Sans-Cravate; or, The Messengers; Little Streams

It was only nine o'clock in the morning, and Célestin de Valnoir was already ringing at Madame Baldimer's door. Rosa, her maid, answered the bell, and smiled at the young man as if she were expecting him.

"This is a very early hour for me to call on your mistress," said Célestin, assuming a presumptuous, self-sufficient air; "but I received a note from Madame Baldimer last evening, in which she informed me of her return to Paris and requested me to call this morning before nine; and I am always prompt at a rendezvous with a lovely woman."

"Yes, monsieur; madame expects you, for she told me to admit you as soon as you came."

"Madame Baldimer is still in bed, I suppose?"

"No, monsieur; madame got up early, because she expected you."

The maid led Célestin through several rooms, and ushered him into her mistress's presence. Madame Baldimer was seated in a reclining chair, dressed in a velvet robe de chambre; her hair was dressed very simply and kept in place on top of her head by a sort of net; plainly, she was not yet dressed for the day, and was not at all anxious to make a favorable impression. None the less, she was extremely pretty in that négligé; but women are never more seductive than when we see them unadorned except by their natural charms; it very rarely happens, however, that they are willing to allow themselves to be seen in that condition.

Madame Baldimer greeted Célestin with a faint smile, and said, pointing to a chair near her own:

"You are on time; that is well done of you—I like that. Promptness is so rare in this world. Pray be seated."

"You should be certain, madame, of the zeal with which I always comply with your wishes; you are aware of my devotion to you; you know that there is nothing I would not do to please you. Love even leads me to betray friendship."

"Friendship!" echoed Madame Baldimer, and a sarcastic smile played about her lips; "oh, no! you are not betraying that, I assure you. Have you ever been Albert's friend?"

"To be sure, madame; we are very intimate."

"But it must be someone of their own sex!" laughed Célestin. "You admit that, yourself."

"I believe, monsieur, that there are women who are capable of loving a long time—yes, forever, the man who has shown himself worthy of their love. But as they generally have to do with ungrateful wretches who make a sport of seducing them, only to betray and abandon them, you must agree that they would be very foolish not to punish men sometimes for the wrong they so often do them."

"Mon Dieu! fair lady, I will agree to anything you please. I will say that men are villains, monsters, whatever you choose, provided only that you allow me to love you, and that you award me the prize due my devotion and my passion."

Monsieur Célestin took possession of a hand with which the pretty widow was toying with the folds of her gown, and attempted to put it to his lips; but Madame Baldimer snatched it away, and said sharply:

"But it seems to me that I have done all that we agreed upon. When I first met you in society some months ago, I experienced, as many other men did, the power of your charms; when I spoke to you of my love, you said—and these are your very words, I have not forgotten them: 'You are very intimate with young Albert Vermoncey, are you not? Well, keep me informed of everything that young man does, promise to do everything for me that I ask you to do, and I will reward your devotion.'—Isn't that what you said?"

"Exactly; not a word changed. When I first met you, monsieur, young Albert was already paying court to me; you very quickly joined the ranks, which was quite natural; Albert was your friend, so you naturally tried to supplant him. That sort of thing is always done among friends."

"But, madame——"

"Isn't that true, monsieur?"

"When love speaks louder than friendship——"

Célestin, who had listened to Madame Baldimer, biting his lips from time to time with a dissatisfied air, leaned back in his chair and replied:

"But when is there to be an end of it all, madame? When will you cease to torment poor Albert—and when will you reward my love?"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, you are very inquisitive, in a very great hurry. I cannot tell you yet."

"You see, I sometimes say to myself—— Excuse my frankness, madame."

"Oh! speak freely; frankness from you will astonish but not offend me."

"I say to myself: 'Is it not possible that I myself am Madame Baldimer's dupe, while fancying that I am helping her to make a fool of Albert? She wants to know everything that my rival does; if he acts as if he had forgotten her, I give her that information, and she soon appears before him, he finds her wherever he goes, and he does not hold out long against the glances she fastens upon him. It seems to me that a woman who was in love with Albert would act in that very way, and it would be quite interesting if Madame Baldimer were amusing herself at my expense, while I am thinking that it is Albert she wants to make a fool of!'"

"Ah! you have thought that, have you, monsieur? Upon my word, that would be most original; and, to speak frankly, you deserve to be treated in that way."

"How so, madame?"

"But don't be alarmed, it is not so at all. I am not in love with Monsieur Albert. I, love him! on the contrary, I hate him!"

"You hate him!" repeated Célestin, in a doubting tone. "Hm! that is rather strange; a woman doesn't ordinarily hate a man who has never been her lover. I should like it better if Albert were indifferent to you. Indifference is further from love than hatred is."

"You may be perfectly sure, monsieur, that that young man's alleged passion for me will never be satisfied. But it is my pleasure that it shall not die out—on the contrary, that it shall become more and more ardent. Whether it is coquetry, hatred, caprice, or some other sentiment, that prompts my action—that is my secret, monsieur, and I do not choose to tell you anything more. Now, if you do not care to assist my designs any further, go, monsieur; it is useless for you to stay here any longer."

The lovely widow rose as she spoke, but Célestin seized her arm and forced her to resume her seat.

"Mon Dieu! madame, how quick you are! how prompt in forming your resolutions! Be calm, I implore you! there is no rupture in our relations; I am your slave, as always. Speak! command! I am at your service. Too happy to wear your chains, as I hope that some day my love will be crowned."

"Very good," rejoined Madame Baldimer, with a smile; "and now, answer me. I have been away ten days; what has Albert done during that time?"

"Am I to conceal nothing?"

"That was our agreement, as you know."

"He has seen Madame Plays again."

"Madame Plays—— Ah! very good; I can guess why."

Madame Baldimer bestowed a glance on Célestin which signified: "You are no better than a fool!" but she contented herself with that pantomime, and said simply:

"What else?"

"He has called here several times to find out whether you had returned from the country."

"I know that; my concierge told me."

"Your absence has seemed very long to him—especially as you didn't tell him where you were going."

"Ah! he would have liked to know—and so would you, wouldn't you? But go on."

"Why, that's all."

"What! no new intrigues, no escapades, no card parties?"

"No, nothing—for the last few days we have been so virtuous!"

"No husbands deceived, no rivals to dread?"

"Nothing of the sort. There was a wager on the subject of a very pretty grisette, who is courted by a messenger; but Albert refused to go into it. Indeed, the thing isn't so easy as I thought at first. This very morning, I believed I had won my bet; my plans were carefully laid—the girl ought to have stepped into a very clever trap that I had laid for her. But, not at all; she avoided it! Those little grisettes sometimes have the presumption to insist on being virtuous. We should be very much to be pitied, if we hadn't the ladies of fashionable society to fall back on."

Célestin was utterly unable to understand Madame Baldimer's purpose in urging him to do his utmost to make Albert fall in love with a pretty grisette.

"Well, monsieur, don't you hear me?" cried the fair American, irritated by the young man's silence.

"Yes, madame; yes, I hear you perfectly. But I confess that I don't understand you! and my brain is in a whirl when I try to divine your object. You do all that you can to turn Albert's head. If he seems to be a little less enamored of you, you redouble your fascinations and coquetries to bring him to your feet; and, lo! you insist now that your adorer shall fall in love with a pretty grisette, and scold me because my friend is not involved in a lot of other intrigues! I say again, all this is infernally hard to understand."

Madame Baldimer frowned, as she replied:

"But it isn't necessary that you should understand me, monsieur; it is enough, it seems to me, that it is my wish."

"I am very sorry, madame, but you should not do so much to inflame Albert's passion for yourself. He, who used to take fire at the mere sight of a woman, is indifferent now to the loveliest; and it is your fault."

"I am afraid so, for his sake."

Madame Baldimer reflected a few moments, then rose, and said, with a gracious smile:

"Adieu, Monsieur de Valnoir! our interview has been very long, and I have nothing further to ask you."

"Shall I see you soon?"

"I think so; however, I will write, as before, when I have anything to ask you. I do not need to remind you that Albert must not know that you have seen me."

Célestin smiled and bowed, and stepped forward to take the fair American's hand; but she had already vanished.

"A strange woman!" muttered Célestin, looking around the room in surprise. "Gad! I have known a great many of them, but never one whose heart was so difficult to decipher as hers. Never mind; she is very beautiful, very refined, very fashionable, and it will be delicious to whisk her away from my dear friend Albert."

Célestin left the lovely widow's abode, and repaired to the boulevard, where he met Mouillot, who ran up to him, crying:

"Victory! he is ours! we have him, or at least we shall have him this evening!"

"Whom are you talking about?"

"Parbleu! little Tobie, the man of the fetich."

"The deuce! who found him?"

"Bastringuette, apparently; for she just left a message with a waiter at Tortoni's, who repeated it to me not a minute ago, that the young man we want will be at the Pâté des Italiens this evening."

"Ah! that is delicious; do the others know it?"

"Very good; we will be there."

Bastringuette had, in fact, met Tobie the night before, quite late, on an unfrequented street; it was dark, and Monsieur Pigeonnier was walking very fast. But the flower girl had eyes which rivalled an eagle's, and she had easily recognized the man she had been asked to find.

Since the game of bouillotte in Balivan's studio, little Tobie, who had gone away with four hundred and fifty francs in his pocket, had not been fortunate in his speculations; he had flattered himself that he would be able to do a fine stroke of business with that money, to make some advantageous purchase, and thereby to redeem his olive before long. But, instead of that, a creditor, who had succeeded in finding him at home by dint of passing the night at his door, had compelled him, by the use of some exceedingly brutal arguments, to pay a long overdue note for three hundred and eighty francs.

Hearing somebody running behind him in the street, little Tobie had a fright; but he recovered his courage when he heard a woman's voice calling:

"Why don't you stop, monsieur, when I say I want to speak to you? fichtre! if you make women run like this, they must have lots of fun with you!"

Tobie stopped, scrutinized Bastringuette, and demanded:

"What do you want of me?"

"I don't want anything, my little darling; you're too dainty for me. I don't like men with pink cheeks."

"Ah! I think I recognize you now; you're the girl who sells violets."

"When there is any, my little ducky."

"If you've been running after me to offer me flowers, you might have saved yourself the trouble."

"No, it isn't for that; I have a message for you."

"Who gave it to you?"

"A lady, and a very pretty lady too."

"A lady—what's her name?"

"She didn't tell me; and you don't suppose I asked her, do you? but she described you so that I couldn't make any mistake. She has something to say to you, and she'll be at the Pâté on Place des Italiens to-morrow night at nine o'clock."

"To-morrow night! at the Pâté!"

"If Albert did write anything offensive in that letter," he thought, "she has probably learned that I had nothing to do with it; she is sorry that she treated me so badly, and means to treat me better now. I am less surprised, because, when I was making love to her, she seemed to be deeply touched; everything was going along finely, and, if it hadn't occurred to her to read that infernal letter, I should certainly have triumphed.—What sort of looking woman was it who gave you the message?" he asked Bastringuette.

"Oh! a very fine-looking woman."

"A little large, wasn't she?"

"Yes, monsieur, she's plump; but it's becoming to her."

"Light chestnut hair?"

"Very light—almost a blonde."

"That's it. A voice something like a man's?"

"Oh! a splendid voice; when she speaks, you'd think it was a hand organ. She ought to sing well, she had."

"There's no doubt about it—it was she!"

"Do you know who she is?"

"I think so; but I know so many of 'em, you see!"

"But you'll keep the appointment, won't you, monsieur?"

"Oh! to be sure!"

"That's true, she doesn't know it; and there are very few people who could tell her; I don't talk much about my address."

"Good-night, monsieur! my errand's done, and I'm going home to bed. Don't forget your appointment at the Pâté."

"Never fear."

Bastringuette turned on her heel, and Tobie did the same, saying to himself:

"It seems that she's paid. I'm not sorry, I like that way better;" and he went his way, building castles in Spain touching his liaison with the susceptible Plays.

Célestin called on Albert at midday, and found him gazing at a magnificent cashmere shawl that was spread out on a divan.

"What the devil are you doing?" inquired Monsieur de Valnoir.

"I am admiring this shawl, as you see; isn't it superb?"

"It is, indeed; but it seems as if I had seen it on somebody."

"You have seen its mate on Madame Plays."

"Ah! that's it. And what are you doing with this one? Are you in the way of giving your mistresses cashmere shawls?"

"Why not! If you should see this shawl on the fair American's shoulders, do you think that she would still laugh at my love?"

Célestin pressed his lips together, then replied:

"Oh, no! I should be compelled to believe, on the contrary, that you are a fortunate mortal. But it must have been very expensive!"

"The deuce! it's a present worthy of a prince; but I don't believe she will accept it."

"And I am sure that she will."

"Has Madame Baldimer returned from the country?"

"Yes, last night; and look, do you see this little note?"

"By the perfume alone, I divine that it's from a woman."

"I have just received it; it's from the fair widow, and she expects me at ten this evening."

"At ten o'clock; she makes appointments for rather a late hour."

"So much the better; I will try to prolong the interview, and not leave her till to-morrow morning."

Célestin turned away to hide a grimace which he could not control; then he replied, in a very vivacious tone:

"Pending your love rendezvous, will you meet us this evening, a little before nine? We propose to nab Seigneur Pigeonnier, who thinks that a lady is to meet him on Place des Italiens."

"Oh! I will be there, of course. Poor Tobie! we must have a little fun at his expense; but afterward, if he can't pay, I'll lend him five hundred francs, so that he can settle with Monsieur Varinet."

"The devil! You are a good fellow. Are you in funds?"

"My father is so kind to me! he gives me money without being asked."

"Parbleu! he has nobody left but you; it's right that he should satisfy all your desires."

"Is that why you pay five thousand francs for a shawl?"

"This will be my last folly."

"And you propose to lend Tobie five hundred francs?"

"I am so happy! I would like to be able to oblige all my friends."

"If I had suspected that," thought Célestin, "I would have invented a story to make him anxious to oblige me too.—Shall we dine together to-day?" he said aloud.

"It is impossible. I promised my father to dine with him. I have done it so seldom lately that he looks on it as a great favor, and he's too kind to me for me not to try to please him."

"You are becoming a model of filial respect!"

"Célestin," exclaimed Albert, in a very sharp tone, "I allow you to joke about whatever you choose, except my affection for my father; that is a sentiment which must be respected. It seems to me that it would be very unfortunate if there were nothing left in the world to respect."

"Oh! mon Dieu! don't lose your temper! I had no such purpose as you imagine. Until this evening! we shall expect you at the usual place."

It was not quite nine o'clock, but it had been dark for some time when the young men left Tortoni's café and bent their steps toward Place des Italiens. They had just started, when Mouillot said:

"One moment, messieurs! we have forgotten something. Here, take this."

And he gave each of his friends an olive.

"An olive!"

"What's this for?"

"Very good! splendid!"

"Poor Tobie! This experience will be enough to disgust him with olives, and I'll bet that he won't stuff his pockets with them again when he dines out."

They soon reached Place des Italiens, where they separated, each going to one corner. They agreed that, when Tobie appeared, they would wait until he reached the middle of the square, and then advance upon him at the same time, so that the four olives, accompanied by as many demands for five hundred francs, might be presented simultaneously.

Five minutes passed. Tobie did not appear. Five more minutes passed. The young men coughed loudly from time to time, as if to assure one another that they were still there. To while away the time, Albert thought of Madame Baldimer, whom he was to call upon very soon. He enjoyed in anticipation the pleasure he was about to afford her by presenting her with that shawl, which she coveted, and he hoped that his gallantry would be lovingly rewarded.

Célestin also thought about his relations with the lovely widow, saying to himself from time to time:

"Tobie will not come! he probably suspected something, or was afraid. We shall lose our olives."

Mouillot stamped impatiently, muttering:

"This is getting to be an infernal bore. I believe it's going to rain, too. The sell is on us, after all! Sacrebleu! messieurs! I say there! do you like this? For my part, I've had about enough."

Several more minutes passed. A very fine rain began to fall. Albert, Célestin, and Mouillot were about to desert their posts, when shouts of: "Murder! police! help!" arose in the middle of the square.

The three young men ran toward the place from which the cries came, and found Balivan holding a short man by the arm.

"It's no use for you to yell," he was saying; "you owe me five hundred francs for this olive!"

"What in the devil are you doing, you fool?" cried Mouillot; "let the gentleman alone, will you! It isn't Tobie!"

The man whom Balivan had seized was a respectable bourgeois, who was loitering about in front of the Opéra-Comique, intending to buy a check and see the last play.

Balivan confounded himself in apologies. But the bourgeois, who had had a horrible fright, continued to shout. The soldiers who were on guard at the theatre came up, with several policemen, and a crowd soon assembled. The young men were surrounded, and the man whom Balivan had attacked pointed them out to the soldiers, saying in a voice rendered almost inaudible by terror:

"Arrest those four men. They're all thieves; they tried to rob me of five hundred francs, and I had only forty sous about me! This one threatened me; he tried to murder me with an olive. Arrest all four."

The young men tried to explain to the soldiers that it was all the result of a jest. But the officers took them away, saying:

"That miserable Tobie!" muttered Mouillot; "a nice mess he's got us into with his olives!"

"And my appointment!" thought Albert. "God grant they don't keep us long!"

"It is all Balivan's fault," said Célestin. "With his absent-mindedness, he was perfectly certain to make some blunder."

As for the young artist, he stalked along in the middle of the crowd, thinking:

"Yes, I will paint her with a country scene for a background."

On the day following that on which Elina had asked the messengers about Paul, he returned to his place with his crochets, wearing his jacket and cap; but his face was noticeably paler, his features more drawn, than before his prolonged absence.

The young messenger seated himself in his usual place, nodding to Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle, who were there before him. The former abruptly turned his head away when he saw Paul, and clenched his fists with an angry gesture; but Jean Ficelle, on the contrary, assumed his playful expression and walked to Paul's side.

"I have never ceased to be one," replied Paul, looking earnestly at the house in which Elina worked.

"That's a good one! How about the time we met you dressed like a swell? I don't think you was doing errands much just then! You was on a spree, you know, and it seems to have lasted a long while! Ten days of it! Gad! that's a whole carnival, sure enough!"

"You are mistaken; I haven't been on a spree; you know perfectly well that it's not my custom."

"Not with us, that's true; but you play the nobleman with your mistresses, it seems. Oh! I can understand that when a man's been doing the handsome thing by his girl for ten days, he don't feel inclined to treat his friends to a glass. And then, you have so many girls at once! Ha! ha! you're a Don Jean, as they say in fashionable society. But you must take care that you don't get robbed yourself. Bless me! those things happen to everybody."

Paul shrugged his shoulders, and made no further reply to Jean Ficelle; but he went to Sans-Cravate, whose back was still turned to him, and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Are you still angry with me?" he said. "Well, Sans-Cravate, you are all wrong; yes, you are wrong, for I have done nothing to make you angry. I love you still, for all your roughness and your hot temper, because I know that you have a good heart. I never gave you bad advice, and it seems to me that I deserve your confidence; but you prefer to listen to those who take you to the wine shop, with such people as that Laboussole."

Paul divined what was taking place in Sans-Cravate's heart, and he held out his hand, saying:

"Oh! I know well enough that you are not a bad fellow! You cannot believe that I am Bastringuette's lover, since you know that I am in love with the young dressmaker who works in the house opposite—Mademoiselle Elina. And even if I weren't, as if I could ever give a thought to my friend's mistress! Somebody has spoken ill of me to you, and you listened because you had drunk a little too much; but now that you are cool, you must see that that was all nonsense. Come, give me your hand, and let us forget the past!"

Sans-Cravate put out his hand to grasp Paul's, but drew it back again, crying:

"Yes, sacrédié! it makes me unhappy to be at odds with you. I liked you, and I feel that I'd be glad to like you still. But it ain't a question of what anybody's told me about you, but of what I've seen with my own eyes. You say that you have nothing to do with Bastringuette, that you don't go with her; prove it, and I'm your friend. It ain't that I still care about Bastringuette, or want to make up with her; oh! there's no danger of that! but I just want to be sure that my friend hasn't gone back on me—played a trick on me, as they say; that's all."

"What do you want me to do? How can I prove it, if my word isn't enough?"

Sans-Cravate's eyes were wet; it was clear that his most earnest desire was to be able to call Paul his friend once more, and he waited anxiously for his reply. But Paul hung his head, his face became serious, and he dropped the hand he was holding out to his comrade.

"I am sorry that I cannot satisfy you," he said; "but I cannot tell you what you ask. I tell you again that it was not Bastringuette whom I went to see in that house; if she did go there, it was probably a mere coincidence; but it is certain that she was no more looking for me than I was looking for her."

Jean Ficelle, who had softly drawn near and waited with manifest curiosity for Paul's reply, began to whistle the air of: Go and see if they're coming, Jean, go and see if they're coming.

"What's that!" rejoined Sans-Cravate, with an angry gesture; "you can't tell me who you went to see—who it is you know in that house! It seems to me there's no difficulty in doing that—and when a man ain't doing something crooked, he don't make such a mystery about it."

"Probably I have reasons for acting as I do."

"And you won't tell me your reasons?"

Sans-Cravate stamped the ground angrily, and uttered an energetic oath.

"All right, then; all's over between us; I don't know you any more; you are no mate of mine; I forbid you to speak to me—do you hear? I forbid you; and if you should ever come within range of my eyes, with Bastringuette—not that I care a hang about her! I despise her! I hate her!—but, never mind; if I should see you with her, look out! I shan't always be patient, and you'd be likely to pass a bad quarter of an hour."

Paul made no reply, but took his crochets and carried them some fifty yards away, toward the house where Elina worked; and there he took his stand.

Jean Ficelle went up to Sans-Cravate, who pretended to look in the direction of the boulevard, and said:

"You did well to give that sneak his walking ticket! What a fool he looked when you asked him who he went to see; he couldn't answer. Pardi! I guess not; he'd have to own up that he'd done wrong. I'll give you a comparison: it's just the same as if you saw me opening your trunk, and you says: 'What are you looking in there for?' and I says: 'I can't tell you what I'm looking for;' and you says: 'Tell me!' and I——"

"All right! enough of that! you're never done with your comparisons, and they don't amuse me."

Sans-Cravate hesitated.

"Not work to-day," he muttered, "in the middle of the week, when everybody's at work——"

"Ouiche! everybody—who feels like it! I'll show you a lot of good fellows to-day, who know how to enjoy themselves! Besides, can't a man take a good dinner once in a while, and loaf a bit if he feels like it? There's days when you can't help it. Anyway, it's getting late."

"Late! it's only half-past nine."

"Well, you see there's no business doing; we won't get anything to do to-day; it's the dead season; no one's doing anything."

"Drinking ain't the way to save money to send a marriage portion to my sister Liline."

"You've told me that your sister was pretty; and when a girl's pretty, she don't need a marriage portion; and then, ain't there a lady at Clermont who takes an interest in her, and has taken her into her family and given her an education?"

"Yes, but——"

"Well, she'll find a husband for your sister, that's plain enough; so you don't need to worry about her."

Sans-Cravate sighed profoundly as he spoke, and his eyes scanned the boulevards as if he were looking for someone.

"Well, that's all right; you can go home next spring, and I'll show you out of the city; if you want, I'll wait for you at the barrier till you come back; but at the present time, if you don't take a little pleasure, you'll be as yellow and dry as parchment; you've changed already, you're losing your fine color."

"Oh! I don't care about that now! there's nobody I want to please."

"Nobody knows! nobody knows! you mustn't get careless. A man ought to be handsome all the time, as he's made to seduce; that's all I know. A comparison: it's like a horse that's never curry-combed; his coat loses all its gloss."

"It's sure enough that there's twelve francs here," said Sans-Cravate, tapping his pocket, "that I didn't count on at all."

"We must squeeze 'em dry. You've got twelve francs and I've got fifteen sous; we'll put 'em together, and spree it till they're dead! What do you say?"

Sans-Cravate was still hesitating, when he turned and saw Paul with his eyes fastened on him; thereupon he sprang to his feet and kicked his crochets aside, crying:

"Yes, yes! let's go and enjoy ourselves; to the devil with work! you're right. And while that lasts, I shan't have to look at people I hate. Let's be off, Jean Ficelle! No more work as long as the money holds out!"

In another moment, Jean Ficelle had bestowed the crochets in their usual place, and the two messengers walked away arm in arm, Sans-Cravate without looking at Paul, while Jean Ficelle, on the contrary, ostentatiously cast a sneering glance at their young comrade.

"Poor Sans-Cravate!" said Paul to himself, when he saw the two men leave their stand and their work; "he lets Jean Ficelle entice him away, and perhaps he will end by becoming as much of a ne'er-do-well as his companion!"

But the young man soon turned his eyes once more on the neighboring porte cochère; he was sorely disappointed because Elina did not come out, and wondered what she could think of him, when she had failed to find him in his usual place for eleven days.

He kept his eyes fixed on the door of the house in which the little dressmaker worked, almost every minute of the day; if he went away to do an errand, his eyes turned instantly in that direction when he came back; and he waited and waited, hoping that his love would come out; but she did not appear.

At last the night came, and the hour at which the girls ceased their labors, unless they were detained by some unusual press of work. Paul had determined not to go away without seeing Elina, even if he had to pass the whole evening in the street.

But just before nine o'clock, Elina came out at last, and, although it was dark, her first glance was at Paul's usual stand; not seeing him there, she quickened her pace, when she heard a well-known voice behind her:

"How fast you go, mademoiselle!"

"I have been here since morning; I hoped you would come out for a minute, but I had to wait until now. Ah! the day has seemed terribly long to me."

"Really, monsieur; but for the last eleven days I have been expecting to see you in your place. Every morning I came early, so as to have time to talk a little with you; but, no, monsieur was never here. I was foolish enough even to ask leave to go out during the day, thinking that you would be there, but I took all those steps for nothing. Of course, I was a great fool to think of—a person who wasn't thinking of me. When one is thinking of anybody, he doesn't let eleven days go by without a word."

Elina said all this very rapidly, as if she did not wish to give her anger time to cool. Paul listened, walking by her side, and replied with the accent that comes from the heart:

"Elina, can it be that you believe that I no longer love you?"

The girl slackened her pace, and her voice indicated that her anger had already begun to subside, as she answered:

"Yes, monsieur; I do believe it—I am very sure of it. Not to come for eleven days! not even to find some means to be there just for a moment, to say a word to me. Oh! that was very cruel."

"Why, do you suppose, mademoiselle, that the time has not seemed long to me? that I have not been miserable at being deprived of the happiness of seeing you and hearing your voice; you, whom I love so dearly, and who are in my thoughts every instant?"

"Well, monsieur, if that is true, then what is the meaning of this long absence? what became of you for eleven days? it seems to me as if they were months!"

"Believe that some very powerful motive was necessary to keep me away from you."

"A motive—that is no answer. Tell me, where have you been, what have you been doing? I have been told that you are a very mysterious person, that you have several occupations—is that true? No; for you would have told me. I have been assured, also, that you had robbed your comrade Sans-Cravate of his—his—mistress."

"Oh! surely you did not believe that either, did you, mademoiselle? I, rob my comrade, my friend, of his mistress! for I am fond of Sans-Cravate, although he has the reputation of being hot-headed and quarrelsome. I have seen him give all he possessed, the proceeds of a whole day's work, to a poor woman who went by with two children in her arms, and dressed in rags. And the man who does that cannot be a bad man. I, take away his mistress! Is such a thing possible?"

"Ah! that is what I said when I was told of it: 'Is such a thing possible?' but they seemed to laugh at me because I refused to believe it."

"Who?"

"Your comrades."

"Have you spoken to them?"

"Mon Dieu, yes! I ought not to have done it, but I couldn't contain myself. When you didn't come, I said to myself that some accident must have happened to you, or else you were sick. Oh! I was awfully unhappy."

"How happy I am! you still love me! Ah! this moment makes me forget all my cares. To think that anyone should dare to say that I love any other woman! You do not believe it, Elina, you will never believe it! Poor messenger that I am, am I not fortunate enough to be loved by you? what more could I desire?"

"Yes, I believe that you love me. I won't be angry any more; it makes one too wretched to be angry with a person one loves. Look at me; I am willing to see your face now. Oh! it seems to me that you have grown paler, that you have changed, since I saw you. Have you been sick?"

"No; it's the vexation and disappointment I have suffered."

"You haven't told me yet what you were doing those eleven days."

"I have been with a person, a friend, who was very ill; he had nobody but me to take care of him, so I could not leave him."

"Oh! in that case, I am not angry with you any more. But you never mentioned this friend to me."

"Because I seldom see him—only when he needs me."

"You are not lying to me? you haven't taken anybody's mistress?"

"I have thought of nobody but you."

"Good! now I am happy again. I had so many things to tell you; but when two people are together, they don't think—that is to say, they think too much—well, I don't know how it happens, but I forget everything else."

"Dear Elina!"

"Yes, indeed, I remember; but which one?"

"He's tall, but not handsome, and he has a bold, impertinent manner."

"I see which you mean; it must be Monsieur Célestin."

"Well, I noticed several times that he followed me when I came out of Madame Dumanchon's at night, to go home; he walked very close to me, and spoke to me, said a lot of foolish things, I don't know what, for I didn't listen, I never once answered him, and I walked so fast, to avoid hearing him, that I assure you he had to run to keep up with me.—'If Monsieur Paul was here with me,' I said to myself, 'he wouldn't dare to follow me, and I shouldn't be afraid of this horrid man.'"

"Poor Elina! did that fellow dare to insult you?"

"I don't know whether he did or not, for I didn't listen to him. Once he tried to take my arm and stop me, but I released myself so quickly, and pushed him away so hard, that he stood as if he was dazed, in the middle of the street. Well, he didn't follow me any more, and I was very glad; but this morning——"

"This morning?"

"One of your comrades—not Sans-Cravate, but the other one——"

"Jean Ficelle?"

"Yes. As I came down from my aunt's lodgings, I found him at the door.—'Mademoiselle,' he said, 'my comrade Paul would like to speak to you; he's waiting for you at a little restaurant close by, at the end of the street; I'll show you the place.'"

"The villain!"

"Oh! what an infernal scoundrel that Jean Ficelle is! to second the scheme of a man who intended to outrage you! So that is what he meant to hint at this morning when he said that someone might rob me of the woman I loved. And I was so far from suspecting it! I didn't pay the slightest attention to his words.—But what happened next?"

Paul's blood fairly boiled with rage when he learned that Jean Ficelle had stooped to further the projects of a man who could have had no other purpose than to ruin Elina. If his comrade had been in his place at that moment, he would have made haste to demand an explanation of his conduct, and would have been very likely to remove any inclination on his part to act again as the agent of a seducer. But Jean Ficelle and Sans-Cravate had not reappeared since the morning; and Paul, to reassure Elina, was compelled to promise her that he would not seek a quarrel with his fellow messenger.

"There is no danger for me now," she said; "Jean Ficelle did what he was told to do, in order to earn money. Certainly it is very wrong to deceive a young girl, for, of course, he knew that it wasn't you who sent for me. But all messengers are not over particular. So much the worse for the dishonest ones! Despise that man, but don't quarrel with him; if you do, monsieur, I shall never tell you again what happens to me."

"Very well; I will obey you."

"That's right; and then, you must always be with me in the morning when I go to my work, and at night when I go home; be my protector, my guardian angel, and I am very sure that no one will try again to induce me to go into a restaurant."

"To be always with you—that is my dearest wish; but sometimes——"

"Your work—yes, I understand. But try to be always at liberty in the morning and evening. Isn't it enough to work all day?"

"Don't be afraid; I will remember the little restaurant. I wish you could have seen that man's face when he saw that I had escaped him. Oh! it would have made you laugh. Mon Dieu! it must be awfully late; we have been talking a long while."

"It seems to me as if it had been only a minute."

"Oh! don't think that it's a bore to me! far from it; but my aunt will want to know where I have been so late. Do you know what time it is, Monsieur Paul?"

"I haven't any watch, mademoiselle."

"Nor I; but we can look into the watchmaker's as we pass. Almost eleven, do you see? And I had so much more to say to you!"

"And so had I!"

"It must wait till to-morrow. Here I am at my door; adieu! till to-morrow!"

"Till to-morrow!"

"I'll try to remember all I had to say to you."

The clock had just struck eleven. Madame Baldimer, dressed with even more coquetry than usual, had been waiting a long while in her boudoir; impatience, uneasiness, and anger gleamed in her eyes. Again and again she rose, paced the floor excitedly, stopped to listen for the doorbell, then looked at her clock. For the third time she pulled a bellrope, and her maid appeared.

"Has no one come, Rosa?"

"No, madame."

"It is inconceivable! I wrote him to come at ten, and now it is eleven! He is always so eager, so prompt! I cannot understand it. If he had triumphed, I could conceive of his failing to keep an appointment; but so long as a man is not our conqueror, he is our slave. Can it be that Albert is not like other men?"

"Is it Monsieur Albert Vermoncey whom madame expects this evening?"

"To be sure."

"And if Monsieur le Comte Dahlborne should come also?"

"Well! you will admit him."

"Even if Monsieur Albert is here?"

"Mon Dieu! yes; how stupid you are!"

At last, the bell rang. The fair widow drew herself up with an almost convulsive movement.

"Here he is!" she exclaimed, and her features assumed an expression of joy and triumph.

In another instant the door opened. The maid announced Monsieur Albert Vermoncey, and the young man darted joyously into the boudoir.

"Here I am at last!" he cried; "I have had a hard time of it, madame, and I did think that it would be impossible for me to-night to enjoy the pleasure of seeing you, and of this delightful interview which I desired so earnestly!"

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, what has happened to you, pray? I have been expecting you since ten o'clock. I had no sooner returned from the country than I hastened to let you know; I even did you the favor to say that I should expect you this evening. I thought that you would be very glad to see me again. But, instead of that, monsieur does not come. Perhaps I did wrong to write you—I have taken you from your pleasures——"

"Oh! do not say that. But pray listen to my story—it is very amusing, I assure you. I am just from the guardhouse."

"From the guardhouse! Why, what have you been doing?"

Madame Baldimer laughed heartily at Albert's adventure. Meanwhile, he took up a package which he had deposited on a table when he came in, and placed it on the lovely widow's knees.

"See," he said, "is not this what you expressed a wish to possess?"

Madame Baldimer removed the paper, which contained a magnificent cashmere shawl. Her face was radiant and she bestowed the sweetest of smiles on the young man, murmuring:

"Oh! but you are really too gallant; it is too beautiful, and a present of such value—— No; I cannot accept it."

"You accept a superb fan from Count Dahlborne!"

"There's a vast difference between a fan and this; people will say that I lead you on to do foolish things."

"Ah! I shall be only too happy to do them, if your love is the reward."

"But how did you succeed in finding out that it was this very shawl that I wanted?"

"Didn't you tell me that it was like one that Madame Plays wore at one of Count Dahlborne's receptions?"

"Yes, I remember——"

"Well! I called on Madame Plays and asked her to show me the beautiful cashmere she wore that day."

"But I thought that you had quarrelled with that lady."

"I presented her with a bouquet, and she forgave me."

"Just for the bouquet?"

"Why, yes."

"Hm! I imagine that the shawl must have cost you something more."

"You are mistaken."

"Poor Herminie! if she knew that she owed your visit solely to your desire to give me a shawl like one of hers! Ha! ha! ha! she would be frantic! What traitors men are, aren't they?"

"We are driven to it sometimes."

"Ha! ha! I like to think of going to see her with this shawl over my shoulders—she was so proud of hers! she will be struck dumb."

Albert was beginning to consider that Madame Baldimer prolonged his torment a little too far, when the doorbell rang again.

"Who can have come so late to call upon you?" cried Albert; "it is almost twelve o'clock, and I thought that you would receive nobody but me to-night."

"Really, I don't expect anybody, unless possibly it is Count Dahlborne. That man pesters me with his attentions. He has probably heard of my return, and he loses no time——"

"But a man doesn't call at this time of night, unless he is on very good terms with a woman!"

"Ah! monsieur, that suspicion——"

"Very well! if it's the count, send him away—don't receive him."

Before Madame Baldimer could reply, the maid announced Count Dahlborne, and the Swede instantly made his appearance.

Albert's features contracted. Madame Baldimer welcomed the count with an affable smile; and he, as cold and formal as ever, saluted her with his usual stiffness, imprinted a kiss on her hand, and sat down beside her, precisely as if Albert were not present.

The young man amused himself tearing his gloves, while his reflections took this turn:

"This must come to an end; I didn't give her a shawl that cost five thousand francs for the pleasure of seeing this man."

Madame Baldimer made one or two of the commonplace remarks which people employ to open a conversation.

At last, at a moment when nothing was being said, the count took a velvet case from his pocket, and handed it to Madame Baldimer, saying:

"Here is a trifle—to take the place of the fan; it isn't so breakable."

The widow opened the case, which contained a magnificent opera glass of most beautiful workmanship; she uttered a cry of admiration, and, taking the glass from the case, handed it to Albert, saying:

"Did you ever see anybody so gallant?"

"It looks very much as if this woman were making a fool of me!" said Albert to himself.

However, he restrained himself, and, merely glancing at the glass, cried with an affected enthusiasm which closely resembled mockery:

"Oh! it is magnificent! Great God! how beautiful it is! I would like right well to know where monsieur finds such beautiful things!"

The Swede bit his lips, but said nothing.

Madame Baldimer continued to extol the opera glass; and Albert, glancing at the shawl, which lay neglected on a chair, said to himself:

"God! what fools men are sometimes!"

But the conversation languished. Madame Baldimer made but a feeble effort to sustain it. The Swede said a word or two at once, never more than that; and Albert contented himself with ejaculating at intervals:

"Mon Dieu! what an opera glass! it is dazzling!"

Whereupon the count made an imperceptible grimace, and glanced furtively at the young man.

"It is very late, messieurs," she said; "I am going to bed, and I bid you good-night!"

The two men rose to salute her.

The lovely widow took occasion to whisper to Albert, as she asked him to hand her the shawl:

"That man is insufferable to me; try to rid me of him."

Albert simply bowed, without a word.

Then, as she passed the count, she said in his ear:

"That young man is always at my heels; pray find some way to relieve me of his presence."

The Swede, in his turn, made a low bow.

Thereupon she left the two gentlemen in the boudoir, each reflecting upon what she had just whispered to him. They glanced at each other from time to time—Albert with a mocking expression, the count with a slight frown.

After some minutes had passed thus, the Swede decided to speak first. He walked up to Albert, and said to him, still in a most ceremonious tone:

"It seems to me, monsieur, that you meant to be understood as making fun of the opera glass which I presented to Madame Baldimer."

"Faith! yes," the young man airily replied; "after all, monsieur, that's as good a motive as any! and I fancy that we both understand what we have in view."

"Perfectly, monsieur. At what hour to-morrow, if you please?"

"Oh! not too early, if it's all the same to you; for I am a little lazy about getting up in the morning."

"Very good—say ten o'clock?"

"Entirely so; and your weapons?"

"Whatever you choose."

"Pistols, then."

"Agreed."

"I shall have one second; I believe that one is sufficient, in this country?"

"We are at liberty to have two; but, as you say, one is enough."

"Until to-morrow, then!"

"Until to-morrow, monsieur le comte! and now, I believe that there is nothing further to detain us here."

The Swede bowed with an almost affable expression, and opened the door of the boudoir, pausing to allow Albert to go out first; but he would not. After a contest of politeness, the count finally went first, and they soon reached the foot of the staircase.

The concierge was asleep; before he opened the door, Albert produced a dainty cigar case from his pocket and took out a cigar, saying:

"I am in the habit of smoking every night before I go to bed."

"I am very much annoyed," said the count; "I have forgotten my case, and I also am fond of smoking when I go home at night."

"In that case, allow me to offer you a cigar, monsieur le comte," said Albert, offering the Swede his case. "I am sure you will like them; they are very good indeed."

"Until to-morrow!"

"At ten o'clock."

"At Porte Saint-Mandé."