Frédérique, vol. 2

I obeyed; whereupon Balloquet exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! I would not wait to be asked twice, if someone would allow me to kiss her."

It was extraordinary what an ass the fellow seemed to me to make of himself!

Luckily, with Rosette laughter always followed tears. She speedily forgot her grievance, and thought of nothing but doing honor to the champagne, which made its appearance just then. Frédérique held her own with her, but did not lose her head. Balloquet, who was deeply impressed by the way in which those two bore themselves at table, tried to surpass them, got very tipsy, and nearly strangled himself pouring down champagne.

"Well done!" said Rosette; "that'll teach you to try to pour down wine like that; it seems to me such a stupid way! What's the use of drinking anything good, if you don't taste it, if you don't get the flavor of it? You throw it down your neck, as if it was a medicine you were afraid of smelling! How sensible that is! You might as well drink cheap claret; it would have the same effect as champagne."

Balloquet succeeded in ceasing to cough, and a moment later, when we were a little quieter than usual, he said to me:

"By the way, Charles, have you had any news of the man of the ring?"

"No, no, I haven't—found him yet. Why don't you drink, Balloquet?"

I was afraid that the young doctor would be guilty of some indiscretion, and I tried to change the subject. But Rosette chimed in:

"Yes, mademoiselle, yes; it is a story about a woman."

"But a very sad one," said I, interrupting Balloquet; "this is not at all a fitting time to tell it."

"Why not? I like sad things too; I like plays that make you cry. Oh! Monsieur Larose, do tell us the story."

"With pleasure, mademoiselle!"

I trembled lest Balloquet should disclose what I had concealed from Frédérique. He did not know that the man of the ring was Monsieur Dauberny; but if he should mention the name Bouqueton, Frédérique would know at once that the man was her husband. I tried to make signs to Balloquet to hold his peace; but he did not look at me, and began his tale.

Frédérique said nothing; but she watched us closely and did not lose a word of what the young doctor said. Stammering and hesitating a little, he told poor Annette's story; but he did not mention the assassin's name.

"What a ghastly story!" exclaimed Frédérique, with a shudder.

"It's horrible!" cried Rosette. "Oh! what an abominable man! But didn't the poor girl tell you his name?"

"Yes, yes," replied Balloquet, "she told us. The devil take the name! Would you believe that I can't remember it?—But you know it, Rochebrune, as you know the man."

"You know that villain, Charles? Oh! but you must have had him arrested, then?"

"No, I could not; we have no evidence."

"But what about that ring that he gave the poor girl?"

"That ring I have at home. I am keeping it carefully; some day, I hope that it will help me—to avenge the poor girl."

"What good would it do? The whole thing is too shocking. The criminal's name had better remain a secret until the victim is avenged."

Frédérique did not say a word, but she kept her eyes fastened upon me all the while. The time for returning to Paris arrived, and I was not sorry. The story of Annette had saddened Rosette and made Frédérique very thoughtful. We returned to our cab. Balloquet continued to do the amiable with Madame Dauberny; I verily believe that he asked her permission to call to pay his respects. What a self-sufficient puppy! I did not hear her reply. Rosette pinched me, probably because I was not listening to what she said.

I wanted to take Frédérique home; Balloquet insisted, on the contrary, that Rosette and I should be set down first. We were on the point of quarrelling. Rosette said nothing, and I thought that she had fallen asleep. Madame Dauberny put an end to our discussion by calling to the cabman to stop on the boulevard. She hastily alighted, bade us adieu, and hurried away. But Balloquet instantly opened the door, crying:

"I won't allow that lady to go away alone; the idea! I am going to escort her!"

I tried to hold him back by seizing his coat tails. I told him that Madame Dauberny did not want his escort, that she preferred to go alone.

He would not listen to me. He leaped out of the cab, tearing off one whole skirt of his coat, and disappeared.

"What's the matter with you to-night, my friend?" said Rosette; "you interfere with everybody; you find fault with whatever we do, and tear people's coats!"

"That doesn't concern you."

"To which aunt shall I take you this evening, mademoiselle?"

"Faubourg Saint-Denis, as usual."

"By the way, you haven't told me yet where you were perching yesterday, when I had the kindness—I might well say, the folly—to look for you at all your aunts' lodgings."

"Do you want to make me unhappy?"

"Answer me!"

"I told you that I was with a friend."

"Oh, yes! at the sponge dealer's, perhaps?"

"What an outrage! Instead of saying such things, you would do well to kiss me. It seems that we don't get beyond compliments to-day!"

In truth, she was right; I had rebuked her enough all day; the least I could do was to compensate her at that moment.

I arose early. I was strongly inclined to call on Balloquet, but I had forgotten his address. I had an idea that it was Cité Vindé; but what should I ask him. Should I not cut a very absurd figure, going there to question him? No, I would not go. Still, I would have liked to know whether he walked home with Frédérique.

While I was hesitating, uncertain as to what I should do, Pomponne opened my door and announced with emphasis:

"Madame Potrelle, concierge or portress!"

The good woman came in, bowing and apologizing for disturbing me. I asked her what brought her there.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I have come again about that poor woman—Madame Landernoy. I wanted to know if monsieur's intentions were still the same."

"What do you mean? what intentions?"

"About the work—about her taking care of monsieur's linen."

"Oh! mon Dieu! monsieur, I can understand that. But still, if you knew how miserable that young woman is at this minute! For near a month her child has been sick—suffering all the time; the little creature needs the fresh air; so the mother takes her child out to walk, and meanwhile she don't do any work; but her little Marie's health before everything! She was a sweet little thing. She's fourteen months old already—how time flies! Madame Landernoy goes without everything herself on the child's account; and now she hasn't got any work—or what little she does get is such poor stuff—eight sous a day! Think of taking care of a child with that! So I happened to think of you, monsieur, because you were always so kind to that young woman; and I've always judged you right, I have! And I says to Mignonne: 'I'm going to see Monsieur Rochebrune and ask him for some work.'—And this time she says: 'Yes, go! go!' For she looked at her little girl, who seemed to be in pain; and what wouldn't she do to get the means of helping her!"

"And she will go so far as to accept work from me?"

"Oh! you mustn't blame her, monsieur; misfortune makes people unjust so often! Does monsieur refuse?"

"No, certainly not. Look over my commode and my closets, and take whatever you choose."

The good woman made haste to examine my effects. She made up a large bundle of linen, hastily, as if she were afraid I would change my mind; then she rolled it all up in her apron, saying:

"Will monsieur take an account of what I've got?"

The concierge thanked me, bowed again, and took her leave, saying that the work would be attended to immediately.

Is it conceivable that during all the time that Madame Potrelle was talking about her tenant, I thought of nothing but Frédérique and Balloquet? Ah! how small a thing it takes to give a new turn to our thoughts! We are kind or cruel to others only as it gratifies our caprices. That truth is most discreditable to mankind!

I had not fully determined what course to pursue, but I decided to go out; and at my door I found myself face to face with Balloquet, who was coming to see me.

"Ah! I am delighted to find you, my dear Rochebrune!"

"And I to see you. Shall we go upstairs?"

"It isn't worth while; we can talk as well, walking."

"Very good. What have you to tell me?"

"I was coming to talk to you about Madame Dauberny. Ah! my friend, what a woman! what a physique—to arouse passions!"

"I see that you are in love with her already. Well! did you overtake her yesterday?"

"Yes, I overtook her on the street. She didn't want to accept my arm, but I insisted, and she yielded."

"Ah! she took it, did she? And you escorted her home?"

"Naturally."

"And—and—how does your passion progress?"

"It's all over! oh! it's all over, absolutely!"

I made such a sudden movement that Balloquet cried:

"No, I—I turned my foot. But you said: 'It's all over!'—What is it that's all over? Do you mean that you are already the fortunate vanquisher of that lady?"

"No, no! not at all! just the opposite! I said it was all over, because she gave me my walking ticket, I mean my dismissal. Oh! but she did it in the most amiable, the most courteous way—impossible to take offence. You were quite right when you told me that I should waste my time."

I was conscious of a thrill of satisfaction, of happiness, that I could not describe. Poor Balloquet! I pitied him then. I pressed his arm affectionately, and said:

"Come, tell me the whole story, my friend."

"Oh! it didn't last long. I offered my arm, as I say, and she accepted it at last. On my way, I resumed my rôle of gallant—I believe that I even ventured upon a declaration of love. We drank quite a lot at dinner, you know.—Your Rosette would do well to marry a dealer in sponges!—In short, I was very animated, my words flowed like running water. She made no reply whatever.—'It's because she is moved,' I said to myself. We reached her door, and I asked permission to go upstairs for a moment. That was a little abrupt, I agree; but when one has heated the iron so hot——"

"Well?"

Did he propose to set up as an echo of Baron von Brunzbrack?

When Balloquet left me, I squeezed his hand so hard that I made him cry out. Really, he was a very good fellow, was Balloquet, and I was very fond of him! How in the devil could I ever have dreamed that Frédérique would listen to him? There was not the slightest bond of sympathy between them.

I started for Rue Ménilmontant. Madame Potrelle uttered a cry of surprise when she saw me; then she said:

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, have you come to take back the work that young woman needs so much?"

"No, no, far from it! But this morning I was—preoccupied, and I paid little attention to what you told me."

"That's so; monsieur wasn't like what he usually is; but, dame! everyone has his own troubles."

"I would like to see Mignonne, Madame Potrelle, and see for myself what her child's condition is. Do you think she will receive me?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur. She receives anybody now, if they say they know anything about children's health."

I ran quickly up the five flights. I stopped to take breath before mounting the last narrow, dark staircase. When I reached the top, I heard a sweet, melancholy voice singing:

Mignonne's door was thrown wide open, for it was summer, and in that way she admitted a little air and light to her chamber, which, as we know, had no window but the round hole in the ceiling.

At that moment, Mignonne was trying to put the child to sleep by singing to her and rocking her.

I stopped in the doorway; she did not turn. She did not hear me; she had no eyes or ears for anything but her daughter. She was speaking to her:

"Well! don't we propose to go to sleep to-day, Mademoiselle Marie? Don't we propose to shut our lovely eyes? Oh, yes! we have very lovely eyes, but we must sleep, all the same; that will do us good! And then, mamma wants you to. Do you hear, dear child? mamma wants you to. Oh, yes! you hear me; you smile at me. Ah! she holds out her little arms, she wants me to take her! Mon Dieu! but it would do her so much good to sleep! But I must do what you want me to, mustn't I?"

She bent over the cradle and took up the child; then she stood up, and saw me. She cast a sad glance at me, in which I no longer saw any trace of alarm.

"Excuse me, madame," I said, stepping forward; "I ventured to come to see you, because Madame Potrelle told me this morning that your little Marie was ill. I studied medicine a little, long ago; I shall be happy if I can assist you with advice, which you may follow if you think it good!—Ah! she is very pretty, dear child!"

"Isn't she, monsieur?"

And Mignonne smiled when she saw me gazing at her daughter, who was really beautiful and already bore much resemblance to her mother. But her pretty features were drawn and worn, and denoted some internal trouble; her eyes too were sad, and it is with the eyes that children express their feelings before they have learned to talk.

"How old is she, madame?"

"She seems very big for that age, and I have no doubt that it is her precocious growth that makes her ill."

"Do you think so, monsieur? Yes, that must be one of the causes. She is very large for fifteen months; and yet she isn't stout, she isn't too big, like the children that are abnormal!"

"Allow me to feel her pulse."

I took the child's hand; the skin was dry and burning. Mignonne read in my face that I was not satisfied with that examination.

"She's feverish, isn't she, monsieur?"

"A little; growing fever; that ought not to alarm you."

"Oh! do you think she will get well, monsieur?"

"Certainly I do, madame. Her condition doesn't even seem to me serious enough for you to be worried about her."

"But, monsieur, it's more than a month that she's been like this; sometimes she's better for a day or two; then she laughs and sings—yes, monsieur, I give you my word that she sings, poor dear! To be sure, I don't suppose anybody but her mother can understand her. But then she falls back into this sort of prostration, the fever comes back, and she refuses everything. Mon Dieu! then I don't know what to do to bring a smile back to her lips. Do you suppose that she's in pain? The poor little things can't tell us where they feel sick. But she will get well, won't she, monsieur?"

"Ah! monsieur, you restore my courage!"

"You must never lose it when you are nursing a sick person. I suppose that you have a doctor?"

"Yes, monsieur; but he doesn't come often. He doesn't say much of anything. But I hope he'll come to-day; I expect him."

"Would you like me to send another one?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; I have confidence enough in this one."

"Adieu, madame! Don't grieve, don't fatigue yourself too much; remember that you must retain your own health in order to nurse your child. With your permission, I will call again to inquire for little Marie."

"Yes, monsieur."

I stepped forward and kissed the child on the forehead; her eyes fastened upon me in evident amazement. Mignonne, too, looked closely at me when I kissed her little one. But she made no objection, and responded sadly to my salutation as I left the room.

I went downstairs, and found the concierge watching for me, combing one of her cats the while.

"Yes, madame; I did my best to revive hope in Mignonne's heart. Her child is not well, still I think she isn't in danger. What does the doctor say?"

"Dame! the doctor shakes his head; he always says when he goes away: 'We shall see.'"

"He doesn't compromise himself. Meanwhile, take this money, Madame Potrelle, and see to it that the young woman and her child want nothing."

"Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! But all this money—— Why, how much have you given me? A hundred and fifty francs!"

"That's an advance on the work Mignonne is going to do for me."

"An advance! But she'll never take such a sum of money, monsieur!"

"That is why I give it to you. Pay for the medicines; there's no need of Mignonne's knowing anything about it."

"But, monsieur, suppose she should ask me how I got it?"

"Arrange it to suit yourself, Madame Potrelle; say that the druggist doesn't charge anything for medicines furnished to sick people who live under the eaves; lie, if necessary: there are cases where lying is no sin. And when this is gone, come to me at once and get more—without saying anything to Mignonne."

"Ah! monsieur, what you're doing—— Well! if anyone should ever speak ill of you in my presence, he'd get Brisquet in his face. This is Brisquet I'm combing."

Several days passed, and I had not been again to see Mignonne. Rosette had called upon me several times; but my pretty grisette talked too much about Monsieur Freluchon, the dealer in sponges; which led me to think that our relations would not last much longer.

Madame Dauberny was slightly indisposed; she sent for me to come to her, and I lost no time in complying. She seemed touched by my zeal. She was charming with me; she asked me about Rosette, but laughingly and without irony, as before; then she said, shaking her head:

"I am no longer afraid that that girl will make you lose your common sense and forget our friendship."

"Have you ever been afraid of that?"

"Why, yes. My friendship is too selfish. It is wrong, I realize that; but I am jealous, which a friend has no right to be. Scold me, monsieur."

"On the contrary, I forgive you—the more freely because I seem to have the same conception of friendship that you do; for——"

"For what? Go on!"

"Well! I too am jealous of the affection you bestow on others. And on that trip to the country, when Balloquet made love to you—that vexed me terribly."

"Really? Did you suppose for a moment that I would listen to that man?"

"If he had pleased me—very good; but you know perfectly well that he could not please me—seriously. And so your friendship is jealous, too?"

She lowered her eyes as she asked that question. I took her hand and pressed it affectionately. At that moment, her maid entered and said:

"Monsieur Dauberny, who has just arrived, wishes to know if he may come to inquire for madame's health."

Frédérique was thunderstruck. She glanced at me, murmuring:

"He has come back! What a misfortune! I had flattered myself that he would never come back. But, after all, we must submit to our fate. After five months' absence, I dare not refuse to receive him; for his visit is solely one of politeness, no doubt. Remain, my friend; your presence will give me strength to endure Monsieur Dauberny's. Will you do me this favor?"

"If you authorize me to do so, madame, I will remain."

Frédérique told her maid that she might admit Monsieur Dauberny. I was intensely agitated by the thought that I should soon be in that man's presence; but I strove to conceal my agitation beneath a calm and indifferent air.

Monsieur Dauberny appeared in a moment. He was rather tall, but had grown too stout for his height. His face, the features of which were, generally speaking, regular, wore nevertheless an expression of brutal libertinage, and when his eyes tried to express merriment they became sea-green, watery, like those of a wild beast. He appeared to be about fifty years of age; his hair was thick and curly. He was neatly dressed, but seemed to have difficulty in carrying his great weight.

I confess that I felt incapable of bending my head before that monster. At that instant, the fate of poor Annette recurred to my memory; I remembered her bruises, her horrible suffering! I remembered that shocking scene on the outer boulevards! I felt that I could not remain longer in that man's presence. The blood rushed to my face; I was on the point of giving way to my wrath and hurling myself upon the villain! While I was still master of myself, I took my hat and left the salon.

"Are you going, Rochebrune?" said Frédérique.

"Yes, madame, yes; I beg pardon—but an important engagement—pray excuse me!"

I said no more, but went away, turning my head to avoid bowing to Monsieur Dauberny.

What would Frédérique think of my behavior toward her husband—of that abrupt departure? I did not know; but if I had stayed longer, I should have broken out; and before her, in her apartment, that would have been a mistake.

Pomponne was watching for my return; he came to meet me, crying:

"Monsieur, the old concierge—I know now that she's a concierge—from Rue Ménilmontant has been here, not with the young woman who came once and ran off as if someone was going to assault her—a very pretty blonde——"

"Well, Pomponne, well! What did Madame Potrelle say?"

I listened to no more from Pomponne. I left the house at once and hurried to Mignonne's abode. I found the concierge below.

"What is there new, Madame Potrelle? Do you want money?"

"Oh, no! it ain't that, monsieur; but that poor mother—her child's much sicker. The doctor told me there wasn't any hope, but I haven't told Madame Landernoy that, for it would kill her too, she's so unhappy already! I don't know what to do to encourage her, and I thought of you, monsieur."

I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. My heart was very heavy; still, I felt that I must try to bring back a little hope to her heart.

I arrived under the eaves. The door was still open and Mignonne was kneeling by the cradle, as at my previous visit; but she was not singing; everything was perfectly still. The young mother, with her eyes fixed on her child, seemed to be watching for some gleam of hope on her face or in her breathing.

I stepped into the room; Mignonne did not even turn her head.

"Excuse me, madame," I said, approaching the cradle; "will you allow me to examine your little girl?"

"Oh! monsieur! just see how she has changed, poor child, in the ten days since you saw her! Just look at her!"

Poor little one! My heart sank and my chest heaved when I saw the shocking ravages that disease had wrought in so short a time. When I saw her, ten days before, she was pale and thin; but her pretty features had not changed. Now, her little face was all wasted away; her head, like her body, seemed shrunken; her mouth, which she kept tightly closed, her little features, constantly distorted by nervous contractions—everything indicated great suffering; and yet she was still sweet and pretty. Ought such angels to suffer? What crime can they have committed?

I took the child's hand; it was still burning. The mother gazed anxiously at my face and said:

"Monsieur, do you still hope?"

"I told you that I should always hope."

"Oh, yes! you are right; but for that, I should die."

"Does she complain? Can you guess where she feels pain?"

"Alas! she doesn't complain, poor child! But she groans and cries, and I can't soothe her any more. Oh! monsieur! I can't soothe her any more!"

Mignonne paused a moment to weep. I did not try to check her tears. They do much more harm when stored up than when they are freely shed.

In a moment she continued, pointing to the child:

"Look! see how she keeps her teeth clenched all the time. Oh! that is what frightens me!"

"What does the doctor say?"

"Yes, for if she drank a little of it, it would probably allay the fire that is consuming her."

"But what am I to do if she won't drink it—when she cries if I insist? I can't force her, can I, the dear little pet?"

"Will you let me try, madame?"

"You, monsieur! Do you think you can succeed any better than I?"

"I shall go about it differently."

"With her teeth always clenched—I'm afraid she'll break the cup when I hold it to her mouth."

"For that reason, I do not mean to try with a cup. Have you a small spoon?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Please let me have it, madame."

Mignonne gave me a small iron spoon, and a cup containing the sedative draught ordered by the doctor. I filled the spoon and offered it to the child, who refused to take it; but I succeeded in partly opening her gums for an instant with my left hand, and poured the contents of the spoon into her mouth. The little one cried bitterly; but she had swallowed a few drops of the potion, and that was all I wanted.

Mignonne watched me in amazement, almost in terror; for a moment she was afraid that I would hurt the child. But she soon calmed down, and seemed pleased with the result I had obtained.

"You saw how I did it," I said; "you must act in the same way, when you want her to take a little of the medicine."

"Oh! monsieur, I don't know whether I can; I don't know whether I can be as quick as you; and then I shall be afraid of hurting the dear angel."

"That is true. And see, look at her, monsieur; it seems as if she were breathing better! Oh! if that really has done her good!"

"It is more than likely."

"Oh! monsieur, if you would stay a little longer, and give her some more by and by?"

"I will gladly do it, madame."

"I am abusing your good nature, monsieur; but I'm afraid I can't do it as well as you."

"I am in no hurry, madame; my time is at my own disposal. I have often made a bad use of it, and I will try to atone partly, here with you."

The child seemed to be dozing, and I did not disturb her. But, after half an hour or more, when she began to be uneasy again, I repeated my manœuvre and made her swallow another half-spoonful of the potion.

I remained some time longer talking with Mignonne, doing my utmost to restore her courage and hope. Then I went away, saying:

"Until to-morrow!"

The next day, I went again to see the little invalid, and passed a large part of the day with Mignonne; for my conversation served to revive her courage, and she thought that no one could succeed so well as I in making the child drink. Little Marie's condition showed a slight change for the better. The doctor was greatly surprised, and the mother's hopes revived. It seemed to me that I too loved the poor little girl. One becomes attached to children so easily!

"It would be so kind of you, if you would come to-morrow!"

I had not called on Frédérique again, nor had I seen Rosette. What must they think of me? But on returning home one afternoon, about four o'clock, I found both my friend and my mistress established in my salon.

I saw at once, by the expression of their faces, that they were angry with me.

"Ah! here you are, are you, monsieur?" said Rosette. "You're getting to be very rare—very hard to find, for this is the third time I've been here—so help me! I don't know whether your Jocrisse told you?"

"My Jocrisse did not tell me."

"And madame here has been as many times as I have, it seems, and hasn't had any better luck."

"What, Frédérique! you have taken the trouble to come here? I am terribly sorry."

Frédérique smiled, but with the mocking expression that I knew so well, saying:

"What does it matter that I have been here? You weren't very solicitous about my health, I judge, as you haven't been to inquire about it since the day you left so abruptly. I understand that there is nothing very agreeable in my husband's presence; still, from regard for me, you might have put up with it a little longer."

I saw that Pomponne had been chattering and inventing fables.

"Ah! so you have been told that I go every day to Rue Ménilmontant?" I said, with a tranquillity that seemed to add to their irritation.

"Yes, monsieur; to see a young and pretty blonde. You like blondes now, it seems! You like 'em of all colors, don't you?"

"And this blonde whom I go to see is my mistress, is she?"

"Oh, no! she may be your laundress, who knows? And you go there to watch her iron your shirts! Ha! ha! ha! Why don't you tell us that? it would be more amusing."

"I won't tell you that, because I have no reason to lie."

"Oh! of course not! To be sure, you're your own master, you can do what you think best. It seems that she came here one day—your blonde—and ran away as if the devil was after her. Oh! how sorry I am I wasn't here that day, when she honored you with a visit! I'd have led her a pretty dance! I'd have sent her mazurking down the stairs! But, who knows? perhaps I shall meet her one of these days. As you pass all your time with her now, it's probable that it will soon be her turn to come here. Just let me meet her! You see, I'm not very gentle when I'm jealous! I'll box that woman's ears; yes, monsieur, yes, I'll box her ears!"

I listened to Rosette without winking. Frédérique said nothing, but kept her eyes on me.

"What do you say? Do you want to make us believe that the blonde is just a friend of yours? Oh! my boy, that may do for once. Madame Frédérique here is your friend, but you don't pass all your time with her, I believe.—Does he, madame?"

"Oh! I see very little of monsieur!" rejoined Frédérique, with a gesture of annoyance; "and when by chance he does condescend to pay me a visit, he seizes the first pretext to retire. I know that friends ought not to stand on ceremony; but it would be possible to be more frank and outspoken."

This was said in a tone which indicated that she was seriously offended. Suddenly Rosette darted at me, as if she meant to claw my eyes out, crying:

"Come, monsieur, who is this woman that you pass all your time with? How long have you known her? what do you do at her house? Answer! answer! Answer, I say! I am not your friend, and I want you to stand on ceremony with me!"

"First of all, mademoiselle, I might refuse to answer questions asked in such a way. You want to know all that I do? Are you entitled to? Do I know all that you are doing, when I am looking vainly for you at your seven aunts'? But, nevertheless, I propose to gratify your curiosity, because I shall be very glad to justify myself at the same time in the eyes of my friend Frédérique, who thinks that she no longer has my full confidence."

"This girl, to whose room I have, in fact, been going regularly for some days, and who lives on Rue Ménilmontant, is not my mistress. Your conjectures with regard to her are altogether false; she is a poor girl, who was virtuous, and who was seduced——"

"How clever! As if all girls weren't virtuous before they're seduced!"

"But I know what I am talking about; I mean that she had not the taste for pleasure or idleness which sooner or later leads a girl on to her ruin."

"Ah! very good; I understand! She'd have been a saint, if she hadn't sinned."

"If you don't mean to let me speak, Rosette, it is useless to question me."

"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I'll hold my tongue."

"This girl became a mother. Her seducer had deserted her."

"Indeed! but what has all this rigmarole to do with you? Is it any of your business, if you're not the seducer?"

"I learned indirectly of this young woman's misfortunes; I became interested in her, I gave her work, and tried, so far as was in my power, to relieve her distress. What is there so surprising in that, mesdames? Why do you look at me with such a peculiar expression?"

"Go on, my dear boy, continue your touching story. And now you pass your time with this young woman; because she's teaching you to knit, perhaps."

I could not restrain a gesture of impatience. It is disheartening, when one has tried to do a little good, to be incessantly suspected of the opposite. I sprang to my feet and exclaimed:

"I have never believed that of you, Charles," said Frédérique, coming to my side; "but it seems to me that one who believed that she had your full confidence may well be surprised to learn that your attention is engrossed by a young woman whom you had never mentioned to her."

"As for me," cried Rosette, "I'm not so gullible as madame; I don't take any stock in your innocent, unfortunate, persecuted woman! All you need is the credulous and cruel husband! I saw a play like that once. I don't say that you don't help this lovely blonde of yours; on the contrary, I believe you help her too much. No doubt you were touched by her woes; but why? Because you're in love with her."

"That is not true, Rosette; I tell you once more, you are all wrong."

"I beg your pardon—one more question, and answer it honestly: is this woman pretty?"

"She is very good-looking."

"Very," replied Frédérique; "the counting-room especially struck me as remarkably elegant."

"Ah! how fine I'll look in it!—Adieu, Charles! You've been playing tricks on me, and I'm going to get married!"

Rosette departed, and I confess that I did not try to detain her; what she had said had stung me to the quick. As for Frédérique, I saw that in the bottom of her heart she shared the grisette's unjust suspicions. She stayed a moment longer with me, but said almost nothing; then she too left me, and when I pressed her hand it hardly responded to the pressure. So that is how we are believed when we tell the truth! If I had lied, I am very certain that they would not have been so incredulous.

I did not recover at once from the sensations caused by the two visits I had received. I knew that my liaison with Rosette would not last long; and when a thing is bound to end a little sooner or a little later, one is prepared for it. Moreover, since my peregrinations among the aunts, I had not had the slightest confidence in Rosette.

I was tempted for a moment to go to her; but I reflected that it would be almost equivalent to asking her forgiveness for doing a kind action without her leave. I felt that I must retain my dignity. So much the worse for those who see evil everywhere and in everything!

All this reflection and hesitation detained me at home much later than usual, and the day was far advanced when I arrived at Rue Ménilmontant. Madame Potrelle was not in her lodge, which was deserted. I hastened upstairs; but my heart was oppressed by a melancholy presentiment: was the poor child worse?

When I reached Mignonne's room, I found there, besides the unhappy mother, the doctor, the concierge, and a neighbor.

Mignonne was weeping and calling her daughter; at last she fell back on her chair, speechless and motionless.

"Little Marie is no more," said the doctor, in a low voice; "she died only a minute ago, after a slight convulsion. The child could not recover; I knew it all along; but the poor mother will not have it that she is dead. Still, we must take her away."

Mignonne, who was apparently absorbed by her grief, when she saw me, sprang to her feet, pushed the doctor away, and came to me, crying:

"Here you are! here you are! How late you have come! But you will make her drink, won't you? You will bring the dear child back to life; for she isn't dead! oh, no! God has not taken my daughter away from me! Here, here, take her; why don't you make her drink? Open her lips; you see that she doesn't cry, that she doesn't refuse!"

And she stooped over to lift the child, covering her with tears and kisses. Then she suddenly uttered a loud shriek and pressed her to her heart.

"Cold! cold!" she cried. "Why is that? Warm her, monsieur, warm her, I say! You can see that she is dying!"

It was a heartrending scene. Even the doctor could not restrain his tears. But luckily Mignonne lost consciousness. We took advantage of that moment to carry her away, the doctor and I. The neighbor who was present lived on the same street, two houses away; she offered to take the young mother in and keep her as long as her condition required.

"What had that young mother done," I said to myself, "that she should be deprived of her child, who was her only comfort and joy on earth?"

A fortnight had passed since little Marie's death. I had not as yet had the courage to go to see Mignonne; I was afraid that the sight of me would make her unhappy, for it would inevitably remind her of her daughter.

But did not she think of her always, poor woman? Not by striving to banish a memory from the heart do we succeed in resigning ourselves to it with less bitterness; on the contrary, grief is pacified and soothed by speaking freely and often of those we have lost.

I had called at Madame Dauberny's, but was told that she had gone into the country for a few days. Of Rosette I heard nothing at all.

One hot summer's day, I decided to go to see Mignonne. I had left her in charge of decent people who were deeply interested in her. The doctor had promised to see her constantly, and that was why I had postponed my visit. We often have courage to bear our own troubles, but find it wanting when we must face those of other people.

When I arrived at Madame Potrelle's lodge, I found the good woman there. I hardly dared to question her. She divined my hesitation and anticipated my wishes.

I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. I found her door closed. I could hear nothing; profound silence reigned. I knocked gently on the door. After a moment, I heard Mignonne's sweet voice:

"Who is there?"

"It is I, madame; pray let me come in."

She evidently recognized my voice, for she opened the door at once. She looked earnestly at me, and said, pointing to the cradle with a heartrending expression:

"Why do you come now? She isn't here any longer; you can't do anything more for her; and I—oh! I don't need anything now."

She fell, exhausted, on a chair. But I stood in front of her and said, in a respectful and firm tone:

"I have one more duty to perform. Be good enough to come with me, madame; take your bonnet and shawl, and come with me, I beg. I ask it in your daughter's name."

Mignonne gazed at me in surprise; but I had no sooner mentioned her daughter, than she rose, hastily put on what she needed, and was ready in a moment.

Mignonne did not open her lips, and I respected her silence. Thus we traversed the distance that separated us from the cemetery of Père-Lachaise. Our cab stopped at the gate of that place of repose. I alighted first, and gave my hand to Mignonne. When she recognized the place where we were, she seemed to feel a sudden shock; her eyes brightened, she looked into my face, then eagerly seized my hand and walked beside me, never relaxing her grasp; I felt her hand tremble in mine.

I led her for some time through the paths between the graves. At last, I stopped on the summit of a hill where there was a sort of enclosure formed by a number of cypresses. I led her into that enclosure, where there was a monument as simple as the body beneath it. It was a flat stone, lying on the ground, with a white marble column standing at its head. On that column was an angel flying away from a cradle, and at the base these words only:

HERE RESTS MARIE LANDERNOY

That modest monument was surrounded by newly planted flowers, and the whole was enclosed by a low iron fence. I opened the gate, of which I had the key, and pointed to the stone, saying simply:

"Your daughter is there."

"My friend! my friend! And I was suspicious of you! Oh! forgive me! I love you dearly, now! My daughter is lying there; I can come now and pray upon her grave, and tend and renew the flowers that surround it. Ah! I breathe more freely now; you have given me courage to keep on living."

"I have something else here," I said, taking from my pocket a carefully folded paper, which I handed to Mignonne.

The young woman took the paper, and a flush of joy overspread her face; she covered her daughter's hair with kisses, then threw herself into my arms once more.

"Oh! thanks! thanks, my friend! I have not lost everything; I have something of her! Her soft, fine hair—I have it all, and it will never leave me! Ah! you have almost made me happy! Let me thank you again."

She laid her head on my shoulder and wept profusely; but the tears were soothing and assuaged her grief.

Then she knelt beside the gravestone. I walked away in order not to disturb her meditation and her prayers.

At last, after spending a long time beside her daughter, Mignonne returned to me; but she was no longer the same woman as when she left her room. Her sombre grief, her wild glance, had given place to an expression of pious melancholy and placid resignation.

When we returned, Madame Potrelle looked at us, and was surprised beyond words at the change that had taken place in her tenant; but she dared not question us. Mignonne ran to the good woman and kissed her.

"Oh! I am no longer so wretched as I was! I have just been praying at my daughter's grave; I've got the key; there are flowers all around it; I am going to take care of them. Marie will be glad. See, I have all her hair; and it's to him, to monsieur, my best friend, that I owe it all! Ah! you were quite right when you told me that I made a mistake to distrust him!"

I bade Mignonne adieu, in order to escape Madame Potrelle's eulogium. The young woman offered me her hand, saying:

"Now I will come myself to get the work you are good enough to give me. You will allow me to do it, won't you?"

"I do more than that, I beg you to; and, in the interest of your health, I urge you to look carefully after all my linen; for there is nothing like work to distract one's thoughts."

Mignonne speedily fulfilled her promise; she appeared one morning, alone; she desired to show me that she no longer had any suspicion of me. I talked a few minutes with her. We spoke of her daughter, the subject in which she was most deeply interested. The people who are afraid to speak of those they have lost are the ones who wish to forget them at once. When one does not wish to forget the dear ones who are no more, why should one shrink from speaking of them?

Then I went out, after saying to her:

Several weeks passed thus. At first Mignonne came every four or five days, then a little oftener, then every other day; and I frequently found her established in my quarters, and working there; for she had said to me one day:

"When there isn't much to mend, perhaps one shirt, or one waistcoat, it is hardly worth while to carry it home, if it doesn't annoy you to have me do it here."

And as it did not annoy me in the least to have her work in my rooms, as I observed with delight that her grief was more calm, more resigned, and that when she was busily employed there she had much more distraction than in her own chamber, I urged her to work there whenever it was convenient for her to do so.

I called again to see Frédérique, but she had not returned from the country. Did she propose to spend the summer there? It seemed to me that she might have told me where she was going, and have asked me to pass some time with her.

I was unhappy over Frédérique's absence; but, above all, I was hurt by her manifest indifference. I would have liked to scold her; I would have liked to tell her that I was very angry with her. Where was she? what was she doing? whom did she see now? Madame insisted upon my telling her everything, but she told me nothing.

One day when Mignonne was working in my salon, and I, contrary to my custom, had not gone out, the doorbell announced a visitor. Mignonne rose at once, saying:

"I will go, monsieur."

"Why so, Mignonne? Stay, I beg you; you are not in my way; and if my visitor has anything to say to me in private, I will take him into my bedroom, that's all. There is not the least reason why you should go."

Mignonne resumed her seat, and Ballangier entered the room. He was still in cap and blouse, but his dress was irreproachably neat, and his hands very white. When he saw a young woman installed in my apartment, he started back in surprise, and would have gone away.

"Why, of course; come in, come in! You mustn't let madame frighten you away. Take a seat, and let us talk."

Ballangier decided to sit down. Mignonne went on sewing and kept her eyes over her work.

"Well! have you still plenty to do? are they still satisfied with you? I am sure that they are; I can read it in your eyes."

"Yes; my employer is perfectly satisfied with me. If you knew how rich I am now! I am actually saving money! Can you believe that I have seventy-five francs put by?"

"Well done, my friend! As soon as a man has succeeded in saving something, it's like a snowball. It isn't so hard as people think to become well to do. Often nothing is necessary but determination; but it must be constant and immovable."

"Oh! that's the way it is with me now; there's no danger of my stumbling. Why, when I see a drunken man, it makes me blush for shame, and I say to myself: 'How could I ever take any pleasure in making a beast of myself like that!'"

"And your reading?"

"That gives me a great deal of entertainment, too. But there are some things I have to read over two or three times, because I don't understand them right away."

"Would you like me to give you some more books?"

"Thanks, not to-day. I am doing an errand for my employer, and I had to pass your door; that's why I took the liberty of coming up."

"You did well, for it's a pleasure to me to see you now."

"She's mighty pretty, that little woman sewing in there!"

"Yes, she is pretty; and, what's better still, she's respectable."

"Ah, yes! Is she a lady?"

"I'll tell you another time who she is."

When Ballangier had gone, I returned to Mignonne, who went on with her work and said nothing. Still, I would have bet that she was surprised to hear me, a young man of fashion, addressed thus familiarly by a man in cap and blouse.

Pomponne handed me a huge envelope which the concierge had just brought upstairs. The enclosure was printed; evidently a wedding invitation. I read: