Frédérique, vol. 2

At first glance, you will think that this is a paradox, you have so often heard it said that: "There is nothing so good as sleep"; or: "Sleep is so beneficial"; or: "Sleep is the greatest of restorers"; or: "He who sleeps, dines."—I ask your pardon for this last quotation. I am persuaded that you have never experienced its truth.

To all this I might reply that the best things have their bad side, and that we must never abuse them. But I will content myself with simply giving you some figures; you are aware that there is nothing so convincing as figures.

I take people who go to bed at midnight; many, it is true, go to bed much later; but as there are vast numbers who go to bed earlier, the balance is preserved. You retire at midnight, then, and you get up at eight in the morning; you have slept eight hours, or one-third of your day. Consequently, if you live sixty years, you will have devoted twenty years to sleep. Frankly, doesn't that seem to you too much? Ah! but I can hear you retort:

"But, monsieur, one doesn't sleep all night without waking; I never have eight hours' sleep!"

"Sleep," says Montaigne, "stifles and suppresses the faculties of our mind."

You will say: "Rest is indispensable to mankind"—and to womankind, too, the ladies are so charming when they are asleep!—That is true; but habit is everything in a man's life; with four hours' sleep a day, or a night, you might be in as robust health as Æsculapius. I love to believe that the god of medicine was in robust health; however, I will not take my oath to it. But, to reach that result, you must get into the habit of not sacrificing more than four hours to oblivion of your surroundings. Now, as you adopt a contrary course, the result is that the more you sleep, the more you feel the need of sleep, which, by deadening your faculties, thickens your blood, deprives you of a part of your normal activity, and sometimes makes your mind indolent—that is to say, if you have one; but I am sure that you have.

Sleep has another great disadvantage; it tends to produce obesity; and you will agree that you do not wish to be obese. That is a burden with no corresponding benefit. In general, nothing ages a man so quickly as a big paunch. Find me a man who desires one; I am inclined to think that you would search in vain. On the other hand, you will find men by the hundred who do their utmost to compress and abolish what stomach they have; to that end, they often employ means which impede their respiration; they wear corsets, like women; there are some who even go so far as to refrain from satisfying their appetites, who do not eat as their stomach demands, always in the fear that that organ will protrude unduly.

You have the right to do as Alexander the Great did, when you wish to avoid going to sleep; but perhaps you will find it rather tiresome to hold your arm over a basin, with a heavy copper ball in your hand. I admit that one must needs be Alexander the Great, or Alexander Dumas, to do such things.

There are other ways of keeping awake: sleep rarely assails you when you are enjoying yourself; therefore, you need only enjoy yourself, but that is not always so easy as one might think.

A gentleman, whom I will call Dupont, with your permission, and who lived in the pretty little town of Brives-la-Gaillarde, had the unfortunate habit of sleeping too much. He was married, but it seems that that fact did not amuse him enough; there are some men who are capable of hinting that it was more likely to increase his infirmity.

This much is certain: that Madame Dupont herself often said to her husband:

Monsieur Dupont was impressed by his wife's harangue; perhaps he would not have cared so much about the resemblance to a marmot, but he was not anxious to have a stomach like Punchinello.

He did not hesitate, but went at once to his physician and said to him:

"Doctor, I sleep a great deal too much; my wife complains about it, and I feel myself that it's making me lazy. What must I do to sleep less?"

The doctor, who was very fond of smoking, shook his head and rolled a cigarette, as he asked:

"Do you smoke?"

"Yes, doctor, I smoke all the time; but I fall asleep even when I'm smoking."

"That's a pity! because I was going to advise you to smoke."

"Advise something else."

"Do you take snuff?"

"Yes, doctor; I have a collection of snuffboxes; but I don't take much pleasure in it."

"That's too bad! for I would have advised you to take snuff."

"Try something else."

"I know all the games, but I don't care for any of them; cards put me to sleep at once."

"So much the worse! I would have advised you to play cards. For, after all, to avoid going to sleep, you must amuse yourself. Have you ever been to Paris?"

"Yes, doctor, twice; but it was a long while ago, when I was in business. It was before my marriage. I have an idea that I rather enjoyed myself in Paris."

"Well, then, go there again; spend a few weeks in Paris; that will wake you up, invigorate you, and amuse you. But be sure to go alone; don't take your wife."

Dupont heartily approved this last injunction; he hastily made the necessary preparations, told his wife of the doctor's prescription, and started; nor did madame seem greatly distressed by his departure. But one does not care much for the society of a marmot, unless one is a marmot also.

It was the year 1860, and it was the carnival season, which unluckily was very brief that year. We say unluckily, for we admit that we do not agree with the people who say:

"Masks have gone out of fashion; it isn't the thing to disguise yourself now to drive or walk on the boulevards. No, no! That's all gone by, forgotten, bad form! Before long, there won't be any carnival."

Everybody could not afford to go to the Opéra ball, or even to the Salle Barthélemy; and the modest annuitant, as he strolled about the streets with his wife during the carnival days, returned home in high glee when he had rubbed elbows with Harlequins or Punchinellos; and if a Bear said to his wife: "I know you!" the delighted couple could not contain themselves; and madame would say proudly to her concierge: "A Bear said to me: 'I know you!'"

You must see, you pessimists, who want to abolish the carnival, that by abolishing it you would grieve a great many people. I know that that is a matter of indifference to you; but, despite your efforts, so long as the world exists, there will be masks. Some people would tell you that there are masks all the year round; that you need not wait for carnival time to see them. But, as you hear that very often, I will not say it.

Monsieur Dupont was, as we have said, a man of forty years; that is the age of passions, when one is destined to have any; but thus far the gentleman in question had not manifested the slightest symptom of anything of the sort. He smoked, took snuff, gambled, and drank, but without enthusiasm, and, we might say, without enjoyment. As for the women, you have seen that he slept most of the time beside his wife. Nevertheless, Monsieur Dupont was not insensible to the charms of beauty; what attracted him more than anything else in a woman was figure, shape, carriage; in short, he preferred a well-proportioned body to a pretty face; and unluckily for Madame Dupont, she was rather pretty than well made. Perhaps that was what had made her husband such a heavy sleeper.

As for Dupont himself, he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither short nor tall, neither clever nor stupid; he was one of those men of whom nothing is said. He had rather a good figure, however, with a shapely foot and a small white hand. He was very proud of these advantages, considered himself a little Apollo, and was absolutely determined not to take on flesh; the fear of that catastrophe was mainly responsible for his decision to go to Paris; and since the doctor had recommended that he should go without his wife, it was evident that he wished him to lead the life of a bachelor there. Now, what is the life of a bachelor, if not to be constantly on the look-out for intrigues, amourettes, bonnes fortunes; in a word, to pass one's time running after women—society women when opportunity offers, and grisettes when one can do no better?

Dupont, arriving in Paris during the carnival, began his bachelor life by betaking himself to the Opéra ball.

"The doctor ordered me to enjoy myself, and I can't fail of it in the midst of that crowd, largely composed of pretty women who are not absolute Lucretias, who ask nothing better than to make acquaintances, who, in fact, go to the ball for that sole purpose. I will take my choice, I will try to find a woman shaped like a Venus—yes, a Bacchante even, for all the Bacchantes I ever saw in pictures were of perfect shape; I will play the agreeable, the gallant; I have wit enough when I am started; to be sure, I have some difficulty in getting started, but with perseverance and punch I shall succeed; and I won't go to bed at ten o'clock, for I won't go to the ball till midnight."

Dupont carried his plan into execution; he had some trouble to avoid falling asleep in his chair when the clock struck ten. Several times he was on the point of getting into bed instead of putting on his dress coat; but, luckily, just as he was about to yield to his old habit, he glanced at his stomach and remembered that he could no longer button the last button of his waistcoat; whereupon he sprang to his feet and dressed in haste, muttering:

"You poor devil, do you want to turn into a Punchinello? I shan't have a hump behind, to be sure, but one in front is just as laughable and much more inconvenient. I'll go to the ball, cut capers, and have a jolly time! Sapristi! this isn't a joking matter, it's a matter of remaining young!"

Dupont selected a very attractive little blonde dressed as a Columbine. To become better acquainted, he invited her to polk; but our worthy friend from Brives-la-Gaillarde did not know what a risk he was taking; he fancied that the polka was danced at the Opéra ball as it was danced in his province; above all, he was unaware that it always ended in a galop—and such a galop! it must be seen to be appreciated. It is a whirlwind; it is as if a sort of insane frenzy had taken possession of all the dancers, under the inspiration of the lively, rapid, deafening music that electrifies you and takes you off your feet; you no longer galop, you fly, you whirl madly about, you push and jostle everyone you meet! Be fearless and do not lose your head, or you will infallibly be thrown down.

"When you don't know how to galop, my boy, you shouldn't ask a lady to dance."

And the Columbine seized the arm of a Harlequin, and began to dance with him; while poor Dupont, who had not risen quickly enough, was struck by the feet of several dancers, and finally got up covered with bruises.

As he was very lame in the knees, shoulders, and back, he left the ball and went home to bed, saying:

"That's enough amusement for to-night!"

But Dupont would not admit that he was beaten, although he really had been. A few days later, he tried his luck again at a ball; but this time he went to the Casino, which he had been told was the rendezvous of the women most in vogue. In truth, our provincial was agreeably impressed by the fine costumes and by the elegance of those ladies, most of whom were in party dresses instead of masks.

"It is impossible," he said to himself, "that they dance such a dangerous galop here as they do at the Opéra. However, I will be prudent and not galop; I will confine myself to taking a partner for a contra-dance; that's the wiser way, because the figures are always the same; I know them all, and it isn't possible that I can be thrown down doing the English chain or the pastourelle."

And Dupont, after walking about the hall for some time in search of a particularly shapely partner, invited at last a rather attractive person whose languorous eyes gazed into his with infinite good humor.

When Dupont executed his avant-deux before that lady, he suddenly received a superb kick full in the face, amid the applause and roars of laughter of the spectators.

Dupont alone did not laugh; his nose was crushed, and he attempted to complain; but the tall gaillarde said to him:

"It's your own fault! You're a donkey, my dear friend; you ought to have known that that was the time when I lift my leg! If you don't know my steps, you shouldn't dance opposite me! Bribri would never have let my foot hit him!"

As Dupont's nose was bleeding and pained him severely, he left the ball and went home to bed, saying to himself:

"I've amused myself enough for to-day."

Several days passed, and, Dupont's nose having healed, he said to himself:

"I'll go to the ball again; I'll stick to it; but this time I won't dance."

Attracted by the length of a poster which almost covered a whole pillar on the boulevards, he went to the ball in the Salle Barthélemy. There the crowd was almost as great as at the Opéra, but the company was infinitely less refined, and the tobacco smoke and the dust raised by the dancing, blended with the odor of the refreshments which were being served, gave to that ball a distinction peculiarly its own.

Dupont discovered a pretty little brunette, whose dress resembled that of a grisette. She was alone; he offered his arm and a glass of punch. The girl hesitated, then replied:

"You are very kind! I am very fond of punch, and I'd like to take a glass; but I'm afraid of Ronfland."

"He's—he's my friend, a cabinetmaker, a good fellow—but he gets drunk too often. I came to the ball with him, and he was to dance with me; but he didn't, and he left me here. That ain't a nice way to treat me!"

"As Monsieur Ronfland left you, it seems to me that you're at liberty to do what you choose, and to accept my arm and a glass of punch; you can't stay alone in this crowd, you need an escort."

"It ain't very good fun to be alone, that's true. I don't understand Ronfland; he left me near the orchestra, and he says: 'Stay here, and I'll come right back.'—That was more than an hour ago, and he hasn't come back."

"He's forgotten you."

"Oh! I'm sure he's gone to get a drink."

"Without you? That isn't polite. Of course, you have the right to do the same."

"Faith! yes, so I have. So much the worse for Ronfland! After all, it's his own fault!"

Dupont put the little brunette's arm through his and took her to the café; he ordered punch and filled a glass for his new acquaintance, who drank it readily, but kept repeating:

"After this you'll dance with me, won't you, monsieur? For one don't come to a ball to go without dancing."

And Dupont, who was not at all anxious to dance, continued to pour out the punch, as he replied:

"Yes, by and by; we have time enough. There are too many people here now; we should be too warm; it's better to drink punch."

"Ah! that's how you behave, Joséphine! I've caught you at it! I bring you to the ball, and you play tricks on me with other men! I'll bring you to the right-about, you vile street walker!"

Mademoiselle Joséphine began to weep.

"You're still drunk, Ronfland," she cried. "I don't play tricks on you; you ought not to leave me; you're a drunkard; I don't love you any more!"

But Dupont was not of a temper to allow a woman who was in his company to be maltreated; he rose, picked up the empty bowl, which was rolling about the table, and with it struck Ronfland on the nose.

"Parbleu!" he said; "my nose was smashed the other day, and I'm not sorry to have my revenge."

But the young man in the cap, infuriated by the blow, leaped upon Dupont, who lost his balance, and they rolled together on the floor, still striking each other.

The police appeared and separated them. Ronfland and his companion were turned out of doors, and Dupont was obliged to pay for what was broken. As he had cut himself severely in the face while rolling about on the broken glass, he lost no time in taking a cab and returning to his hotel.

Dupont was obliged to keep his room a week. He had taken rooms in an unpretentious hotel on Rue de Seine. To pass the time, which seemed very long, our provincial spent most of the day at his window. As his rooms were on the third floor, and as the opposite house was not high, Dupont was able to look into the chamber of a neighbor who lived opposite, under the eaves.

"I haven't had any luck in Paris yet," thought Dupont, as he paced the floor slowly, with his head swathed in bandages. "I have done what I could to amuse myself, but I have had poor success; however, I must admit that I sleep less—especially since I received this wound in the face. I won't go to balls any more in search of bonnes fortunes. But sometimes one goes far afield in search of what one has close at hand. In one of those attic chambers opposite, I have noticed a young woman—very pretty she is, on my word! and, above all, well built. I am the better able to judge, because I see her in négligé costume—a morning jacket, and a short fustian skirt, as well as I can see from here. But how alluring that simple négligé is! It enables one to admire a shapely, flexible figure, and hips! oh! such well-rounded hips! She has a fine shape! It is impossible not to fall in love with such a shape!"

"Her face is captivating," said Dupont to himself; "wide-awake brown eyes, a turned-up nose—à la Roxelane, as they say—and a mouth—hum! the mouth isn't small, but it's well furnished; and then, she has a very pleasant smile. But, on the whole, there's nothing extraordinary about the face, and I prefer the figure. Ah! good! now she's walking about the room—still in that charming costume, tight-fitting white jacket, and the little striped skirt that hangs so well over her rounded hips. I can't see her foot or leg, but they must be beautiful; a tall, graceful figure almost always means a good leg. I certainly am dead in love with that figure; I must make that girl's acquaintance. She must have noticed my assiduity in watching her. It doesn't seem to displease her; there's nothing savage in her manner; on the contrary, there's a merry, aye, a mischievous look about her face, which seems to be intended to encourage one to make her acquaintance. She is probably a seamstress. As soon as I can go out, I'll ask the concierge opposite; I know how to make those fellows talk."

Meanwhile, being engrossed by his neighbor, Dupont slept much less, and sometimes even passed the night without sleep. That was good progress, and he said to himself:

"What a change my wife will see in me when I go back to Brives-la-Gaillarde! All I'm afraid of is that there the desire to sleep will return."

Dupont accosted the concierge most affably, and slipped his irresistible argument into the hand of that functionary, who, happening to be a woman, asked nothing better than to talk, and instantly laid aside her one-sou illustrated paper, and answered without stopping for breath:

"Twenty thousand francs a year!" muttered Dupont, scratching his head. "The devil! it's not I who'll give it to her!—So she embroiders, you say?" he continued.

"Yes, monsieur."

"What?"

"What do you mean by what?"

"I mean, what does she embroider?"

"Oh! collars, handkerchiefs, caps, whatever anyone wants her to embroider."

"Then I might ask her to do something for me?"

"That's your right."

"Very good. I'll go up to Mademoiselle Georgette's."

"Third floor, monsieur."

"Oh! I know."

"Yes, but there's two or three doors; it's the one where you see a toothbrush instead of a tassel on the bell cord."

"I'll remember."

As he mounted the stairs, Dupont said to himself:

"What in the devil can I have her embroider? Ah! a cravat! I believe they're not in fashion, men don't wear embroidered cravats now; but, no matter, I'll tell her it's the fashion at Brives-la-Gaillarde; and, after all, what does she care, so long as I give her work?"

He reached the third landing, where there were several doors; but he discovered the little toothbrush hanging at the end of a bell cord, and he boldly pulled it.

"Mademoiselle Georgette—embroiderer?" inquired Dupont, assuming rather a patronizing air.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Mademoiselle, I came—I should like—I was told——"

"Pray come in, monsieur; I don't receive my visitors on the landing."

Dupont asked nothing better than to accept the invitation. He entered a room of which he had only caught a glimpse from his window. It was simply furnished, but extremely neat and clean; the floor was scrubbed and waxed; there was not a speck of dust on the furniture; the bed was very white and smooth; all of which spoke loudly in favor of the occupant. Demosthenes, being asked what constituted an orator, replied: "Elocution, elocution, elocution!" A philosophical king, being asked what occasioned the fall of the ramparts of a city, replied: "Money, money, money!" And Ninon, being asked what was the most beautiful ornament of womankind, replied: "Cleanliness, cleanliness, cleanliness!"

The girl offered Dupont a chair; she did the honors of her domicile with infinite ease, and seemed in no wise intimidated by her visitor. He, on the other hand, while he tried to assume an imposing manner, became exceedingly awkward, and had much difficulty in finding words, especially as Mademoiselle Georgette waited for him to speak, with an expression which seemed to indicate a powerful desire to laugh.

"I came, mademoiselle, for——"

"Yes, mademoiselle; I have been told—that you embroider."

"You were told the truth. Have you something you wish to have embroidered?"

"Yes—that is to say—I don't know whether embroidered cravats are worn in Paris?"

"No, monsieur; they are not in style now."

"Indeed! and cuffs?"

"Nor cuffs either."

"And—handkerchiefs?"

"For ladies; oh! yes, monsieur, some beautiful embroidery is done on handkerchiefs."

"Ah! very good! You do embroider handkerchiefs!"

While they conversed, Dupont cast frequent glances at the young woman's feet, which were small and well arched; the lower part of the leg was very shapely; so that his thoughts were diverted, and he murmured again and again:

"Ah! you embroider handkerchiefs!"

In a moment Mademoiselle Georgette laughed heartily, and thereby completely disconcerted her visitor, who gazed at her in amazement, saying:

"You are very merry, I see, mademoiselle."

"It is true, monsieur, that I do not engender melancholy."

"And might I ask what has aroused your merriment at this moment?"

"Why, you, monsieur!"

"I! Ah! it is I who make you laugh! Do you find me so very amusing, pray, mademoiselle?"

"Amusing is not the word, monsieur; but, to speak frankly, you are far from clever in inventing a pretext."

"Still, it's easy enough to understand. You wanted to have an excuse, a reason, for coming to my room—for you have nothing to be embroidered."

"What makes you think that, mademoiselle?"

"Do you suppose that I do not recognize you, monsieur?"

"Ah! you recognize me, do you?"

"To be sure; you live at the small hotel opposite, where you pass your time staring at me, making eyes at me——"

"Ah! you have noticed that?"

And Dupont puffed himself out like a turkey-cock; he was gratified to have been observed, and drew a favorable augury from that fact.

"Yes, monsieur, I have noticed that," the young embroiderer continued. "How could I have helped seeing it, unless I was blind? Why, the other day, when you came to the window, it was horribly cold, and your nose was all blue! I was strongly tempted to make faces at you."

At this point, Dupont bit his lips and did not puff himself out.

"I didn't do it, because I presumed, seeing your head all bandaged, that you were either sick or hurt; and one should always take pity on those who suffer; but you are cured now, it seems."

"Yes, mademoiselle; I fought a duel, and was wounded in the head."

"Ah! you fought a duel, did you, monsieur? May a body, without being too inquisitive, ask what was the cause of your duel?"

"You fought for a lady! That was very well done, and leads me to forget your glances at me; but tell me, monsieur, why you have come here to-day?"

"Since you are so good at divination, mademoiselle, you ought to have no difficulty in guessing. I saw you from my window, I found you charming, and I desired to make your acquaintance."

"Good! that is plain speaking! And with what purpose do you wish to make my acquaintance? Perhaps you hope to make me your mistress?"

"I do not say that, mademoiselle."

"No, but you think it! As if that wasn't always what men aim at, when they fall in with a poor girl who is weak and foolish enough to believe them! But I am generous enough to warn you that you will waste your time with me."

"In any case, mademoiselle, it would be difficult to waste it more agreeably than in your company."

"That is very prettily said. But, monsieur, I will confess that I have a fancy for knowing the people whom I receive. Now, I don't know you."

"That is true, mademoiselle, that is very true; one must know with whom one is dealing."

And Dupont, who had prepared his little story in advance, straightened himself up in his chair and continued:

"I am an—an American; I was in business, but I have retired; I have money enough to be happy; I am a widower, without children, and therefore at liberty to do exactly as I please."

"Very good, monsieur. And your name?"

"My name is—Dupont."

"That depends on their origin; my family was French. Now that you know who I am, mademoiselle, will you allow me to pay court to you?"

"I see no objection—provided that you haven't lied to me; for, I give you fair warning, I hate liars!"

Dupont bowed, scratched his head, and rejoined:

"You wished to know who I was, mademoiselle, and I have gratified your wish. In my turn, may I be permitted——"

"To know who I am! Oh! that is soon told: you already know that my name is Georgette, and that I am an embroiderer. I was born at Toul, a pretty village in Lorraine, near Nancy. My parents are not rich, and I have two sisters, both older than I. My two sisters came to Paris in the hope of being better off here and of being able to help our parents, but they didn't succeed. Poor sisters! Then they came back again to us."

"And you have come to Paris in your turn. I am surprised that your parents consented to let you leave them. They might well have been afraid that you would be no more fortunate than your sisters."

"Oh! but I was determined to come to Paris; I had made up my mind to do it; and when I make up my mind to do a thing, it's got to be done."

"That indicates a strong will."

"Yes, monsieur; I have a very strong one."

"And since you have been in Paris, have you found it pleasant?"

"That is very true. But what prevents you from enjoying all these amusements that tempt you?"

"Can a woman who is all alone go about to plays and promenades?"

"No, certainly not; but you can have had no lack of cavaliers ready to offer you their arms."

"True; but I don't go with everybody, monsieur; I don't accept the arm of the first comer! Certainly, if I had chosen to listen to all the young men who have followed at my heels and overwhelmed me with their silly declarations of love,—love that seized them all of a sudden when they saw me walk along the street,—I should have had plenty of opportunities! But that isn't what I want!"

Dupont caressed his chin, saying to himself:

"She is exacting; she doesn't choose to go about with every gamin! She wants to make the acquaintance of a comme il faut man. All the chances are in my favor."

Mademoiselle Georgette had resumed her embroidery, looking out of the corner of her eye to see how her visitor bore himself. He looked at her work and exclaimed:

"Mademoiselle, you embroider superbly."

"Do you think so, monsieur? Are you a connoisseur?"

"Yes, my wi—my sister used to embroider."

"Is she in America?"

"Yes, she remained there."

"It's not surprising, monsieur, that I know how to embroider well, for I come from a province renowned for its embroideries. The very best of that sort of work is done at Nancy."

"No; but Toul is quite near. Well! do you really want some handkerchiefs embroidered?"

Dupont began to laugh, and replied:

"Faith! no; and since you have so shrewdly guessed that I came here solely in the hope of making your acquaintance, shall I be so fortunate, mademoiselle, as to have your permission to cultivate it—to come again to see you—and perhaps to offer you my arm sometimes and take you to the play or to walk?"

Mademoiselle Georgette reflected a few moments, gazed earnestly at Dupont, and said at last:

"You have not lied to me in what you have told me about yourself? You are really a widower and free?"

"No, mademoiselle, I have not lied to you," Dupont replied unhesitatingly.

"In that case, monsieur, come to see me; I am willing."

"Ah! mademoiselle, you make me the happiest of men!"

"But you must not make your visits too long; that might compromise me."

Dupont rose, bowed to the young woman, and took his leave, saying to himself:

A fortnight had passed. Dupont called very frequently on his neighbor, of whom he was more enamored than ever; for to the charms of her person Mademoiselle Georgette added wit, high spirits, and entertaining conversation. Less than these were enough to turn the head of our provincial, who lost his appetite, and slept no more than two hours in succession during the night, because his love was in no degree satisfied, and his desires augmented with the presence of her who gave birth to them. But he was no further advanced in that direction than on the first day. If he took the girl's hand, she laughingly withdrew it; if he tried to kiss her, she pushed him away without ceremony; if he ventured to place his hand on her knee, or tried to put his arm about her waist, she assumed a severe expression and said to him in a very decided tone:

"If you don't stop that, I'll turn you out and never admit you again!"

Thereupon Dupont was fain to cease his audacious experiments, and said to himself again as he went away:

Mademoiselle Georgette did, in fact, accept Dupont's escort readily enough to the play, to concerts, and to go out to walk. As for balls, Dupont did not offer to take her to any, nor did she seem to desire it. One thing she had always refused: that was, to dine in a private dining-room at a restaurant.

"I am willing to dine with you at a restaurant," she said; "but we will dine in the main dining-room, with other people."

In vain did Dupont say:

"The service isn't so good in the main dining-room; and then, too, it's bad form—ladies who dine at restaurants never go to the public room."

Georgette was inflexible; she would not give way. As a general rule, she seemed to go with Dupont, not for the pleasure of being with him, but to see the people and to be seen herself.

She dressed very modestly. Dupont had said to himself: "The way to capture a woman is by giving her things to wear, by encouraging her coquetry;" and he had sent the young embroiderer a pretty shawl, a silk dress, and a stylish bonnet. She had accepted his gifts without argument, and had arrayed herself in them that same day to go to the Opéra-Comique with him. But when, after escorting her home at the close of the performance, he had asked permission to go up to her room for a moment, she had shut the door in his face, saying:

"I should think not! it's quite enough to receive you in the daytime."

Then, too, the young woman was very curious; at the play, she would call his attention to a stylishly dressed young dandy and say:

"Do you know the gentleman in that box, just opposite us, with an opera glass in his hand?"

"No; I haven't an idea who he is," Dupont would reply sourly; "I don't know anyone in Paris."

"Ah! to be sure; I forgot that you had just come from America. It's a pity!"

"Why is it a pity?"

"Because you don't know anyone in Paris."

"And even if I did know the young man you refer to, how would that help you?"

"Oh! not at all. I simply wanted to know."

Another time, it was a middle-aged man, but dressed in the height of fashion, and mimicking all the manners of a young dandy, whom Mademoiselle Georgette noticed on one of the public promenades and pointed out to her faithful attendant.

"Do you know who that man is?"

"How in the devil do you suppose that I know who he is?"

"Ah! to be sure! you are just from America—I forgot that."

On returning to his room, Dupont would say to himself:

One day, Dupont had been in his pretty neighbor's room for several minutes; he was watching her work, and was doing his utmost to persuade her that he adored her, while the girl listened with manifest indifference, like one who was thinking of something other than what was being said to her, when there came two light taps at her door.

"Someone is knocking," said Dupont, with an air of surprise.

"Yes, I thought that I heard a knock."

"Are you expecting company?"

"No; but why shouldn't people come to see me? You came, whom I certainly did not expect."

"Listen—they're knocking again. It is certainly at your door."

"Come in!" cried Georgette; "the door isn't locked."

In fact, the young woman was always careful to leave the key in the lock outside when Dupont was with her, in order to give less occasion for gossip.

His dress was neither that of a peasant nor that of a Parisian youth. He wore broadcloth trousers, almost skin-tight, with long leather gaiters reaching to the knee, a velvet waistcoat with metal buttons, and a rough, long-haired hunting jacket. Lastly, he held in his hand a felt hat, with a round crown and broad brim, and a stout knotted stick.

"Mamzelle Georgette, if you please?" said the young man, still standing in the doorway.

At the sound of that voice, the young woman sprang to her feet, crying:

"Colinet! it's Colinet!"

And she ran to the new-comer, seized his hands, then his face, and kissed him again and again, with every indication of the keenest delight.

"Dear Colinet!" she said. "Oh! how glad I am to see you!"

"And I am very glad to see you, Mamzelle Georgette!" the young man replied. "For they told me Paris was so big, I was afraid I wouldn't find you!"

Dupont meanwhile looked on with a strange expression on his face, saying to himself:

Georgette took the young man's hand, and leading him into the room presented him to Monsieur Dupont, saying:

"This is a friend of my childhood. We used to play together when we were children—didn't we, Colinet?"

"Yes, Mamzelle Georgette."

"Let us pray that they won't continue to play together, now they're grown up!" thought Dupont, who was forced to admit that the young man was very comely.—"Is monsieur from your province?" he asked.

"Yes, to be sure, and he's just come from there.—Isn't that so, Colinet?"

"Yes, mamzelle; I arrived last night at the Plat d'Étain, where I'm staying, on Carré Saint-Martin."

"And my mother and father and sisters—do tell me about them."

"They are all well, thank heaven! and they all told me to be sure and kiss you for them."

"Well! kiss me for each of them."

Young Colinet lost no time in kissing Georgette again; while Dupont's face became a yard long, and he said to himself:

"Are they going to pass all their time kissing? That fellow has obtained more in two minutes than I have in a month. I simply must change my batteries."

When young Colinet had delivered all his kisses, Georgette bade him sit down and said:

"Didn't my sisters give you anything for me?"

"Oh! yes, excuse me; Mamzelle Aimée, the oldest one, gave me a letter, which I've got here in my pocket."

"Oh! give it to me, quick!"

"Have you been in Paris before?"

"No, monsieur; this is the first time."

"Do you mean to settle here?"

"Oh! no, monsieur. In fact, I promised mother not to stay more than four days. I'm going home Saturday."

This reply caused Dupont most intense satisfaction, for he had begun to fear that he should find the young man at his compatriot's every day. He continued, with a more amiable air:

"Are you in business?"

"I raise sheep, and my father calves."

"That's a very fine trade! Our first parents raised cattle, more or less; we content ourselves nowadays with eating them, and that is all the more reprehensible because it's not the way to multiply the races."

Mademoiselle Georgette finished reading her letter, which seemed to have interested her deeply; as she folded it, she uttered an "at last!" which seemed to say many things.

Dupont, content to know that young Colinet was to remain only a short time in Paris, took his hat and said to his neighbor:

"I leave you with your old friend. You must have many things to say to each other."

"I will not keep you," Georgette replied, with a smile.

The next afternoon, when Dupont called upon his neighbor, he found Colinet there, apparently no less shy and embarrassed than before, sitting in front of Georgette and watching her work, without a word; but with the air of being perfectly happy simply to look at her.

"Well, Monsieur Colinet," said Dupont, "have you been enjoying yourself? have you got a little acquainted with Paris?"

"I've been to see the animals in the Jardin des Plantes, monsieur; but I like my sheep better than the lions and tigers. I wonder why they give them such fine cages, when my sheep often don't have any house even."

"Tigers are kept in cages, Monsieur Colinet, because they are vicious and people are afraid of 'em. As for your sheep, as they never injure anybody, nobody worries about them, and they're allowed to feed where they will. That's worth something in itself."

"My sheep don't always find enough to eat in the fields; but I saw them give great big chunks of meat to your ugly tigers."

"For the very same reason! They're afraid of 'em, so they must keep 'em well fed."

"You must go to the play while you're in Paris, Colinet."

"With you, Mamzelle Georgette?"

"The devil! it seems that I must amuse Monsieur Colinet too," thought Dupont. "But, after all, I prefer that to having her go alone with him."

"Will you take us to the theatre to-night?" Georgette asked Dupont.

"Why, certainly, mademoiselle, with the greatest pleasure! Am I not always at your service, and too happy if I can do anything to please you?"

"Yes, monsieur; I know that you are extremely obliging; but I should dislike to abuse your good nature."

"You cannot put it to the test too often. You know my sentiments for you, for I make no mystery of them; I am your loyal knight!"

Young Colinet stared first at Dupont, then at Georgette, as if he were trying to fathom their meaning. The pretty embroiderer laughed heartily, as she said:

"Then we'll go to the Cirque-National. They give fairy plays there, with transformation scenes;—you'll like that, Colinet."

"I'll go wherever you say, Mamzelle Georgette."

"It's strange," thought Dupont, "that she addresses this young man thou, while he uses you. After all, that's better than if it was the other way."

"Well, well! what are you thinking about?" Dupont would exclaim, nudging the young man; "you look away at the most delicious moment!"

"I'm afraid of offending those ladies, if I look at them when they lift their legs in our direction," Colinet would reply, with a blush.

"Poor fellow! he certainly isn't dangerous!" was Dupont's conclusion. "Still, my pretty embroiderer pays no attention to anyone else. When I speak to her, she hardly answers me, she doesn't seem to listen. I long for the time when her childhood's friend will return to his sheep."

Dupont's wishes were soon gratified. On the Saturday Colinet said farewell to Georgette, who gave him two letters for her sisters and kisses for her parents. The young man took charge of them all, and went away sadly enough.

"Why don't you come back with me?" he asked Georgette. "I should be so happy to take you back to the province! Do you enjoy yourself so very much in Paris, mamzelle?"

"It isn't that I enjoy myself so much, Colinet; but I must stay here—I must!"

"And will you have to stay long?"

"I don't know; we will hope not. But I promise you, Colinet, that the day that takes me back to my parents will be the happiest day in my life."

"And in mine too, mamzelle."

"Really, Colinet? then you have much—friendship for me?"

"We shall meet again, Colinet; don't forget me. I promise not to forget you."

"Ah! Mamzelle Georgette, that promise makes me very happy!"

And to prove his joy the poor boy burst into tears; then he kissed Georgette and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him, because he felt that if he delayed any longer he would not have the courage to go at all.

Dupont called on his neighbor in the afternoon; he found her sad and thoughtful.

"I opine that the young shepherd has gone," he said.

"Yes, monsieur. He is very lucky: he is going to see my father and mother!"

"No doubt. But it must be very monotonous to look at sheep all the time. You see, charming Georgette, there's nothing like Paris! It is the home of all pleasures; it is the place to which all the great talents, all the people of renown, come to be applauded! In a word, one really lives in Paris; elsewhere, one only vegetates!"

"If that were true, monsieur, it would be most unfortunate for a great many people, for Paris isn't big enough to hold the whole world. But I think myself that one can be very happy elsewhere, when one is with those whom one loves and is able to confine one's desires within reasonable limits."

"That is true, charming Georgette; you talk like Virgil, or Delille. It was the latter, I believe, who said:

"What did you say, monsieur?"

"There! I was sure of it; you weren't listening to me! But I forgive you; the departure of your childhood's friend has saddened you. Come, you absolutely must have some diversion! To-morrow will be Sunday, and we must enjoy the day. Will you dine with me?"

"With pleasure."

"I will call for you at five o'clock; be ready then. We will dine at Bonvalet's, on the boulevard."

"Wherever you choose; it's all the same to me."

"Well, then, at Bonvalet's; they treat one very well there. Then we will go to one of the theatres opposite. It's all settled; and until then I leave you with your memories. Au revoir, dear neighbor, until to-morrow!"

Dupont took his leave, rubbing his hands and saying to himself: