Renée Mauperin

XXIII

Mme. Bourjot had just arrived with her daughter at the Mauperins'. She kissed Renée and sat down by Mme. Mauperin on the sofa near the fire.

"My dears," she said, turning to the two girls, who were chattering together on the other side of the room, "suppose you were to let your mothers have a little talk together. Will you take Noémi out in the garden a little, Renée? I give her over to you."

Renée put her arm round Noémi and pulled her along with her, skipping as she went. In the hall she caught up a Pyrenees hood that was lying on a chair and threw it over her head, put on some little overshoes, and ran out into the garden, rushing along like a child, and keeping her arm round her friend all the time.

"There's a secret—a secret. Do you know what the secret is?" she exclaimed, stopping suddenly short and quite out of breath.

Noémi looked at her with her large, sad eyes and did not answer.

"You silly girl!" said Renée, kissing her. "I've guessed it—I caught a few words—mamma lets everything out. It's about his lordship, my brother. There now!"

"Let's sit down—shall we? I'm so tired." And Noémi took her seat on the garden bench, just where her mother had sat on the night of the theatricals.

"Why, you are crying! What's the matter?" exclaimed Renée, sitting down by her. Noémi let her head fall on her friend's shoulder and burst into tears, that were quite hot as they fell on Renée's hand.

"What is it, tell me—answer me—speak, Noémi—come now, Noémi dear!"

"Oh, you don't know!" answered Noémi, in broken words, which seemed to choke her. "I won't—no, I cannot tell you—if only you knew. Oh, do help me!" and she flung her arms round Renée in despair. "I love you dearly—you——"

"Come, come, Noémi; I don't understand anything. Is it this marriage—is it my brother? You must answer me—come!"

"Ah, yes; you are his sister—I had forgotten that. Oh, dear, I wish I could die——"

"Die, but why?"

"Why? Because your brother——"

She stopped short, in horror at the thought of uttering the words she was just going to say, and then, suddenly finishing her sentence in a murmur in Renée's ear, she hid her face on her friend's shoulder to conceal her blushing cheeks and the shame she felt in her inmost soul.

"My brother! You say—no, it's a lie!" exclaimed Renée, pushing her away and springing up with a bound in front of her.

"Should I tell a lie about it?" and Noémi looked up sadly at Renée, who read the truth clearly in her eyes.

Renée folded her arms and gazed at her friend. She stood there a few minutes deep in thought, erect and silent, her whole attitude resolute and energetic. She felt within herself the strength of a woman, and something of the responsibility of a mother with this child.

"But how can your father—" she began, "my brother has no name but ours."

"He is to take another one."

"Ah, he is going to give our name up? And quite right that he should!"

XXIV

"Oh, it's you, is it; you are not in bed yet?" said Henri to Renée, as she went into his room one evening. He was smoking, and it was that blissful moment in a man's life when, with slippers on and his feet on the marble of the chimney-piece, buried in an arm-chair, he gives himself up to day-dreams, while puffing up languidly to the ceiling the smoke of his last cigar. He was thinking of all that had happened during the past few months, and congratulating himself on having manœuvred so well. He was turning everything over in his mind: that suggestion about the theatricals, which he had thrown out with such apparent indifference when they were all sitting in the garden; then his absence from the first rehearsals, and the coolness with which he had treated Noémi in order to reassure her, to take her off her guard, and to prevent her refusing point-blank to act. He was thinking of that master-stroke, of his love suddenly rousing the mother's jealousy in the midst of the play, and it had all appeared to be so spontaneous, as though the rôle he was filling had torn from him the secret of his soul. He thought of all that had followed: how he had worked that other love up to the last extremity of despair, then his behaviour in that last interview; all this came back to him, and he felt a certain pride in recalling so many circumstances that he had foreseen, planned, and arranged beforehand, and which he had so skilfully introduced into the midst of the love-affairs of a woman of forty.

"No, I am not sleepy to-night," said Renée, drawing up a little stool to the fire and sitting down. "I feel inclined for a little chat like we used to have before you had your flat in Paris, do you remember? I got used to cigars, and pipes, and everything here. Didn't we gossip when every one had gone to bed! What nonsense we have talked by this fire! And now, my respected brother is such a very serious sort of man."

"Very serious indeed," put in Henri, smiling. "I'm going to be married."

"Oh," she said, "but you are not married yet. Oh, please Henri!" and throwing herself on her knees she took his hands in hers. "Come now, for my sake. Oh, you won't do it—just for money—I'm begging you on my knees! And then, too, it will bring bad luck to give up your father's name. It has belonged to our family for generations—this name, Henri. Think what a man father is. Oh, do give up this marriage—I beseech you—if you love me—if you love us all! Oh, I beseech you, Henri!"

"What's this all mean; have you gone mad? What are you making such a scene about? Come, that's enough, thank you; get up."

Renée rose to her feet, and looking straight into her brother's eyes she said:

"Noémi has told me everything!"

The colour had mounted to her cheeks. Henri was as pale as if some one had just spat in his face.

"You cannot, anyhow, marry her daughter!" exclaimed Renée.

"My dear girl," answered Henri coldly, in a voice that trembled, "it seems to me that you are interfering in things that don't concern you. And you will allow me to say that for a young girl——"

"Ah, you mean this is dirt that I ought to know nothing of; that is quite true, and I should never have known of it but for you."

"Renée!" Henri approached his sister. He was in one of those white rages which are terrible to witness, and Renée was alarmed and stepped back. He took her by the arm and pointed to the door. "Go!" he said, and a moment later he saw her in the corridor, putting her hand against the wall for support.

XXV

"Go up, Henri," said M. Mauperin to his son, and then as Henri wanted his father to pass first M. Mauperin repeated, "No, go on up."

Half an hour later father and son were coming downstairs again from the office of the Keeper of the Seals.

"Well, you ought to be satisfied with me, Henri," observed M. Mauperin, whose face was very red. "I have done as you and your mother wished. You will have this name."

"Father——"

"All right, don't let us talk about it. Are you coming home with me?" he asked, buttoning his frock-coat with that military gesture with which old soldiers gird up their emotions.

"No, father, I must ask you to let me leave you now. I have so many things to do to-day. I'll come to dinner to-morrow."

"Good-bye, then, till to-morrow. You'd better come; your sister is not well."

When the carriage had driven away with his father Henri drew himself up, looked at his watch, and with the brisk, easy step of a man who feels the wind of fortune behind him blowing him along, walked briskly towards the Rue de la Paix.

At the corner of the Chaussée d'Antin he went into the Café Bignon, where some heavy-looking young men, suggestive of money and the provinces, were waiting for him. During luncheon the conversation turned on provincial cattle shows and competitions, and afterward, while smoking their cigars on the boulevards, the questions of the varied succession of crops, of drainage, and of liming were brought up, and there was a discussion on elections, the opinions of the various departments, and on the candidatures which had been planned, thought of, or attempted at the agricultural meetings.

At two o'clock Henri left these gentlemen, after promising one of them an article on his model farm; he then went into his club, looked at the papers, and wrote down something in his note-book which appeared to give him a great deal of trouble to get to his mind. He next hurried off to an insurance company to read a report, as he had managed to get on to the committee, thanks to the commercial fame and high repute of his father. At four o'clock he sprang into a carriage and paid a round of visits to ladies who had either a salon or any influence and acquaintances at the service of a man with a career. He remembered, too, that he had not paid his subscription to the "Society for the Right Employment of the Sabbath among the Working Classes," and he called and paid it.

At seven o'clock, with cordial phrases on the tip of his tongue and ready to shake hands with every one, he went upstairs at Lemardelay's, where the "Friendly Association" of his old college friends held its annual banquet. At dessert, when it was his turn to speak, he recited the speech he had composed at his club, talked of this fraternal love-feast, of coming back to his family, of the bonds between the past and the future, of help to old comrades who had been afflicted with undeserved misfortunes, etc.

There were bursts of applause, but the orator had already gone. He put in an appearance at the d'Aguesseau lecture, left there, pulled a white necktie out of his pocket, put it on in the carriage, and showed up at three or four society gatherings.

XXVI

The shock which Renée had had on leaving her brother's room, and which had made her totter for a moment, had brought on palpitation of the heart, and for a week afterward she had not been well. She had been kept quiet and had taken medicines, but she did not recover her gaiety, and time did not appear to bring it back to her. On seeing her ill, Henri knew very well what was the matter, and he had done all in his power to make things up with her again. He had been most affectionate, attentive, and considerate, and had endeavoured to show his repentance. He had tried to get into her good graces once more, to appease her conscience, and to calm her indignation; but his efforts were all in vain. He was always conscious of a certain coolness in her manner, of a repugnance for him, and of a sort of quiet resolution which caused him a vague dread. He understood perfectly well that she had only forgotten the insult of his brutality; she had forgiven her brother, but she had not forgiven him as a man.

Her mother had arranged to take her to Paris one day for a little change, and at the last moment had not felt well enough to go. Henri had some business to do, and he offered to accompany his sister. They started, and on reaching Paris drove to the Rue Richelieu. As they were passing the library Henri told the cabman to draw up.

"Will you wait here for me a moment?" he said to his sister, "I want to ask one of the librarians a question. Why not come in with me, though," he added as an after-thought. "You have always wanted to see the manuscript scroll-work and that is in the same room. You would find it interesting, and I could get my information at the same time."

Renée went up with her brother to the manuscript-room, and Henri took her to the end of a table, waited until the prayer-book he had asked for was brought, and then went to speak to a librarian in one of the window recesses.

Renée turned over the leaves of her book slowly. Just behind her one of the employees was warming himself at the hot-air grating. Presently he was joined by another, who had just taken some volumes and some title-deeds to the desk near which Henri was talking, and Renée heard the following conversation just behind her:

"I say, Chamerot, you see that little chap?"

"Yes, at M. Reisard's desk."

"Well, he can flatter himself that he's got hold of some information which isn't quite correct. He's come to ask whether there used to be a family named Villacourt, and whether the name has died out. They've told him that it has. Now if he'd asked me, I could have told him that some folks of that name must be living. I don't know whether it's the same family; but there was one of them there before I left that part of the world, and a strong, healthy fellow too—the eldest, M. Boisjorand—the proof is that we had a fight once, and that he knew how to give hard blows. Their place was quite near to where we lived. One of the turrets of their house could be seen above Saint-Mihiel, and from a good distance too; but it didn't belong to them in my time. They were a spendthrift lot, that family. Oh, they were queer ones for nobility; they lived with the charcoal-burners in the Croix-du-Soldat woods, at Motte-Noire, like regular satyrs."

Saint-Mihiel, the Croix-du-Soldat woods, and Motte-Noire—all these names fixed themselves on Renée's memory and haunted her.

"There, now I have what I wanted," said Henri, gaily, when he came back to her to take her away.

XXVII

Denoisel had left Renée at her piano, and had gone out into the garden. As he came back towards the house he was surprised to hear her playing something that was not the piece she was learning; then all at once the music broke off and all was silent. He went to the drawing-room, pushed the door open, and discovered Renée seated on the music-stool, her face buried in her hands, weeping bitterly.

"Renée, good heavens! What in the world is the matter?"

Two or three sobs prevented Renée's answering at first, and then, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, as children do, she said in a voice choked with tears:

"It's—it's—too stupid. It's this thing of Chopin's, for his funeral, you know—his funeral mass, that he composed. Papa always tells me not to play it. As there was no one in the house to-day—I thought you were at the bottom of the garden—oh, I knew very well what would happen, but I wanted to make myself cry with it, and you see it has answered to my heart's content. Isn't it silly of me—and for me, too, when I'm naturally so fond of fun!"

"Don't you feel well, Renée? Come, tell me; there's something the matter. You wouldn't cry like that."

"No, there's nothing the matter, I assure you. I'm as strong as a horse; there's nothing at all the matter, really and truly. If there were anything I should tell you, shouldn't I? It all came about through that dreadful, stupid music. And to-day, too—to-day, when papa has promised to take me to see The Straw Hat."

A faint smile lighted up her wet eyes as she spoke, and she continued in the same strain:

"Only fancy, The Straw Hat—at the Palais Royal. It will be fun, I'm sure; I only like pieces of that kind. As for the others, dramas and sentimental things—well, I think we have enough to stir us up with our own affairs; it isn't worth while going in search of trouble. Then, too, crying with other people; why, it's like weeping into some one else's handkerchief. We are going to take you with us, you know—a regular bachelor's outing it's to be. Papa said we should dine at a restaurant; and I promise you that I'll be as nonsensical, and laugh as I used to when I was a little girl—when I had my English governess—you remember her? She used to wear orange-coloured ribbons, and drink eau de Cologne that she kept in a cupboard until it got in her head. She was a nice old thing."

And as she uttered these words her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she attacked an arrangement with variations of the Carnival of Venice.

"You've been to Venice, haven't you?" she said suddenly, stopping short.

"Yes."

"Isn't it odd that there should be a spot like that on earth, that I don't know and yet that attracts me and makes me dream of it? For some people it's one place, and for others it's another. Now, I've never wanted to see any place except Venice. I'm going to say something silly—Venice seems to me like a city where all the musicians should be buried."

She put her fingers on the notes again, but she only skimmed over them without striking them at all, as if she were just caressing the silence of the piano. Her hands then fell on her knees again, and in a pensive manner, giving way to her thoughts, she half turned her head towards Denoisel.

"You see," she said, "it seems as though there is sadness in the very air. I don't know how it is, but there are days when the sun is shining, when I have nothing the matter with me, no worry and no troubles to face; and yet I positively want to be sad, I try to get the blues, and feel as though I must cry. Many a time I've said I had a headache and gone to bed, just simply for the sake of having a good cry, of burying my face in the pillow; it did me ever so much good. And at such times I haven't the energy to fight against it or to try to overcome it. It's just the same when I am going off in a faint; there's a certain charm in feeling all my courage leaving me——"

"There, there, that's enough, Renée dear! I'll have your horse saddled and we'll go for a ride."

"Ah, that's a good idea! But I warn you I shall go like the wind, to-day."

XXVIII

"What was he to do? poor Montbreton has four children, and none too much money," said M. Mauperin with a sigh, as he folded up the newspaper in which he had just been reading the official appointments and put it at some distance from him on the table.

"Yes, people always say that. As soon as any one ever does anything mean, people always say 'He has children.' One would think that in society people only had children for the sake of that—for the sake of being able to beg, and to do a lot of mean things. It's just as though the fact of being the father of a family gave you the right to be a scoundrel."

"Come, come, Renée," M. Mauperin began.

"No, it's quite true. I only know two kinds of people: the straightforward, honest ones; and then the others. Four children! But that only ought to serve as an excuse for a father when he steals a loaf. Mère Gigogne would have had the right to poison hers according to that, then. I'm sure Denoisel thinks as I do."

"I? Not at all; indeed I don't! I vote for indulgence in favour of married folks—fathers of families. I should like to see people more charitable, too, towards any one who has a vice—a vice which may be rather ruinous, but which one cannot give up. As to the others, those who have nothing to use their money for, no vice, no wife, no children, and who sell themselves, ruin themselves, bow down, humiliate, enrich, and degrade themselves—ah! I'd give all such over to you willingly."

"I'm not going to talk to you," said Renée in a piqued tone. "Anyhow, papa," she went on, "I cannot understand how it is that it does not make you indignant, you who have always sacrificed everything to your opinions. It's disgusting what he has done, and that's the long and short of it."

"I do not say that it isn't; but you get so excited, child, you get so excited."

"I should think so. Yes, I do get excited—and enough to make me, too. Only fancy, a man who owed everything to the other government, and who said everything bad he could about the present one; and now he joins this one. Why, he's a wretch!—your friend, Montbreton—a wretch!"

"Ah! my dear child, it's very easy to say that. When you have had a little more experience of life you will be more indulgent. One has to be more merciful. You are young."

"No, it's something I've inherited, this is. I'm your daughter, and there's too much of you in me, that's what it is. I shall never be able to swallow things that disgust me. It's the way I'm made—how can I help it? Every time I see any one I know—or even any one I don't know—fail in what you men call points of honour, well, I can't help it at all, but it has the same effect on me as the sight of a toad. I have such a horror of it, and it disgusts me so, that I want to step on it. Come now, do you call a man honourable because he takes care to only do abominable things for which he can't be tried in the law courts? Do you call a man honourable when he has done something for which he must blush when he is alone? Is a man honourable when he has done things for which no one can reproach him and for which he cannot be punished, but which tarnish his conscience? I think there are things that are lower and viler than cheating at the card-table; and the indulgence with which society looks on makes me feel as though society is an accomplice, and I think it is perfectly revolting. There are things that are so disloyal, so dishonest, that when I think of them it makes me quite merciful towards out-and-out scoundrels. You see they do risk something; their life is at stake and their liberty. They go in for things prepared to win or lose: they don't put gloves on to do their infamous deeds. I like that better; it's not so cowardly, anyhow!"

Renée was seated on a sofa at the far side of the drawing-room. Her arms were folded, her hands feverish, and her whole body quivering with emotion. She spoke in jerks, and her voice vibrated with the wrath she felt in her very soul. Her eyes looked like fire lighting up her face, which was in the shade.

"And very interesting, too, he is," she continued, "your M. de Montbreton. He has an income of six hundred or six hundred and fifty pounds. If he did not pay quite such a high house-rent, and if his daughters had not always had their dresses made by Mme. Carpentier——"

"Ah, this requires consideration," put in Denoisel. "A man who has more than two hundred a year, if a bachelor, and more than four hundred if married, can perfectly well remain faithful to a government which is no longer in power. His means allow him to regret——"

"And he will expect you to esteem him, to shake hands with him, and raise your hat to him as usual," continued Renée. "No, it is rather too much! I hope when he comes here, papa—well, I shall promptly go straight out of the room."

"Will you have a glass of water, Renée?" asked M. Mauperin, smiling; "you know orators always do. You were really fine just then. Such eloquence—it flowed like a brook."

"Yes, make fun of me by all means. You know I get carried away, as you tell me. And your Montbreton—but how silly I am, to be sure. He doesn't belong to us, this man, does he? Oh, if it were one of my family who had done such a thing, such a dishonourable thing, such a——"

She stopped short for a second, and then began again:

"I think," she said, speaking with an effort, as though the tears were coming into her eyes, "I think I could never love him again. Yes, it seems to me as though my heart would be perfectly hard as far as he was concerned."

"Good! this is quite touching. We had the young orator just now, and at present it is the little girl's turn. You'd do better to come and look at this caricature album that Davarande has sent your mother."

"Ah yes, let's look at that," said Renée, going quickly across to her father and leaning on his shoulder as he turned over the leaves. She glanced at two or three pages and then looked away.

"There, I've had enough of them, thank you. Goodness, how can people enjoy making things ugly—uglier than nature? What a queer idea. Now in art, in books, and in everything, I'm for all that is beautiful, and not for what is ugly. Then, too, I don't think caricatures are amusing. It's the same with hunchbacks—it never makes me laugh to see a hunchback. Do you like caricatures, Denoisel?"

"Do I? No, they make me want to howl. Yes, it is a kind of comical thing that hurts me," answered Denoisel, picking up a Review that was next the album. "Caricatures are like petrified jokes to me. I can never see one on a table without thinking of a lot of dismal things, such as the wit of the Directory, Carle Vernet's drawings, and the gaiety of middle-class society."

"Thank you," said M. Mauperin laughing, "and in addition to that you are cutting my Revue des Deux Mondes with a match. How hopeless he is, to be sure, Denoisel."

"Do you want a knife, Denoisel?" asked Renée, plunging her hand into her pockets and pulling out a whole collection of things, which she threw on the table.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Denoisel, "why, you have a regular museum in your pockets. You'd have enough for a whole sale at the auction-rooms. What in the world are all those things?"

"Presents from a certain person, and they go about with me everywhere. There's the knife for you," and Renée showed it to her father before passing it to Denoisel. "Do you remember where you bought it for me?" she asked. "It was at Langres once when we had stopped for a fresh horse; oh, it's a very old one. This one," she continued, picking up another, "you brought me from Nogent. It has a silver blade, if you please; I gave you a halfpenny for it, do you remember?"

"Ah, if we are to begin making inventories!" said M. Mauperin laughing.

"And what's in that?" asked Denoisel, pointing to a little worn-out pocket-book stuffed full of papers, the dirty crumpled edges of which could be seen at each end.

"That? Oh, those are my secrets," and, picking up all the things she had thrown on the table, she put them quickly back in her pocket with the little book. The next minute, with a burst of laughter and diving once more into her pockets, she pulled the book out again, opened the flap, and scattered all the little papers on the table in front of Denoisel, and without opening them proceeded to explain what they were. "There, this is a prescription that was given for papa when he was ill. That's a song he composed for me two years ago for my birthday——"

"There, that's enough! Pack up your relics; put all that out of sight," said M. Mauperin, sweeping all the little papers from him just as the door opened and M. Dardouillet entered.

"Oh, you've mixed them all up for me!" exclaimed Renée, looking annoyed as she put them back in her pocket-book.

XXIX

A month later, in the little studio, Renée said to Denoisel: "Am I really romantic—do you think I am?"

"Romantic—romantic? In the first place, what do you mean by romantic?"

"Oh, you know what I mean; having ideas that are not like every one else's, and fancying a lot of things that can never happen. For instance, a girl is romantic when it would be a great trouble to her to marry, as girls do marry, a man with nothing extraordinary about him, who is introduced to her by papa and mamma, and who has not even so much as saved her life by stopping a horse that has taken fright, or by dragging her out of the water. You don't imagine I'm one of that sort, I hope?"

"No; at least I don't know at all. I'd wager that you yourself don't know, either."

"Nonsense. It may be, in the first place, because I have no imagination; but it has always seemed to me so odd to have an ideal—to dream about some imaginary man. It's just the same with the heroes in novels; they've never turned my head. I always think they are too well-bred, too handsome, too rotten, with all their accomplishments. I get so sick of them in the end. But it isn't that. Tell me now, suppose they wanted to make you live your whole life long with a creature—a creature who——"

"A creature—what sort of a creature?"

"Let me finish what I am saying. A man, then, who did not answer at all to certain delicate little requirements of your nature, who did not strike you as being poetical—there, that's what I mean—not a scrap poetical, but who on the other hand made up for what was wanting in him, in other ways, by such kindness—well, such kindness as one never meets with——"

"As much kindness as all that? Oh, I should not hesitate; I should take the kindness blindfold. Dear me, yes, indeed I should. It's so rare."

"You think kindness worth a great deal then?"

"I do, Renée. I value it as one values what one has lost."

"You? Why, you are always very kind."

"I am not downright bad; but that's all. I might perhaps be envious if I had more modesty and less pride. But as for always being kind, oh no, I am not. Life cures you of that just as it cures you of being a child. One gets over one's good-nature, Renée, just as one gets over teething."

"Then you think that a kindly disposition and a good heart——"

"Yes, I mean the goodness that endures in spite of men and in spite of experience—such goodness as I have met with in a primitive state in two or three men in my life. I look upon it as the best and most divine quality a man can have."

"Yes, but if a man who is very good, as good as those you describe—this is just a supposition, you know—suppose he had feet that looked like lumps of cake in his boots. And then, suppose he were corpulent, this good man, this very good man?"

"Well, one need not look at his feet nor at his corpulency—that's all. Oh, I beg your pardon, though, of course, I had completely forgotten."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing; except that you are a woman."

"But that's very insulting to my sex—that remark of yours."

Denoisel did not answer, and the conversation ceased for a few minutes.

"Have you ever wished for wealth?" Renée began again.

"Yes, several times; but absolutely for the sake of treating it as it deserves to be treated—to be disrespectful to it."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, yes, I should like to be rich just to show the contempt I have for money. I remember that two or three times I have fallen asleep with the idea of going to Italy to get married."

"To Italy?"

"Yes, there are more Russian princesses there than anywhere else, and Russian princesses are the only women left in this world who will marry a man without a farthing. Then, too, I was prepared to be contented with a princess who was not very well off. I was not at all exacting, and would have come down without a murmur to thirty thousand pounds a year. That was my very lowest figure though."

"Indeed!" said Renée laughing. "And what should you have done with all that money?"

"I should just have poured it away in streams between my fingers; it would have been something astounding to see; something that I have never seen rich people do with their money. I think all the millionaires ought to be ashamed of themselves. For instance, from the way in which a man lives who has four thousand a year, and the way a man lives who has forty thousand, could you tell their difference of fortune? Now with me you would have known. For a whole year I should have flung away my money in all kinds of caprices, fancies, and follies; I should have dazzled and fairly humiliated Paris; I should have been like a sun-god showering bank-notes down; I should have positively degraded my gold by all kinds of prodigalities; and at the end of a year, day for day, I should have left my wife."

"Nonsense!"

"Certainly; in order to prove to myself that I did not love money. If I had not left her, I should have considered myself dishonoured."

"Well, what extraordinary ideas! I must confess that I haven't arrived at your philosophy yet. A large fortune and all that it gives you, all kinds of enjoyment and luxuries, houses, carriages, and then the pleasure of making the people you don't like envious—of annoying them. Oh, I think it would be most delightful to be rich."

"I told you just now, Renée, that you were a woman—merely a woman."

XXX

Denoisel had spoken as he really felt. If he had sometimes wished for wealth, he had never envied people who had it. He had a sincere and thorough contempt for money—the contempt of a man who is rich with very little.

Denoisel was a Parisian, or rather he was the true Parisian. Well up in all the experiences of Paris, wonderfully skilled in the great art of living, thanks to the habits and customs of Parisian life, he was the very man for that life; he had all its instincts, its sentiments, and its genius. He represented perfectly that very modern personage, the civilized man, triumphing, day by day, like the inhabitants of a forest of Bondy, over the price of things, over the costly life of capitals, as the savage triumphs over nature in a virgin forest. He had all the show and glitter of wealth. He lived among rich people, frequented their restaurants and clubs, had their habits, and shared in their amusements. He knew some of the wealthiest people, and all that money opened to them was open to him. He was seen at the grand private balls of the Provençaux, at the races, and at first nights at the theatres. In summer he went to the watering-places, to the sea, and to the gambling resorts. He dressed like a man who owns a carriage.

And yet Denoisel only possessed between four and five thousand pounds. Belonging to a family that had been steeped in the ideas of the past with regard to property, attached and devoted to landed wealth, always talking of bankruptcy, and as mistrustful of stocks and shares as peasants formerly were of bank-notes, Denoisel had shaken himself free of all the prejudices of his own people. Without troubling about the advice, the remonstrances, the indignation, and the threats of old and distant relatives, he had sold the small farms which his father and mother had left him. It seemed to him that there was no longer any proportion between the revenue of land and the expenses of modern life. In his opinion landed estate might have been a means of wealth at the time when Paul de Kock's novels said of a young man, "Paul was rich, he had two hundred and fifty a year." But since that time it had, according to him, become an anachronism, a kind of archaic property, a fancy fox which was only permissible in very wealthy people. He therefore realized his land and turned it into a small capital, which he placed, after consulting with a friend of his who frequented the Stock Exchange, in foreign bonds, in shares and securities, thus doubling and tripling his revenue without any risk to his regular income. Having thus converted his capital into a figure which meant nothing, except in the eyes of a notary, and which no longer regulated his current means, Denoisel arranged his life as he had done his money. He organized his expenses. He knew exactly the cost in Paris of vanity, little extras, bargains, and all such ruinous things. He was not ashamed to add up a bill himself before paying it. Away from home he only smoked fourpenny cigars, but at home he smoked pipes. He knew where to buy things, discovered the new shops, which give such good value during the first three months. He knew the wine-cellars at the various restaurants, ordered Chambertin a certain distance up the boulevards, and only ordered it there. If he gave a dinner, his menu won the respect of the waiter. And with all that, he knew how to order supper for four shillings at the Café Anglais.

All his expenses were regulated with the same skill. He went to one of the first tailors in Paris, but a friend of his who was in the Foreign Office procured for him from London all the suits he wanted between the seasons. When he had a present to make, or any New Year's gifts to buy, he always knew of a cargo of Indian or Chinese things that had just arrived, or he remembered an old piece of Saxony or Sèvres china that was lying hidden away in some shop in an unfrequented part of Paris, one of those old curiosities, the price of which cannot be discovered by the person for whom it is destined. All this with Denoisel was spontaneous, natural, and instinctive. This never-ending victory of Parisian intelligence over all the extravagance of life had nothing of the meanness and pettiness of sordid calculation about it. It was the happy discovery of a scheme of existence under satisfactory conditions, and not a series of vulgar petty economies, and in the well-organized expenditure of his six hundred pounds a year the man remained liberal and high-minded: he avoided what was too expensive for him, and never attempted to beat prices down. Denoisel had a flat of his own on the first storey of a well-ordered house with a carpeted staircase. He had only three rooms, but the Boulevard des Italiens was at his very door. His little drawing-room, which he had furnished as a smoking-den, was charming. It was one of those snug little rooms which Parisian upholsterers are so clever in arranging. It was all draped and furnished with chintz, and had divans as wide as beds. It had been Denoisel's own wish that the absence of all objects of art should complete the cheerful look of the room. He was waited on in the morning by his hall-porter, who brought him a cup of chocolate and did all the necessary housework. He dined at a club or restaurant or with friends.

The low rent and the simplicity of his household and domestic arrangements left Denoisel more of that money of which wealthy people are so often short, that money for the little luxuries of life, which is more necessary than any other in Paris, and which is known as pocket-money. Occasionally, however, that force majeure, the Unforeseen, would suddenly arrive in the midst of this regular existence and disarrange its equilibrium and its budget.

Denoisel would then disappear from Paris for a time. He would ruralize at some little country inn, near a river, on half-a-crown a day, and he would spend no other money than what was necessary for tobacco. Two or three winters, finding himself quite out of funds, he had emigrated, and, on discovering a city like Florence, where happiness costs nothing and where the living is almost as inexpensive as that happiness, he had stayed there six months, lodging in a room with a cupola, dining à la trattoria on truffles with Parmesan cheese, passing his evenings in the boxes of society people, going to the Grand Duke's balls, fêted, invited everywhere, with white camellias in his buttonhole—economizing in the happiest way in the world.

Denoisel spent no more for his love-affairs than for other things. It was no longer a question of self-respect with him, so that he only paid what he thought them worth. And yet such things had been his one allurement as a young man. He had, however, always been cool and methodical, even in his love-affairs. He had wanted, in a lordly way, to test for himself what the love of the woman who was the most in vogue in Paris was like. He allowed himself for this experiment about two thousand pounds of the seven thousand he then possessed, and, during the six months that he was the accepted lover of the celebrated Génicot, a woman who would give a five-pound note as a tip to her postillion on returning from the Marche, he lived in the same style as a man with five thousand a year. When the six months were over he left her, and she, for the first time in her life, was in love with a man who had paid for that love.

Tempered by this proof he had had several other experiences afterward, until they had palled on him; and then there had suddenly come to him, not a desire for further love adventures, but a great curiosity about women. He set out to discover all that was unforeseen, unexpected, and unknown to him in woman. All actresses seemed to him very much the same kind of courtesan, and all courtesans very much the same kind of actress. What attracted him now was the unclassed woman, the woman that bewilders the observer and the oldest Parisian. He often went wandering about at night, vaguely and irresistibly led on by one of those creatures who are neither all vice nor all virtue, and who walk so gracefully along in the mire. Sometimes he was dazzled by one of those fine-looking girls, so often seen in Paris, who seem to brighten everything as they pass along, and he would turn round to look at her and stand there even after she had suddenly disappeared in the darkness of some passage. His vocation was to discover tarnished stars. Now and then in some faubourg he would come across one of these marvellous daughters of the people and of Nature, and he would talk to her, watch her, listen to her, and study her; then when she wearied him he would let her go, and it would amuse him later on to raise his hat to her when he met her again driving in a carriage.

Denoisel's wealthy air won for him a welcome in social circles. He soon established himself there and on a superior footing, thanks to his geniality and wit, the services of every kind he was always ready to render, and the need every one had of him. His large circle of acquaintances among foreigners, artists, and theatrical people, his knowledge of the ins and outs of things when small favours were required, made him very valuable on hundreds of occasions. Every one applied to him for a box at a theatre, permission to visit a prison or a picture gallery, an entrance for a lady to the law courts at some trial, or a foreign decoration for some man. In two or three duels in which he had served as seconds, he had shown sound sense, decision, and a manly regard for the honour as well as the life of the man for whom he was answerable. People were under all kinds of obligations to him, and the respect they had for him was not lessened by his reputation as a first-rate swordsman. His character had won for him the esteem of all with whom he came in contact, and he was even held in high consideration by wealthy people, whose millions, nevertheless, were not always respected by him.

XXXI

"My wife, for instance, wanted to have her portrait painted by Ingres. You've seen it—it isn't like her—but it's by Ingres. Well, do you know what he asked me for it? Four hundred pounds. I paid it him, but I consider that taking advantage; it's the war against capital. Do you mean to say that because a man's name is known he should make me pay just what he likes? because he's an artist, he has no price, no fixed rate, he has a right to fleece me? Why, according to that he might ask me a million for it. It's like the doctors who make you pay according to your fortune. To begin with, how does any one know what I have? I call it an iniquity. Yes, four hundred pounds; what do you think of that?"

M. Bourjot was standing by the chimney-piece talking to Denoisel. He put the other foot, on which he had been standing, to the fire as he spoke.

"Upon my word," said Denoisel, very seriously, "you are quite right: all these folks take advantage of their reputation. You see there's only one way to prevent it, and that would be to decree a legal maximum for talent, a maximum for master-pieces. Why, yes! It would be very easy."

"That's it; that would be the very thing!" exclaimed M. Bourjot, "and it would be quite just, for you see——"

The Bourjots had dined that evening alone with the Mauperins. The two families had been talking of the wedding, and were only waiting to fix the day, until the expiration of a year from the date of the first insertion of the name of Villacourt in the Monitor. It was M. Bourjot who had insisted on this delay. The ladies were talking about the trousseau, jewellery, laces, and wedding-presents, and Mme. Mauperin, who was seated by Mme. Bourjot, was contemplating her as though she were a person who had performed a miracle.

M. Mauperin's face beamed with joy. He had in the end yielded to the fascination of money. This great, upright man, genuine, severe, rigid, and incorruptible as he was, had gradually allowed the vast wealth of the Bourjots to come into his thoughts and into his dreams, to appeal to him and to his instincts as a practical man, as an old man, the father of a family and a manufacturer. He had been won over and disarmed. Ever since his son's success with regard to this marriage, he had felt that respect for Henri which ability or the prospect of a large fortune inspires in people, and, without being aware of it himself, he scarcely blamed him now for having changed his name. Fathers are but men, after all.

Renée, who for some time past had been worried, thoughtful, and low-spirited, was almost cheerful this evening. She was amusing herself with blowing about the fluffy feathers which Noémi was wearing in her hair. The latter, languid and absent-minded, with a dreamy look in her eyes, was replying in monosyllables to Mme. Davarande's ceaseless chatter.

"Nowadays, everything is against money," began M. Bourjot again, sententiously. "There's a league—now, for instance, I made a road for the people at Sannois. Well, do you imagine that they even touch their hats to us? Oh dear no, never. In 1848 we gave them bushels of corn; and what do you think they said? Excuse me, ladies, if I repeat their words. They said: 'That old beast must be afraid of us!' That was all the gratitude I had. I started a model farm, and I applied to the Government for a man to manage it; a red-hot radical was sent to me, a rascal who had spent his life running down the rich. At present I have to do with a Municipal Council with the most detestable opinions. I find work for every one, don't I? Thanks to us, the country round is prosperous. Well, if there were to be a revolution, now, I am convinced that they would set fire to our place. They'd have no compunction about that. You've no idea what enemies you get if you pay as much as three hundred and sixty pounds for taxes. They'd simply burn us out of house and home—they'd have no scruple about it. You see what happened in February. Oh, my ideas with regard to the people have quite changed; and they are preparing a nice future for us, you can count on that. We shall be simply ruined by a lot of penniless wretches. I can see that beforehand. I often think of all these things. If only it were not for one's children—money, as far as I am concerned——"

"What's that you are saying, neighbour?" asked M. Mauperin, approaching.

"I'm saying that I'm afraid the day will come when our children will be short of bread, M. Mauperin; that's what I'm saying."

"You'll make them hesitate about this wedding if you talk like that," said M. Mauperin.

"Oh, if my husband begins with his gloomy ideas, if he's going to talk about the end of the world—" put in Mme. Bourjot.

"I congratulate you that you don't feel the anxiety I do," remarked M. Bourjot, bowing to his wife; "but I can assure you that, without being weak-minded, there is every reason for feeling very uneasy."

"Certainly, certainly," said Denoisel. "I think that money is in danger, in great danger, in very great danger indeed. In the first place, it is threatened by that envy which is at the bottom of nearly all revolutions; and then by progress, which baptizes the revolutions."

"But, sir, such progress would be infamous. Take me, for instance: no one could doubt me. I used to be a Liberal—I am now, in fact. I am a soldier of Liberty, a born Republican; I am for progress of every kind. But a revolution against wealth—why, it would be barbarous! We should be going back to savage times. What we want is justice and common sense. Can you imagine now a society without wealth?"

"No, not any more than a greasy pole without a silver cup."

"What," continued M. Bourjot, who in his excitement had not caught Denoisel's words, "the money that I have earned with hard work, honestly and with the greatest difficulty—the money that is mine, that I have made, and which is for my children—why, there is nothing more sacred! I even look upon the income-tax as a violation of property."

"Why, yes," said Denoisel in the most perfectly good-natured tone, "I am quite of your opinion. And I should be very sorry," he added wickedly, "to make things seem blacker to you than they already do. But you see we have had a revolution against the nobility; we shall have one against wealth. Great names have been abolished by the guillotine, and great fortunes will be done away with next. A man was considered guilty if his name happened to be M. de Montmorency; it will be criminal to be M. Two Thousand Pounds a Year. Things are certainly getting on. I can speak all the more freely as I am absolutely disinterested, myself. I should not have had anything to be guillotined for in the old days, and I haven't enough to be ruined for nowadays. So, you see——"

"Excuse me," put in M. Bourjot, solemnly, "but your comparison—no one could deplore excesses more than I do, and the event of 1793 was a great crime, sir. The nobility were treated abominably, and all honest people must be of the same opinion as I am."

M. Mauperin smiled as he thought of the Bourjot of 1822.

"But then," continued M. Bourjot, "the situation is not the same at all. Social conditions are entirely changed, the basis of society has been restored. Everything is different. There were reasons—or pretexts, if you prefer that—for this hatred of the nobility. The Revolution of '89 was against privileges, which I am not criticising, but which existed. That is quite different. The fact was people wanted equality. It was more or less legitimate that they should have it, but at least there was some reason in it. At present all that is altered; and where are the privileges? One man is as good as another. Hasn't every man a vote? You may say, 'What about money?' Well, every one can earn money; all trades and professions are open to every one."

"Except those that are not," put in Denoisel.

"In short, all men can now arrive at anything and everything. The only things necessary are hard work, intelligence——"

"And circumstances," put in Denoisel, once more.

"Circumstances must be made, sir, by each man himself. Just look at what society is. We are all parvenus. My father was a cloth merchant—in a wholesale way, certainly—and yet you see—now this is equality, sir, the real and the right kind of equality. There is no such thing as caste now. The upper class springs from the people, and the people rise to the upper class. I could have found a count for my daughter, if I had wanted to. But it is just simply a case of evil instincts, evil passions, and these communist ideas—it is all this which is against wealth. We hear a lot of rant about poverty and misery. Well, I can tell you this, there has never been so much done for the people as at present. There is great progress with regard to comfort and well-being in France. People who never used to eat meat, now eat it twice a week. These are facts; and I am sure that on that subject our young social economist, M. Henri, could tell us——"

"Yes, yes," said Henri, "that has been proved. In twenty-five years the increase of cattle has been twelve per cent. By dividing the population of France into twelve millions inhabiting the towns, and twenty-four to twenty-five millions inhabiting the country districts, it is reckoned that the former consume about sixty-five kilogrammes a head each year, and the latter twenty kilogrammes twenty-six centigrammes. I can guarantee the figures. What is quite sure is that the most conscientious estimates prove that since 1789 there has been an increase in the average length of life, and this progress is the surest sign of prosperity for a nation. Statistics——"

"Ah, statistics, the chief of the inexact sciences!" interrupted Denoisel, who delighted in muddling M. Bourjot's brain with paradoxes. "But I grant that," he went on. "I grant that the lives of the people have been prolonged, and that they eat more meat than they have ever eaten. Do you, on that account, believe in the immortality of the present social constitution? There has been a revolution which has brought about the reign of the middle class—that is to say, the reign of money; and now you say: 'Everything is finished; there must be no other; there can be no legitimate revolution now.' That is quite natural; but, between ourselves, I don't know up to what point the supremacy of the middle class can be considered as final. As far as you are concerned, when once political equality is given to all, social equality is complete: that is perhaps quite just; but the thing is to convince people of it, whose interest it is not to believe it. One man is as good as another. Certainly he may be in the eyes of God. Every one in this century of ours has a right to wear a black coat—provided he can pay for it. Modern equality—shall I explain briefly what it is? It is the same equality as our conscription; every man draws his number, but if you can pay one hundred and twenty pounds, you have the right of sending another man to be killed instead of you. You spoke of privileges; there are no such things now, that's true. The Bastille was destroyed; but it gave birth to others first. Let us take, for instance, Justice, and I do acknowledge that a man's position, his name, and his money weigh less and are made less of in courts of justice than anywhere else. Well, commit a crime, and be, let us say, a peer of France; you would be allowed poison instead of the scaffold. Take notice that I think it should be so; I am only mentioning it to show you how inequalities spring up again, and, indeed, when I see the ground that they cover now I wonder where the others could have been. Hereditary rights—something else that the Revolution thought it had buried. All that was an abuse of the former Government, about which enough has been said. Well, I should just like to know whether, at present, the son of a politician does not inherit his father's name and all the privileges connected with that name, his father's electors, his connection, his place everywhere, and his chair at the Academy? We are simply overrun with these sons. We come across them everywhere; they take all the good berths and, thanks to these reversions, everything is barred for other people. The fact is that old customs are terrible things for unmaking laws. You are wealthy, and you say money is sacred. But why? Well, you say 'We are not a caste.' No, but you are already an aristocracy, and quite a new aristocracy, the insolence of which has already surpassed all the impertinences of the oldest aristocracies on the globe. There is no court now, you say. There never has been one, I should imagine, in the whole history of the world where people have had to put up with such contempt as in the private office of certain great bankers. You talk of evil instincts and evil passions. Well, the power of the wealthy middle class is not calculated to elevate the mind. When the higher ranks of society are engaged in digesting and placing out money there are no longer any ideas, nothing in fact but appetites, in the class below. Formerly, when by the side of money there was something above it and beyond it, during a revolution instead of asking bluntly for money—clumsy rough coins with which to buy their happiness—the people contented themselves with asking for the change of colours on a flag, or with having a few words written over a guard-house, or even with glorious victories that were quite hollow. But in our times—oh, we all know where the heart of Paris is now. The bank would be besieged instead of the Hôtel de ville. Ah, the bourgeoisie has made a great mistake!"

"And what is the mistake, pray?" asked M. Bourjot, astounded by Denoisel's tirade.

"That of not leaving Paradise in heaven—which was certainly its place. The day when the poor could no longer comfort themselves with the thought that the next life would make up to them for this, the day when the people gave up counting on the happiness of the other world—oh, I can tell you, Voltaire did a lot of harm to the wealthy classes——"

"Ah, you are right there!" exclaimed M. Bourjot, impulsively. "That is quite evident. All these wretches ought to go to church regularly——"

XXXII

There was a grand ball at the Bourjots' in honour of the approaching marriage of their daughter with M. Mauperin de Villacourt.

"You are going in for it to-day. How you are dancing!" said Renée to Noémi, fanning her as she stood talking in a corner of the vast drawing-room.

"I have never danced so much, that's quite true," answered Noémi, taking her friend's arm and leading her away into the small drawing-room. "No, never," she continued, drawing Renée to her and kissing her. "Oh, how lovely it is to be happy," and then kissing her again in a perfect fever of joy, she said: "She does not care for him now. Oh, I'm quite sure she doesn't care for him. In the old days I could see she did by the very way she got up when he came; by her eyes, her voice, the very rustle of her dress, everything. Then when he wasn't there, I could tell by her silence she was thinking of him. You are surprised at my noticing, silly thing that I am; but there are some things that I understand with this"—and she drew Renée's hand on to her white moiré dress just where her heart was—"and this never deceives me."

"And you love him now, do you?" asked Renée.

Noémi stopped her saying any more by pressing her bouquet of roses against her friend's lips.

"Mademoiselle, you promised me the first redowa," and a young man took Noémi away. She turned as she reached the door and threw a kiss to Renée with the tips of her fingers.

Noémi's confession had given Renée a thrill of joy, and she had revelled in the smile on her friend's face. She herself felt immensely comforted and relieved. In an instant everything had changed for her, and the thought that Noémi loved her brother chased away all other ideas. She no longer saw the shame and the crime which she had so long seen in this marriage. She kept repeating to herself that Noémi loved him, that they both loved each other. The rest all belonged to the past, and they would each of them forget that past, Noémi by forgiving it, and Henri by redeeming it. Suddenly the remembrance of something came back to her, bringing with it an anxious thought and a vague dread. She was determined, however, just then to see no dark clouds in the horizon and nothing threatening in the future. Chasing all this from her mind, she began to think of her brother and of Noémi once more. She pictured to herself the wedding-day and their future home, and she recalled the voices of some children she had once heard calling "Auntie! Auntie!"

"Will mademoiselle do me the honour of dancing with me?"

It was Denoisel who was bowing in front of her.

"Do we dance together—you and I? We know each other too well. Sit down there, and don't crease my dress. Well, what are you looking at?"

Renée was wearing a dress of white tulle, trimmed with seven narrow flounces and bunches of ivy leaves and red berries. In her bodice and the tulle ruches of her sleeves she wore ivy and berries to match. A long spray of the ivy was twisted round her hair with a few berries here and there and the leaves hung down over her shoulders. She was leaning her head back on the sofa, and her beautiful chestnut hair, which was brought forward, fell slightly over her white forehead. There was a new gleam, a soft intense light in her brown, dreamy eyes, the expression of which could not be seen. A shadow played over her mouth at the corners, and her lips, which were generally closed in a disdainful little pout, were unsealed and half open, partially revealing the gladness which came from her very soul. The light fell on her chin, and a ring of shadow played round her neck each time that she moved her head. She looked charming thus, the outline of her features indistinct under the full light of the chandeliers, and her whole face beaming with childish joy.

"You are very pretty this evening, Renée."

"Ah—this evening?"

"Well, to tell the truth, just lately you've looked so worried and so sad. It suits you much better to enjoy yourself."

"Do you think so? Do you waltz?"

"As though I had just learnt and had been badly taught. But you have only this very minute refused."

"I, refused? What an idea! Why, I want to dance dreadfully. Well, there's plenty of time—oh, don't look at your watch; I don't want to know the time. And so you think I am gay, do you? Well, no, I don't feel gay. I'm happy—I'm very happy—there, now! I say, Denoisel, when you are strolling about in Paris, you know those old women who wear Lorraine caps, and who stand in the doorways selling matches—well, you are to give a sovereign each to the first five you meet; I'll give it you back. I've saved some money—don't forget. Is that waltz still going on? Is it really true that I refused to dance? Well, after this one I'm going to dance everything, and I shall not be particular about my partners. They can be as ugly as they like, they can wear shoes that have been resoled, and talk to me about Royer-Collard if they like, they can be too tall or too short, they can come up to my elbow or I can come up to their waist—it won't matter to me even if their hands perspire—I'll dance with any of them. That's how I feel to-night, and yet people say that I am not charitable."

Just at that moment a man entered the little drawing-room. It was M. Davarande.

"Invite me for this waltz, please," said Renée, and as she passed by Denoisel she whispered:

"You see I'm beginning with the family."

XXXIII

"What's the matter with your mother this evening?" Denoisel asked Renée. They were alone, as Mme. Mauperin had just gone upstairs to bed, and M. Mauperin to have a look round at the works, which were on late that night.

"What's the matter with her, she seems as——"

"Surly as a bulldog—say it out."

"Well, but what's it all about?"

"Ah, that's just it," and Renée began to laugh. "The fact is I've just lost a chance of being married—and so here I am still."

"Another? But then that's your speciality!"

"Oh, this is only the fourteenth. That's only an average number; and it's all through you that I've lost this chance."

"Through me? Well, I never! What do you mean?"

Renée got up, put her hands in her pockets, and walked up and down the room from one end to the other. Every now and then she stopped short, turned round on one heel, and gave a sort of whistle.

"Yes, through you!" she said, coming back to Denoisel. "What should you think if I told you that I had refused eighty thousand pounds?"

"They must have been astonished."

"I can't say that I wasn't rather tempted. It's no good setting up for being better than I am; and then, too, with you I don't make any pretences. Well, I'll own that just for a minute I was very nearly caught. It was M. Barousse who arranged it all—very nicely indeed. Then, here at home, they worked me up to it; mamma and Henri besieged me; I was bored to death about it all day long. And then, too, quite exceptionally for me, I began to have fancies, too. Anyhow, it is quite certain that I slept very badly two nights. These big fortunes do keep you awake. Then, too, to be quite just, I must say that I thought a great deal about papa in the midst of it all. Wouldn't he have been proud—wouldn't he, now? Wouldn't he have revelled in my four thousand a year? He has so much vanity always where I am concerned. Do you remember his indignation and wrath that time? 'A son-in-law who would allow my daughter to get in an omnibus!' He was superb, wasn't he? Then I began to think of you—yes, of you—and your ideas, your paradoxes, your theories, of all sorts of things you had said to me; I thought of your contempt for money, and as I thought of it—well, I suppose it is catching, for I felt the same contempt myself. And so all at once, one fine morning, I just cut it all short. No, you influence me too much, my dear boy, decidedly."

"Well, but I'm—I'm an idiot, Renée. Oh, I'm so sorry. I—I thought that sort of thing was not catching—indeed I did. Come, really now, was it my fault?"

"Yes, yours—in a great measure—and then just a little his fault, too."

"Ah!"

"Yes, it was just a little M. Lemeunier's. When I felt the money getting into my head, when I was seriously thinking of marrying him, why, I just looked at him. And you didn't know you were speaking so truly the other day. I suddenly felt that I was a woman—oh, you've no idea what it was like. Then on the other hand I saw how good he was. Oh, he really is goodness itself. I tried him in every way, I turned him inside out, it worried me to find him so perfect; but it was no use, there was no fault to find in him. He is thoroughly good, that man is. Oh, he's quite different from Reverchon and the others. Only fancy what he said to me: 'Mademoiselle,' he said, 'I know that you don't care for me, but will you let me wait a little and see if you can dislike me less than you do now?' It was quite pathetic. Sometimes I felt inclined to say to him: 'Suppose we were to sit down and cry a little together, shall we?' Fortunately, when he made me feel inclined to cry, papa, on the other hand, made me want to laugh. He looked so funny, my dear old father, half gay and half sad. I never saw such a resigned kind of happiness. The sadness of losing me, and the thought of seeing me make a good match made him feel so mixed up. Well, it's all finished now, thank Heaven! He makes great eyes at me as though he's angry—didn't you notice, when mamma was looking at us? But he is not angry at all in reality. He's very glad in his heart; I can see that."