Frédérique, vol. 1

I had performed my task; Dumouton and Fouvenard alone remained to be heard. The latter having requested the privilege of speaking last, the man of letters in the yellowish-green coat bowed gracefully and began:

"To speak of one's bonnes fortunes, messieurs, is to speak of the ladies; with me, it is to speak of fillettes, grisettes, or lorettes; for as to bourgeois dames or great ladies, married or single, I have always deemed them too virtuous to be the objects of my attachment. That is my individual opinion; opinions are free. Allow me, therefore, to indulge in a brief digression concerning fillettes, grisettes, and lorettes. I know that my colleague, Alexandre Dumas, has discussed this subject; but there are subjects that are inexhaustible—always attractive and interesting: women and love enjoy that blessed privilege.

"It has been said that Paris is the paradise of women. Ah! messieurs, he who said that can never have visited the tiny chambers, the closets, the attics, sometimes even the garrets, where that charming sex often lacks the first essentials of life; sometimes by its own fault, sometimes by the fault of destiny, or, to speak more accurately, of those cruel monsters of men, who play so important a part in the story of these young women.

"The fillettes of Paris are the daughters of honest bourgeois or artisans, whose parents, too much engrossed by their labor or by the care of their business, put them out as apprentices, or as shopgirls, or, as happens in the majority of cases, leave them at home to look after the housework and keep house.

"Imagine a girl of fourteen to sixteen years of age, taken from her school, and, all of a sudden, because her father has become a widower, or because her mother sits at a counter all day, burdened with the whole charge of the household. She has no maid to assist her; for if she had, she would be a demoiselle, not a fillette. The demoiselles have had a good education, they have had teachers who have tried to enlighten their minds and their judgment and to train their hearts; indeed, they are supposed to know a great many things; but they are entitled to do nothing at all during the day, just because they are demoiselles.

"The fillettes, on the contrary, have to do everything, and generally are taught nothing. But you should see how they manage the household that has been thrown on their hands—mere children, who were playing with their dolls yesterday. Ordinarily, they begin by sweeping, very early; but if the lodging consists only of a single room and a cabinet, the housework is never finished till the end of the day—when it is finished at all. To be sure, the fillette doesn't work long at any one thing; she is required to change her occupation every minute; indeed, it rarely happens that she dresses herself entirely. The young woman whom you meet on the street early in the morning, carelessly dressed, in shoes down at heel, with unkempt hair, dirty hands, and a modest manner, is a fillette.

"She has just begun to sweep, and suddenly she drops the broom, which sometimes falls against a pane of glass and breaks it; but the young housekeeper doesn't mind that. She starts to remove her curl papers; she removes one, she removes two—but just as she has her hand on the third, she remembers that she hasn't skimmed the stew; so she abandons her hair, runs to get the skimmer, and brandishes that utensil, humming Guido's song:

"'Hélas! il a fui comme une ombre!'

And to give more expression to her song, more passion to her voice, she often holds the skimmer lovingly to her heart. But as she sings, her eyes happen to fall on her canary's cage; she hastens thither, for she remembers that she hasn't given the bird anything to eat for two days. But as she is on the point of opening the cage, it occurs to her that she would do well to think about her own breakfast; so she turns her back on the canary, to go and visit the pantry. What she finds there does not suit her; so she goes down to the fruit stall to buy some fresh eggs. But on the way, she changes her mind; she prefers preserves, so she goes into the grocer's, where she meets a young woman who has been her schoolmate. They chat, and sometimes the chance meeting carries them a long way.

"'Come with me a minute,' says her friend; 'I live close by, and I'll show you a dress my fiancé sent me from Lyon.'

"'Oh! so you've got a fiancé, have you? are you going to be married?'

"'Yes, in two months.'

"'That's funny.'

"'Why is it funny?'

"'Because they don't ever think about marrying me.'

"'You're too young.'

"'I'm only a year younger'n you. But my folks would rather keep me at home to do the housework.'

"'Come, and I'll give you some candy I got when I was a godmother.'

"'Have you been a godmother? Oh! what a lucky girl you are! you have everything!'

"It is very hard to resist the invitation of a friend who offers us candy. The fillette forgets her housework, her stew, her canary, and even her breakfast, as she chats with her old schoolmate, who has been a godmother and is engaged.

"When at last she goes home, just as she is entering the house, she is saluted, and sometimes accosted, by a young man of most respectable aspect, whom she invariably meets when she goes out. I leave you to judge at what hour the housework will be done and the soup skimmed.

"This young man is not a lover as yet, but he closely resembles a man in love, and if ill fortune sometimes be-falls the fillette, who is at fault? Is she the one to be blamed? should we not charge it rather to the parents, who so shamefully neglect those who have neither strength, nor sense, nor experience, to resist the seductions of the world?

"Paris is swarming with these fillettes, messieurs; some remain virtuous, although they live among dangers; as they have no fortune, they do not always find husbands, but pass from the fillette stage to that of an old maid, without becoming better housekeepers by the change.

"As for the grisettes, that's another story. The grisette loves pleasure; she wants it, she must have it. She has at least one lover; when she has only one, she is a most exemplary grisette. However, they do not pretend to be any better than they are; they make no parade of false virtue; they are neither prudish nor shy; they cultivate students, actors, artists, the theatre, balls,—out of doors or indoors,—promenades, dance halls, restaurants; and they do not recoil at the thought of a private dining-room.

"The grisette is a gourmand, and is almost always hungry; she is wild over truffles, but is perfectly content to stuff herself with potatoes; she adores meringues, but regales herself daily with biscuit and tarts; she would climb a greased pole for a glass of champagne, but does not refuse a mug of cider.

"You know as well as I, messieurs, that when you have treated a grisette to a dainty dinner, you must not conclude that her appetite is satisfied. On leaving the table, if you are in the country, the grisette will suggest shooting for macaroons, and will consume several dozen; then she will ask for a drink of milk, and a piece of rye bread to soak in it; then she will want some cherries, then beer and gingerbread. In Paris, you will have to supply her with barley sugar, syrups, punch, and Italian cheese.

"Let us do the grisette of Paris justice; she is active, frisky, alluring, provoking; she is not always pretty, but she has a certain—I don't know what to call it—a sort of chic, which always finds followers. She handles the simplest materials in such a way as to make herself a pretty little costume; she often wears an apron, and a cap almost always; she rarely puts anything else on her head, and she is very wise; for her face, which is captivating in a cap, loses much of its charm under a bonnet, unless it be a bibi, the front of which never extends beyond the end of her nose.

"The grisette is a milliner, or laundress, or dressmaker, or embroiderer, or burnisher, or stringer of pearls, or something else—but she has a trade. To be sure, she seldom works at it. Suggest a trip into the country, a donkey ride, a bachelor breakfast, a dinner at La Chaumière, a ticket to the play, and the shop or workroom or desk may go to the deuce.

"So long as we can afford her amusement, she will think of nothing else; but when her lover hasn't a sou, she will return to her work as cheerily as if she were going to dine at Passoir's, or to do a little cancan at the Château-Rouge; for, messieurs, you may be sure of one thing—the grisette is a philosopher, she takes things as they come, money for what it is worth, and men for what they do for her. She loves passionately for a fortnight; she believes then that it will last all her life, and proposes to her lover that they go to live on a desert island, like Crusoe, and eat raw vegetables and shell-fish. As she is very fond of radishes and oysters, she thinks that she will be able to accustom herself to that diet; but in a moment she forgets all about that scheme, and cries:

"'Ah! how I would like some roast veal, and some lettuce salad garnished with hard-boiled eggs! Take me to Asnières, Dodolphe, and we'll dine out of doors; and I'll pluck some daisies and pull off the petals and find out your real sentiments, for the daisies never lie. If it stops at passionately, I'll kiss you on the left eye; if it tells me that you don't love me at all, I'll stick pins into your legs. What better proofs of love do you want?'

"But Dodolphe finds himself sometimes on his uppers.

"'You say you haven't got any money?' cries the grisette; 'bah! what a nuisance it is that one always has to have money to live on and enjoy one's self! Wait a minute; I've got a merino dress and a winter shawl; it's summer now, so I don't need 'em. They'll be better off at my aunt's than they are in my room, for there are moths there; they'll be better taken care of, and with what I can get on 'em we'll go and have some sport.'

"The grisette carries out her plan: she puts her clothes in pawn, without regret or melancholy. If she had money, she would give it to her lover. As she often spends all that he has, it seems natural to her to spend with him all that she has: she is neither stingy, saving, nor selfish.

"A grisette's lodging is a curious place; but she hasn't always a lodging to herself; very often she simply perches here and there. She will stay a week with her lover, three weeks with a friend of her own sex, and the rest of the time with her fruiterer or her concierge. When, by any chance, she does possess a domicile and furniture of her own, the grisette's bosom swells with pride, even when the furniture in question consists of nothing more than a cot, a mirror, and one broken chair. She takes delight in saying: 'I shall stay at home this evening,' or: 'I don't expect to leave home to-morrow. I have an idea of doing my room over in color; it's all the style now, especially yellow; when it's well rubbed, it makes more effect than furniture.'

"It is she who writes on her door, with a piece of Spanish chalk, when she goes out: I am at my nabor's, down one flite.

"But the grisette is not obliged to know the rules of orthography; and if she spoke the purest French, her conversation would probably seem less amusing; there are so many people who attract by their bad qualities.

"Sometimes the grisette ventures to give an evening party. When she is in the mood, she will invite as many as seven people. On such occasions, the bed does duty as a divan, the blinds as benches, the cooking stove as a table, and the lamp from the staircase is placed on the mantel to take the place of a chandelier. Punch is brewed in a soup tureen, and tea in a saucepan; they drink from egg cups, there is one spoon for three persons, and the hostess's shawl serves as a table cloth and as a napkin for all the company; all of which does not prevent the guests from laughing and enjoying themselves; for the most genuine enjoyment is not that which costs the most. This is not a new maxim, but it is very consoling to those who are not favored by fortune."

As he said this, Dumouton glanced down at himself, with a profound sigh. But encouraged, I doubt not, by a glimpse of the ends of his cravat, by that profusion of linen, to which he was not accustomed, he speedily resumed his smiling expression and continued his discourse.

"I come now, messieurs, to the last division of my trilogy, the lorettes, who are grisettes of the front rank—the tip-toppers! By that I mean that they are sought by the fashionable lions, the dandies, the Jockey Club—in a word, by those gentry who have a liking for spending money freely with women, and who have the means to do it.

"The lorettes live in the Chaussée d'Antin, the Nouvelle-Athènes, the Champs-Élysées, the quarter of sport, of the turf, or, if you prefer, of the horse traders. They are found, too, in quite large numbers, in the new streets. When a fine house is completed—that is to say, when the stairs are in place, so that the different floors are accessible, the proprietor lets apartments to lorettes, to dry the walls, as they say. They hire dainty suites, freshly decorated; everyone knows that they won't pay their rent, but the rooms are let to them because they draw people to the house; they attract other tenants; not honest bourgeois—nay, nay!—but fashionable young men, rich old bachelors, and sometimes men with stylish carriages.

"By the way, the lorette is exceedingly frank in this respect. One of them was inspecting a beautiful suite on Rue Mazagran, when the concierge, who probably did not know whom he was dealing with, was simple enough to tell her the price, repeating several times that she could not have it for less than fifteen hundred francs. Irritated by his persistence, the lorette stared at him as if he were a monstrosity, exclaiming:

"'Look you, monsieur, who do you think you're talking to? What difference does it make to me what the rent is, when I never pay?'

"The lorette dresses stylishly and coquettishly; she leaves a trail of perfume behind her. She has magnificent bouquets, and her gloves are the object of much solicitude. At a distance, one might take her for a lady of rank and fashion; but to hear her speak is fatal, and the illusion vanishes at once, her language being infinitely less pure than the polish on her boots.

"The lorette seeks to eclipse the grisette, whom she pretends to look down upon, but to whom she is vastly inferior, none the less. She has no lover, she has keepers. And yet she is not a kept woman, for such a one sometimes remains a long while with the same monsieur, whereas the lorette is constantly changing.

"The grisette likes young men; the lorette prefers men of mature years.

"The Hippodrome and the Cirque des Champs-Élysées are the resorts which the lorettes particularly affect. In the afternoon, they go thither to admire the bold horse-men jumping fences, or the women driving chariots in the ring. The Hippodrome audience being, as a rule, frivolous, dandified, and fashionable,—especially on weekdays,—these ladies are almost certain to make their expenses.

"In the evening, they go to admire Baucher; they jump up and down in ecstasy on their benches when Auriol makes some new hair-raising plunge. The lorette is never tired of repeating to her spouse—for so she calls her friend of the moment—that she knows nothing more beautiful than a horse.

"The lorette gives evening parties, where there are always many men and very few women. All games are played there, from lotto to lansquenet. These ladies are passionately fond of gambling; but when they take their places beside a green cloth, they tell you frankly that they propose to win; it is for you to take your measures accordingly. One day, at a game of lansquenet, the banker being a pretty lorette, someone discovered that she was cheating, and she was charged with it; far from denying the charge, she began to laugh, and retorted: 'Mon Dieu! what does it matter whether I take your money this way or some other way?'

"The lorette knows nothing but money; don't continue to show yourself in her presence when your purse is empty, for her love will surely have followed your cash. She is not the woman to pawn her clothes in order to have a jollification with you.

"The lorette has handsome furniture, but she doesn't pay for it, any more than she pays her rent. If you take her to dine at a restaurant, she will begin by playing the prude. She will declare that she isn't hungry; she doesn't like this or that; one thing makes her sick, another is abhorrent to her. But in the end she gets tipsy and has indigestion.

"The proper method, in my opinion at least, is to take a lorette for a day, a grisette for a month, and a fillette for life, when you meet one who has found time during the day to dress herself and arrange her hair, to do her housework, eat her breakfast, watch her soup kettle, and tie her shoestrings; for then you will have discovered a phœnix, or the eighth wonder of the world.

"To sum up, the fillette craves sentiment, the grisette pleasure, the lorette money.

"I venture to hope, messieurs, that you will accept this superficial study of women instead of a bonne fortune; especially as it is a very long while since fortune has been kind [bonne] to me; and, unluckily, I have had no leisure to think of love making, so that I could tell you nothing worthy of a hearing after all that I have had the pleasure of listening to."

Everybody had listened with pleasure to Monsieur Dumouton's study of womankind. Only Monsieur Faisandé, without a word, left his seat and disappeared while the author was talking. The disappearance of the Treasury clerk did not grieve us overmuch, nor did it interfere with our drinking and laughing and saying whatever came into our heads. But as Balloquet seemed to possess some private information concerning that modest personage, I determined to question him on the subject; for I was anxious to know whether I was mistaken in my conjectures, and whether I owed Monsieur Faisandé an apology for the evil thoughts of him that had come to my mind.

Fouvenard was the only one of the party who had not yet narrated his little adventure. Dupréval, our host, turned to that gentleman, whose features, the nose alone excepted, were buried beneath the wilderness of beard, moustache, whiskers, and eyebrows, which invaded his face and threatened to transform it into a wig.

Monsieur Fouvenard passed his hand across his forehead and ran it through his mane, as he said:

"I have been looking over my catalogue, but I haven't succeeded in disentangling anything as yet. And so, messieurs, I propose to tell you the story of my last love affair; it is still quite fresh. It is not my last bonne fortune, but it is the most entertaining, I think, of the later ones; you may judge for yourselves.

"Two or three months ago, having nothing to do one Sunday, and being unable to endure the day in Paris, which, as you all know, messieurs, is insufferable on Sunday, especially when it's fine; for then the streets and boulevards are overrun by a crowd of people with outlandish faces, walking arm in arm, four or five and sometimes six in a row, and making it as tiresome to walk as it is difficult—in a word, I jumped aboard a train in the first railway station I came to, without so much as inquiring where it would take me. I believe I would have travelled a long distance—to Belgium, perhaps—I was so disgusted with Paris that Sunday! But the train I took did not go so far; my journey was very brief, and I soon found myself in the pretty village of Sceaux. When I say village, I am wrong, for Sceaux is a small town; but the instant that I see trees and fields and green grass, I cannot believe that I am near a town.

"I left my car, or my diligence,—I am not sure which I was in,—and walked about at random. The Bal de Sceaux, once so brilliant and crowded, has lost much of its popularity. Everything has its day, messieurs! open-air balls as well as great empires, and beauty! The Vendanges de Bourgogne had ceased to exist. That lively restaurant, where so many banquets and ultra chicard balls used to be given, and where the women danced in tableau vivant costume,—a place that owed its vogue originally to its excellent sheep's trotters,—has closed its doors; let us hope that it will reopen them. And even the Méridien!—the Méridien! I will not insult you by asking you if you ever went there! Who is the man, provided he is ever so little a lady's man, who has not been to the Méridien, where the private rooms were so well arranged for congenial parties? Well, messieurs, that charming little restaurant, which, as you know, was close by here, has also closed its doors. In fact, everything has been demolished, even the Cadran Bleu. That once famous resort has vanished from Boulevard du Temple. Upon my word, it is really heartrending! Where shall we go now to dine, when we have a pretty woman to entertain? I am grieved to say it, messieurs, but suitable places are becoming very rare in Paris; one must needs go extra muros to find silence, secrecy, and all the comforts which add to the charm of a tête-à-tête; and one has not always the leisure to go out of Paris.

"Excuse me for indulging in these reflections—I return to my subject. I had been strolling about Sceaux for some time, and I noticed that those peasant girls who were dressed coquettishly and arrayed in all their finery, those, in short, who seemed disposed to dance and enjoy themselves generally, were leaving the town and going in the direction of Fontenay-aux-Roses.

"I at once made inquiries of a worthy woman who sold gingerbread, and who seemed to view with an expression of alarm the general desertion of the population. By the purchase of a huge gingerbread man for four sous, for which I paid cash, and by praising her cookery, I gained the huckster's good will.

"'Where are all these girls going in their Sunday clothes?' I inquired, bravely attacking my gingerbread man's foot.

"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, as if there was any need of asking! Pardine! they're going to Fontenay, on the pretext that there's a fête there to-day; and there'll be a little fair, and a man to tumble and play tricks, and make a fool of himself. As if it wasn't a hundred times nicer here! As if our ball wasn't a hundred times finer! But they all have the devil in 'em, and they lead each other on. There's no way to stop 'em. So you're my first customer to-day; I ain't sold two sous' worth all day long.'

"'Well, why don't you do as everybody else does? What is there to hinder you from moving your stall and your gingerbread to Fontenay-aux-Roses?'

"'Oh! monsieur, we folks don't go changing about like that. People have been used to seeing me here, on this same spot, for thirty years; and if they should miss me, especially on a Sunday, they'd say: "Why, where in the world's old Mère Giroux? She must be sick, or dead."—And it would hurt my trade if folks thought that; because, you see, monsieur, I have regular customers, although you might not think so. They're folks from Paris, who always buy stuff of me for their young ones, when they come to Sceaux. And it don't pay to put our customers out; we can't afford to lose regular ones when we have any, just to make a few more sous one day; and I have some, as I tell you.'

"I was about to leave Mère Giroux, who was so proud of having regular customers, when I saw three girls coming along, arm in arm, hopping rather than walking. Two of them had the costume and general aspect of the peasant girls of the neighborhood; they were dressed very coquettishly, in white gowns, silk aprons, little caps trimmed with lace and bows of ribbon, and even gloves, messieurs; yes, it's not a rare thing nowadays, in the outskirts of Paris, on a holiday, to see gloved peasant girls. They don't use musk as yet, thank God! but with time and railroads, I feel sure that the women of nature will soon perfume themselves like cultivated women; and, to tell the truth, it will be an agreeable change, for they don't smell very sweet as a rule. I ask Nature's pardon, but it's the truth.

"My two peasants, then, had paid much attention to their costume; but, for all that, under their fine clothes they were genuine rustics. One could see that by their arms and feet, by their manners, by their loud laughter, and by the red blotches with which their faces were covered. Moreover, those same faces, while they were not ugly, were not specially attractive, except for their extreme freshness. So that my eyes did not rest long on those young women; but it was not so with the third member of their party, although her dress was almost a counterpart of her companions'.

"You see, it isn't the cap that makes a girl pretty, but the way she puts it on and wears it; and so it is with the rest of her attire. The young person who caught my eye was some eighteen years of age; she was above middle height, slender, graceful, and willowy; for one can see that, at a glance, in the slightest motion of the body. There was nothing extraordinary about her features, but the face as a whole attracted one instantly. She was a blonde, with blue eyes and red lips; when she laughed, her mouth assumed a delicious expression, in which innocence and mischief were blended; her teeth were well arranged, and, while they could not be described as 'pearls set in rose leaves,' as it is customary to describe a pretty woman's mouth, they were beyond reproach; her hair, which was slightly tinged with gold, was arranged in little curls, in the style called, I believe, à la neige. In that respect, there was a notable difference between her and her two companions, whose hair was glued to their temples in little heartbreakers. What more can I say? There was an indefinable something about that girl which indicated that she had not always lived in the fields. There was a savor of Paris about her; for a woman who never leaves her village does not acquire the manners, the bearing, the ease, which contrast so sharply with the awkward accomplishments of the country.

"My pretty blonde wore a striped lilac and white dress. She also wore a silk apron; but hers was of a grayish purple which harmonized perfectly with her gown. Her cap was very simple, but in the best taste, and perched so daintily on the top of her head that it seemed hardly to touch it. Her shoes were black, and the feet within them were small, narrow, and gracefully arched; the leg was small, but not thin, and gave promise of excellent outlines. You will agree, messieurs, that all this was well adapted to attract my glances.

"The three girls were passing Mère Giroux, when she detained them.

"'Well, where are you girls going, I'd like to know,' she cried, 'that you're all rigged up and sail by, all three of you, proud as ortolans, without so much as bidding me good-day?'

"They stopped at that, and bade the dealer in gingerbread good-morning.

"'Bonjour, Mère Giroux!'

"'It's because we're in a hurry; we're going to Fontenay-aux-Roses.'

"'We're going to dance.'

"'We're going to see the shows, and the animals, and the monkeys.'

"'Mon Dieu! you can see all that here! It ain't worth while to go out of your way to see monkeys!'

"'Nonsense! it's going to be a lovely fête at Fontenay. You can see for yourself that everybody's going there.'

"'Everybody's just stupid enough; when one makes a spitball, the rest would rather be hung than not do as much.'

"'Oh! Mère Giroux! how spiteful you are!'

"'I say, you Dargenettes, do your parents let you go running about the country like this, without them?'

"'Pardi! nobody'll kidnap us. Besides, Mignonne's with us.'

"'Bless my soul! Mignonne's a fine dragon, ain't she? Why, she's younger'n you! and she rolls her eye the minute anyone looks at her, as if it gave her cramp in the stomach.'

"Mignonne was evidently the pretty blonde in the centre, for she answered at once with a saucy little smile, and a glance at me out of the corner of her eye; for during this conversation I was still standing near the gingerbread stall, and still munching my four-sous' purchase.

"'If I am young, Mère Giroux, that doesn't prevent my keeping an eye on these girls; for I've been in Paris, and I'm not to be caught.'

"'You, Mignonne! nonsense! You'll be caught sooner than the others, I'll bet! You're too sugary; you'll melt!'

"'Anyway,' cried the other two, 'do you suppose we're afraid of men? Why, there's nothing frightful about 'em!'

"'If they'd grow, I'd plant a field of them.'

"Whereupon they roared with laughter; but pretty Mignonne took no part in it; she pulled her companions away, crying:

"'Au revoir, Mère Giroux! Au revoir!'

"'What! ain't you going to buy as much as a stick of barley sugar, to suck on the way?'

"'By and by, when we come back; to cool us off.'

"When the girls had gone, the huckster complained more loudly than ever about the nuisance of the fêtes in the neighboring villages. For my part, I was determined to have another look at the blonde whom they called Mignonne, but I desired, first of all, to obtain some information concerning her. I began by buying a huge square of gingerbread, larded with almonds, while loudly praising what I had already eaten. Mère Giroux, flattered to the melting point, gazed at me with an expression that seemed to say:

"'Ah! if all the young men who come to Sceaux only liked gingerbread as much as this gentleman does!'

"'Mère Giroux,' I said, carefully bestowing my new purchase in my pocket, 'you seem to know those young women who went by just now?'

"'Pardi! I know everybody in the neighborhood, I do!'

"'Are they farmers' daughters?'

"'Yes, the two dark ones are, the Dargenettes. They're good enough girls, for all their talk about men; if anybody should go too far with 'em, they'd do good work with their feet and hands and nails, I'll warrant. They like to fool, but they're virtuous! And then, their father wouldn't stand any fooling. Old Dargenette's a gardener, and he ain't very pleasant every day. He fondled his wife with his rake when she didn't walk straight; and I guess he'd do the same to his daughters, if they should go astray. Country folk, monsieur, talk a little free sometimes, but you mustn't judge 'em by that.'

"'And that other girl with them, whom you called Mignonne? She carries herself as if she had lived in Paris.'

"'Yes, monsieur; so she has. Mignonne's the daughter of honest laboring people of this town; but she lost her father and mother when she was very young. Then she caught the fancy of a lady in Paris, and she took her away and said she'd give her a good education. Mignonne Landernoy had nobody left but an old aunt, who wa'n't none too rich. So she let her niece go; the child was twelve years old then. She stayed in Paris three years. I don't know just what she learned there—to read and write and do embroidery, and sew on canvas—in short, a lot of useless things that make a country girl fit for nothing. So, when she came back to her aunt, she couldn't be made to work in the fields again. Ouiche! she said it made her back ache!'

"'But why did she come back? Why did she leave the lady who took her to Paris?'

"'Because the lady died, and then, you see, her heirs didn't choose to keep the little girl from Sceaux. They began by turning her out of doors, and Mignonne was very happy to come back to her old aunt.'

"'Has she been to Paris again since?'

"'No; but I don't think it's for lack of wanting to. You can imagine that she's kept something of the manners she learned from living with city folks: a way of acting, and little tricks of speech—Oh! she's no peasant now. Why, mamzelle sets the fashions here! When the other girls want to make themselves a cap, or an apron, or a neckerchief, they say: "I'll go and ask Mignonne if this will look well on me, and how to wear it."—And it's Mignonne here, and Mignonne there! Why, you'd think she was an oracle, nothing more or less! When Mignonne says: "You mustn't wear that," or: "You mustn't walk on your toes like that," or: "You mustn't dance on that leg," you needn't be afraid they'll do it. And then, as Mamzelle Mignonne can read novels, she knows lots of stories and adventures, you see. So, when she's talking, the peasant girls prick up their ears, like my donkey does when he feels frisky. Why, those Dargenettes are as proud as peacocks because Mignonne agreed to go to Fontenay-aux-Roses with them!'

"'But what does the girl do here, as she doesn't work in the fields?'

"'Dame! she makes over dresses, and makes caps for the other girls; she's the town milliner, but her poor aunt has only just enough for the two of 'em. And what I can't forgive the girl for is refusing Claude Flaquart, a good match for her, who was willing to marry her, for all she didn't have a sou. Claude Flaquart was mad over her. You see, she's a pretty little thing—and then, her affected ways are sure to turn a fool's head.'

"'You say she refused him?'

"'Yes, monsieur! Think of refusing a man who owns a field and a vineyard, three cows, two calves, rabbits, and geese! What in God's name does she want, anyway? a lord? a potentate?'

"'What reason did she give for refusing such a fine match?'

"'Reasons! a lot she cared for reasons! She didn't like him; that's all the reason she gave! She said he was a lout, and that he was lame. As if a man with cows and calves could walk crooked!'

"'Didn't her aunt scold her?'

"'Her aunt's too good-natured—too big a fool, I should say. Claude Flaquart had his revenge: he married another girl, a head taller than Mignonne, and he did well. That's what comes o' sending girls to Paris, when they haven't got any money to set themselves up in business there. Mignonne will make a fool of herself with some fine young buck from Paris—I'd stake my head on it! and by and by she'll be sighing for Claude Flaquart's cottage.'

"'I am delighted to have bought some of your gingerbread, Mère Giroux; it's very fine. When I come to Sceaux again, you will certainly see me.'

"'You're very good, monsieur; so now you're one of my customers; that adds to my stock. You'd ought to buy some of this with citron, monsieur; you'd think you was eating oranges.'

"'I'll save that for the next time.'

"I knew enough. I bade her good-morning, and started for Fontenay-aux-Roses, which is only a quarter of a league from Sceaux."

Monsieur Fouvenard paused to take breath, and drank a glass of champagne; while we waited for him to continue his narrative, which, I confess, interested me deeply. For some unknown reason, I trembled to think of that pretty little Mignonne yielding to the seductions of the narrator, who, in truth, did not seem to me particularly seductive. But I am not a woman, and it is possible that that Capuchin beard possessed a fascination which I cannot understand.

"I soon reached Fontenay," he continued; "I had only to follow the crowd of people headed for the fête. Once there, I said to myself: 'I shall be very unlucky if I don't find Mignonne.'

"I had been strolling about for some time in front of the improvised stalls on a sort of square, when I discovered my three damsels, still arm in arm, halting in front of all the curiosities, games, and open-air shows, and giving full vent to the natural merriment of their age, intensified by Mignonne's satirical comments.

"Most of the young men bowed to them and made some jocose remark, generally vulgar and indecent, as the custom is among the country folk, whose innocence has always seemed to me largely apocryphal. The two Dargenettes replied in the same tone; but when Mignonne said anything, the young men did not retort; they sneaked away shamefaced, and I heard them more than once say to one another:

"'Oh! when Mamzelle Mignonne puts her oar in, I ain't smart enough to answer her back; she's too sharp, she is! Anyone can see that she's lived in Paris.'

"I approached the three friends and stopped at the stalls and shows at which they stopped. Mignonne noticed me, and I fancied that she blushed. One of the Dargenettes looked at me and said:

"'Look! there's that fellow that was eating Mère Giroux's gingerbread. It looks funny for a Paris gentleman, with a beard, to eat gingerbread like that.'

"I saw Mignonne nudge the speaker. Probably she told her to keep quiet, for I heard nothing more.

"I tried to exchange a word or two with them, but they pretended not to hear me, and made no reply. However, I saw that they whispered together, and from time to time looked covertly to see if I was still there. At last they came to a halt where the dancing was in progress. I was waiting for that. Dancing is not exactly my favorite pastime; but when it's a question of seducing somebody's daughter, then I become a fearless dancer. As for young women, almost all of them love dancing; indeed, there are some in whom the taste amounts to a passion; but if they had to dance without men, you may be sure that their love for dancing would soon vanish. Whence I conclude that the actual pleasure of capering is a secondary matter. But dancing gives an opportunity to show one's grace and lightness of foot, to play the flirt, to listen to soft speeches, often to passionate avowals, accompanied by a pressure of the hand, before the nose of a jealous spectator, who sees nothing, because it's a part of the figure!—Is it surprising, then, that almost all women have an inborn passion for the dance?

"I made haste to engage Mademoiselle Mignonne for a contra-dance; for the polka has not yet descended upon village fêtes. She accepted my invitation with a well-satisfied air. I at once took her hand, and, leaving her friends, led her away to our places. I say again that nothing better for lovers, in esse or in futuro, has ever been invented. I very soon entered into conversation with my partner. I was careful not to go too fast, and not to begin, like an idiot, by telling her that I adored her; she would have laughed in my face. But I did not conceal my amazement at her manner, her bearing, her language; I told her that it could not be that she was born in a village. Thereupon she told me what I already knew; but I pretended that I heard it for the first time. I did not squeeze her hand, but I manifested the deepest interest in her, and engaged her for the next contra-dance. At first, she made some objections; but I persisted, and she accepted. I saw plainly enough that it flattered her to dance with a gentleman from the city.

"When we joined her companions, who had also been dancing, they were drenched with perspiration and their cheeks were purple; but their partners had left them without offering them any refreshment. I made haste to call a waiter who was selling beer or wine, the only refreshments to be found at open-air fêtes.—Oh, yes! there are also vendors of cocoa.—The beer being brought, the two Dargenettes did not wait to be asked twice, and Mignonne saw that it would be useless to stand on ceremony.

"Thus I found myself one of their party. But I behaved with a restraint and reserve which would have edified Monsieur Faisandé. During the second contra-dance, Mademoiselle Mignonne talked even more freely; and I saw that, while she had brought back from Paris the pretty manners and the more refined language which gave her such a great advantage over the village girls, she had retained the candor and artlessness which we do not find in city maidens, even in those who have been reared most strictly. Mignonne was a strange mixture of innocence and knowledge, of frankness and coquetry, of simplicity and passion. Her stay in Paris, the people she had seen there, the reading with which she had tired her memory, had given her a feeling of distaste for the country, although her mind and her heart still retained all the primitive freshness of a virgin nature.—Agree, messieurs, that that child was a charming conquest to contemplate."

"Faith! there was no great merit in the conquest!" cried Balloquet. "The girl wouldn't have a peasant, so she was sure to fall into the first snare laid for her by a man from the city; and then, your beard must have helped you considerably in triumphing over Mademoiselle Mignonne."

"Why so?"

"Because it partly hides your face."

Fouvenard shrugged his shoulders, threw a bread ball at Balloquet, and resumed his narrative.

"After the second contra-dance, Mignonne said that she wanted to walk about. I asked leave to accompany them, and I had been so polite that they could not refuse me. Indeed, I think that they were not anxious to do so; the Dargenettes, because they liked to be treated; and Mignonne, because she was flattered to have a young Parisian for her escort.

"She declined to take my arm; but I walked beside her, as she was no longer between her friends. I paid for their admission to all the shows under canvas, of the sort that are always found at an out-of-doors fête. Mignonne tried to refuse at first, but the two peasants hurried into the strolling theatre, and the pretty blonde had to follow them in order not to be left alone with me.

"Toward the end of the evening, we were like old acquaintances. I had treated them to everything obtainable, and I had even danced with Mignonne's friends.

"We left the fête together. It was dark, and they accepted my arm. I had Mignonne on one side, and one of the peasants on the other; the second had her sister's arm, so that we walked four abreast. Country people delight in that, and it reminded me unpleasantly of Sunday strollers in Paris. I would have preferred to walk alone with Mignonne, but it was impossible.

"It seemed to me a very short walk, notwithstanding the fact that the Dargenettes sang all the way, and sang horribly false, murdering every air they tried. But Mignonne did not sing, and I began to press affectionately the arm that lay in mine.

"Chance willed that we reached the peasants' house before Mignonne's. They said good-night, and kissed one another laughingly. I heard them whispering, and could make out that I was the subject. The Dargenettes said: 'You have made a conquest of the bearded man! Look out he don't kidnap you!' and other witticisms of the same sort."

"At last I was alone with that pretty girl. I need not tell you, messieurs, that I became loving, eloquent, urgent. Mademoiselle Mignonne laughed at everything I said; but it pleased her. As a general rule, when that sort of thing doesn't please a woman, she doesn't listen to the man who tries it on. As soon as we are listened to, we can be sure of triumphing. I requested an assignation. She refused; but I declared that I would come to Sceaux every day; to which she replied that she could not prevent my meeting her.

"To make a long story short, messieurs, I met Mignonne the next day, and the next, and every day that week. I spent a good deal in railroad fares; but one must be willing to sow if he would reap.

"After ten or twelve days, I had completely turned the girl's head, and I persuaded her to go with me to Paris, where I promised her a brilliant existence, pleasure by the wholesale, and, above all, a never-ending love. Mademoiselle Mignonne set great store by that, I assure you. She was a romantic maiden. But it costs us men nothing to promise, you know! I am not sure, indeed, that I didn't mention marriage; but I think not.

"It all resulted in a little fifth-floor room, under the eaves, in a house on Rue de Ménilmontant. I furnished it with whatever was necessary, nothing more, and covered the walls with paper at twelve sous the roll. I must confess that my love was not exacting; she desired neither a palace, nor a cashmere shawl, nor a carriage; my presence—that was all that was necessary to satisfy her.

"That state of affairs lasted for several months. At the end of that time, I would have been very glad to be rid of my conquest; I had had enough of her. If she had been sensible, I would have said to her, frankly:

"'My dear girl, I did love you, but I don't love you any more. It was sure to come, sooner or later; liaisons like ours never last very long; it's all the same, whether we make an end of it now, or six months hence. Make another acquaintance, or return to Sceaux, as you please; for my part, I have the honor to bid you good-day.'

"But, as I said, I had to do with a young woman who had never thoroughly understood Paris and the Parisians, but who had seen them through a miraculous prism. Moreover, she proved to have a strength of character which astonished me. She had honestly believed that I would never leave her. You will say, perhaps, that it was in my power to cease going to see her; but, unluckily, at the beginning of our liaison, I had been idiotic enough to take her to my lodgings, and to show her the shop in which I am a partner; so if I had let a day or two pass without seeing her, what would have happened? Why, she would have come after me, either at my lodgings or at my shop; and that would have led to a very annoying scene, especially as my partner is almost as ridiculous as Monsieur Faisandé, and believes me to be a perfect Cato.

"So there was nothing for me to do but break with my girl in such a way as effectually to take away the desire to hunt me up in my own quarters. A confidential disclosure which she made to me intensified my longing to put an end to the connection: she informed me that she bore a pledge of our love. Fancy me with a woman and child on my hands!—Damnation, messieurs! put yourselves in my place."

Monsieur Fouvenard paused to look at us all. But no one answered; and he continued, evidently surprised by the profound silence and the almost stern expression of his hearers:

"So I looked about for an opportunity to break with her; what I needed was a tempestuous, violent scene, for a German quarrel would not have sufficed to part us.—I had then and still have a friend, a fellow who is very enterprising with the fair sex, and almost as fascinating as myself. That is saying a good deal, perhaps, but it's true. You must have heard of him: his name is Rambertin, and he is a commercial traveller who has left Ariadnes in all the places he ever visited. I had met him several times, in the early days of my liaison with Mignonne, when I took my love to Mabille or the Château-Rouge. He had found the young lady of Sceaux much to his taste. One day, meeting me when I was alone and rather depressed, he asked me what I had done with my blondinette.

"'Parbleu!' said I; 'I would to God I had nothing more to do with her! If you could rid me of her, you would do me a very great favor.'

"'Are you speaking seriously?' cried Rambertin.

"'Most seriously.'

"'Then it's a bargain.'

"'But you don't know that Mignonne adores me; what you must do is to arrange matters so that I can break with her.'

"Rambertin began to laugh and rub his hands.

"'It seems to me,' he said, 'that I've a longer head than you; for when it's a matter of breaking off a liaison, I can always think of ten ways to do it. Of course, you go to see your fair whenever you choose; and you probably have a key to her room, so that you can go in when she's in bed?'

"'That is true.'

"'Give me your key. To-morrow I will have one like it, and the thing will go of itself.'

"The next day, Rambertin had a key like the one I had loaned him, which he returned to me, saying:

"'I know where the lady lives. It's a house where there's a concierge with five cats; but I am about your size, I'll cover my face with my cloak, and this very night I'll sleep in Mignonne's room. I fancy that she sleeps without a light. I will act so cautiously that she will not suspect that another man is occupying your place. You must come there early to-morrow morning; you have your key, so you can come in and surprise me reposing beside your charmer. I should say that you would have the right to lose your head then, call her a faithless hussy, and drop her.'

"I considered it a magnificent plan, and it was put in execution. Rambertin is audacious beyond description. Everything succeeded as we hoped. I went to Mignonne's room very early the next morning. She was still asleep beside my substitute, suspecting nothing. And Rambertin too pretended to be asleep. But I was no sooner in the room than I made a great outcry. I called Mignonne faithless, perjured—Oh! messieurs, if you could have seen the girl's amazement and horror! I assure you, it was an intensely dramatic picture. She declared that she was not guilty, that she was the victim of a detestable piece of treachery. She tried to throw herself at my feet, to force me to listen to her. But as I was not at all anxious that she should justify herself, I left the room, shouting that all was over between us.

"I confess that I was afraid that Mignonne would try to see me again, that she would waylay me somewhere, to try again to convince me of her innocence; but several days passed, and I heard nothing of her. At last, I met Rambertin.

"'Well,' I said, 'the blondinette seems to have been consoled very quickly; you couldn't have had much difficulty in making her listen to reason.'

"'You're devilishly mistaken,' he replied; 'on the contrary, your Mignonne is a young woman who refuses to be tamed. At first, being persuaded that you believed her guilty, she was determined to go after you, to dog your steps and compel you to listen to her. Faith! my dear fellow, when I saw how it was, I just simply confessed our little scheme to bring about a rupture between you two. The effect of that confession was most extraordinary. At first, the girl refused to believe me, but I proved to her that I was telling the truth: I had a little note from you, telling me at what café I could find you, to return the key of Mignonne's room. I showed her that note, and she could have no further doubt. She said just this: "The infamous villain!" Not another word about going after you. "Now," says I to myself, "she's at odds with him for good and all; I must try to obtain my pardon." And I tried to make her understand that I had loved her for a long while, and that only the intensity of my passion could have induced me to second you in that affair. But Mademoiselle Mignonne, without deigning to reply to my entreaties, pointed to the door and said:

"'"Leave this room, monsieur, and never let me see your face again, or I will go to the magistrate and tell him of your shameful conduct."

"'I tried in vain to make her understand that the night we had passed together gave me some rights over her; the fair Mignonne was immovable. I tried to steal a kiss; she shrieked so loud that the neighbors came to their windows. And so, faith! I went away; but let her do what she will, I'll bide my time, I'll seize the first favorable opportunity, and we won't stop where we are!'

"Such, messieurs, was Rambertin's story, and that is how I broke off my liaison with the damsel of Sceaux. Don't you think the method I resorted to was very ingenious? I'll wager that you'll bear it in mind, in order to make use of it on occasion!"

Monsieur Fouvenard looked at us, one after another, as if he expected compliments and congratulations; but, on the contrary, nobody spoke, and almost every face had assumed a serious expression. Indeed, there were some faces on which he seemed to detect something more than mere seriousness; for, I am happy to say, his narrative found no sympathy among us.

As for myself, I had always felt a sort of repulsion for that young man, a repulsion of the sort that one cannot describe, but that one often feels for a certain person. At that moment, I was gratified to think that I had always disliked a man capable of such dastardly, vile behavior as he boasted of in connection with that poor girl from Sceaux. The portrait he had drawn of Mignonne interested and touched me; and it seemed to me that I should like to know her, and to avenge her for the infamous way in which she had been victimized.

Dupréval, who had observed the unpleasant impression produced by the bearded man's tale, and who, presumably, was not proud of having that individual for his guest, was the first to speak.

"It has taken you a long while, Fouvenard," he said, in an almost harsh tone, "to compose the anecdote you have just told us; but, frankly, you would have done as well to keep silent instead of regaling us with that tale of seduction, the dénouement of which may be worthy of the Regency, but is not at all suited to our code of morals; for nowadays, when a man desires to leave a mistress, it is no longer necessary to degrade her, to throw her into his friend's arms. Those are old-fashioned methods, which you have read about in some old memoirs of Cardinal Dubois's time; but, I say again, you were not happy in your choice of events."

"What's that! old-fashioned methods!" cried Fouvenard, running his hands through his hair—a favorite gesture of his, especially when he desired to be impressive, to produce an effect; and it did, in fact, make him a few lines taller by making his hair stand up for the moment. "I have invented nothing, messieurs. I have told the story exactly as it happened. Anyone who doubts it has only to call on Mademoiselle Mignonne, No. 80, Rue de Ménilmontant,—that is, if she still lives there,—and it is probable that she will give him a mass of details concerning her perfidious Ernest, which I have forgotten. Ernest is my Christian name, messieurs, and that is what she always called me. It is possible that my story shocks you; but, at all events, it's all one to me. I snap my fingers at your displeasure! You make me laugh, with your long, solemn faces! I take reproofs from no one; the man who chooses to administer one has only to speak—I am ready to answer him."

"Oh! messieurs! pray beware!" cried Balloquet, with a laugh. "I warn you that Fouvenard is extremely quarrelsome in his cups. Three or four more glasses of champagne, and he's just the boy to defy us all!"

"I beg you not to make fun of me, Balloquet."

"Ah! the boar is bristling up."

"Monsieur," said I, irritated by Fouvenard's tone and manner, "if you pride yourself on your adventure with this village girl of Sceaux, I fancy that we, on our side, are at liberty to condemn it. It is quite possible that that makes no difference to you. For my own part, I declare that I have deceived many women, but I would never have resorted to such methods as yours to break with them."

"Parbleu! monsieur, perhaps you don't need to take much trouble to induce your mistresses to leave you."

"Frankly, I should prefer that to your expedients; the man who is deceived is often more interesting than the deceiver."

"And you have often been in that interesting position?"

Dupréval put an end to our dispute by rising.

"Messieurs," he said, "I beg you once more to receive my farewell greeting as a bachelor."

We all rose to shake hands with our host. I observed then that Dumouton took the longest road, for he made the circuit of the table. But he had long had his eye on some superb pears which had not been touched; and, as he passed them, he seized two, which he succeeded, not without difficulty, in stuffing into his pockets, thereby producing the effect of two miniature balloons on his hips; and as they raised the skirts of his coat, they disclosed the fact that the seat of his trousers was of a different color from the front.

We said good-night, took our hats, and prepared to leave the restaurant. But the music was still in progress, playing a captivating waltz, which was like an invitation to ask a lady to dance.

Balloquet and I were the last to leave the room in which we had dined; and, as we took our hats, we glanced at each other, beating time to the music, and I verily believe we were on the point of waltzing together, when the strains of a polka, nearer at hand, chimed in discordantly with the other music.

"Oho! there are several balls here, are there?" Balloquet asked a waiter, who was looking at us and smiling.

"Yes, messieurs; there are two wedding parties: one right below us, on the first floor, and another on the same floor, but in the salons at the rear."

"Ah! so there's a wedding going on in the rear, too?"

"To be sure, monsieur."

"What time is it now?"

"Half-past eleven, monsieur."

"The wedding parties should be at their height. Are there many guests?"

"A great many, monsieur. They are hardly able to dance, they're so crowded."

"Which is the more brilliant party?"

"They're both pretty fine, monsieur. But the one in front rather beats the other. It's a sweller affair."

"I understand. The one in the rear is more free and easy. They're probably dancing the cancan there. Sapristi! and it's only midnight! The idea of going to bed, when other people are going to pass the night enjoying themselves! when you can hear a lusty orchestra playing tunes that make your legs itch! Do you like the idea, Rochebrune? Don't you feel tempted, as I do, to go to one of these balls downstairs, where they're tripping the light fantastic?"

"I do, indeed! I would go with all my heart. This music makes me dance all over."

"Do you want to bet that I won't go to one of these balls?"

"Do you mean it? You would have the face to do it, when you don't know anyone?"

"Why not? I'll show you what a simple thing it would be. There are two balls. I go to one. If by chance some ill-bred wight sees fit to ask me who I am, whom I know, why, I have my answer all pat: 'I was invited to the other party, on the same floor; I made a mistake, that's all.'"

"Upon my word, that would be an excuse. You make me want to do the same thing."

"Bravo! It's decided: we will both go to the ball. And then, you see, we know so many people! it would be deuced strange if we didn't see some familiar face in a large party. Then we will just say in an undertone: 'You brought me here;' and our acquaintance will ask nothing better than to be our sponsor. Besides, we will dance, and dancing men are always scarce at balls; sooner or later, it will be the fashion to hire them. They'll be only too glad to have us. Come, which one do you choose; it's all one to me."

"And to me, too."

"Well, I'm a good fellow: the ball in front is more stylish; I'll let you have that one, and I'll take the one behind. Especially, as I feel in the mood for dancing a cancan, if it's a bit chicardini. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly."

"We're in patent-leathers and have new gloves. It couldn't be better.—Waiter, just whisk your napkin over our boots. That's right; now we're as refulgent as suns; patent-leather boots are a blessed invention.—Forward! I may be mistaken, but I have an idea that I shall make a good thing out of this ball; and you?"

"I haven't so much assurance as you. But, deuce take it! after all, we're not people without hearth or home. And, as you say, we might easily make a mistake in the party. Come on!"

"That's the talk: forward, to the cannon's mouth!"

We went down one flight; Balloquet humming and hopping; I, slightly flustered, but none the less determined to enjoy myself. We reached the landing between the two balls; we heard both orchestras.

"Good luck!" said Balloquet; and he entered the door at the right, while I turned to the left.

I entered the room where they were dancing. A quadrille was just beginning.

"A fourth couple here! we want a vis-à-vis!" called a gentleman close beside me.—Then he looked at me and said: "Won't you be our vis-à-vis?"

"Gladly," I replied; and glancing about, I saw a lady sitting alone on a bench. I hastened to invite her to dance. She accepted. We took our places opposite the gentleman who had no vis-à-vis; the music began and we did the same; and, lo! I was dancing already before I had had time to look about me and become acquainted with the company into which I had so audaciously thrust myself.

But a man who is dancing never has a suspicious look; nobody observes him or pays any attention to him. It seemed to me that I had taken the best possible means to become acquainted with my surroundings.

After the first figure, I began by examining my partner, whom I had chosen at random, so to speak.

Chance had served me well. My partner was a very pretty brunette; her great blue eyes were at once tender and intelligent, and I deemed them to be capable of saying many things when they chose to take the trouble. A slightly aquiline nose, an attractive mouth, beautiful teeth, which she showed often because she laughed readily, black hair falling in long curls over her neck, a mode of dressing the hair which I have always liked—all these details formed a very seductive whole, and that is what I found in my partner, who was light of foot, slender, with a shapely figure, and graceful in every movement.

Then I looked about. By the manners of the women, the costumes of the men, and the prevalent style of dancing, I saw that I had fallen upon a fashionable assemblage. There was not the slightest suggestion of the cancan; but, by way of compensation, there was a distinct odor of patchouli. I was not sure whether they were enjoying themselves much; but, at all events, they accepted boredom with infinite grace.

I saw many ugly women; in a large party, it rarely happens that they are not in the majority. That being so, is it surprising that a pretty woman makes so many conquests? If nature created more of them, beauty would receive less adulation; but as it appears only at rare intervals, it attracts more notice.

However, I saw some good-looking women; others who were rather attractive; others (and that too is common experience) who had no other attraction than their youth. But I looked in vain for anyone equal to my partner.

I concluded to open a conversation with her; if, through her, I could obtain some information concerning the bride and groom, find out something as to my hosts, it would be of advantage to me in my embarrassing position.

"I am very fortunate, madame, to have arrived just in time to find you unengaged. That must be a very rare occurrence, and chance favored me."

"But you see, monsieur, I am in less demand than you seem to think; you had only to come forward. Have you just come, monsieur? I don't remember seeing you before."

"Yes, madame, yes; I have not been here long."

"What do you think of the bride? Very pretty, is she not?"

I cast my eyes about me with an embarrassed air; I saw nobody who looked like a bride. My partner, who noticed my hesitation no doubt, continued:

"Can it be that you haven't seen her yet?"

"Faith! I have not, madame; I have just come, and I have had no time yet to look for her."

"Look! there she is over yonder, by the orchestra."

I saw a young woman in the conventional costume, with white bouquet and orange blossoms.

"Do you see her?"

"Yes, madame. But why is she not dancing?"

"Because that great lout of an Archibald trod on her foot just now, and nearly crushed it. What an awkward creature he is! Anna is obliged to rest through at least two quadrilles."

I had learned that the bride's name was Anna. That was something.

"Poor Adolphe was in despair. He wanted to fight Monsieur Archibald."

Adolphe—that must be the groom's name.

"I can well understand that," I hastened to reply. "If I had been in Adolphe's place, I would have been furious, too; for, you know, on the wedding day——"

"He's so fond of his cousin! But, after all, he could hardly pick a quarrel with the bride's brother."

The deuce! I was on the point of putting my foot in it. Cousin—brother—I didn't know where I was. So Adolphe was not the groom. I was treading on very slippery ground, and had to look carefully to my steps.

My partner, who was fond of talking, soon began again.

"As for Monsieur Dablémar, I fancy that he cares very little about it. You know the kind of man he is?"

That question embarrassed me sadly. I wondered who Monsieur Dablémar could be, and I answered, by way of subterfuge:

"Oh! to be sure; Monsieur—Dablémar probably does care very little about it. That is just what I was thinking, especially, knowing him—as I know him."

"Are you very intimate with him, monsieur?"

"Very intimate—why, not precisely, madame—but enough so—to have a—decided opinion about him."

"Do you think that he will make her happy, monsieur?"

"Whom, madame?"

My pretty partner stared at me in amazement as she exclaimed:

"What do you say? whom? Why, his wife, our dear Anna!"

So Monsieur Dablémar was the bridegroom; there was no longer any doubt.

"Oh! I beg your pardon, madame," I hastily replied. "I meant to say that she will be happy, madame, very happy. At least, that is my honest opinion."

"I love to think that you are not mistaken. I knew Anna at boarding school; I know that she has an excellent disposition; and a husband must needs be very uncongenial to induce her ever to complain of her lot. But still, to speak frankly, the other one was prettier."

Once more I was beyond my depth. Who was this other one of whom she was speaking? I turned and looked in another direction; but my partner stuck to the point.

"And yet," she continued, "they say that he did not love her, that he neglected her sadly. You must have known her, monsieur, being a friend of Monsieur Dablémar?"

"Known whom, madame?"

This time my partner looked at me in a very singular way; I was convinced that she believed that she had fallen in with a lunatic. She simply said, with a smile:

"You are absent-minded, aren't you, monsieur?"

"It should not be possible with you, madame."

This compliment changed the current of my pretty brunette's thoughts, and fully restored her amiability.—Oh! flattery! It is like calumny—some trace of it always remains.

"Your gallantry, monsieur, cannot prevent my thinking that you are absent-minded. Still, you may have reasons for not choosing to answer the questions I asked you."

"Well, madame, it is true, I have reasons—very strong ones, indeed."

"I understand."

Sapristi! she was very lucky to understand; for my part, I confess that that conversation made me much more uncomfortable than I had anticipated; for I was most anxious not to appear a lunatic in the eyes of that partner of mine, who seemed prettier to me every minute. There are people who gain by being looked at, at close range; they are not numerous, but my partner was one of them. And I was terribly afraid that my incoherent replies would give her a very contemptuous opinion of me.

"There goes Monsieur Archibald," she continued, after a moment, "trying to crush somebody else's foot; the way he capers about is perfectly horrible; I will never dance near him."

I did not know where she saw Monsieur Archibald, so I smiled without raising my eyes.

"Of course, you know the lady he is dancing with at this moment?"

"No, madame, no; I don't know her."

"But you haven't looked in their direction."

"I beg your pardon."

"Ha! ha! ha!"

My partner indulged in a burst of merriment which worried me. When she had ceased to laugh, she said:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, pray excuse me; it is very foolish of me to laugh so."

"Why, madame? laughing is most becoming to you."

"But such a strange idea passed through my head, that I couldn't possibly keep a serious face."

"If you would tell me your idea—I should be very happy to be taken for your confidant."

"Oh! I should never dare; for it was you yourself, monsieur, who made me want to laugh."

"So much the better, madame; I am delighted."

"Look you: for some reason or other, you seem to me to be very much preoccupied by something."

"Since I have had the pleasure of dancing with you, madame, there would be nothing surprising in that."

"Oh! monsieur, you are very gallant, I see; but allow me to remark that your preoccupation has no sort of connection with me!"

"Do you think so, madame?"

"What do you suppose just came into my head?"

"I can't imagine; but if you would deign to tell me——"

"You will think me very childish.—Ha! ha! ha!"

"Well, madame?"

"Well, monsieur, I imagined that you had forgotten your handkerchief!"

I could not help laughing with her. Oho! so I had the aspect of a person who had forgotten his handkerchief. In truth, a man who is without that useful article is apt to have an anxious, unhappy look; yes, my partner had thought of something perfectly consistent with the contortions I must have been guilty of while she was talking to me. But, to prove to her that she was mistaken, I drew my handkerchief and blew my nose, although I had no desire to do so.