometimes based on sincere love, often leaves nothing but regrets and bitter memories in the heart? After love should come friendship. Should not that be the natural consequence of the relation lovers have borne to each other? But, instead of that, they part in anger, and sometimes come to hate where they have loved so dearly."

"No, Frédérique, no! that does not happen when two hearts have burned for each other with a sincere passion. The connection may be broken, but a pleasant remembrance of the happiness they have enjoyed always remains."

"Do you think so? In that case, I never loved Saint-Bergame. Yes, I am sure now that I didn't love him; and, more than that—would you like me to tell you my inmost thoughts? Well! I believe that I have never loved any man! and I propose to continue on that line; it's much more amusing. Then one treats men just as they treat us—one drops them as soon as they cease to be attractive! You won't say that I am right; but in the bottom of your heart you think so."