Frédérique, vol. 1

"What do you think of my second method, Rochebrune?"

"Excellent; indeed, I think that it's better than the other, for it requires less preparation."

"That depends. We have creditors who will defy smallpox, yellow fever—aye, the plague itself. But I must get up and liberate my squirrel, and return your ten francs."

"I will take back the ten francs, which would be of no great use to you; but if you would like this five-hundred-franc note, which I put in my pocket with a view to settling with my tailor, why, don't hesitate to say so; I shall be glad to do you a service."

Balloquet forgot that he was in his shirt; he leaped on my neck, crying:

"Would I like it! I should say so! I wouldn't have asked for it, but you offer it! You're a friend indeed! Let me hear anyone say that there are no such things as friends nowadays! Dear old Rochebrune! And you don't know me very well, either."

"I know you well enough to be happy that I am able to oblige you."

"Oh! by the way, I ought to warn you of one thing: I can't say just when I shall be able to pay you."

"Don't let that disturb you! You may pay me when fortune smiles on you again, when you have a profitable practice."

"Oh! as for that, you will be the first person paid. So I'm in funds once more! Vive la joie!—No more potatoes! I've had enough of them; I've been stuffed with them for a long time. But I won't tell Satiné that my pockets are lined, for she has always some invention or other in her head, and it's too risky."

I was about to take leave of Balloquet, who was just pulling on his trousers, when we heard three little taps at his door. The young doctor listened and smiled.

"What sort of a farce are you going to play this time?" I asked him.

"Oh! this is no creditor, my dear fellow, I am sure. The creditor knocks noisily; but those soft little taps—I'll bet that it's someone to consult me."

He went into the outer room and called:

"Who's there?"

"Someone who wishes to consult monsieur le médécin," replied a soft, female voice.

"I will leave you," I said, taking my hat; but Balloquet detained me.

"Do stay," he said. "Thus far you have seen nothing but the unpleasant features of my position as a debtor; it is only fair that you should be a witness also of the advantages we owe to our profession. This is some girl to consult me. It is sometimes quite amusing to listen. They conceal nothing from their doctor; they tell him some things that they certainly wouldn't tell their lovers."

"But she won't dare to say anything before a witness, will she?"

"It will be enough to tell her that you're a confrère; then she'll look on you as another myself. If there were ten of us here, and I should say they were all doctors, she'd take them all for her confidants."

"In that case, I will stay and listen to the consultation."

I resumed my seat, while Balloquet donned his dressing gown, and opened the door himself.

The doctor was not mistaken; it was a young girl, with a costume halfway between that of a grisette and a nursery maid. Light hair, an attractive face, eyes cast down like an innocent schoolgirl, but with a certain twist in her gait which bore no trace of innocence.

She made a courtesy, then glanced at me, and halted.

"Monsieur is a confrère, another myself," said Balloquet; "so you may speak before him without fear; indeed, you may be the gainer by so doing, for two opinions are better than one. Be seated, mademoiselle, and tell me what brings you here."

The girl courtesied again, and tried to smile; but in the midst of the smile, her features contracted with pain; she pressed her lips together, clenched her hands, and leaned against the desk.

"Are you in pain?" asked Balloquet, pushing a chair toward her.

She seemed to breathe with difficulty, but she smiled again, saying:

"It's over now; I hope it won't amount to anything, but it makes me feel very bad at times."

"Tell me what it is."

"I am a lacemaker, monsieur; but there hasn't been much doing in that trade for some time, and one earns so little! And I admit that I'm a good deal of an idler; when I'm sent on an errand, I like to stop in front of the caricature shops and confectioners; and I like the theatre too, and balls. It's such good fun to dance at Mabille, at Valentino's, and at the Cité-d'Antin. In fact, I like a good time, I don't deny it."

"That's characteristic of your age, mademoiselle; indeed, we all like a good time. Everyone enjoys it according to his tastes. At twenty, it's love and clothes; at thirty, money; at forty, ambition and titles; later, cards and rest. But at every age, when we seek to gratify our desires, we are always after a good time. Go on."

"But, monsieur, when you want to enjoy yourself, and haven't any money, it's very hard!"

"Sometimes; it depends on the sort of enjoyment you want."

"One night, I was walking on the Champs-Élysées with a friend of mine, who's a good deal of an idler, like myself, and likes good things to eat, too. As we passed a café, we looked at the people eating ices at the tables outside, and my friend said: 'I've never eaten any of that! None of the lovers I've ever had have been good for more than a bottle of cider or beer. Oh, yes! there was one who ordered punch; but he drank it all and didn't leave me half a glass!'—'I don't know what ices taste like, either,' said I; 'but I'd like right well to try one.'—At that, a fat man behind us, who was listening to us, I suppose, said: 'Allow me to satisfy your longing, mesdemoiselles, and to offer you an ice. See, here's an unoccupied table; let's sit down here.'

"I was rather taken by surprise and didn't know what to reply, but my friend nudged me and whispered: 'Let's accept and take the ices; what harm will it do? it don't bind us to anything. Besides, he's a well-dressed man, he's comme il faut. I'm going to accept, anyway!'—And she drew me toward the table. You can understand that I couldn't very well refuse.—Well, he treated us; my friend had three ices, but I only took two; they made my teeth ache a little. He stuffed us with cakes and macaroons, too; so my friend thought he was charming; but he wasn't at all to my taste. His face was red and all covered with pimples. However, he had pleasant manners, and, although my friend made eyes at him, he paid all his attention to me. That made my friend mad. At last, messieurs—monsieur le docteur—you understand?"

"Yes, perfectly; you made the acquaintance of the stout man who paid for the ices; but that doesn't tell us why you are suffering now."

"Ah! that's the sequel. I had known that gentleman about six months. I hadn't got used to him at all; but I had got used to his presents. It isn't that he was very generous—— However, when you don't love a man, you ask nothing better than to deceive him."

"That is perfectly natural, mademoiselle; sometimes, indeed, you deceive him when you do love him."

"Oh! that's true, too; I believe such things have been known. Well, about six weeks ago I made the acquaintance of a young man I liked very much."

"And you left the stout party?"

"Mon Dieu! I intended to, certainly—that was my purpose—but——"

"You didn't have a chance, eh?"

"That's it, monsieur. I was looking for an opportunity; I didn't know just what to do, for I had discovered that Monsieur Bouqueton was very brutal, with all his comme il faut air."

"Bouqueton!" I exclaimed, struck by that name, as I recalled Madame Dauberny's confidences on the subject of her husband. "So your stout man's name is Bouqueton, is it?"

"Yes, monsieur. Do you know him?"

"No, not I. But I have heard of him from a friend of mine, who didn't speak very highly of him. Go on, mademoiselle."

"I was looking for a chance to break with Monsieur Bouqueton; but, meanwhile, I continued to receive his presents—so as not to make him suspicious. Well, three days ago, my lover—my real lover—came and asked me to dine with him at a little restaurant on Rue du Ponceau, where they have private rooms. Naturally, I said yes. When I went out, I met my friend, the one who had the ices with me on the Champs-Élysées. She asked me where I was going, and I was fool enough to tell her. Oh! women are such traitors! It's never safe to trust one's friends! I am sure that it was she who told Monsieur Bouqueton that I had another lover. By making trouble between him and me, she hoped he'd take her, I suppose—the vile slut! Well, messieurs, when I came out of the restaurant with my lover, I saw Monsieur Bouqueton standing guard at the door. I trembled all over. I didn't want to go home, but my young man couldn't take me with him, for he hadn't any rooms of his own: he lives with his employer, four clerks in one room. I couldn't go and play puss-in-the-corner with all four; so I says to myself: 'Never mind! here's the opportunity I've been looking for to break with Monsieur Bouqueton.'

"Sure enough, I hadn't been at home half an hour, when someone knocked at my door. It was Monsieur Bouqueton. I was all of a tremble when I opened the door; but I was surprised to hear him speak to me very gently, and say: 'So you don't love me any more, Annette?'—My name's Annette.—'I can't blame you; for I know that liaisons like ours can't last forever. I have come to say good-bye to you; but I don't propose to part on bad terms; on the contrary, to prove that I don't bear you any grudge, I'll treat you to bischoff. I know a place where they make it delicious. We'll take a cab and go there; then I'll bring you home, and we'll part the best of friends.'

"I was so delighted that Monsieur Bouqueton didn't make a scene, that I accepted his invitation. I certainly ought to have been suspicious of his honey-sweet air, but I'm very fond of bischoff. Oh! what a miserable thing it is to be a glutton! That fault has always made me make a fool of myself.

"I put my cap on again, and we went out. Monsieur Bouqueton put me into a cab, but I didn't hear what he said to the driver. We started off. It was about ten o'clock at night. The cab went on and on.

"'Is this café of yours very far?' I asked.

"'Rather far; but we shall soon be there now.'

"The cab stopped at last. Monsieur Bouqueton helped me out and paid the cabman, who drove away. I looked about; it was as dark as a pocket, and we had no lantern. All I could see was big trees.

"'Where are we?' I asked, beginning to be frightened; for I began to suspect treachery. I couldn't see any light; but the trees made me think that we might be on the outer boulevards. But why should he have taken me there? At that time of night, in winter, all the restaurants must be closed.

"Without answering my question, Monsieur Bouqueton took my arm and led me away; we walked for some minutes, but didn't meet a soul.

"'I won't go any farther,' I said suddenly, and stopped. 'You have deceived me, and I want to go back to Paris.'

"'Well! all right! we won't go any farther,' said my conductor, in a voice whose savage accent froze the blood in my veins. 'We are well enough here for what I have to say to you, and for the lesson I propose to give you.'

"He had no sooner said this than he knocked me down with a blow of his fist. I shrieked as I fell; but the miserable villain knew well enough that no one would come to my rescue. He called me the most horrible names—beggar—oh! I can't tell you all the vile names he called me! Certainly, I deserved some of them! But he wasn't content with treating me like the lowest of the low; he kicked me in the head and breast and everywhere."

"What a ghastly thing!" cried Balloquet, while I, restraining my feelings with the utmost difficulty, felt great drops of perspiration on my brow. The story of that loathsome conduct made my cheeks tingle.

"I begged Monsieur Bouqueton to spare me," continued Annette. "I confessed my guilt and begged for mercy; but he would not listen; he kept on kicking me and calling me vile names. At last, he hurt me so that I could not speak. I don't know whether the monster thought he had killed me,—that was his purpose, I don't doubt,—but, when he saw that I didn't move, he may have been frightened, for he suddenly ran off, and I heard his steps die away in the distance. I lay there on the ground a long while, in horrible pain. At last a heavy wagon came along, and the driver heard me groaning. He came to me, put me in his wagon, and took me as far as the barrier, where he left me. There they gave me what assistance I needed. I came to myself, but when they asked me what had happened, I couldn't tell them the truth, so I made up a story about robbers. When I felt able to go home, they called a cab and sent me home. All men aren't as wicked as Monsieur Bouqueton, thank God! if they were, we should have to long for another Flood. The next day, I took some medicine. The blows on my hips and legs are all black and blue, but they won't amount to anything. I hoped it would be the same with the one I got here, on the breast, but it hurts me awfully, it cuts like a knife; and that's why I came to see you, monsieur."

"Let me see the bruise, my child; you must show us your breast—doctors, you know——"

"Oh! I'll show you whatever you say, monsieur."

And, without any false modesty, Mademoiselle Annette unbuttoned her dress and bared her breast. At that moment we could examine it without any risk to her, for the thought that the poor girl was in pain put all other thoughts to flight. Under the left breast there was a purple spot, with a yellowish circle all about it. Balloquet frowned and his face became grave and sad; I believed that I could divine his thought and I turned my head away; the sight was too distressing. The girl meanwhile smiled a wan sort of smile, and said:

"That was a famous blow I got, wasn't it, monsieur?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, yes."

The doctor put his finger on the purple spot.

"Does that hurt?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!"

"And that?"

"Yes!"

"And that?"

"Oh! yes, it does!"

"We must look after this; you must do just what I say, and take the draught I prescribe."

"But it isn't dangerous, is it, monsieur?"

Balloquet made an effort to resume his customary cheerful expression as he replied:

"No, mademoiselle, no; you will come out all right. But you must follow my directions carefully; you must keep a bandage on your breast all the time, wet with a liquid I will give you."

"You don't need to feel it any more, monsieur?"

"No, mademoiselle."

"When must I come again?"

Balloquet reflected a moment, and said:

"Don't come here again; I am going to move, and I don't know yet where I shall go; but leave me your address; I will call to see you."

"Oh! you are very kind, monsieur; but—when a doctor puts himself out to call, it costs more than when one goes to see him."

"Never fear; it won't cost you any more, for it won't cost anything."

"Oh! you are very good! And you won't forget to come?"

"If your bruise was a mere trifle, I might forget you; but it's serious enough to prevent my neglecting it. I will come to see you."

"This is my address, monsieur: Annette—Rue Rochechouart, corner of Rue Bellefond."

"Just Annette?"

"That's all, monsieur; when a girl has been foolish, she ought not to bear her parents' name."

"Here, my child, here are your prescriptions. Be careful to follow my directions. Don't tire yourself, and be good. It's a bore, I know, but it is necessary for your safety. I will see you in a few days."

The girl had rebuttoned her dress and was about to leave the room.

"Have you seen Monsieur Bouqueton since?" I asked.

"Oh, no, monsieur! the monster! If I should see him, I believe I should faint with fright."

"But what about your young lover? Didn't he promise to avenge you, when he found out what had happened?"

"Oh, yes! he is going to square accounts with him, if he ever meets him. But he's a thoughtless fellow, my lover is! He says that one day, but forgets all about it the next."

"Well, mademoiselle, I promise you that you shall be avenged; I promise you that Monsieur—Bouqueton shall receive sooner or later the punishment that his treatment of you deserves. If your lover doesn't administer it, I myself will undertake to do it."

"You, monsieur? Why, do you know Monsieur Bouqueton?"

"I never saw the man, but I know who he is. I tell you again—you shall be avenged."

"Oh! mon Dieu! monsieur, I am not very vindictive; just let me get well, and I won't think any more about that old villain.—I have the honor to salute you, monsieur le médécin!"

"I expected that you were to witness an amusing consultation," said Balloquet, after Annette had gone; "for these girls come to see us so often for mere trifles. But, unluckily, I was mistaken. That poor creature made my heart ache, her injury is so serious; I anticipate the worst—terrible suffering, and death."

"Poor girl! What a punishment for her sins! What a ghastly result of idleness, of indolence! I will not say, of coquetry, for there was nothing in her dress to indicate that she has ever been kept."

"Is it true that you know this infamous blackguard who kicked her in the breast?"

"Yes; his name is not Bouqueton; that is a name he assumes to cover up his escapades."

"Look you, my dear fellow, if ever you need my help in thrashing that scoundrel, you will afford me a very great pleasure, and I beg you not to forget me. I am a good-for-naught, I admit; I love all the women whose physique makes them worth the trouble of loving; I deceive them without scruple, because they pay me back in my own coin. In that respect, I fancy you are not unlike me. But to strike a woman, to inflict bodily suffering on a weak creature to whom we have owed the most delicious of joys!—oh! that is infamous, execrable! No infidelity can excuse such barbarous conduct!"

"You are quite right, Balloquet. Remember the two lines that have never grown old, despite their antiquity:

Au revoir, Balloquet! you will let me know about the poor girl, won't you?"

"To be sure! I will call on you and give you my address, when I have one."

It was cold, but the weather was superb. On leaving Balloquet, the whim seized me to take a turn about the garden of the Tuileries. I found many people in the garden. Fashionably attired ladies, well supplied with furs and warm cloaks, were seated along the main avenue, near the Terrasse des Feuillants. I glanced at them without stopping, but with the pleasure that one has in looking at flowers when one walks through a flower garden.

Suddenly I felt an involuntary thrill; I had recognized Madame Sordeville, but not until I was almost face to face with her. I was about to look the other way, when I saw another familiar face beside Armantine's: Madame Dauberny was sitting with her friend. They had seen me, and both had their eyes fixed on me. To pretend not to see them was impossible, and I raised my hat.

Frédérique barely moved her head, still looking at me, but maintaining the grave and almost frigid expression which she had adopted with me. It was not so with Madame Sordeville; she smiled upon me most affably, and said in her sweetest voice, as she pointed to a vacant chair by her side:

"Ah! is it you, Monsieur Rochebrune? I supposed that you had gone abroad, it is so long since we saw you. Pray sit down a moment with us. As we must depend upon chance for meeting you, you will surely give us a few moments."

"If monsieur is in a hurry, why do you insist upon detaining him?" said Frédérique, sharply. "For my part, I have never understood how anyone could compel a person to break an appointment wholly as a matter of courtesy."

But I had already seated myself beside Madame Sordeville, for I could not resist the charm of her smile. All my resolutions vanished before that smile, and I replied:

"I have time to stop; and even if I had any business on hand, I should be too happy to postpone it for such a pleasure."

Frédérique said nothing; she sat erect in her chair, with her head thrown back a little, so that I could not see her face; but, as a compensation, I was able to look at Armantine to my heart's content, for she turned to me and said, with the same charmingly amiable expression:

"Why have you abandoned us so entirely, monsieur? Our house must have offered you very little attraction. Indeed, I can easily believe that our small parties are not very amusing; and yet, I had imagined that you would enjoy yourself there. I was very foolish, was I not?"

"No, madame; you were quite right. But urgent business——"

"Oh! don't talk like that, monsieur; you know perfectly well that we don't believe anything of the sort. You have found more entertainment with others, and you have been very sensible to give them the preference."

"You know that that is not true, madame."

"Know it, monsieur? How do you expect me to know anything, except that you suddenly ceased to come to us? It seems to me that I could not very well ask you the reason. I was talking with Frédérique about you a moment ago."

"What! you thought of me, madame?"

"Yes," murmured Frédérique, swaying back and forth on her chair; "Armantine was saying that you sang ballads beautifully."

Madame Sordeville nudged her friend; I believe, indeed, that she pinched her. As for myself, being not at all wounded by that malicious remark, I hastened to reply:

"If I had any pretension to be considered a singer, madame, what you have just said might mortify me; but as it has never occurred to me to hold myself out as anything of the sort, I will be the first to laugh with you over my performance at Madame Sordeville's."

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Rochebrune, I have no idea why Frédérique said that; I don't think that she did it to laugh at you, for, after all, it may happen to anyone not to be in condition for singing—to have trouble with his throat;—and he may sing perfectly well another time."

"He takes his revenge," said Frédérique, in an undertone. "'This play is by a clever man who will take his revenge sooner or later.'—That's the consecrated phrase of newspaper critics after a play has failed."

"You seem to be very ill-disposed toward me, madame," I said, trying to catch a glimpse of Madame Dauberny's face; but I could not succeed.

"I, monsieur? Not in the least; I am joking, that's all. I am not one of those people whose feelings are changed by a false note."

Armantine seemed ill at ease, and hastened to change the subject. We talked about indifferent matters, but our eyes were not indifferent. Madame Dauberny did not utter a word. Was she angry with me? did she still bear me a grudge? Surely it was a long while for a kiss to rankle! I was almost grieved by Frédérique's treatment of me, but Armantine made me forget it by the amiable way in which she talked with me. I had never seen her show so much pleasure in being with me. However, I realized that I must not wear my welcome out, so I took leave of them.

"Shall I still have to depend on chance meetings for a glimpse of you?" asked Madame Sordeville, as she answered my salutation.

"No, madame; I shall not again wait for chance to serve me, as it might not always be so favorable."

Frédérique nodded slightly in acknowledgment of my bow, but not a word, not a smile.

"Upon my word," thought I, "she's very sensitive for a gaillarde!"

Armantine, I had been told, was a flirt; and, indeed, I had been several times in a position to judge that it was not safe to rely on the hopes she aroused. But, without flattering myself that I could cure her of that failing, it was possible that she might love me. After all, I had never yet met a perfect woman; in truth, I had never sought one. In short, that lady had turned my head again by her glances and her smiles, and I had already forgotten the way she treated me at her two receptions; the resolution I had formed not to expose myself again to the risk of being made the plaything of a coquette did not hold out against the allurements she had practised on me. Mon Dieu! why should we keep our resolutions in love, when we have no resolution at all in respect to the most serious matters?

On the day following this meeting, I could contain myself no longer, and I made a careful toilet with the purpose of calling on Madame Sordeville; for I had noticed that she attached some importance to the costumes of her guests. That was another pardonable foible in a woman who thought constantly of dress, and who believed, in all probability, that everybody agreed with her as to the momentous nature of the subject.

I was preparing to go out, when Pomponne brought me a letter which had just been handed to the concierge with the request that it be delivered to me at once.

I did not know the writing; in such cases, the first thing one does after breaking the seal is to look at the signature. I saw at the foot of the page: Frédérique.

What! Madame Dauberny writing to me! I lost no further time in reading the letter.

The contents of that letter seemed to me most extraordinary. I read it over several times, but could not understand it. Frédérique urged me not to go to Madame Sordeville's, but she gave me no reason, no hint, as to the purpose of that warning. It could be nothing more than a freak, the result of momentary ill humor with her friend. I was much perplexed by the letter, but I had no idea of following the advice contained therein. Indeed, for some time past, Madame Dauberny had treated me so strangely, she had been so cold to me, that I found it hard to believe in that recrudescence of friendship of which she spoke in her letter. If she meant the warning seriously, why did she not come and speak to me herself? She had told me several times that she had no more hesitation in calling on a young man than on a friend of her own sex.

And so, without giving another thought to Frédérique's advice, I went at once to Madame Sordeville's.

I found Armantine in her dainty boudoir, surrounded by flowers and embroidery.

I do not know whether she expected me, but it seemed to me that her dress and her coiffure were even more coquettish than usual. Probably I was mistaken, and it was because I was not accustomed to gaze upon her charms that they produced that effect on me.

I was welcomed with extreme cordiality. Armantine had her merry, sarcastic, and melancholy moods. On the day in question, she seemed almost sentimental; she laughed less frequently than usual, but I considered her the more fascinating so.

She gave me her hand and bade me sit beside her, saying:

"This is delightful! It hasn't taken you long to keep your promise this time."

"It is my greatest happiness to be with you, madame; and my reason for depriving myself of that happiness so long is that——"

"Well, monsieur? it is that——?"

"That—— Look you, madame, I propose to be quite frank; have I your permission?"

"Why, of course."

"I propose to tell you of all the torments I have suffered. In the first place, I love you—but you are well aware of that; I have told you so before."

"Yes, you have told me so; but that is no reason why it should be true. All men say as much to a woman who is at all attractive, and of whom they flatter themselves that they can make the conquest."

"But, in that case, madame, what must a man do to prove that he really loves?"

"In the first place, it seems to me that he should not let centuries pass without calling; you must agree, monsieur, that that is a curious way of proving one's love."

"But, madame, when he is received coldly, when the person in question does not deign to address a word to him, after having given him some reason to hope; and when she laughs and talks incessantly with other men before his eyes, without any pity for the anguish he suffers——"

Armantine laughed aloud, disconcerting me so that I dared not go on.

"Ah!" she cried, when her paroxysm of merriment had subsided; "that is to say, monsieur, that if a woman was weak enough to listen to you and believe you, she must never listen to any other man's gallant speeches? When a gentleman accosted her, she should run away at once, lest he be tempted to offer her his homage? Perhaps, too, she ought to make wry faces, squint when anyone looks at her, for fear she might be thought pretty?"

"Oh! madame!"

"If that's your way of thinking, monsieur, I must warn you that you would very often have occasion to lose your temper with me. I like to have men pay court to me; I like to have them think me pretty—yes, and tell me so. I don't know whether that is coquetry, but, in my opinion, there is no greater pleasure for a woman."

"No greater pleasure? Not even love? Not even to be loved sincerely?"

"One does not prevent the other."

"Well! tell me that you love me; let me prove to you that I adore you, and I promise not to be jealous of all the men I see fluttering about you. When a man has the certainty of being preferred to all others, then suspicion is an insult. But is he not justified in trembling, when he has received no favor?"

Armantine did not reply, but she was deeply moved. I tried to take advantage of her agitation to embrace her; but she pushed me away and eluded me, saying:

"What are you doing? Someone may come at any minute. I cannot deny myself to callers; the servants know that you are here."

"Very well! meet me somewhere. Do you not go out whenever you choose?"

"Yes, but—— One thing I will not do, and that is, go to your rooms. Someone might see me go in, and I should be ruined! I am not a gaillarde, like Frédérique, you know."

"Let us meet somewhere."

"I should never dare to go alone to any out-of-the-way place."

"You can take a cab."

"I should be afraid, all alone, in a cab. No, monsieur, I am no dare-devil; I am very cowardly."

"Say rather, madame, that you do not choose to grant me an assignation."

"Ah! monsieur is losing his temper already. Well, let me see; to-morrow I am to go to the Champs-Élysées with Madame Gerbancourt and her sister—two petites-maîtresses whom you must have seen here. They are not beautiful, but they are always beautifully dressed. Madame Gerbancourt has rather a good figure; her sister is too thin."

"I haven't the faintest recollection of the ladies."

"No matter! You will find us sitting opposite the Cirque."

"Very good!"

"It will be about two o'clock. You may come and speak to me. They live near by, on Rue de Ponthieu. When they start to go home, I will say that I am waiting for Frédérique. They will leave me, I will stay with you, and then——"

"Oh! you are adorable! I swear to love you all my life!"

"Really? I thought that you were in love with Madame Dauberny too?"

"With your friend? No, indeed; I have never dreamed of such a thing! I would have been glad to obtain her friendship; her original character pleased me mightily; but I have failed to do it. You must have noticed how coldly she treated me yesterday."

"Yes, I did. But I don't know what has been the matter with her lately; she is so capricious; I see much less of her than I used."

The doorbell rang, announcing visitors. I took leave of Madame Sordeville at once, fearing that something might happen to make her change her mind; for she was very capricious, too, and it was not safe to give her time to retract.

"Until to-morrow!" I said, very tenderly, as I left the room.

I was so happy, that I trod on air. I was sure of my triumph now. When a woman gives us an assignation, is it not equivalent to a surrender? And, under such circumstances, the man who does not grasp the opportunity is an idiot—or something worse!

The day of my assignation was magnificently clear. I gave thanks to the weather; for if it had been stormy, she would not have been likely to walk on the Champs-Élysées; and the day before, in my delight, I had not thought of that. But everything seemed propitious, and I fairly swam in bliss. Pomponne curled his lip slightly, as he looked at me with an idiotic expression; the fellow evidently considered himself very penetrating. I thought of nothing but Armantine; I was really in love with her, and it seemed to me that I had never loved other women so dearly.

While dressing, I found Madame Dauberny's note in my pocket. I was overjoyed that I had not heeded her advice; but still I reread the note once more. I determined that, when I met the writer, she would have to explain what she meant by that warning.—"Our brief intimacy," she wrote, "has left in my heart marks of its passage."—Really, I should not have suspected it, in view of her present treatment of me.

I was on the Champs-Élysées a little before two. It was cold; but the sun was so bright that there were many people driving and walking. The Champs-Élysées is the general rendezvous of the world of fashion. Magnificent equipages passed back and forth, or vanished in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, escorted by innumerable equestrians, who always glanced inside the carriages as they passed; and when they saw a young and beautiful woman, they instantly assumed a more dashing air, and made their steeds prance and curvet, so that horse and rider might be admired at the same time.

The pedestrians, too, were very numerous; for winter costumes have a charm of their own, and the cloaks and furs in which a pretty woman wraps herself sometimes form an admirable foil for delicate features or dainty graces: the flowers we find under the snow seem fairer than others. You need not cry out—there are flowers under the snow.

My own attire was irreproachable, and I flattered myself that it was in excellent taste. I strolled along, beaming with anticipation, toward the appointed place. There were many people seated, but I soon spied her I sought. Armantine was there, with two ladies whom I recognized as having seen among her guests. The three vied with one another in elegance. I approached them and bowed, as if the meeting were accidental.

Madame Sordeville welcomed me with the sweetest glance, pointing to a chair by her side. We exchanged the customary greetings, and I seated myself beside Armantine.

"So you are not afraid of the cold?" she said laughingly.

"When ladies defy it, what would you think of me if I were afraid of it?"

"And then," said one of her companions, "if we had to pass the whole winter indoors, for fear of the cold, I fancy we should not be very fresh in the spring."

The ladies criticised the costumes and equipages of those who passed, and I put in a word or two now and then. But I was rather distraught, for I was dreaming of the happiness which I hoped for and expected, and I was counting the minutes. My plan was already formed. There are some excellent restaurants on the Champs-Élysées, with charming private rooms into which one can slip without being seen. If she refused to go to a restaurant, there were plenty of cabs; I had only to hire one with blinds and tell the driver to take us outside the walls.

I glanced at Armantine from time to time and motioned toward her two companions, murmuring under my breath words which she understood; for she whispered:

"Be patient a while."

At last, about three o'clock, Madame Gerbancourt said to her sister:

"We must be thinking about going home, for we are to have company to-day, you know.—Are you going soon, my dear?"

This question was addressed to Armantine, who replied:

"Madame Dauberny promised to join me here, and I shall wait for her. If Monsieur Rochebrune will honor me with his company till she comes, it will be very kind of him. It is putting his good nature to a severe test, but we have only one cavalier, and I must make the most of him."

I hastened to reply that I was entirely at her service; my heart beat fast with joy, for I thought that the two sisters were going away at last. But the younger said, as she drew her cloak about her:

"Oh! we have time enough; it isn't three o'clock. Your people won't come so early; we don't dine at three!"

"But they are provincials, my dear, and they think it's more polite to come and bore us two hours ahead of time."

"So much the worse for them! I am going to stay here until my watch says three o'clock."

"Obstinate!—You see, monsieur, she is younger than I am, and I always have to give way to her."

I was strongly tempted to reply that she did very wrong to give way. But I contented myself with tearing savagely at whatever I found in my pocket. There are times when one vents one's spleen on whatever happens to be at hand.

Suddenly we heard sounds of a dispute; the sounds drew nearer and came to a standstill about ten yards behind us, and a man's voice, which, although a little hoarse, rang out like a clarinet, cried:

"I tell you, you shan't go off like that! I've been looking for you long enough. It ain't an easy job to run you to earth; but I've got you now, and I'll hang on to you!"

"Come, come, no nonsense, Père Piaulard!" replied another voice; "you shouldn't insult a friend. I'm a friend, and you're a friend; you're an old friend, an old fellow I respect. Don't shake me like that! Cré coquin! I don't like to be shook!"

The tones of this second voice struck me as familiar; I could not say at once of whom they reminded me, yet I was conscious of a vague feeling of alarm, of apprehension; I listened anxiously for what was to come.

The clarinet-like voice continued, more forcibly than before:

"Friends has nothing to do with it! Customers is all I know. You owe me money, and you've got to pay me; the last time you came to my place to drink with your girl, you didn't so much as ask my leave not to pay, but skulked off with your good-for-nothing slut through the back door, while the waiter was busy somewheres else."

"As I hadn't any money, what would have been the sense of my asking leave not to pay? Would that have put any stuff in my pockets?"

"When you haven't got anything to pay with, you shouldn't go and drink at a place where you owe twenty-two francs already."

"Well, that's a good one! I owe you money, and you want me to take away my custom, eh? Why, your wits are wool gathering just now, old Piaulard."

"A fine thing your custom is! Monsieur Ballangier's custom! My word! You're the kind of customer that ruins a place!"

I could doubt no longer: the name of Ballangier rang in my ears; indeed, I had already recognized the man; my face was flushed with shame, and my heart stood still. I dared not stir, or turn my head. I longed to be a hundred miles away. If I could have made my escape unseen by that man, I would have fled without a word. But he would probably see me. What was I to do? How could I hide from him?

All these thoughts passed through my mind at the same instant. The ladies spoke to me, but I did not reply; I had no idea what I was saying. Doubtless my perturbation was reflected on my face, for Armantine cried:

"What on earth is the matter with you, Monsieur Rochebrune? You seem to be in pain; aren't you well?"

I stammered something, but I was listening—listening intently. It seemed to me that the voices came still nearer.

"Come now, Père Piaulard, let alone of my coat! it's old, and you'll tear it."

"I won't let you go. Pay me what you owe me; with the old account, it's twenty-nine francs. I need the money; pay me, or come before the magistrate; he'll have you arrested as a good-for-nothing, a tramp, a vagabond, as you are—and something worse, perhaps."

"I say! no rough words, or I'll lose my temper, too!"

"Mon Dieu!" said Madame Gerbancourt; "are those horrid men coming any nearer?"

"One of them is very drunk!" said Armantine. "How disgusting! Why, the men ought to be arrested! If we hadn't Monsieur Rochebrune with us, I should have run away long ago."

"Oh! mon Dieu! I believe they're going to fight; and they're coming this way!"

"Oh! look, monsieur!"

I did not turn my head; I pretended not to hear, pulled my hat over my eyes, and sat perfectly still.

Suddenly all three of the ladies jumped to their feet with a cry of alarm. Armantine seized my arm, so that I was compelled to rise. Ballangier, trying to escape from his persecutor, had almost fallen over our chairs, to one of which he clung to keep from falling. The wretch was drunk, but not enough so to prevent his recognizing familiar faces; and the fatality which had brought him to that exact spot decreed that he should be at my side when I rose to follow the ladies.

The miserable sot uttered a cry of joy on recognizing me, and, seizing my overcoat with both hands just as his creditor descended upon him, he cried:

"Stop, Piaulard! you may go to the devil now! Here's a friend who'll answer for me—pay for me if necessary. Ah! he has the stuff, he has; and I forbid you to call me a thief before him; if you do, I'll have a crack at you in my turn—ugly mug!"

I stood as if petrified. I had not the strength to move a muscle. The great colossus, who was on the point of striking Ballangier, paused in amazement, and stared at me with the expression of one who cannot believe his ears. As for the ladies, they continued to pull me by the arm.

"For heaven's sake, push that man away!"

"Do come, Monsieur Rochebrune!"

"That drunkard takes you for a friend of his; drive him away, do! Come! let's not stay here. Oh! it's horrible to come in contact with such people!"

But I was incapable alike of speech and action. Moreover, Ballangier did not relax his grasp on my coat.

"Drive me away!" he cried; "me—his friend—the most intimate friend he's got in the world! I think I see him driving me away, good old Charles! Charlot—Rochebrune, if you like that better. Ah! you think I'm mistaken, do you? you think I don't know him? Just ask him if he don't know me; ask him, and see what he says. Piaulard, you're an old ass! I'm not a vagabond and a tramp, for I've got friends to answer for me.—You'll answer for me, won't you, Charles? you won't let this old rascal arrest me?"

Since Ballangier had mentioned my name, and I, by my silence, had admitted that he was not lying when he said that he knew me, Madame Gerbancourt, her sister, and even Armantine herself, had dropped my arm; and, as a crowd soon collected about us, the first two speedily disappeared, and were lost in the multitude. Armantine also walked away, but I could see that she was still listening.

"If it's true that monsieur knows you, and if he chooses to pay your bill," said tall Piaulard, walking toward me, "that makes a difference, and things can be settled without a row."

I realized at that moment all the falseness and absurdity of my position; I realized also how foolish it is to be afraid of prejudice and the opinion of gossips. Passing abruptly from shame to anger, I extricated myself roughly from Ballangier's grasp, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him violently.

"Yes, I am unfortunate enough to know you!" I cried; "twenty times I have helped you, rescued you from want; but that gives you no right to make demands on me in a public place, when you are drunk. I will do nothing more for you, you wretch! And I forbid you ever to speak to me again!"

Excited by anger and disgust, I pushed Ballangier so violently that he fell with a crash among the chairs, at some distance. The crowd, always easily swayed in favor of the man who makes the most noise, began to laugh when the drunken man fell. I heard Monsieur Piaulard's voice threatening his debtor anew, but I was no longer disturbed by that; I had recovered my courage. I pushed my way through the crowd and looked about for Armantine; but the first person I saw was Madame Dauberny, standing in a group of people a few steps away. She seemed to be inquiring what had happened. I paid no attention to Frédérique; it was Madame Sordeville whom I was looking for. I walked on, and ere long I was at a distance from the crowd and from the spot where that sickening scene had taken place. I spied a woman, alone, and walking very fast. It was Armantine. I ran after her, overtook her, and detained her.

"Ah! I have found you out at last!" I cried.

She turned and looked at me. Her expression was cold, and her manner almost impertinent; she stared at me a moment as if she did not know me, but concluded at last to answer:

"Ah! is it you, monsieur? How is it that you didn't stay with your—intimate friend?"

"Oh! I trust, madame, that you do not suppose that I associate with that wretch! There are some things, circumstances, which appear very odd, very strange at first sight, but which can easily be explained!"

"But I beg you to believe, monsieur, that I do not desire any explanation; you are entirely at liberty to select your friends in whatever social rank you choose."

"How strangely you speak to me, madame! What a manner! What icy coldness! What a change in your demeanor!"

"Oh! you are mistaken, monsieur; I assure you that my manners are the same as always. To be sure, they may, perhaps, differ a little from those of the people you associate with. But, excuse me, monsieur, I cannot stand here any longer, and I am not going in the same direction that you are."

"What! you are going to leave me!"

"Adieu, monsieur!—By the way, I must tell you that I do not receive any more. We have ceased to have our evenings at home."

She gave me a disdainful nod, and, without listening to my efforts to detain her, walked away so rapidly that I soon lost sight of her.

I was stupefied; that woman's conduct seemed to me so outrageous, so insulting, that it was some time before I could believe in its reality. It seemed to me that I must have been dreaming. For a moment, I was tempted to run after her; but I had enough control over myself to understand that it would be weak and cowardly to make any further attempt to speak to a woman who had treated me with such contempt. And I had believed that she loved me! Ah! how I had fooled myself! Because a drunken man in cap and blouse had called me his friend, because I had admitted that I knew him, I became a compromising personage, and she could no longer afford to see me or speak to me! she had even given me to understand that she did not propose to receive me at her own house! and all that, without listening to what I might have to say, without finding out whether I could or could not explain that unpleasant adventure. Ah, madame! I thought that you had a heart; I found that I was mistaken, that you had a mind only; and that is a very barren mind in which no trace of sentiment can ever be detected.

I stood a long while on the same spot, absorbed in my thoughts. But the throng had largely disappeared, and the Champs-Élysées was becoming deserted; snowflakes falling on my face explained the sudden change. The weather was no longer the same; the radiant sun was obscured by clouds, which, with the snow, gave a totally different aspect to the scene.

"Well!" I said to myself, as I walked slowly away, "nothing is constant, in the heavens or on earth! We must submit to the storms of the heart, as to those of nature."

As I retraced my steps toward the scene of that unfortunate meeting, I remembered the paroxysm of anger to which I had given way; and now that I was once more able to reflect, I was stirred by a feeling of regret and pity when I thought how violently I had thrown to the ground the poor wretch who sought my assistance. I knew that his conduct was most reprehensible, that he had abused my kindness a hundred times; but to spurn him, to throw him into the dust! Was it possible that I had really treated him so? That woman's presence, my anger, my humiliated self-esteem, had led my reason astray. What could have become of the poor fellow? He had fallen at my feet without attempting to defend himself, without a complaint; and it seemed to me that I had read only surprise and grief in his eyes, instead of anger. If that other man had had him arrested!—and that seemed to be his intention, for I had not thought of giving him what Ballangier owed him, and that was the first thing that I should have done. How could I find out how the episode had ended?

I looked about; I recognized the place where I was sitting with the three ladies, but there was no one there. The snow had put all the idlers to flight. The people who passed walked rapidly, with their heads down; there were no hucksters, no itinerant singers, nobody to whom I could apply for information. I walked on, but had not taken thirty steps when I saw a man leaning against a large tree, apparently unconscious of the snow that covered his cap and blouse. He stood quite still, but his eyes were turned in my direction. I walked toward him: it was Ballangier.

He looked at me with a shamefaced, timid expression; when he saw me walking sadly toward him, I fancied that tears glistened in the eyes which no longer dared to meet mine; and when I stood beside him, and was on the point of apologizing for pushing him away so roughly, he fell at my feet, on the snow, and humbly begged my pardon for speaking to me when I was with friends.

Ah! I was no longer angry with him; I made haste to raise him, and shook him by the hand. I believe that my eyes too were moist.

"You forgive me, then?" murmured Ballangier. "I was drunk, you see; I had been drinking; if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't have spoken to you. I should have remembered that one time a scene almost like this broke off a marriage you had in view.—But you punished me, and you did right; I deserved it. Still, you know, I am little used to such lessons from you. Dame! when you threw me down, that sobered me off in an instant. You were in such a rage with me—and you've always been so good-natured before. But you did well; yes, you did well to treat me like that, for it shook me all up. I realized that I was a great scamp, a miserable wretch; that I was always on hand to do you a bad turn, to put you to shame; although I didn't say—no, it don't make any difference how drunk I may be, I'll never say that thing. But I promise you that this will be the last. You'll never have any reason to complain of me again."

"I believe you, Ballangier, I believe you! But your conduct is no excuse for mine. I ought not to have treated you harshly, as I did just now. You were drunk, and I should have taken pity on your condition. When I think that I pushed you so roughly that you fell, I am terribly angry with myself. Come, give me your hand again, and forgive me for throwing you down."

Ballangier took my hands and effusively pressed them in his, while great tears fell from his eyes and he muttered:

"He asks me to forgive him, after all the mean tricks I've played on him! Oh! you're too good to me, Charles; you ought to beat me—yes, beat me like an old carpet; for I cheated you also about going to Besançon. It is true that I had had a letter from Morillot—you saw the letter, you know; but when you gave me four hundred francs for the journey, I didn't go as I had promised you! I allowed myself to be led away by some of those villainous loafers whom we are foolish enough to call friends, when we ought rather to call them enemies. What sort of friends are they who can do nothing but drink and carouse and raise the devil in wine shops, who pass their lives in idleness and make sport of steady, hard-working mechanics, and who never cease trying to make us do all sorts of foolish things, so that we may end by being as worthless as they are? With friends like that, a man ought to smash their ribs the first time they give him bad advice; I'm sure that would lessen the number of vagrants that are taken to the Préfecture every week. But that's all over; I'll take my oath, Charles, by all that's holy, that it's all over this time! You won't be obliged again to—push me, as you did just now."

"I believe you, Ballangier; let us forget all that. But tell me—how did you succeed in getting rid of your creditor?"

"Piaulard? Oh, yes! now you remind me of it, it is strange; for I didn't pay him. Well, after you threw me on the ground, where I lay for some time, all dazed like—not that I was hurt at all, but I was dazed by the effect I felt inside of me; I can't describe it—at last I got up, and found everybody had gone, Piaulard with the rest, for I didn't see him again. It's a strange thing, sure enough. I stayed a long while right in the same place, like a dazed man; I don't know what I was thinking about—that is to say, I was looking for you; I was determined to see you and ask your pardon.—Ah! now I remember—a lady came and spoke to me."

"A lady?"

"Yes, yes! Why, I forgot all about her!"

"What was her appearance? Try to remember; draw her portrait for me."

"She was dressed in style, and I think she was rather tall; as for her face, I didn't pay any attention to it. I was still looking for you; I was like a madman; I didn't know what I was doing, but I was calling your name, and I think I was weeping too."

"But what did this lady say? what did she want of you?"

"Wait a minute; I don't just remember what she said. She tried to comfort me, and then—yes, I think she offered me money."

"Money?"

"Yes. I don't know what for, but she said: 'Take this;' and then, faith! I don't know what else she said. All I know is that I told her to let me alone; she interfered with my looking for you. When she saw that I wouldn't answer her, she left me."

"And you didn't take her money?"

"Oh, no! indeed I didn't!"

"That was right, Ballangier; you did right to refuse. Didn't she say anything else to you?"

"Mon Dieu! I didn't listen to her at all. I was looking all the time to see if I could see you pass, and I just said to her: 'Oh! let me look for Charles; you prevent my finding him!'—And she went off."

"Poor fellow! Here, take this; pay your creditor—you owe him twenty-nine francs, I believe—that is, if someone hasn't already taken it upon herself to pay him, as I am inclined to think."

"Someone? Nonsense! who could it be?"

"A person whom you don't know, but I do. However, you must look up this Piaulard, and find out about it. Then go to work, straighten yourself out, make yourself a good workman, and come to see me if you need my help."

"Ah! Charles, I don't deserve to have you make any more sacrifices for me; I am forever annoying and distressing you! Keep the money; I must learn to earn my living at last."

"You will succeed, as soon as you have sincerely made up your mind to do it, I don't doubt. But, meanwhile, I want you to pay your debts and not be left without anything. So, take this; I insist upon it! If by means of your work you should become rich, and I should need to be helped, I would accept without blushing what you offered me."

"What you say puts some heart and courage into me," cried Ballangier, grasping my hand as he spoke. "Help you some day! Cré coquin! I should be a proud and happy man then!"

Luckily, my purse was well filled, for I had come out with anticipations of an intrigue. I put eighty francs in Ballangier's hand. The money had been intended for another purpose; but I began to think that it was better employed so.

I said adieu to Ballangier, who reiterated his oath to turn over a new leaf, and I went home.

I had an idea that it was Madame Dauberny who had paid Piaulard and offered money to Ballangier. Why did she do it? A strange woman that, whom I would have liked right well to understand.