Frédérique, vol. 2

"That was very good, Charles; you were more successful than at Armantine's reception."

I laughed at the remembrance of my false note; but Madame Sordeville lowered her eyes and did not laugh.

She came the next day and the next; nor was there an evening that she did not pay her friend a visit. Frédérique received her with formal rather than affectionate courtesy; she had altogether lost the playfulness and spirit that made our tête-à-têtes so delightful. When I was alone with her, she said little; when Armantine was there, she said nothing at all. But Armantine pretended to pay no heed to the melancholy or capricious humor of her friend; she was fond of talking, and she often sustained practically the whole burden of what could hardly be called conversation.

Very often she bestowed a melting glance on me, but I pretended not to notice. She always seated herself near me. If we walked in the garden, she walked by my side and talked to me in undertones, as if she had something to say to me that she did not wish Frédérique to hear. Frédérique observed all her manœuvring, and sometimes I saw her expression change two or three times in a minute. At such times, my heart beat violently, and I was tempted to throw myself at her feet and say:

"It is you, you alone, whom I love!"

But suppose that all that was nothing more than what she called the selfishness of friendship! She was such a peculiar creature! I should be so confused if I had misinterpreted her feelings! What would she think of me? That my self-esteem led me to see on all sides women who adored me!

Why that ill temper with me? If her friend's constant presence irritated her, was I responsible for it? Had I sought Madame Sordeville's company? On the contrary, she must have seen that in my intercourse with that lady I kept strictly within the limits of the most rigid courtesy. As I said this to myself, I left the salon and the house, hoping to find a solution of my conjectures while walking.

I paid no attention to the direction I took. What did it matter, as I had no definite goal in view? But chance willed that I should turn to the right instead of the left; and to reach the woods I had to pass Armantine's house.

I did not notice it, but was walking on, musing deeply, when suddenly I heard my name called. I raised my eyes and found myself in front of Madame Sordeville's house. She was at a window on the ground floor; it was she who had called me, and, as I looked up, she bowed affably to me.

I returned her salutation, and was going on; but she called out:

"Won't you do me the favor to come in a moment, Monsieur Rochebrune? I have long wanted to have a moment's conversation with you; but at Madame Dauberny's it is impossible; for she doesn't leave you for an instant. As chance has brought you to my door, will you not grant me this favor?"

So I went into Madame Sordeville's house; I continued to give her that name in my mind. She came to meet me, ushered me into the room, sat down, and pointed to a chair near hers. I took it and waited to hear what she had to say to me. She hesitated and seemed embarrassed; but she looked at me often, and her flashing eyes seemed to try to force me to speak first. Despite the fire of her glance, despite the dangerous play of her eyes, I remained dumb. At last, Armantine decided to begin the interview:

"When I went to call upon Frédérique, monsieur, I did not expect, I confess, to find you there, and especially to find you established there as if you were at home."

"What do you mean by that, madame?"

"You must understand me. The familiarity now existing between you and my friend is evident enough; indeed, she makes no attempt to hide it! But, I repeat, I did not expect that—not that I presume to reproach you, for I have no right to do so. You love—you do not love—that happens every day. As for my friend"—Armantine dwelt significantly on the last word—"as for my friend, it seems to me that I might be a little offended with her without laying myself too much open to blame. Her conduct toward me is hardly that of a really sincere friend. In leading you on to make love to her, to become her—her lover, in short, she has not acted with delicacy, and——"

At this point, I interrupted her.

Armantine was silent for a moment; she sighed, and murmured at last:

"I see that you have not forgotten the way I left you one day on the Champs-Élysées. I was wrong, monsieur, very wrong; I have often regretted it since. But do you not know that women sometimes have caprices, moments of irritation, which they themselves cannot understand? It may be that I am more subject than other women to such freaks. But, when I confess my sins, will you continue to bear malice?"

Armantine was really very fascinating; while "confessing her sins," she indulged in a thousand coquettish little manœuvres which would have turned many a man's head. But I was in love with another woman, and that love must have been most sincere, for Armantine's tender glances had no effect whatever on my heart.

"I bear you no ill will at all, madame," I said, with a smile. "That episode faded from my memory long ago, and I supposed that it was the same with you. You owe me no apology; indeed, as you know, time changes the aspect of many things. To-day, it seems to me that that old story does not deserve a moment's thought from either of us. Au revoir, madame! With your permission, I will continue my walk."

I rose and bowed. Armantine was speechless, utterly crushed; she did not look at me, she did not even respond to my salutation.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"What were you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you come out of her house. I was certain that you were there."

"At Madame Sordeville's? It was the merest chance, my going in. I was passing, and——"

"You have no need to apologize, or to try to invent excuses. I have told you a hundred times that you were your own master, that you might have ten mistresses if you chose, that I did not claim any right to interfere with your affections. But I do not like to have people lie to me, deceive me, disguise their thoughts."

"I have done none of those things, Frédérique; and if you will listen to me——"

"Later—not now. Adieu!"

"Are you going to leave me? Won't you come to walk with me?"

"No! I have something to do, I am going home."

"I am going home, too."

"No; continue your walk, I beg you. It would annoy me if you should go home with me. You see that my nerves are all on edge, that a trifle upsets me. Leave me, my friend; au revoir!"

I wandered about the country a long while, recalling every trivial circumstance in Frédérique's conduct that could possibly encourage my hope that she had something more than friendship for me. The dinner hour had arrived, when I returned to the house.

I found nobody in the salon. I went into the garden, but Frédérique was not there. I called Pomponne, who came with a letter in his hand.

"Monsieur called me, and I was looking for monsieur; what a coincidence!"

"Where is Madame Dauberny?"

"She has gone, monsieur."

"Gone! What do you say, idiot?"

"I say, monsieur, that we're the masters of the house. Madame Dauberny has gone away with Adèle, and here's a letter she left for monsieur."

I took the letter, hastily tore it open, and read what follows:

I had hardly finished reading the letter, when I called my servant.

"Pack my valise, Pomponne, and your own things; we are going back to Paris."

"Going back to Paris! When, monsieur?"

"Instantly! make haste!"

"What about dinner, monsieur? We haven't dined, and I know it's all ready; Adèle told me so when she went away."

"We will dine in Paris. I do not propose to remain another half-hour in this house. Come! you should have had everything ready before now."

I reached Paris about seven in the evening. As I entered my house, the first person I saw was Ballangier, in a neat brown frock-coat and a round hat; his attire was noticeable for a sort of coquetry which indicated that the desire to please was still his first thought.

He grasped my hand, crying:

"Ah! here you are at last! I am so glad to see you! I have so much to tell you about all that has happened in the six weeks since you went away! For it is six weeks since you left Paris."

"Is Mignonne in my room now?"

"No; but she sometimes passes the whole day there and a large part of the evening. She enjoys being in your room."

"Come up with me and tell me all about it."

Ballangier accompanied me to my apartment; I got rid of Pomponne by telling him to get his dinner wherever he chose; and when I was alone with my friend, I asked how his love affairs were progressing.

"Well done, Ballangier! that incident ought surely to have helped on your prospects. You have rendered Mignonne a great service, and she is grateful."

"A great thing that was! to punch an impertinent blackguard's head! Anybody would do as much for a poor little woman who's being insulted—unless he has no blood in his veins! How is it with you, Charles, are you all right? Have you left the country for good?"

"I don't know; that depends. Look you, my friend, I too am in love, and I don't know yet whether my love is returned."

"Oho! Do you mean it? you are in love, too? Oh! she'll love you, I'll answer for that; it is impossible for anyone not to love you!"

"God grant it! Meanwhile, I will admit that I haven't dined; and as it's the fashion in our day for lovers to dine, because dieting would not advance their affairs, I propose to regale myself. Have you dined?"

I was in a hurry to dine, because I intended to go immediately after to Madame Dauberny's; as she had returned only a few hours ahead of me, it was impossible that she should not be at home.

Ballangier went out with me; he would have left me when we reached the street, but I asked him to walk with me as far as the boulevard; and on the way I learned with pleasure that his conduct was still all that could be desired, that his love did not cause him to neglect his work, and that he had become one of his employer's head workmen.

We had almost reached the boulevard, when, as we passed a brightly lighted shop, Ballangier started back, touched my arm, and said, pointing to a man who had just passed us:

"There he is! That's the man! He didn't see me, but I recognized him."

"Who is he?"

"The man I thrashed so soundly for taking liberties with Mignonne."

I looked at the person whom Ballangier pointed out to me; his figure impressed me, it reminded me of someone. I ran back and overtook him, then turned about and faced him. I was not mistaken: it was Monsieur Dauberny.

I do not know whether he recognized me. He must have been surprised by the way I stared at him; but he simply frowned and went his way, quickening his pace. I let him go, and returned to Ballangier, who had stopped and was waiting for me a few steps away.

"Well, Charles, you wanted to see that man; you succeeded, didn't you?"

"Recognized? The deuce! do you know the old reprobate?"

"Ah! if he were no worse than that! But he's an infernal villain! You did well, I assure you, to deliver Mignonne from his persecutions. Poor girl! If you knew of what that man is capable!"

"Really?"

"Continue to watch. The sight of that man makes me tremble for her! But the day of reckoning must come some time!"

"Explain yourself! Do you want me to run after the fellow and arrest him?"

"No, no! that's not the way I must deal with him. But we will watch him, and an opportunity will soon come—with that man they must come frequently—and then——"

"Then we will annihilate him, won't we?"

"Au revoir, Ballangier! I must dine. But, I repeat, watch over Mignonne more carefully than ever."

"Oh! you have no need to urge that on me."

I entered a restaurant, dined in hot haste, and went to Madame Dauberny's house.

"Madame is not in," said the concierge.

"You mean that she is not receiving, for she must be at home; did she not return from the country to-day?"

"Yes, monsieur; madame returned to-day. But I assure you that she went out this evening, not very long ago; and I believe I heard someone say that she was going to the Opéra."

"To the Opéra?"

"Yes, monsieur; Mamzelle Adèle told us that her mistress was going to the Opéra."

"Why do I need a companion? When the fancy takes me to go to the theatre, I send and hire a box, and I go. In my box, I am alone, I am at home, and no one has the right to come there to annoy me."

I arrived at the Opéra; I went into the orchestra and stood at the entrance, from which I examined one side of the auditorium. I did not see Frédérique. I walked to the other side of the orchestra; there was a large audience, and several men were already standing at that entrance. I slipped in behind them and began my inspection. That time my search was short: I saw her, alone, in a baignoire, leaning back a little. Was she listening attentively to the performance, or was she absorbed by her thoughts? Before joining her, I gave myself the pleasure of gazing at her for several minutes.

Suddenly one of the men in front of me began to speak, so loudly that I did not lose a single word; indeed, I was speedily convinced that he intended that I should hear.

"I say, do you see that lady yonder, in one of the baignoires—all alone in her box?"

"In a pearl-gray dress, with black hair, and long cork-screw curls?"

"Exactly. What do you think of her?"

"Not bad—a Spanish type of face; but a little pale."

"Perhaps that may be grief at losing me."

"Oho! is she——?"

I did not allow Saint-Bergame to complete his sentence; if I had not recognized his voice, I should have guessed his identity from his language. I grasped his arm, and said to him in an undertone:

"Monsieur, the man who has been a woman's lover and tells of it is a conceited ass; the man who insults her in public is a coward!"

Saint-Bergame turned, eyed me from head to foot with an insolent air, and rejoined in a loud voice:

"Ah! you constitute yourself that lady's champion, do you? To be sure, it's your turn now."

I could not contain my wrath; I struck him in the face. Saint-Bergame tried to rush at me; but our quarrel had attracted general attention; someone threw himself between us, and I noticed then for the first time that Saint-Bergame's companion was Fouvenard.

We left the hall; several persons tried to adjust our difficulty, but I satisfied them that their mediation was useless, and that we knew perfectly well how the affair must end. I joined Saint-Bergame, who, with Fouvenard, awaited me in a corner of the vestibule. The latter stared at me in amazement, murmuring:

"What! is it you? What is this quarrel about?"

"There are no explanations to be given, messieurs. At what hour to-morrow?"

"At nine o'clock—no, ten o'clock, at Porte Maillot," said Saint-Bergame, who was trembling with anger. "I don't like to rise early. I shall have time enough to kill you."

"Very good, monsieur! Your weapon?"

"The sword."

"That is all."

"It seems to me that monsieur would suffice."

"You evidently do not fight often, monsieur, and are not familiar with the customs of duelling."

I did not consider it necessary to reply to this new insult.

"Very good; I will have two witnesses," I said, and walked away.

I returned to the hall and was going toward Madame Dauberny's box, when a lady rushed up to me. It was Frédérique. She took my arm and led me away, saying:

"Come! let us go! let us go!"

I followed her from the building. She almost made me run; she squeezed my arm convulsively; I spoke to her, and she did not reply; but she wept, and hid her face in her handkerchief. At last we arrived at her house. Then she threw herself into a chair and her sobs burst forth anew. I knelt at her feet; I took her hand and begged her to tell me the cause of her grief.

"The cause? the cause? You ask me that when you are to fight to-morrow—for me?"

"I am to fight?"

"Oh! no falsehoods! I recognized you at the entrance to the orchestra. You struck Saint-Bergame."

"Yes, for he insulted you."

She took my head in her hands and kissed me again and again, crying:

"Ah! that was well done! Thanks, my friend! I expected nothing less from you."

"Oh! of course, this duel would be an everyday affair, if—— Mon Dieu! it is my fault! always my fault! Why did I leave the country? why did I come back to Paris? All this would not have happened, if I had stayed at Fontenay. But you, my friend—why did you come back—why did you follow me? Why didn't you stay with that woman whom you love—and who has no idea of spurning you now?"

"You are all astray, Frédérique: it was to stay with the woman I love that I returned to Paris; it was to be with her that I followed you; for the woman I love—not with friendship, but with love—the most sincere, the most passionate love—with a love that will end only with my life—is you—you! Yes! though you banish me from your presence again, I can no longer content myself with the title of friend, beneath which I have with difficulty concealed all that I felt for you!"

"He loves me! he loves me!" murmured Frédérique, gazing at me with an expression of the purest ecstasy in her lovely eyes. Then, giving way to her emotion, lacking strength to say more, she fell into my arms. I will not try to describe my bliss. One cannot describe what one feels so keenly.

When we had recovered the faculty of speech, Frédérique said to me, with her head resting on my shoulder:

For more than an hour we abandoned ourselves to the ecstatic joy of two hearts which for the first time have declared their mutual love. But suddenly Frédérique's brow darkened, and she looked sadly into my face, crying:

"Mon Dieu! my happiness has made me forget. It is not a dream—you are to fight to-morrow!"

"Yes, I am to fight to-morrow, at ten o'clock. But that fact cannot prevent my being the happiest of men to-night."

"Is there no way of enjoying perfect happiness on earth? I was so happy, so happy! And you are to fight to-morrow!"

"I shall be the victor, and I shall have avenged you! My happiness will be even greater—if that is possible!"

"Oh! yes, yes, we must hope so! With what weapons do you fight?"

"Swords."

"Ah! Saint-Bergame chose that weapon, of course. I have often heard him boast of his fine swordsmanship."

"I struck him, so he had the choice of weapons."

"True; but are you a good fencer?"

"I know how to defend myself."

"We will see about that."

She left me and went into her dressing-room, whence she soon returned with a pair of buttoned foils and handed one to me.

"Let us see, my friend, if you really know how to defend yourself," she said.

"Very well, according to Grisier, who was my teacher. Didn't I tell you that I received a man's education? Come, monsieur, on guard, and look out for yourself!"

I took the foil. I thought, at first, that all I needed to do was to parry carelessly a thrust or two. But Frédérique soon undeceived me; she was sharp and persistent in attack, quick in parrying. Twice I was touched, and she exclaimed:

"Ah! so that's how you defend yourself, is it? Why, poor fellow, you will let him kill you! Attack—attack, I say!"

These words recalled me to myself; my self-esteem was aroused. We continued for some time, and at last I touched her. She dropped her foil and embraced me, saying:

"That's all right! that will do! But you must be careful; you must not be taken unawares. Whom shall you have with you to-morrow?"

"You remind me. I shall get Balloquet. I can rely upon him, and I must go this evening and leave a letter for him. But I must have another second. Those fellows insist on having three on a side. Whom in the devil shall I get?"

"Don't cudgel your brains, my friend. Your other second will be at your rooms at nine o'clock to-morrow."

"Do you know of someone?"

"Yes."

"Ah! I'll wager that you are thinking of Baron von Brunzbrack?"

"Oh! yes, I know him! And if I could fight with him too, it would be an additional gratification."

"Why, what has he done to you?"

"Nothing to me. But I told you, did I not, that Mignonne was vilely insulted and then abandoned by her seducer? Well, it was that dastard, that low-lived scoundrel, that Fouvenard, in short, who was with Saint-Bergame at the Opéra this evening."

"Go, my friend, and carry the note to Balloquet; make sure of him, and I will answer for the other second. Then go home and rest. Until to-morrow!"

"You will come to my rooms to learn the result of the duel?"

"Yes, you will see me. Until to-morrow!"

I woke early. It seemed to me that the events of the preceding night were a dream. But, no—she loved me, she was mine, and I was to fight a duel!

At half-past eight, Balloquet arrived, all out of breath.

"What's up, my dear Rochebrune?" he cried. "You wrote me not to fail you, to drop everything—and here I am! Is there a duel on the carpet, by any chance?"

"Just that! I have a duel on hand for this morning, at ten o'clock, at Porte Maillot. I tell you beforehand, my dear Balloquet, that the affair cannot be adjusted; I struck my opponent at the Opéra last night."

"The devil! it's a serious business, then. What caused the quarrel?"

"It is about a lady, my friend."

"A lady! I understand! that is to say, it's for her lovely eyes."

"If I should tell you her name, I'll be bound that you also would fight for her."

"Oho! do I know her, pray?"

"Madame Dauberny."

"Madame Dauberny! Fichtre! But, tell me, are you in love with her now?"

"I have always been, my dear Balloquet; but I dared not confess it to myself, or tell her, for fear I should be repulsed."

"Give me your hand, Balloquet. I expected nothing less from you."

"What is the weapon?"

"The sword."

"Have you one?"

"Yes; here it is."

"Are there to be only we two?"

"I am expecting my other second."

"Who is he?"

"Frédérique has undertaken to send him to me. I fancy that it will be a certain Prussian baron, an excellent and honorable man."

I had finished dressing just as the clock struck nine. I was already beginning to fret over the baron's non-appearance, when my door opened and a slender, graceful young man, of most attractive aspect, stood before us. I looked at him several times, before I exclaimed:

"Frédérique!"

"Myself, my friend."

"What's that? Why, yes, on my word, it's Madame Dauberny!"

"Why are you in this disguise?"

"What! can't you guess? I am your other second."

"You! Can you think of such a thing, Frédérique?"

"But it's impossible! A woman cannot act as second. I cannot consent to it.—Isn't that so, Balloquet?"

"It certainly isn't customary, and——"

"Listen, messieurs: I have but one reply to make—I propose to do it! If you don't take me with you, I will follow you and be there, all the same. All argument is useless. I propose to be your second."

"But my adversary's seconds will laugh when they see a woman."

"Never fear, they won't laugh long. But let us go, messieurs; we must not keep them waiting. I have a cab below."

I saw that it was useless for me to try to change Frédérique's resolution. We started. I took my sword; but I found a pair of foils without buttons in the cab. Frédérique had thought of everything. We talked little on the way. However brave we may be, we are always assailed by a multitude of reflections when about to fight a duel.

We reached the rendezvous. Saint-Bergame was already there, with Fouvenard and a little man who did not seem to enjoy the occasion at all. I went forward first, apologizing for my delay. Balloquet was behind me, and Frédérique a little farther back.

Saint-Bergame simply bowed and walked away, saying:

"Let us look for a suitable spot."

The little man suggested that we might fight behind the restaurant.

"What is this? Is Madame Dauberny one of your seconds?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied Frédérique, with dignity; "for if Charles and his friend do not avenge me, then I will avenge myself."

Saint-Bergame indulged in mocking laughter, and Monsieur Fouvenard deemed it fitting to join him.

"Ha! ha!" he said; "a woman for second! Why, this is charming! I would be glad to cross swords with the lady myself."

"Well! so you shall, if you're not a coward," retorted Frédérique, offering him one of her foils.

He was still pleased to jest and draw back, saying:

"Nonsense! I would with pleasure, if it were a fan; but a foil—my dear lady, you wouldn't know how to handle that!"

"Indeed! I shouldn't know how to handle it?"

As she spoke, Frédérique laid her foil across Fouvenard's face, leaving a red mark which seemed to cut it in two. The bearded man flew into a rage; he seized the weapon she offered him, exclaiming:

"I no longer recognize your sex, and I will not spare you."

"And I will avenge my sex, and poor Mignonne!"

At the name of Mignonne, Fouvenard turned pale; but he prepared for the combat. Balloquet proposed to the little man that they should imitate us; he declined, saying that he considered it ridiculous for seconds to fight.

When I saw Frédérique cross swords with Fouvenard, I shuddered; I trembled for her safety.

His words recalled me to myself. We began to fight. Saint-Bergame attacked me with violence. While defending myself, I listened to the other combatants. I fancied that Fouvenard uttered a cry of triumph. My adversary made the most of my distraction; I received a thrust which passed through the upper part of my left arm. That wound irritated, exasperated me; I attacked Saint-Bergame fiercely, and he soon fell at my feet; my sword had entered his breast.

I turned and looked for Frédérique. She had not been fighting for some time; in a few seconds, she had knocked Fouvenard's sword from his hand and wounded him in the side. He fell on the turf, and although his wound was trifling he had declined to fight any more.

The little man went to call one of the cabs. Balloquet assisted in placing Saint-Bergame inside, and he was so seriously wounded that the young doctor thought it best to accompany him and his seconds. I returned to Paris alone with Frédérique, who twisted a handkerchief round my arm and begged Balloquet to come to us as soon as possible.

In the cab, she put her arm around my neck, and insisted that I should rest my head on her shoulder. She gazed at me, gazed at me incessantly. Dear Frédérique! it seemed to me that we loved each other all the more dearly from having just escaped a great danger.

"Monsieur Saint-Bergame is in for a long siege," he said, "if he escapes at all. He has his own surgeon, so I left him. As for Fouvenard, he will be all right in a fortnight; but what irritates him most is that blow across the face with the flat of the foil. That was so well laid on, that it is probable that our seducer will carry the mark of it all his life. Fichtre! madame, there's some strength in your hand!"

"Now, Monsieur Balloquet, please examine Charles."

Balloquet looked at my wound and dressed it, declared that there was not the slightest danger to be apprehended, but that it would be as well for me to keep my bed for a few days. I was about to obey my doctor, albeit with regret, when the doorbell rang violently. I supposed that it was Mignonne; but Ballangier appeared, pale as death and so excited that he could hardly speak.

"In heaven's name, what's the matter?" I asked; "what has happened?"

"Ah! a terrible misfortune, a—— Mon Dieu! are you wounded?"

"It's almost nothing. Pray go on."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Frédérique; "what can have happened to her?"

Frédérique and Balloquet gazed anxiously at me. Should I name that man? name him before her? Why should I spare the monster? Why should not his wife, as well as I, have the right to despise him utterly?

"The man who was watching Mignonne," I said, at last, "was your husband, Frédérique; it was Monsieur Dauberny."

Ballangier was stupefied. Balloquet was no less surprised. Frédérique, on the contrary, simply nodded her head, muttering: "I suspected as much!"—Then she said:

"But it isn't enough to be convinced, to know that it was he? How are we to prove it? How can we discover in what place, in what out-of-the-way corner of Paris, he has concealed Mignonne? If you should ask him, he would deny having had any hand in the young woman's disappearance."

"Just let me find your husband," I said; "tell me where I can see him and speak to him, and I am sure that he will deny nothing to me."

Frédérique looked at me in surprise; then she rose hurriedly, saying:

She said no more, but left the room at once. Then I said to Balloquet:

"You remember Annette—and that Bouqueton?"

"Yes, yes! Well?"

"Well, that Bouqueton was Monsieur Dauberny."

"What! the villain who——"

I put my finger on my lips and pointed to Ballangier, who was sitting with his head in his hands; it would have been cruel to add to his suffering. Balloquet understood me; but he could not sit still; he paced the floor excitedly, muttering:

"Ah! mon Dieu! but, in that case, we must make haste; we mustn't lose an instant! Poor young woman! Oh! it is ghastly to know that she is with him!"

We counted the seconds. Ballangier went again and again to the window. At last he cried:

"Here she is; she's coming back!"

"What a pity!" said Balloquet; "that means that her husband isn't at home."

Frédérique entered and dropped into a chair, exhausted and gasping for breath.

"Monsieur Dauberny isn't at home," she said; "but he passed the night there."

"He passed the night at home?" cried Ballangier.

"Yes; the concierge is certain of it; he saw him go in last evening, before dark, quite early in fact, and he is perfectly positive that he didn't go out again."

"That is probable. But he went out early this morning, saying that he was going to pass some time in the country, and might be away three weeks. Where shall we look for him? Where can we hope to find him now?"

We were in despair. Ballangier, who was in a most desperate frame of mind, was still ignorant of all that Balloquet and I feared for Mignonne, who, I was sure, would not yield to Monsieur Dauberny's desires.

For a long while we were silent, each cudgelling his brains to think how we could find Monsieur Dauberny's trail. Suddenly Frédérique cried:

"Ah! there is one hope!"

We all looked anxiously at her.

"During that trip of Monsieur Dauberny's, some time ago, one of his intimate friends, Monsieur Faisandé, came often to inquire for him. One day, he found only Adèle at home, and he said to her: 'If Dauberny returns soon, tell him to come at once to Monsieur Saint-Germain's, at Montmartre—a small house, with a green door, on the left-hand side of the square.'"

"At Montmartre!" cried Ballangier; "he was going in that direction last night."

I rose and held out my arm to Balloquet, telling him to bind it up with a handkerchief.

"Come, messieurs, come," I cried; "this is a dispensation of Providence, let us not lose a minute!—You cannot go with us, Frédérique, but you will soon see us again, and something tells me that we shall bring Mignonne back with us."

Ballangier threw his arms about my neck and kissed me. Frédérique bound up my arm, whispering:

"Oh! if my recovery is a little slower, that makes no difference. I want all those whom I love to be as happy as I am!"

"You are right, my friend. Go, but remember that I am waiting for you."

I took from my desk the ring that came from poor Annette; on it I rested all my hopes. I pressed Frédérique's hand, and we started. We took the first cab we saw, and I said to the driver:

"Montmartre, the public square. Take us there quickly, and you shall have five francs an hour."

We went like the wind, but the road seemed very long. At last we reached the square. I told the cabman to stop, and we all three alighted and turned to the left.

"That must be the place!" cried Ballangier, pointing to a small house of poor aspect, with a narrow green door.

"Stay in the square," I said to him, "and keep your eye on the house. If anyone comes out, run after him. You and I, Balloquet, will go in."

I knocked at the little green door; it was opened and we entered a narrow passageway, at the end of which was a small yard. A shrewish-looking woman, who was sitting in a dark corner, called out to us:

"Who do you want?"

"Monsieur Saint-Germain."

"He ain't in; he went away this morning, and won't be back to-day."

"Monsieur Bouqueton must be here, then, and what we have to say to his friend Saint-Germain, we can say to him just as well."

The woman looked at us distrustfully, then said:

We entered a room on the ground floor, taking care not to go near the window, so that we might not be seen from outside.

After a few minutes, we heard heavy steps coming downstairs; they stopped at the door of the room in which we were, and Monsieur Dauberny appeared.

He gazed at us for several seconds in amazement; but, on scrutinizing me more closely, he seemed disturbed. However, he tried to recover himself, and said:

"What can I do for you, messieurs?"

"We have come in search of Mignonne Landernoy, a young woman whom you caused to be kidnapped yesterday morning as she was coming away from Père-Lachaise."

Dauberny could not control a sudden start; but he affected an air of tranquillity, and replied:

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, monsieur. I suppose that you mistake me for somebody else."

"No, I know you quite well. Search your memory. You saw me once at your house in Paris; you are Monsieur Dauberny; Bouqueton is the name you assume in your love intrigues! I know you perfectly, monsieur, as you see!"

Frédérique's husband looked at me for some instants, then assumed a mocking expression, and rejoined:

"And you are my wife's lover—the man who lives with her at Fontenay-sous-Bois. You see that I know you too."

"If your wife has a liaison in which her heart is engaged, monsieur, your abominable conduct makes her only too excusable."

"Let us have done with this! Where is Mignonne? Give that young woman up to us; we will not leave this house without her."

"I don't know what you mean, and I order you to leave the house."

Instead of complying, Balloquet and I walked up to Monsieur Dauberny, and I held before his eyes the hand in which was Annette's ring.

"What about this—do you know what this means?" I said.

At sight of the ring, Dauberny turned a greenish white and fell into a chair. Balloquet seized his arm.

"It was I," he said, "who attended the unhappy Annette, the woman you murdered! She is dead; but I received her full confidence, and we are familiar with your crime to its smallest details."

Dauberny could not speak. Great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead; he took a key from his bosom and held it out to us with a trembling hand, stammering almost inaudibly:

"On the second floor. Mignonne is on the second floor."

I motioned to Balloquet to stay with Dauberny, while I flew upstairs to the second floor. I found two doors; the one at the rear was locked. I opened it and found Mignonne on her knees, praying, in a corner of the room. When she heard the door open, she gave a shriek and ran toward the window; but I called her by name; she recognized my voice, and fell unconscious to the floor. Poor girl! joy sometimes kills. I took her in my arms and carried her downstairs. The air revived her; when we reached the yard, she opened her eyes and smiled at me.

Balloquet heard our voices and joined us. I told him to take Mignonne to the cab; then I returned to Dauberny, who was still in the lower room, pale and trembling, like a criminal awaiting his doom.

"Monsieur," said I, "we will hold our peace concerning your crime; but you must go away, leave France, and never let your wife see you again."

He motioned that he would obey me, and I made haste to join my friends.

Ballangier was like one mad with joy; he seized Mignonne's hands and kissed them, and I made haste to tell the young woman that but for Ballangier we should have known absolutely nothing of her abduction, and that he was her savior.

Thereupon she gave Ballangier her hand.

"Poor boy!" she said.

She told us that the night before, in a narrow, lonely street, two men, who doubtless were watching for her, had suddenly seized her and taken her to a cab which was waiting a few yards away. To prevent her crying out, one of them held a handkerchief over her mouth; but that precaution was unnecessary in the carriage, as terror had deprived her of the use of her senses.

On recovering consciousness, she found herself in the little house at Montmartre. A man, whom from her description I identified as Faisandé, was with her, and tried to allay her fears.

"You will see my friend Bouqueton to-night," he said. "You will come to an understanding with him, for he's a good fellow; he seems to be in love with you."

"Weep, shriek—it will do no good; you will be much wiser to make the best of it; we will dine together this evening, and I will pass the night with you."

Mignonne, alone once more, had determined to die rather than yield to that man; having no weapon, she had resolved to jump out of the window when he returned to her room. Then she prayed—and it was at that moment that I arrived. It was time.

It seems that I was ill a week; my wound threw me into a fever; then, I was delirious, and a scratch that should have amounted to nothing became a serious matter as a result of the events following my duel.

But I became convalescent at last, I was restored to health and happiness; for Frédérique was there, beside my bed, watching for my first glance. Tears fell from her eyes when I held out my hand to her.

"Saved!" she cried; "saved! Ah! Balloquet was right when he said that you were cured; but I dared not believe him!"

I saw two other persons stealing softly toward the bed; they were Mignonne and Ballangier. I shook their hands; I tried to thank them; but Frédérique begged me not to speak yet. I could smile at them, and that was something.

Madame Dauberny had learned from Balloquet how we had succeeded in rescuing Mignonne. He had not concealed from her that Monsieur Bouqueton was poor Annette's murderer. Frédérique had taken an oath never again to live under the same roof with that man. For my part, I did not believe that he would ever venture to reappear in society.

"My dear," she said, "Balloquet insists that the country air will complete your cure. To-morrow, if you feel strong enough to endure the journey, we will go to Fontenay and pass the rest of the season there."

"To Fontenay?" I said, looking her in the face. "Why, aren't you afraid of meeting people there whose presence annoys you?"

"Oh, no, no!" she said, fixing her lovely eyes on mine; "I am not afraid of anything now, for I am sure of your love."

The next day, we went to Fontenay, and Frédérique absolutely insisted upon taking Mignonne with us; she had become very fond of her; to be sure, Mignonne was much more amiable to Ballangier.

Mignonne lived in the pavilion which I had previously occupied, and I was under the same roof with Frédérique; a convalescent requires so much attention!

Armantine came to see us soon after our arrival. Frédérique received her with vastly more cordiality than before, notwithstanding which, Madame Sordeville came much less frequently; women have a tact which enables them to divine instantly when they have lost the game beyond recall.

I went to Paris and made inquiries about Ballangier; all that I learned was in his favor. I went to see him at his employer's, and invited him to dine at Fontenay on the next day but one. At first he declined what he called an honor; but I did not leave him until I had made him promise to come. The poor fellow asked nothing better, for I told him that he would see Mignonne.

"I too propose to invite some people for that day. Will it annoy you if I have other company?"

"On the contrary, on that day it will give me great pleasure."

The next day, I went to Paris again; I had various purchases to make of gifts which I had in mind. As I passed through Rue du Petit-Carreau, I noticed a sponge shop. I thought of Rosette and stopped. Someone called me; it was my pretty brunette, enthroned at the desk.

"Are you afraid to come into my shop, monsieur?" asked Rosette, who was as lively and alluring as ever. "You were going by without deigning to say good-day to an old acquaintance."

And she began to sing:

"Still as merry as ever, Rosette?"

"Faith, yes! sponges ain't such a dismal trade as I thought; and then, my husband's such a good fellow! He's like putty in my hands!"

"Yes, monsieur, very happy. Are you sorry for that?"

"On the contrary, I am very glad."

"And your lovely friend—does she still pretend to be nothing but a friend?"

"Faith, no! we are on better terms than that now; we were both mistaken in thinking that our feeling for each other was only friendship."

"Bah! I saw what was coming a long way off! It was a long time coming, that love!"

"Adieu, Rosette!"

"You will give me your custom, I hope? Send me your doctor à la rose too, with or without his gloves."

"I will send all my acquaintances to you."

"Oh! I haven't told you—on Sundays, I have my seven aunts in the shop, and people come in just from curiosity; we make a lot of money that day."

I left Rosette and returned to Fontenay. I showed Frédérique all that I had bought for Mignonne; I proposed that the young woman should wear a costume which would enhance the charms of her person, and I suggested that Frédérique should superintend her toilet. She approved all that I had done; I fancy that she also divined a great part of what I intended to do.

The reception day came in due time. The Ramonet brothers and several other neighbors arrived before dinner. Armantine was among those invited. I was very glad of it; I should have regretted her not being there on that day. Balloquet soon appeared, and then our old friend the Baron von Brunzbrack, who wrung my hand with great force, saying:

"Why should you not be my friend, monsieur le baron?"

"Because, ven she haf sent me a letter of invitation, Montame Dauberny, she haf told me dat she loafe you, but dat she offer to me her frentship."

"Well, baron, isn't it something to be her friend?"

"Ja, ja; but I vas right, ven I haf susbect dat you pe in loafe mit her."

"You had second-sight, baron."

Mignonne appeared at last, in a lovely costume, which became her to admiration, and which she seemed ashamed to wear. It was Frédérique herself who led her into the salon; she blushed when she came in, although Frédérique whispered to her:

"Don't be afraid, Mignonne; the men admire you and the women envy you; that is the most delightful part that one can play in society."

Madame Sordeville bit her lips when she saw Mignonne; that was a tacit homage to her charms.

Everybody had arrived, except Ballangier. He came at last, dressed without pretension, but very suitably for the occasion.

The whole company was assembled in the salon on the ground floor. I took Ballangier's hand and led him to Madame Dauberny, saying:

"Pray permit me, madame, to present my brother."

Everybody loudly expressed surprise, except Frédérique, who whispered to me:

"I knew it."

But the one upon whom my words produced the greatest effect was Ballangier himself. He stood as if rooted to the floor, trembling like a leaf; tears gathered in his eyes, and he said under his breath:

"No need to acknowledge you as my brother?" I said, raising my voice. "Oh! be sure that this is a very happy moment to me! If I did for a long time conceal the ties that united us, do you suppose that it was because our positions were different, because you were only a workman, while I, more favored by fortune, chose to be an artist, a poet, a financier? No, my dear fellow; I forbade you to call me your brother, when, led astray by vicious men, you lived a life of idleness, drunkenness, and debauchery. Yes, I blushed to be the brother of a lazy vagabond! But now that you have reformed, now that you possess the esteem of your fellow workmen and your employers, I am proud to call you my brother; for one should always be proud to be related to an honest man, whatever rank he may hold in society."

Balloquet shook hands with me, saying:

"What you said was very fine, Rochebrune!"

The baron complimented me too, but I fancy that he did not understand.

I continued, addressing Frédérique:

"Yes, madame, Ballangier is my brother; not on the father's side—our names are not the same—but on the mother's side. My mother was a widow with one son when she married Monsieur Rochebrune, my father.—And now," I added, turning to Mignonne, "allow me to solicit your hand for my brother, who loves you sincerely and who will devote his life to making you happy."

Mignonne timidly gave her hand to Ballangier, saying to me with her customary gentleness:

"I shall be very happy to be your sister."

"How did you know that Ballangier was my brother?" I asked Frédérique, when we were alone.

"My dear, have you forgotten that day on the Champs-Élysées? The poor fellow was tipsy, and, while I was trying to quiet him, he involuntarily told me the secret, although I asked him no questions."

A few days after that festivity, Frédérique received a letter, which she read with evident emotion. Then she handed it to me, murmuring:

"See, my dear! you began the work, and Providence has done the rest."

The letter was from Zurich, Switzerland, and contained these words: