"Take care they don't slap you; that would draw a crowd, and wouldn't please me."
"Slap me! They're more likely to kiss me, I should say; but I'll make a grimace, so as not to tempt them."
And Chaudoreille, drawing his hat down over his eyes, departed, taking as long steps as his little legs would permit.
In about three minutes Chaudoreille returned to say to the barber,—
"There's a woman who has just come along by the Pont Marie, and who is going to pass over this bridge."
"Indeed! Is she the one we are waiting for? You ought to know, if you've peered into her face."
"No; I wasn't able to do that this time, because she was giving her arm to a man, and he would have been frightened."
"If she's with a man it's not our young girl; one doesn't bring witnesses to a lovers' meeting."
"That's correct," said Chaudoreille, and he started off again.
Some minutes later he returned to Touquet, crying,—
"Here's another one who is coming along this way; but this one is alone, I am sure of that."
"Is it our beauty?"
"No, it is not she."
"You idiot! what did you come and tell me for?"
"So that you should not make a mistake; I thought it was my duty to avert that."
"Chaudoreille, do me the pleasure of remaining still. I know very well how to recognize her whom I came to meet without your help; although I haven't yet seen her, I am certain that I shan't make a mistake; but, hang it! if she doesn't come to this meeting, I shall send you to drink the water under the bridge, to teach you to do your errands better."
Chaudoreille had not heard the barber's last words; he was already far away, but he returned precipitately, looking scared.
"What is it now?" said Touquet.
"A patrol of the watch, which I can see coming, and which is going to pass by us."
"Well, what of that? What has the watch to do with us? It's not forbidden to walk on the bridge, and, even if they should see us abduct a young girl I can answer for it they'll hardly trouble themselves about that."
"Haven't we a rather suspicious look?"
"You make me ashamed of you."
"I shall pretend to be laughing, to allay their suspicions."
"Wait, perhaps this will give you more courage."
So saying the barber kicked Chaudoreille; but the latter received it singing, contenting himself by rubbing the part attacked while executing his trills, because at that moment the watch was passing them. When the patrol had departed he breathed more freely, and cried,—
"They have taken us for simple troubadours."
"They should have taken you for a fool. A plague on all poltroons! They are good for nothing except to spoil everything."
"I'm not going to get angry at a matter which doesn't concern me; but on great occasions it seems to me that stratagem is often better than valor."
The barber had begun to be impatient, when a young woman came on to the bridge, walking slowly and glancing from time to time about her. Chaudoreille had not perceived her, because he was in ambuscade at the side of the Rue des Deux-Ponts.
Touquet approached the unknown, looked at her and saw that this really was the young girl whom the marquis had depicted; for her part, the damsel looked attentively at the barber, and seemed to wait for him to address her in words.
"Are you not the Signora Julia?" said the barber in a bass voice, approaching the young girl.
"And you the barber Touquet?" answered she, lifting to him her animated black eyes.
The barber was surprised at hearing himself named by a person to whom he believed himself unknown, but, after having considered the young girl anew, he resumed,—
"Since you know me, you should also know that the Marquis de Villebelle has sent me to you."
"The marquis is rather ungallant," answered Julia, "in not coming himself to a first meeting."
"These great noblemen are not the masters of their time; besides, the marquis has no desire to converse with you about his love on this bridge."
"Preferring, no doubt, his little house of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine?"
"It seems to me, signora, that you are very well acquainted with everything that concerns the marquis; after that I have nothing more to tell you, except that a carriage is waiting a hundred feet from here."
"Very well, let us go."
"The deuce!" said the barber to himself, offering his arm to Julia, that he might conduct her to the coach; "here is a young girl who doesn't make a bit of fuss about allowing herself to be abducted. But I must confess that there's something in her voice and manners very decided and piquant, which astonishes as well as pleases."
They had reached the carriage when Chaudoreille's voice was heard; he ran after the barber, crying,—
"There's a woman coming by the side of the Porte de la Tournelle; it is our little one; I recognized her walk."
Saying these words, Chaudoreille perceived that the barber was conducting a person to whom he had given his arm.
"How is this? What does this mean? Must I believe my eyes?" cried the chevalier. "That's our beauty, and what the deuce way did she come? No matter; we've got her; that's the essential thing. I will protect your walk."
Chaudoreille then drew his sword, and, giving no ear to the barber, who bade him depart, ran up to the carriage, crying to the two men who were near,—
"My friends, here they are. Be adroit, be courageous. By jingo! she must enter your vehicle, willingly or by force."
Somebody opened the door, and Chaudoreille was a little surprised at seeing the young person trip first into the carriage. He was about to do the same, and seat himself near her, when Touquet, taking him by the breeches, dropped him on all-fours on the pavement, and, following Julia into the carriage, said to the coachman,—
"Go on!"
"What the deuce! he's going to abduct her without me," said Chaudoreille, picking himself up. "No, not by all the devils! It shall not be said that I did not finish this adventure; besides, they've only given me something on account, and I should like to be settled with before the marquis gets tired of the little one."
Chaudoreille immediately darted after the carriage; accustomed to running, he caught up with it, mounted behind, and allowed himself to be drawn at a great gallop, taking care to hold tightly to the tassels, which served to support him.
THE carriage bearing the barber and Julia had soon passed the Porte Saint-Antoine, which at that period had not attained the dignity of the Faubourg, but was in a neighborhood where the road is cut by the boulevards, and which served frequently, as did all thinly inhabited districts at the time of which we are writing, for a meeting-place for robbers, vagabonds, pages, lackeys and cut-purses.
The marquis' little house was situated near the Vallée de Fécamp, which today is replaced by a street bearing the same name, and making the continuation of the Rue de la Planchette. Crossing this unlighted place of evil fame in the middle of the night was, at that time, to expose one's self to as much danger as though passing through the forest of Bondy. However, many noblemen had chosen this quarter for the theatre of their gallantries. They possessed small houses there, their ordinary meeting-places in their love intrigues, and often went out incognito, but always well armed.
The carriage stopped before an enclosing wall; Chaudoreille looked about him on all sides. The house was isolated, and the wall which enclosed the garden appeared unbroken, but Touquet had already alighted from the carriage; he approached a small door which the chevalier had not perceived, and rang a bell. Before any one could come to open it Chaudoreille had left the place which he had occupied, and had offered his hand to Julia to assist her in alighting from the carriage.
The door was immediately opened by a man servant, who appeared holding a lantern in his hand, and, merely glancing at the carriage and at the damsel who was getting out of it, he contented himself with smiling and making a low bow to the barber.
"Your master has warned you that we were coming?" said Touquet to this person in a low voice.
"Yes, monsieur," answered the servant, "I am waiting for you."
Here the barber, upon turning around to introduce Julia to the lackey perceived for the first time the redoubtable Chaudoreille, who stood bolt upright before the door with his sword in his hand, as though he were a sentinel on guard. The barber shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and, after handing Julia in, he unceremoniously dragged the chevalier by his mantle, and made him also pass into the garden, saying,—
"Since you have followed us here, it is necessary that you should do something for us."
"That is my duty, by jingo," responded the chevalier, while Touquet reclosed the garden gate, after having said to the two men who were near the coach,—
"Wait for me."
They followed along a tiled passageway which led to the house. The garden was gloomy. The servant who carried the lantern walked in front, and Chaudoreille, who found himself the last, glanced from time to time anxiously from right to left; he wished to open the conversation, and had already exclaimed, "This garden appears to be very large," when the barber turned and ordered him to keep silent. To indemnify himself for this forced silence, Chaudoreille, who was still holding Rolande naked in his hand, struck every tree that he met.
They arrived at the house and entered a vestibule, at the end of which was a staircase, while to the right and the left doors led to the apartments on the ground floor.
Julia, who had followed her conductors without speaking, appeared to examine attentively everything that presented itself to her. Chaudoreille, finding himself near the man with the lantern, uttered a cry of surprise, saying,—
"Why, what the deuce! I can't be mistaken. It is Marcel, one of my old friends. Don't you know me? I am Chaudoreille; we spent six months in prison together, but it was for a mere trifle. I left it as white as snow."
"Be silent, idiots," cried the barber; "you can make your greetings a little later. Where is madame's apartment?"
"On the first floor," answered Marcel, putting his hand in Chaudoreille's, who shook it as if he had found his best friend.
"Lead us," said Touquet, "and you remain here."
The latter part of this order was addressed to the chevalier and it did not afford him much pleasure; but he was forced to obey. However, when Chaudoreille perceived that there was no light in the vestibule where they left him, and where he found himself in the most complete obscurity, he ascended several steps of the stairs, crying in a quivering voice,—
"Don't leave me alone here. The night is chilly and I am afraid of taking cold."
Marcel led Julia and the barber and, after making them pass through several rooms, lighted only by his lantern, opened a door, saying,—
"Here is the room in which madame can rest herself."
Julia could not restrain an exclamation of surprise, and the barber himself was lost in admiration. The room which they had entered was lighted by a lustre hung from the ceiling, and the light of many wax candles permitted one to admire the luxury with which this place was decorated. Delightful paintings of seductive and voluptuous figures ornamented the wainscot. The furniture was upholstered in light blue, where silk and silver were blended with art. There were Venetian glasses, Persian carpets, candelabras in which perfumes were burning, while natural flowers were disposed elsewhere, in pyramids, in crystal vases. The whole combination tended to make a sojourn in this place a delight, for here was united everything that would intoxicate the senses and inspire pleasure.
Julia and the barber had entered the lighted room; Marcel remained respectfully at the door and seemed to wait some orders.
"This place is delightful," said Julia; "but I do not see the marquis."
"You will see him soon, madame," answered Touquet; "in an hour he will be here. While awaiting him you can ask for everything that is agreeable to you. Your desires will be accomplished immediately. This bell communicates with the floor below. Is not that so, Marcel?"
"Yes, monsieur, and if madame would like to take something, I have prepared a collation in the little neighboring room."
Marcel indicated a door hidden by a mirror. The barber pushed it and they saw a second room, smaller but equally well lighted, and decorated with as much magnificence, only the furniture and the hangings were of poppy-colored velvet, ornamented with fringes of gold, while light blue and silver were the only colors in the first.
"He did not deceive me," said Touquet to himself, glancing into the second room, "when he said that he had made an enchanting bower of this house. What luxury! What magnificence! How much money he must have spent to do all this! And yet he is not happy."
Julia had thrown herself on a lounge and appeared thoughtful. The barber bowed to her, and, making a sign to Marcel, left the apartment with him.
Marcel was a bachelor of twenty-eight or thirty years, short, fat and cheerful; obedient and exact as an Oriental, but endowed with very little genius and incapable of conducting the merest intrigue. The marquis, to whom more adroit, more active, more enterprising people were necessary, but who appreciated Marcel's faithfulness, had found, in order to keep him, no better means of employing him than to make him the keeper of this house. There his functions were limited to a passive obedience to the orders which he received; but he was a stranger to all the intrigues of which this abode was the theatre, and ignored sometimes the correct name of the person who during a short period was reigning sovereign in the little house. This troubled him little, and his indifference was a guarantee of his discretion, a quality which in his employ was very necessary.
"You know Chaudoreille?" said the barber to Marcel, following him into the passageway which led to the staircase.
"Yes, monsieur," answered the valet, "I knew him formerly in a rather unfortunate affair, since I had to pass six months in prison, and God knows if I was guilty. It is in the neighborhood of seven years ago, and I was not then in the marquis' service. I was drinking in an inn, and Chaudoreille was there also; he was playing at piquet with two other cavaliers, and they invited me to make one of their party. I accepted the invitation. I played and I lost. He took my place, put down some crowns for me, saying that we should be partners, and played with surprising good fortune. I was delighted to see him win, but our adversaries pretended that he cheated. Then they disputed, and in place of paying us wanted to fight us so badly that they made a great noise. The sergeants of the watch arrived with their archers and led us to prison,—Chaudoreille and me. That was how we made acquaintance; but since that time I have lost the taste for playing. I wouldn't touch a card now."
"All the better for you. I advise you to keep that resolution."
The barber and Marcel then went down the stairs which led into the vestibule, when cries of "Thief!" "Beware!" "Murder!" came to their ears. The cries came from the garden, and Touquet recognized the chevalier's voice.
"What the devil is he at now?" said the barber, hurrying his steps, while Marcel followed him, repeating,—
"Thieves! That is singular. However, the doors are close shut, and the walls of the garden are ten feet high."
Tired of being without light in the vestibule, Chaudoreille had returned into the garden, where, since the moon was nearly hidden by clouds, one could see but a little way from him. The chevalier was singing a virelay which he accompanied by striking Rolande against the branches, then barren of foliage. All of a sudden, at the entrance to some shrubbery, a large white face appeared opposite Chaudoreille, who stopped and cried, in a faltering voice,—
"Who goes there?"
Nobody answered him, and he judged it prudent in place of repeating his question to regain the house. In his alarm he mistook the way, and at a turn in the alley perceived before him another personage, who held a club in his hand, with which he seemed disposed to strike him. It was then that Chaudoreille, who felt his strength for flight fail him, made the garden echo with his cries. Guided by his voice, the barber and Marcel were soon near him.
"What is the matter? Wherefore this noise?" said Touquet.
"Don't you see that wretch who is waiting for me down there to slay me, while his accomplice is hidden in another bush?"
The barber turned to look in the direction which Chaudoreille designated with his hand. Marcel did likewise, holding the lantern before him. Soon the latter burst into a shout of laughter, and the barber cried,—
"I was sure that this clown would commit some foolishness."
"Why foolishness? Zounds! Why did not these people answer me when I cried to them, 'Who goes there?'"
"That would be very difficult for them," said Marcel. "The one that you perceive over there is Hercules killing the Lernean hydra, and the other is probably Mercury or Mars. Perhaps it was even a Venus which frightened you."
"Frightened me? Oh, no. By jingo, I wasn't frightened; but they should warn people when they have an Olympus in their garden. In any case, if it is Mercury he can flatter himself that he has received five or six strokes from the flat of this sword, and they weren't given by a dead hand."
"And if this young girl heard your cries, wretch," said the barber directing his steps towards the little door.
"I do not think she could," said Marcel, "the room she occupies looks out on the other side of the garden."
The barber then opened the door by which they had entered.
"Remain with Marcel," said he to Chaudoreille. "The marquis will soon be here. If he has any orders for me you will come and communicate them to me immediately, but before monseigneur you must be mute. If the least word escapes you before him, if you commit a single awkwardness, remember I shall take your punishment upon myself."
So saying, Touquet sprang into the carriage, which left immediately. Chaudoreille was pleased to remain, thinking that he would now see the marquis and could find a way to prove his intelligence to him. He took Marcel's arm, remembering that the latter had a very sweet disposition and was easily led, and felicitated himself on the chance which had led to their meeting. The barber alighted when some steps distant from his house. He paid the people, sent away the carriage and hastened to enter, for the marquis would be there towards ten o'clock and it was not far from that now. Marguerite opened the door to her master, who addressed a few ordinary questions to her on the subject of Blanche. The old servant swore to her master that no man had spoken to the young girl. Touquet sent Marguerite away. He wished to wait for the marquis alone. Ten o'clock had sounded some time ago and the barber, who awaited congratulations and a new recompense, was beginning to be astonished at the lack of haste on the part of the marquis when, at last, somebody knocked at the street door and the great nobleman entered the barber's house.
"Hang it, my poor Touquet, I barely missed forgetting our rendezvous," said the marquis, throwing himself on a seat.
"What, monseigneur, you forget a love affair? That astonishes me, I confess."
"You should, however, be able to understand it better than another. Why should not one end by tiring of that which he does every day? I am utterly blasé in regard to these things. I had, God forgive me, totally forgotten the little one. I was at the Hotel de Bourgogne with Chavagnac, Montheil and some other of my friends. Turlupin, Gautier-Garguille and Gros-Guillaume very much diverted us. The rascals are full of jokes; they are quite the fashion. Everybody is running to see them. They have created a furore, above all, since they represented a comical scene at the cardinal's palace, and since Richelieu has permitted them to play at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, despite the protests of the comedians. On leaving there we went into an inn; we were in the mood for laughter; we fought with some little shopkeepers who disputed the possession of a table with us. They shouted like the devil; the sergeants of the watch came, but we mentioned our names in a low tone and the king's archers helped us to put the rabble out of the place. We remained masters of the field of battle; it couldn't end otherwise. I never laughed so much. Chavagnac actually wished to eat an omelette off the face of a fat draper; the poor devil made some horrible grimaces in his fright; it was really very comical; he escaped by swallowing twelve glasses of brandy one after the other; afterwards we made him roll from the first story to the groundfloor. Finally, my dear fellow, you can conceive that with all this the little nut-brown maid went entirely out of my head, but just then somebody mentioned a master knave; I thought of you and that recalled our rendezvous. Well, now, to come to the point, where do we stand?"
"Monseigneur, I have fulfilled your desires, and for the past hour the young girl has been at your little house."
"You don't say so! What! Is the affair really terminated thus quickly. It doesn't seem as though mademoiselle had made many scruples."
"I must confess, monsieur, that she got into the carriage with a very good grace."
"A little resistance would have pleased me better; it's cruel that one can have immediately all that one desires. These young girls are so impressed when one speaks to them of a great nobleman. I'm almost sorry I have entangled myself with this one, for the devil carry me away if I'm in love with her the least bit in the world. For very little I'd have you take her back to the place you took her from. What d'you say, Touquet; that would be droll, wouldn't it?"
The barber, piqued at the little pleasure evinced by the marquis at his successful abduction of the young girl, answered coldly,—
"I see that monseigneur has almost entirely forgotten the one who charmed him two days ago; if he could remember her he would not show so much indifference in her possession."
"What, is she really so beautiful? Do you think she is capable of engaging my affection for any length of time?"
"I don't know, monsieur, whether she will have that good fortune; but I have seen many courtesans in the highest vogue who did not equal that young Italian."
"Is she an Italian?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"All the better; that alters the case a little."
"Her name is Julia; her face, while not regularly beautiful, has a nameless something that is very piquant and seductive; and there is in her voice, in her manner, in everything about her, something that denotes force and originality. In short, she is not a languorous beauty, such as one most often sees."
"Do you know, you pique my curiosity; come, tomorrow, we'll admire all this."
"Tomorrow! What monsieur, and the young girl is awaiting you with impatience?"
"We must let her sigh until then; I have promised to rejoin my friends and finish the night with them. With people of honor one does not break his word; the beautiful Julia must be patient."
"I also left one of my men with Marcel, in case monsieur le marquis should have any further orders to send me. I hope he'll be useful, since Marcel can't leave the house."
"Oh, very well, your man can wait; one can give him a few pistoles more. By the way, I must pay you. Wait! Here's some gold I won at lansquenet this morning. But time's passing, I wager those rascals are getting impatient; I must run and rejoin them. We shall have a delightful night; we are in just the vein for diversion. We'll make some notches in the good citizens of Paris, we'll flog the watch, we'll stop chair porters, and I won't answer for it that we don't steal some mantles on the Pont-Neuf."
The marquis hastily departed and the barber closed his door, saying,—
"After all, he may do as he pleases now, since I have been paid."
While this interview was taking place in the Rue des Bourdonnaise, the young girl whom they had left in the luxurious boudoir, arose from the lounge as soon as those who brought her had departed. She approached a mirror which reflected the whole figure; one glance sufficed to distract and give her occupation. Julia arranged her hair, passing her fingers through it and re-formed its ringlets; she examined herself, she smiled; Julia was a coquette; so to some extent is every woman, they say. To judge whether she be more or less so it is only necessary to count the minutes that she passes before her mirror; ordinarily she is not the prettiest who there looks at herself longest.
At last Julia appeared satisfied with herself; she left the mirror and ran about the boudoir and into the neighboring room, admiring everything which she had pretended to view with indifference as long as anyone could see her. She stopped before an alabaster clock which bore a little love. The hand pointed nearly to eleven o'clock. Julia sighed and frowned, and threw herself into an easy chair, murmuring,—
"He does not come."
While the young girl sighingly regarded the clock, Chaudoreille asked Marcel to lead him to the dining-room, saying that he was dying of hunger and that since the morning he had been running in the service of monsieur le marquis. Marcel hastened to offer his guest a good supper, to which the chevalier did full honor. While eating, Chaudoreille recounted his exploits to his old friend, and as Marcel listened to everything in good faith, our Gascon, delighted at finding someone who had faith in his prowess, had already killed fifteen rivals and delivered eight victims of tyranny, before he had begun a second helping.
"Old fellow," said Marcel, opening his eyes wide, and helping himself to drink, "it seems to me that you have a hot head."
"Hot? By jingo, say boiling; say volcanic. It is not my fault, but I can't be moderate. I am a rake of honor, a real devil; that is the word."
"But why did you call for help against the statues in the garden?"
"Listen, my dear Marcel: At first I could not see that they were statues, and when one is brave one believes that one sees robbers everywhere; you don't understand that, because you are cool-blooded, and, besides that, you can very well understand that I could not allow myself to kill anybody in the Marquis de Villebelle's house without having asked permission."
"Hush, no one names the marquis here."
"Ah, I understand. That is correct. It is necessary to have some mystery. Hang it! This is the abode of love incognito. Say, Marcel, have you been living long in this house?"
"Nearly five years."
"You must have seen some beauties."
"I have seen nothing, for here it is necessary to see and not to see."
"I understand very well. What the deuce do you take me for, a caitiff? That is all right. You have a golden place. The marquis is generous, is he not?"
"Yes."
"You earn at least twenty pistoles a year."
"Double that."
"Fortunate rascal. When I say rascal, you are the most perfectly honest man that I know. I even believe that you are the only one that I know. Good old Marcel! I am very much pleased to have met you again. I have looked for you all over, in the gambling houses and in the gambling hells even."
"Oh, I have not played for a long time."
"Nonsense, you are joking."
"No, since our adventure I have lost my taste for playing. To go to prison when one is innocent is very disagreeable."
"Oh, well, old fellow, there are a good many thieves who don't go and that makes the balance correct. As for me, I confess that I still play. It amuses me. Besides, it is the pleasure of a great nobleman, and there is nothing more noble than to play and lose right down to your boots."
"Since I am only a valet I have no need of following that fashion."
"You are wrong. It is always necessary to follow the great. You played a very strong game of piquet."
"Me? Oh, on the contrary, I am a very weak player."
"Pure modesty. Hang it! I wish I could take a lesson from you. We have had our supper. While waiting for your master to come, let us play a game to pass the time."
"That will be very difficult; for we have no cards here. When by chance I have found some upstairs which have been left by my master and his friends I have burned or sold them."
"That is very awkward; and I, who have nearly always a pack in my pocket, necessarily left mine at home."
"Wait, Chaudoreille! taste this liqueur. That will be much better than playing."
Thus saying, Marcel filled two glasses with crême de vanille and placed one before his comrade.
"Yes, I am very fond of liqueur," said Chaudoreille. "This has an exquisite perfume. We could have drunk and played at the same time."
"But I tell you that I have not any cards."
"You have some dice, at least."
"No more than I have cards."
"Mercy! Some dominoes?"
"Nothing to play with, I tell you."
"Devil stifle you! How shall we pass the time without playing? Oh, what a delightful idea! I have thought of a very agreeable little game which you will easily understand. You have before you a full glass of liqueur and I have the same. They are of equal size; I will play you a crown on the first fly."
"What fly?" said Marcel.
"Listen now. There are a good many flies in this room, and he whose glass is first visited by one of them will win a crown from the other. Is it agreed?"
"That is a droll game, but I like it well enough."
"In that case let's shake hands on it. That settled, attend to our play."
Chaudoreille no longer budged. With his eyes fixed attentively on his own glass and that of his adversary, he waited impatiently for a fly to come and taste the sweet liqueur. Neither of them made a movement, for fear of frightening the winged insects. They had already remained motionless for five minutes before their glasses when Marcel sneezed.
"The devil confound you?" cried Chaudoreille. "You drove away the most beautiful fly which was approaching my glass. She was just going in."
"Is it my fault if I feel a desire to sneeze?"
"It is a trick, my dear fellow, and, in all conscience, you should lose the game.
"You are joking, no doubt."
"Well I will pass over the sneeze, but if you begin again that will count. Wait! The flies are coming."
They observed silence anew. From time to time Chaudoreille looked into the air and seemed to implore the flies to come and taste his liqueur. At last, after some minutes of waiting, a fly sipped from Marcel's glass.
"I have won," cried the latter.
"One moment," said Chaudoreille, spitefully stamping his foot. "Leave me to judge of this affair."
"It seems to me that there is nothing equivocal about it. The fly is still in my glass."
"But I am anxious to know if it is really a fly. I am not going to lose a crown for a pig in a poke."
Chaudoreille arose and advanced his head, that he might look more closely into the glass which was before Marcel, but no sooner had he by this movement approached his host than he cried, carrying his hand to his nose,—
"The game is off. There is nothing more to be done."
"This is to say," cried Marcel, in his turn rising from the table.
"I repeat, the game is off."
"And why?"
"Why, by jingo, because your breath is strong enough to make flies fall in their flight. After that you see the game is not equal."
"Chaudoreille, I will take the thing as a joke, and I don't care about winning your money, but I flatter myself that I have a breath at least as fresh as yours."
"Take the thing as a joke?" said the chevalier, putting his hand on the handle of his sword. "Do you wish to vex me? By jingo, if I had known."
"Come, come, calm yourself."
"Do you think I will suffer such injuries. By Rolande, I don't know how to hold myself."
"Will you soon be done?"
"By George! If I believed that you wish to molest me, as if I care about a crown; if I had lost a hundred I should have paid you just the same."
"That is all right. Leave all that."
The more Marcel tried to calm his comrade, the more he lost his temper and shouted, for he believed that Marcel was afraid of him and he wished to profit by his bullying; he even went so far as to draw his sword and run about the room, rolling his little eyes around him as if he would split everything in two. Marcel grew impatient, and seeing that all of his entreaties were vain decided to take a broom handle from behind the door. Putting himself on the defensive, he waited for his enemy to come and attack him, but this action suddenly calmed Chaudoreille's fury. At sight of Marcel on guard with his broom, he stopped and struck his forehead as one who has suddenly received an enlightening idea.
"Great God!" he cried, "What was I going to do? It was in the house of the noble Marquis de Villebelle that I allowed myself to be carried away by anger? Oh, my courage, how much trouble you give me. All is forgotten, Marcel. Come to my arms. I will forgive you."
Marcel, always a good fellow, threw aside his broom and shook hands with Chaudoreille. They returned to the table, but they played no more, and while in the room on the first floor somebody was sighing and looking at the hand of the clock, in the lower room the two comrades ended by putting themselves to sleep while sampling the fine wines and liqueurs of the marquis.
THE ill-success of his serenade had not daunted the young Urbain; when one is really very much in love one does not lose courage for a trifle. Our lover returned to his dwelling cursing the jealous barber, for he did not doubt that jealousy was at the root of Touquet's exceedingly watchful care of the young girl; and though he was but little dismayed at the barber's threats, Urbain swore, notwithstanding them, to become known to Blanche, and to do everything in his power to make her love him. The act of swearing is in itself extremely easy of accomplishment—what oaths have been taken and broken within a half century only; but we are now speaking merely of the oaths of love, which are lighter, necessarily, than some others, and to break them is considered a pardonable offence. Urbain, who had sworn that he would see Blanche, was, however, greatly troubled to invent a way of doing so; but in love one always swears first and reflects afterwards, and in business it must be confessed there are a good many people who follow the very same course.
On the day after the night on which he had sung, Urbain was walking in the neighborhood of the barber's, but he dared not enter the house, which he ogled sighingly, nor even, for fear of being noticed by Touquet, could he pass by the shop. It was from afar that he examined the windows; nobody could be seen at them. She seemed to be condemned to an eternal seclusion. He waited until Marguerite should leave the house. At last she opened the door of the alley; she was going to get some provisions.
Urbain did not lose sight of the old servant, but he did not dare to go into the shops with her. How could he get into conversation? One is not apt at intrigue at nineteen years of age. At last, at the moment when Marguerite was passing by him, Urbain tremblingly accosted her,—
"Madame, I should very much like—"
"I'm not a dame—I'm not married."
"Mademoiselle if I dared—"
"If you dared what?"
"To ask you—"
"Well, why don't you speak?"
"Some news of Mademoiselle Blanche."
"Mademoiselle Blanche! Oh that's what you are up to, my young dandy? Go along, go your own way; you're addressing the wrong person. If you want to talk about that dear child, speak to my master; he'll answer you, I warrant, and in the best manner."
So saying, Marguerite left Urbain and went in, murmuring,—
"Monsieur is right, it is necessary to redouble our watchfulness that such a pretty girl may not be besieged by these worthless fellows."
"They're all bound to make me despair," said Urbain, disheartened by the unkind welcome accorded him by the old woman, "but, despite all their precautions, I shall see her, I shall speak to her." And the better to dream of at least seeing her Urbain departed from the house that held Blanche; he walked by chance and soon arrived on the Pont-Neuf.
The Pont-Neuf was then a meeting place for strangers, for schemers, for idlers, for pickpockets, and people who had newly disembarked. It was the most crowded thoroughfare of the capital; unceasingly encumbered with groups of curious people who stopped before the quacks, who were selling their universal panaceas and playing farces, mountebanks, thimbleriggers, pedlers of songs, of ironmongery, of books, of jujubes, it offered to the observer a diverting and extremely animated scene.
Tabarin, who became famous by the scenes which he played in public, and from whom our great Molière has not disdained to borrow some buffooneries, was then established on the Pont-Neuf, towards the Place Dauphine. He had succeeded the famous Signor Hieronimo who, in the Cour du Palais, sold an ointment to cure burns, after burning himself publicly on the hands and curing the wounds with his balm, while Galinette-la-Galine attracted the passers by his parades.
In addition to Tabarin's show there were still other theatres on the Pont-Neuf. Maitre Gonin, a skilful juggler, had established himself there, and charmed all Paris by his dexterity; while a little farther off Briochee had his marionette show.
Tabarin, the simple clown of an ointment seller, played the innocent, and put a thousand ridiculous questions to his master who, dressed as a doctor, answered his facetious interrogations by calling him big ass, fat pig, etc., and this spectacle drew the crowd. One saw there not only the people but personages from the first classes of society.
Urbain, who was walking along, dreaming of his love, that is to say without noticing anything before him, elbowing everybody who approached him, was pushed by the crowd before the theatre of the fashionable buffoon. The young bachelor heard shouts of laughter from all sides; he saw noblemen, young girls, workmen, and workwomen who, with their noses in the air, listened with delight to a man who was dressed in a clown's cap, smock frock, and large pantaloons, and whose face was covered by a mask; this man was Tabarin. His master, in a doctor's habit, his head covered with a basque cap, his chin adorned with a long beard, held some bottles of ointment or balm in his hands. Urbain mechanically looked and listened with the others; in order to judge of that which gave so much pleasure to the idlers of that century, let us, also, listen for a moment.
Tabarin.—What people have you found to be the most courteous in the world?
The Master.—I've been in Italy, I have visited Spain, and traversed a great part of Germany, but nowhere have I remarked so much courtesy as one sees in France. You observe that the French, kiss, caress, wish each other well, and take off the hat.
Tabarin.—Do you call taking off the hat an act of courtesy? I shouldn't care much about such caresses.
The Master.—The custom of taking off the hat as a mark of friendship is ancient, Tabarin, and bears witness to the honor, the respect, and the friendliness which one should feel for those whom he salutes.
Tabarin.—So you judge all courtesy to consist in taking off the hat? Would you like to know who are the most courteous people in the world?
The Master.—Who Tabarin?
Tabarin.—They are the tireurs de laine of Paris; for they are not content with taking off the hat only, but more often take off the cloak also.[1]
[1] General collection of the Œuvres et Facéties de Tabarin, Paris, 1725.
This sally was received with the applause and laughter of the assembled crowd, among whom might undoubtedly be found some tireurs de laine, who plied their trade while laughing still louder than their neighbors.
Urbain did not share the general hilarity; however, he lent his ear to a new scene which the buffoon was playing. Tabarin, seeking to introduce himself to the presence of his Isabelle, whom Cascandre kept from sight as an old duenna, found no better expedient than to disguise himself as a woman, and under this costume to seek a tête-à-tête with his mistress. The harlequin mask which Tabarin wore under his feminine costume lent a thousand absurdities which evoked anew the gayety of the crowd and in which decency was not always scrupulously observed; but the public of the Pont-Neuf was not easily abashed, and the women of good standing who viewed this spectacle contented themselves with spreading their fans before their eyes and crying,—
"What unbecoming, scandalous actions; they should at least forbid these gestures."
Urbain, watching the grotesque disguise of the buffoon, conceived a plan. Why should he not use the same means to introduce himself into the barber's house? Was it not Love himself who taught him this strategy by making him a witness of this scene of Tabarin's at the moment when he was racking his brain to find out a way of approaching Blanche.
Whether it were Love, Destiny, or a chance which had led our lover, he was none the less delighted with his idea, and, giving a thousand thanks to Tabarin, he thought of nothing but putting it into execution. Immediately, pushing from right to left, he retired from the crowd. Urbain elbowed a grisette, twisted an old woman's cloak, crushed the foot of a little woman who, supported on the arm of a young student, had slipped among the crowd; but, insensible to the injuries which he inflicted, he continued to make his way and, finding himself free at last, ran to his dwelling without stopping to take breath.
Arrived there the young bachelor opened the drawer of a little walnut-wood secretary and counted his money, for in every affair it is necessary to have recourse to this cursed money in order to abolish obstacles and arrive more quickly at the end which one has in view. His treasury held only sixteen livres tournois, which is very little and would not, in our day, introduce one into the boudoir of a Lais; but when beauty is accompanied by innocence access is much easier.
Besides Urbain would not take the costume of a grand lady. On the contrary he wished to disguise himself as a peasant; his awkwardness in that costume would be less noticeable. He looked at himself in his little glass. No beard, no whiskers, not the smallest hair on his chin. Urbain jumped for joy; although some days previously he had sighed to have mustaches, today he wished to change into a girl. He was delighted also at not being very tall, and exclaimed to himself, while looking at his feet and hands which were small,—
"How fortunate it is that I'm not a strong, robust, fine man!"
He had only to bestir himself to get the necessary clothing. Urbain took his crown and went to a second-hand clothier, where he asked for a dress for a servant from the country, who, he said, was about his height. They showed him all that constituted the feminine costume, petticoat, corset, apron, cap, neckerchief, shoes; they made him pay three times their value, but our young man was delighted.
These little arrangements having taken some time, Urbain went to dinner. Then, at the close of day, he returned home with his little parcel under his arm, as pleased as Jason carrying the Golden Fleece, as Pluto ravishing Proserpine, as Apollo tearing off the skin of the Python, as Hercules bearing off the Golden Apples from the garden of the Hesperides, or as Paris abducting the wife of Menelas,—and certainly all of those men should have been very well pleased.
Arrived in his chamber our lover rubbed his flint, for at that time nothing was known of sulphur matches. Having procured a light he immediately proceeded to change his state, keeping of his masculine costume only the garment which he judged to be very necessary in order not to freeze under his feminine skirt. Urbain put on the skirt, then the corset, which he endeavored to lace, but he did it very badly; he drew one string instead of another, he ripped and pulled, he pricked himself. The poor boy was in despair, he looked at himself in his little glass and saw well that all was not right; he never should come to the end. What could he do? Only a woman knows all the mysteries of the feminine toilet. It was necessary, then, to beg some woman to come to his aid, and he recalled that on the story below him lodged an old bachelor whose servant, polite and intelligent, always made him a graceful curtsey. Immediately Urbain, holding as well as he could the skirt and the corset, ran down stairs as quickly as possible and rang his neighbor's bell. The servant opened the door, and burst into a shout of laughter on seeing this person, half man, half woman; but no matter how he's dressed a pretty boy of nineteen is always interesting, and Urbain's voice was very touching as he said to the maid,—
"Ah, mademoiselle, I'm very much in doubt. I wish to dress myself as a woman, and I shall never come to the end. Would you be so amiable as to help me for a moment?"
"Very willingly," answered the big girl and, without allowing him to beg further, she followed Urbain to his room, where she laughed still more on seeing how he had put on the costume.
"Are you going to a ball?" said she to him.
"Yes, and I wish to be so well disguised that nobody could recognize me."
"All right; wait, I'll dress you, and I promise you you'll look well."
Immediately she commenced undoing all that Urbain had done. Then she examined the garments.
"They're not very elegant," she said.
"They are all I desire, I wish to be very simply dressed."
"But it's necessary to put another skirt on underneath, that one there isn't enough; you haven't hips like us. We must make some for you. And that cap is horrid! I wouldn't go out in it. I'll go and get you one of mine, and everything else that you need. Oh, I'll make you genteel."
And the young servant, without listening to Urbain's thanks, ran to her room, whence she soon returned carrying all that was necessary to turn a young man into a passable looking girl. The new cap was tried, it suited perfectly. Urbain was delighted; he did not know how to testify his gratitude to the young girl. The latter had not finished his headdress, there were some bows to be made and some hair which must be pushed back. She pinned his kerchief closely about his neck, stopped, looked at him, and exclaimed,—
"Truly that does very well! Such a white skin, such a sweet air; anyone would be deceived in him, that's sure. Wait a moment, till I make a false bust."
"Is it really necessary?"
"Is it necessary—why, what a question!"
"But I'm stifling in this corset."
"Well, so do we stifle in them, but that's nothing; it's necessary to suffer a little if one wants to be genteel. Wait, now, I'll pull your waist in, then I'll make you some hips, and then, ah, yes, that's all that's necessary. It's by those things that one distinguishes the sex."
The young servant kept finding something more to do for Urbain, and the latter, in order to be well disguised, allowed her to do as she pleased with the best grace in the world, repeating every moment,—
"How good you are, mademoiselle, how can I ever prove my gratitude?"
Urbain's toilet had lasted more than two hours, at the end of which time the young girl left him, saying,—
"There, that's done, you don't look a bit like a man now; there's not the least thing to make them doubt that you're a girl. At this hour you can go out. Hold your eyes down, look from the side, take small steps, balance yourself straight from the hips, pinch your mouth, throw your nose up a little high, and you won't go to the end of the street without making a conquest. Good-by, monsieur, when you have need don't hesitate to call me if you please."
The young servant departed, and Urbain, after having studied his walk for a little while, decided at last to venture into the streets of Paris in his new costume.
THE bachelor in cap and crinoline felt sufficiently ill at his ease in the streets of Paris. Although he was protected by the darkness of the night, for there were few who carried lanterns, every time anyone passed near him Urbain was afraid that he had been recognized, and fully expected to be taken by the sergeants of the watch, who would doubtless demand the motive of his disguising himself, and fleece him to the extent of a heavy fine or even perhaps lock him up, if he continued to walk in the guise of a woman in the good city of Paris, where it was only by distributing money in handfuls that one was allowed to pass for what he was not; and, as Urbain had not a crown about him, because when disguising one's self as a woman one does not remember everything, even to the putting of money in his pocket, the young lover felt it necessary to avoid the police; at all events, he did not fear robbers; that was much, then, and may still prove something of a consolation to those who have nothing to lose today.
Little by little Urbain grew more assured; he began to feel accustomed to his costume, and certain compliments addressed to him in passing proved to him that people were entirely deceived as to his sex. Urbain was careful not to respond to the gallantries offered him by a few cavaliers, but contented himself by walking faster, escaping with muddied skirts since he did not yet know very well how to hold them up and they greatly embarrassed him in jumping the streams of dirty water. At length he reached the Rue des Bourdonnaise; and then for the first time he reflected that it was very late to try to introduce himself into the barber's house. There was no likelihood of Marguerite's venturing out at this hour; his disguise would therefore not serve him till the next day. His assumption of feminine raiment had been useless so far; but does a lover make such reflections? Besides, as Urbain had to habituate himself to wearing women's clothes, he was not displeased at making his first essay at night. While thus thinking he rambled past the barber's house, ogling Blanche's windows, and sending her a thousand sighs which she could not hear because she was asleep, and which probably she would not have heard any better had she been awake.
Wholly engrossed in the pleasure of sighing under his lady love's casements, Urbain forgot that while it is natural to see a young man waiting and sighing in the street at night, a solitary woman doing the like evokes many conjectures. All of a sudden the young lover was recalled from his ecstacy by some unknown person who pinched him very hard on the knee, and said to him, in a hoarse, rasping voice,—
"It seems to me, little mother, that the one you're waiting for is something late; if you'll only accept my arm we can go and taste some very fair white wine at the merchant's down yonder. I'm a good customer of his, and he has some comfortable private rooms."
Urbain turned sharply round and perceived at his side a big, jolly fellow, in the garb of a chair porter, who was offering his arm and smiling almost to his ears. Without answering, and little pleased by this adventure, the young man began to run, soon leaving his gallant in the lurch. But his troubles were not to end there; some two hundred steps farther on, he was stopped anew by some pages who essayed to kiss him; he disengaged himself from them as speedily as possible, and resumed his course. Later he was in turn accosted by some students, some lackeys, and some soldiers, several of them pursuing him. Urbain, that he might the better escape them, redoubled his agility, and, in order to run faster, gathered his skirts up about his knees; but the higher he pulled them, the greater ardor these gentlemen evinced in following him.
"Hang it," said Urbain, while running, "I didn't disguise myself as a woman to be pinched by all the pages and lackeys of this city. Men are the devil incorporate; I perceive now that it's more agreeable to wear breeches than petticoats, but tomorrow I shall obtain entrance to Blanche's dwelling. Come, courage—they'll leave me alone perhaps."
And Urbain jumped over the puddles, wound among the streets, perspiring and suffocating in his corset, and under the false bosom with which the young servant had stuffed his chest. Turning down the streets at random as he came to them, in order to escape his pursuers, he did not know himself in what neighborhood he was.
At last, not hearing anyone behind him, he stopped to take breath and recognize the place in which he stood. He had passed the bridges and had reached the great Pré-aux-Clercs, in which they had commenced to build houses and open streets; as they had done in the little Pré-aux-Clercs, which towards the end of the reign of Henri the Fourth was entirely covered with houses and gardens.
"Good; here's the new street they call Rue de Verneuil," said Urbain to himself; "and this is the Chemin-aux-Vaches where they've built the Rue Saint-Dominique; I recognize it. But I'll rest for a minute or two, I'm too far from home to return there immediately—I can't walk any farther. Let's get my breath at least. This neighborhood's deserted, and, as night is far advanced, let's hope I shall make no more conquests." Urbain hoisted his skirts and seated himself on a stone. At the expiration of half an hour, feeling rested, he rose and took the way to his lodgings. He walked quietly along congratulating himself that he should meet no one else when suddenly, in passing by the Rue de Bourbon, he saw four men who were leaving it and who, on sight of him, barred the way.
"Who goes there? So late—and the game is still rising?"
"Upon my honor a charming meeting, it's a little country wench."
"Better still. I'm very fond of peasants."
"What the devil, marquis! a peasant who walks about Paris in the middle of the night. That's an innocence which seems to me tremendously adventurous."
"Come, chevalier, your thoughts are always evil. I'll wager the poor child came to Paris for nothing but to sell her eggs."
"Let her have come for what she will, she sha'n't return without the impress of my mustaches on her pretty lips."
Urbain realized by the language and manners of these gentlemen that they were profligates of the higher classes. Unable to make his escape, for he was surrounded on every side, he tried to relieve himself of them by saying in a falsetto voice,—
"Gentlemen, leave me, I beg of you; I am not what you believe."
But his prayers were unheeded; they pushed him, they surrounded him. Urbain, rendered impatient by these manners, saw no means of regaining his liberty save making himself known, and he cried in his natural voice,—
"Leave me, gentlemen, I repeat to you, you are addressing the wrong person."
These words, pronounced by the young bachelor in a manner which left no doubt as to his sex, produced the effect of a head of Medusa on the four young noblemen: they remained motionless for a moment, then they all burst into a shout of laughter, crying: "It's a man. What a unique adventure."
"Yes, gentlemen, it is a man," answered Urbain. "I hope now that you will allow me to continue on my way."
"As for me, I will no longer oppose you," said one of the strangers.
"Come, Villebelle," resumed another, "let the boy go. You can see very well he's not a girl. I believe, deuce take it, that the wine we've drunk didn't allow the marquis to see our mistake. Isn't that so, chevalier?"
"Yes, yes, indeed, gentlemen," answered the Marquis de Villebelle; for it was that nobleman himself, who, as he had said to the barber, made merry with his friends by seeking spicy adventures in the streets of the capital. With a head excited by wines and liqueurs, the marquis, always the leader in the follies and extravagances committed in these escapades, had pressed Urbain most closely, and on the latter making himself known had continued to hold the young bachelor.
"A moment, my boy," said he, stopping Urbain. "We know you're not a girl, that's all very well; but, by all the devils! in this disguise you must necessarily have had some very comical adventures; recount them to us, 't will amuse us, and afterwards you shall be free to go your way."
"Yes, yes," repeated the others; "he must tell us why he's dressed up like a woman."
"I must really tell this adventure at the cardinal's little levée tomorrow morning.
"And I must tell it to Marion Delorme. I'll have Bois-Robert put it into verse for the court."
"Colletel shall turn it into a comedy. Come, speak on."
"Yet, once more, gentlemen, allow me to go on my way; by what right do you interrogate me? I have nothing to say to you, and I wish to depart."
Saying these words, he endeavored to repulse the marquis anew, but the latter barred the way and drew his sword, crying,—
"Upon my honor, this little goodman is very fractious. It's really too droll. You shall speak or we will make you jump under our swords like a spaniel."
"Insolent fellow," exclaimed Urbain, furiously; "had I a weapon you had not dared to use such language to me, or I should already have chastised you."
"Truly? Oh, hang it. I should like to see how you handle a sword. Come, chevalier, lend him yours."
"What, Villebelle, you wish it?"
"Yes, undoubtedly, a duel with a peasant—that will be a joke."
"Come, gentlemen, make a circle."
So saying, the marquis took a sword from one of his companions and presented it to Urbain.
"Hold," said he, "here's a weapon, defend yourself. Guard yourself, girl-boy, and let us see if you are as brave as you're stubborn."
Urbain seized the sword with ardor and immediately attacked the marquis. Though embarrassed by his petticoats and corset he pressed impetuously on his adversary, who, while parrying his strokes, exclaimed at every moment,—
"Well done; very well done, 'pon my honor! Do you see that, gentlemen?—and that parry—and that thrust. Deuce take it, if he goes on in this way I must use all my skill to—"
A stroke of his adversary's sword, which crossed his forearm, cut short the marquis' words; his sword dropped from his hand, his friends surrounded and supported him, while Urbain himself offered his help.
"It's nothing—a mere nothing," said the marquis; "good-by, my friend, you're a brave fellow, and I'm pleased to have made your acquaintance; although I don't know with whom I've fought this duel. As to you, if some day you find yourself in any embarrassment, if you have a bad business or need a protector, come to my hotel, ask for the Marquis de Villebelle and you will always find me ready to oblige you."