DAWN had followed this night so fruitful in events, during which sleep had not touched Julia's eyes; uneasy, impatient, twenty times had she arisen from her sofa to go to the door and listen, in the belief that she could at last distinguish some sound, some disturbance which indicated the approach of the marquis. But though she had heard every hour strike during this to her apparently endless night, the seductive Villebelle had not yet arrived.
The brow of the young Italian was clouded; her eyes, always vivacious and lustrous, under her change of feeling were now animated by a gloomy fire which boded ill for those who had caused it; Julia's breast was oppressed, sighs escaped her lips and she walked aimlessly and angrily about the apartment, the elegance of which no longer delighted her; she passed the mirrors without even looking at herself in them. Her vanity was most painfully mortified and humiliated, she felt insulted by the indifference of this marquis who had led her to compromise herself thus, and now failed to keep his appointment, whose conduct, in fact, was inexcusable. What woman would pardon such neglect?
To allow herself to be abducted with a good grace, and to be forced to spend the entire night following in solitude. Love will excuse many things, but self-love excuses nothing.
As soon as daylight paled the light of the candles, Julia opened the door of the boudoir and, crossing several rooms, ventured into the corridor.
"I don't believe that I can escape," she said, smiling bitterly; "they have taken too many precautions to keep me; but monsieur le marquis and his worthy agent no doubt imagine me to be in a state of ecstatic happiness at the mere fact of having been brought to this house. Patience! One day perhaps they will know me better."
Julia went downstairs. Although it was in the depth of winter the morning was beautiful; the young Italian left by the peristyle and plunged into the gardens, where she walked up and down the long pathways and gave herself up to her thoughts.
Day had surprised Marcel and his guest sleeping near the table where they had supped. Marcel awoke first, recalled his ideas, and could not conceive why his master had not returned in the night. However, the door-bell hung in the room where they had slept, and the marquis was a man who was able to make himself heard.
Marcel pushed Chaudoreille, who opened his little eyes and gazed about him in astonishment, murmuring,—
"By jingo! I am not at home in the Rue Brise-miche nor in the gambling den on the Rue Vide-Gousset. Where the devil have I passed the night? My purse—where is my purse? I had eight crowns in it."
Chaudoreille quickly seized his purse and counted his money, and Marcel said to him,—
"Come, wake up, why don't you? and remember where you are. Do you think me capable of robbing you?"
"Good-for-nothing that I am! that good fellow Marcel—I remember everything now. Forgive me, my friend; but at the first moment I thought I was at a tavern where I sleep sometimes. What the devil! it's broad daylight."
"Yes, and monsieur le marquis did not come in during the night; I can't understand why."
"It is rather singular, and that poor little thing whom we took so much trouble to bring here, what has she done with herself since yesterday?"
"She's slept the same as we have."
"Ah, my dear Marcel, it's easily seen that you have not studied the sex. Sleep!—a woman who is waiting her vanquisher for the first time? She would sooner keep awake all night than go to sleep."
"But when the vanquisher doesn't come, it's necessary for her to do something."
"Never! never I tell you. Wait, here's an example: I had once arranged a meeting with a baroness on the borders of the Seine, near the Tour de Nesle; that also was in winter, and it was horribly cold. Unforeseen events—a duel—prevented my meeting my beauty. I was wounded, and spent eight days in bed. On the ninth, as I passed the neighborhood indicated, by chance, whom should I see there?"
"Your baroness?"
"Exactly. But, the poor woman, she had been frozen for four days, and that because she would not leave the place of rendezvous."
"Our dame has a good fire and everything that she can desire; she won't freeze while awaiting my master."
"What do you say, Marcel; shall I go upstairs and chat pleasantly with her to distract her mind a little?"
"No, indeed, that would be displeasing to monsieur le marquis."
"Well, you're right; I suppose he might take offence at it."
"Don't you think you had much better go and find the person who brought her here, and tell him that monsieur has not come?"
"No, my dear Marcel; Touquet told me to wait here for the marquis' orders, and I must follow his instructions. If he does not come for a fortnight, it's all the same to me; I shall not leave this. You have a good cellar and plenty of provisions of all kinds, and I find it very comfortable here; only, I must go out and get some cards for the coming night, and I'll teach you some tricks which you don't understand."
"All right, I'll go and get our breakfast ready; then I'll go and inquire whether the young lady wants anything."
"That will do; meanwhile I'll take a turn in the garden and make the acquaintance of your Hercules."
Chaudoreille arranged his mantle, put on his new ruff, which he had bought by chance, which pleased him greatly because it came up to his ears. He brushed up his hat, curled his hair anew, and went into the garden whistling,—
| Viens Aurore, |
| Je t'implore; |
a song which good King Henri had brought into fashion. He paused with an air of defiance before the statues, and made a grimace at those which had frightened him the evening before.
At the end of the pathway he perceived Julia, seated in a thicket which, as yet, was devoid of foliage. The young girl was deep in thought, and had not heard him approach. Chaudoreille reflected, uncertain whether he should approach her or whether he should pass on his way. He concluded to do the first, and drew near her, holding his left hand on his hip, and, throwing his body back, already beginning to smile. Julia raised her luminous eyes; but, on recognizing Chaudoreille, a look of humor flashed over her features, and she said sharply,—
"What do you want with me?"
Chaudoreille paused, arrested in the middle of his smile, and could not find words to answer her.
"Why were you coming to me?" resumed Julia; "is the marquis here, or his confidant, the barber Touquet?"
"No, beautiful lady, I am at present alone with you and Marcel in the house. I have passed the night in watching over your safety, believing that the marquis would arrive."
"Who is this Marcel? the servant who opened the door to us, I suppose."
"Precisely!"
"He has served the marquis for a long time in this house?"
"No, I believe he has only been here four or five years."
"And you, when did you come here?"
"I came yesterday for the first time."
Julia was silent and Chaudoreille resumed after a moment,—
"Are you acquainted with my intimate friend, the barber Touquet?"
"What does that matter to you," asked the young Italian, glancing scornfully at Chaudoreille.
"It's nothing to me, certainly—but, since you named him—he's a very worthy fellow, certainly, and I am honored in being his friend."
"That reflects credit on you," said Julia, smiling ironically.
"Yes, most assuredly," resumed Chaudoreille, who had interpreted Julia's smile to his own advantage, "we have seen fire together. He is brave, I'll give him justice for that; he always conducts himself honorably."
"Always? And has he sometimes spoken to you of his parents?—of his father?"
"My faith, no; I don't believe he was born from the higher classes. In that matter I am infinitely before him; the Chaudoreilles are of very pure blood and have a stock which goes back to Noah. Under Charles the Bald one of my ancestors had himself shaved—"
"What does it matter what your ancestors did? I was talking about the barber's family."
"That's all right; but my friend Touquet has spoken very little to me about them. I believe he is from Lorraine and he has told me that he left his country very early and came very young to Paris, for it is only there that talent has a chance of success; also Touquet has made money, and me, thank God, I am—"
Here Chaudoreille's eyes wandered over his doublet, which was stained in many places, and he covered it with his mantle, resuming,—
"I should be very rich if I had not ruined myself for women."
Julia, who had paid little attention to this last phrase, said to herself,—
"He ought to be rich if he has helped the marquis in all his follies."
"He is not married," resumed Chaudoreille, "although he could now find a good match. His house on the Rue des Bourdonnais is a very pretty property. Perhaps it's because of the little one that he doesn't marry; perhaps he is going to marry her, I shouldn't be surprised."
"What little one," inquired Julia, curiously.
"The young girl whom he has adopted and who is now sixteen years old."
"The barber Touquet has adopted a child?"
"Why, yes, of course he has. Why, if you know him, how is it that you are ignorant of that? That's certainly the best act of his life."
"Touquet has done a good action," said Julia, smiling ironically; "I could not have imagined that, and is this young girl pretty?"
"Hang it! is she pretty? Well, I believe you! She is one—but no," said Chaudoreille, correcting himself as if struck by a sudden remembrance, "she is not handsome at all; on the contrary, she is ugly, one might even say that she is disagreeable."
"One minute you say she is pretty and the next you say she is very ugly; you don't seem to know what you are saying, Monsieur Chaudoreille."
"One can easily lose his wits when near you, beautiful damsel; but, by that sword, I swear to you—"
The bell at the garden gate was heard, Chaudoreille stopped; presuming that it was the marquis and that it would perhaps be dangerous for him to be surprised in a tête-à-tête with Julia, he escaped by the first pathway and ran to rejoin Marcel, while the young Italian listened anxiously and her cheeks assumed a more vivid color.
Marcel opened the door, but it was not the marquis, it was Touquet, who came alone.
"Your master fought a duel last night," said he to Marcel, "he was wounded, but very slightly, it seems. I have come to speak to the young girl. She is perhaps anxious to know what all this means. Where is she now?"
"In the garden," said Chaudoreille, "but I assure you she is not at all lonely here. It is true that I have chatted with her—"
"And who gave you permission to do so? You're very bold to converse with a woman on whom a marquis has laid his eyes."
"Yes, I confess that I am very bold—but I believe you say that monseigneur fought a duel; do you know with whom he fought?"
"Idiot! Is that our business? Do you suppose I asked him?"
"It's true, it's not our business, but—"
"You have nothing more to do here, get out."
"Do you wish me to take myself off?"
"Yes, and immediately."
"Without being presented to monseigneur, that is very awkward; but at least—it seems to me that if they have no more need of me they ought to settle with me."
"Wait! here are ten more crowns; it's more than you are worth, a hundred times."
"Very well, but the rosette and the broken pane of glass—"
"Hang it, stupid! you're not satisfied?"
"It's all right, it's all right, I'm very well pleased. I mustn't grumble," added Chaudoreille to himself, "he might happen to remember the shaves that I owe him."
"Go at once," said the barber, angrily, pointing with his finger to the garden gate. The Gascon hastily thrust the sum which he had received into his purse, and placed the latter carefully in his belt, murmuring,—
"Ten and eight, that's eighteen. By jingo, that will make them stare at the gambling place in the Rue Vide-Gousset and at the bank of the Rue Coupe-Gorge." Then he shook Marcel's hand, and wrapping himself in his mantle left by the middle gate, which was hardly wide enough for him since he possessed eighteen crowns.
The barber hastened to acquit himself of the commission with which his master had charged him, that he might return promptly to his house and be there on the arrival of his customers. He walked hurriedly through the garden, and soon met Julia, who felt her hope vanish when she perceived him.
"Madame," said Touquet, bowing to the young girl, "the marquis' conduct doubtless seems to you rather extraordinary, but you will excuse him when you learn that he fought a duel last night in the grand Pré-aux-Clercs and was wounded."
"He is wounded," said Julia, with emotion, "and dangerously?"
"No, madame, it is a very little thing, an arm only. Monsieur le marquis made this event known to me at break of day and ordered me to come and tell you. He hoped to be very soon recovered, and able within four or five days to come and excuse himself; but, if you are wearied in this place, you are free to return to your shop. I will go and warn you when—"
"No," said Julia, interrupting him brusquely; "do you imagine I can return to the dwelling I have left? I will wait for the marquis."
"You are the mistress, and they have orders to satisfy your slightest wishes."
The barber bowed to Julia, and having given Marcel the marquis' orders, left the little house and returned to his home.
Five days had elapsed since the young Italian had entered the luxurious apartments; there she had found a harpsichord, a sitar, books, some pencils, some sketches, and a wardrobe furnished with everything that could add a charm to beauty. Marcel, always obedient and discreet, brought her everything that she desired, without permitting himself the slightest question; nor did Julia address him, except to ask him for what she thought necessary to distract her, for the most magnificent dwelling does not forbid weariness.
It was late on the evening of the sixth day; Julia was attired with coquetry, in the hope that the marquis would come, but her hope was vanishing. She lay down upon the sofa, where her reverie had yielded to a light slumber, when the door of the room opened softly, and the Marquis de Villebelle appeared at the entrance of the apartment. "She's not half bad," said he, looking at Julia, who was lying carelessly on the sofa; then he advanced towards her; the noise awoke the young Italian, and, opening her eyes, she perceived the great nobleman, whose rich and elegant costume increased the grace of his bearing. He seated himself, smiling, at her side. Julia was about to rise.
"Don't move," said the marquis, "you are very well as you are. I reproach myself with having disturbed your slumber."
"Monseigneur, I had about given you up," said Julia, seeking to restrain the uneasiness which she felt at the sight of the marquis. "I have been here for six days, alone in this place."
"Yes, you must hare found it very tiresome I can imagine; but, ma belle, my messenger must have told you that it was not my fault. My arm is not cured yet, but I could not longer resist the desire to see this amiable child who for love of me was willing to live in solitude."
"For love of you, seigneur," said Julia, turning her eyes aside so as not to meet those of the marquis, which were fixed amorously upon her; "and who has made you believe that I am in love with you, if you please?"
"Ah, upon my honor, that is divine. Were you awaiting another here, then, my angel?"
"I was waiting, monsieur, to learn from you what motive you had in inducing me to leave my dwelling."
"Delightful by all the devils—delightful. She does not know why they brought her here. Did nobody tell you, little strategist?"
"It was from you alone that I wished to hear it, seigneur."
"That is correct. Love is ill made by an ambassador; the little god does not love pages and valets. He wishes to do his work himself. Come, a kiss first, and we shall understand each other better afterwards."
Julia disengaged herself from the marquis' arms, which he had wound about her, and withdrawing from him she cried,—
"Please, sir, cease these liberties which offend me!"
"Which offend her!" said the marquis, bursting into laughter, while a vivid color sprang to Julia's cheek. "Come now, what do you mean by that? Are we playing a comedy? You wish to make me pay for the weariness of six days' waiting. Once more, sweetheart, it was not my fault; a duel at the moment when I was least thinking of it. I must tell you all about that for it was very droll. I was returning with four of my friends; we were a little tipsy and were trying to dispute with everybody. We broke windows, we beat the watch, we tore off the good shopkeepers' wigs; what can you expect? one must pass the time and show these gentlemen of the parliament that one does not regard one's self as being comprised in their edicts, which forbid vagabonds, pages and lackeys to make a noise at night in the streets of Paris. Finally, we met a girl, which girl was a boy; he would not tell us why he was disguised, and became angry at our joking; one of the others lent him a sword and we fought. For a youngster, zooks how he went on! it was a pleasure to fight with him. In short, he gave me this cut, which I still feel, and which prevents me from using my arm; so, sweetheart, I beg of you don't be too cruel, for I am not in a state to lead an assault."
And the marquis again approached Julia, wishing to enfold her in his arms; but she disengaged herself and seated herself farther off, while the former extended himself on the sofa and looked at her smiling, while whistling a hunting tune.
The breast of the young girl rose more frequently; she turned her head and carried one of her hands to her eyes.
"What is the matter?" said the marquis, after some minutes. "Are you crying, by chance? Truly, little one, I can't imagine why. They told me that you came here with a very good grace; after which I naturally feel surprised at the severity which you are affecting now; be easy, I will be very virtuous—since you wish it."
So saying, Villebelle seated himself near Julia and took one of her hands, which he pressed between his own. The young Italian raised her eyes to the marquis; there was in the features of the latter something so noble, so seductive, that it was very easy for him to obtain pardon for his audacity; accustomed to triumph, he had trespassed through habit and not through fatuity, and Julia's resistance astonished, but did not anger him.
"Why are you crying?" said he to her.
"I believed that you loved me, and you despise me."
"I despise you? No, beautiful girl; I love you,—as well as I can love; and my love will last,—as long as it will; can you ask better?"
"I wish for love; a constant and sincere love."
"Ha! ha! a constant love; sweetheart, you are exacting. Can we promise that, we others? and in good faith, when the great ladies of the court cannot come by it, to a grisette; should she hope to hold the Marquis de Villebelle?"
"Very well," said Julia, rising proudly and walking towards the door, "the grisette will not yield to the caprice of the great nobleman."
"Upon my honor, she is going, I believe," said the marquis, rushing to retain Julia and gently leading her to the sofa. "Come, no more ill-humor. Is it to quarrel that we are here? Time flies rapidly and carries with it, at every moment, a spark of the enkindling fires of love. One doesn't wait for pleasure to be extinguished before tasting of it. I love you. I adore you, you little wretch; but what do you offer me as the reward of so much ardor?"
"A heart that knows how to love you in a manner in which you have not been loved before today, a heart whose only happiness will be to beat for you, which will not have one thought to which you will be a stranger, nor one desire disconnected from you!"
While saying these words Julia's eyes were animated and she fixed them on the marquis, seeking no longer to hide the passion with which he had inspired her.
"What magnificent eyes," said Villebelle, after a moment, "but a little too exalted in their expression. You are Italian, that is easily seen, the burning skies under which you were born do not allow you to treat love as we French treat it, lightly, jokingly; which is, after all, the best way; the others are too sad."
"Say, rather, that we know how to love truly—while you, seigneur, give the name of love to the most fleeting fancy, your heart being entirely a stranger to the real passion."
"Wait, my dear girl! All your discourses on the metaphysics of love are less convincing to me than one kiss from those lovely lips, and why should you keep up such a show of resistance? Is it generous to profit by my being wounded?"
"Have you always been generous, monseigneur?" said Julia, repulsing the marquis; "and in this place, even, have you nothing to reprove yourself withal?"
"Why, how's this, little girl, do you wish me to follow a course of morals?" said Villebelle, laughing. "It seems to me you are abusing my patience a little. 'Pon my honor those lovely eyes are made to express pleasure rather than wisdom. And sermons from your mouth! a little grisette who wishes to play Lucretia here. Come, sweetheart, leave such twaddling talk. Was it from Tabarin or from Briochée that you learned those sentences?"
Julia rose, her eyes scintillating, her cheeks a vivid scarlet, and looking angrily at the marquis cried,—
"And you, seigneur, where did you learn to murder a father in order to abduct his daughter?"
Villebelle remained as if stunned for a moment; his look fixed on Julia, who, dismayed herself at the change wrought in the whole appearance of the marquis, awaited with fear what he should say to her.
The marquis rose, and murmured in a changed voice,—
"What made you think I had ever committed such a terrible crime? Speak, answer, I command you."
"Seigneur," said the young Italian, "I have heard the story of the abduction of the beautiful Estrelle, old Delmar's daughter, but the barber Touquet was then your agent, and I don't doubt that it was he who wanted you to arm yourself against an old man who was defending his daughter."
"You have heard some one speak of an adventure which has been forgotten for seventeen years and you are barely twenty. You have not told me all—have you known Estrelle? Is she still living? Speak, pray speak, and count on my gratitude if you assist me to recover that unfortunate woman."
"You loved her well, did you not?" said Julia, gazing tenderly at the marquis.
"Yes, yes, I loved her—I should love her still. Pray tell me, is she still living? Answer me."
"I know no more than you, seigneur, I swear to you. I have never met the woman who bore that name, and chance made the adventure known to me. On seeing you and on finding myself in this house, to which Estrelle was brought, the remembrance of these events was presented to my thoughts; forgive me for having recalled them to you—you were then very young; I know, also that old Delmar did not die of his wounds. As to his daughter, I repeat to you I know no more of her than you do. But you had outraged me in comparing me to those women whom you can purchase every day with your riches, while I only desire your love. I am Italian and I revenged myself!"
The marquis did not answer, he walked slowly up and down the room, from time to time sighing and glancing around him; but he did not appear to perceive that Julia was there.
"Yes, I passed a month with her here," said the marquis, looking around the boudoir, "this abode was not what it is today. I have embellished it, changed it, in order to drive away the remembrance of her; but never since have I experienced such entrancing moments as those spent near Estrelle."
A long silence succeeded these words; then the marquis took his hat and cloak and slightly inclined his head to Julia, as he said, in a low voice,—
"I shall see you again tomorrow."
Then he hurriedly quitted the little house in a very different frame of mind from that in which he had entered it.
FOR some few days after his nocturnal adventure of the duel Urbain refrained from wearing his feminine costume. He was not at all anxious to make any further conquests and to thus expose himself to adventures which were hardly likely to always result to his advantage; the young bachelor felt that before he again disguised himself as a girl he should make sure that his stratagem would bring him nearer to obtaining an interview with Blanche.
He began to watch Marguerite again, prowling incessantly around the barber's house, and obtaining all the information he could get as to the character of the old servant; and he promised himself that he would avail himself to the utmost of her credulity and superstition. His plan being carefully considered and arranged, an old messenger, commissioned by him, accosted Marguerite and asked her if she knew of a place for a young peasant, a very pleasant and virtuous girl, who had lately come to Paris and found herself without employment. The kindly old serving woman at once gave two addresses where she said they would perhaps take the young girl, and continued on her way.
The next day while going, according to custom, to buy provisions, Marguerite was stopped by a country woman, very modest in demeanor, but with an awkward air, who curtseyed to her and thanked her with lowered eyes.
"What are you thanking me for, my child?" said Marguerite, "I do not know you."
"Because you interested yourself in me yesterday and tried to find me a place."
"Oh, are you the one they recommended to me?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Did they engage you?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"I am sorry for it, for you seem to me very pleasing, very honest. Where do you come from?"
"From Verberie, mademoiselle."
"Why did you come to Paris?"
"I have lost both my parents and I thought I should find work more easily in a great city."
"Yes, but great cities are dangerous places for virtuous young maids such as you appear to be. They should have told you that, my child."
"Yes, they did, mademoiselle! but I am not afraid of anything."
"Why, you must believe yourself very wary, very strong, to think you can escape the snares they'll set for you."
"Indeed it's not that, mademoiselle, but it is that—I daren't say—it's a mystery, a secret."
Secret and mystery had the same effect upon the old maid as love and marriage have upon a young maid—they aroused all her feelings. Marguerite's little eyes beamed and she cried,—
"What, my child! you have a secret? I am not curious, but you interest me; I should like to be useful to you, but it's necessary that I should know everything that concerns you. What is this mystery that you dare not mention?"
"Mademoiselle, I did not wish to confide in anyone in Paris, for somebody told me there were pickpockets who would steal my treasure."
"You possess a treasure?"
"Oh, yes, mademoiselle; but one with which I could still die of hunger."
"Why, indeed, what does that matter, my child, hasn't every young girl a treasure without price—her innocence, her virtue—and those who guard it the best are not always the richest. When I see shameless women, who live in luxury and abundance, riding in gilded carriages, it makes me feel ill. But about your secret, my child; would you refuse to confide in me?"
"No, indeed, mademoiselle, you appear so respectable, so good, that I cannot refuse you."
Marguerite half smiled and tapped the country woman on the arm, for praise is a flower whose perfume is grateful at any age.
"Out with it then," she said. "What is it?"
"Mademoiselle, I'll tell you with much pleasure; but it's a long story, and I must go into a good many houses this morning. If you would let me tell it to you this evening at your house, that would be better, for I dare not say all that in the street; some one might hear me and take me for a sorcerer, and I'm very much afraid of the Chambre Ardente. God knows, however, mademoiselle, that I understand nothing of magic, and I'm more afraid of the devil than I am of men."
"Oh," said Marguerite, whose curiosity had reached an unbearable point, "this mystery of yours is of itself extraordinary?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Indeed! Well, this is very embarrassing; to receive you in the house is difficult. Where do you live, my child?"
Urbain hesitated for a moment, then replied:—
"Near the Porte Saint-Antoine."
"Oh, good heavens—that's more than a league from here. I could never get there; my master's a very strict man and doesn't wish that anyone should have visitors."
Marguerite reflected for some moments, then her curiosity carried the day.
"Well," said she at last, "come this evening at seven o'clock; it'll be dark; but look well at that house over there—that alleyway."
"Oh, I shall recognize it."
"Don't knock; keep near the door. I'll let you in, and show you up to my room. At that hour my master doesn't ordinarily need my services, and he never leaves the lower room."
"That's enough, mademoiselle, I'll be there at seven precisely."
"What is your name?"
"Ursule Ledoux."
"Above all, Ursule, don't gossip with anybody about this. It's no crime to receive you, but my master's a little ridiculous and might find it wrong. Besides, my child, one must be discreet in everything. You'll tell me your secret this evening, Ursule?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"At seven o'clock, the house over there."
Urbain departed, delighted by the success of his stratagem, breathing with difficulty, partly from the hope of seeing Blanche and partly because his corset impeded his respiration; and Marguerite reached her dwelling, saying,—
"This young girl looks as sweet as she looks honest, and there's no harm in receiving her for a moment—it'll amuse my poor little Blanche a little; she's been rather sad for some days and seems more lonely than usual; and we shall know the secret which—mon Dieu, if seven o'clock would only come soon."
Marguerite hastened to find Blanche. Since the night of the serenade the lovely child had been even more dreamy than before; she sang nothing but the refrain of her dear romance, and the villanelles, the virelays, the old songs amused her no longer. Marguerite drew near to her and said mysteriously, in a low tone,—
"This evening we shall have a visitor."
"A visitor," said Blanche. "Oh, M. Chaudoreille I suppose."
"No, indeed, a very pleasing, very honest young country girl whom you don't know. A poor child who possesses a treasure and who is looking for a place as cook; she wishes to remain virtuous, and for that reason has come to Paris; she is afraid of the devil, but of nothing else."
"But dear nurse, I don't understand."
"Hush! hush! keep still! This evening she will come, and we shall hear her story; there is a question of a very curious mystery, but be silent; it is not necessary that M. Touquet should know anything about that for he might forbid this poor Ursule from coming to chat with us, and that would displease me very much because she will amuse you a little, my child."
"Oh, be easy, dear nurse, I shall say nothing," cried Blanche, and she jumped about her room for joy because the announcement of this visit was for her an extraordinary event. The least thing new is a great pleasure for those who pass their lives deprived of all gayety. It is thus that a storm or even a shower will distract and occupy a poor prisoner; that a bottle of wine will make a feast for a man of small means habituated to drinking nothing but water; that the sound of a Barbary organ appears delightful to the country people; that a ticket for the play crowns the wishes of the poor workwoman of ten sous a day; that a little muslin dress makes an honest grisette happy; and that Sunday is awaited with impatience by those who work all the week; while for many people fêtes, the theatre, music, diamonds, cannot rejoice their hearts. After all, should not the poor be happier than the rich?
At last seven sounded from Saint Eustache's clock. The barber had long since sent Blanche and Marguerite to shut themselves into their rooms. The old servant went softly downstairs, trying to make as little noise as possible with her heels, and shielding the light of her lamp with her hand. She opened the street door and saw the country girl, who had been waiting for a quarter of an hour.
"That's well," said Marguerite, "you are here; but hush! don't speak, don't make any noise; let me lead you."
Urbain nodded his head and entered the alleyway, while Marguerite softly closed the door. Then our lover was at the height of his joy. It seemed to him that he breathed a purer air in the house of the one he loved. He believed himself in the abode of highest bliss while going up the little crooked staircase; and the black and crumbling walls that surrounded him had more charm for his eyes than the marbles or the sculptures of the Louvre.
"You are going to see my mistress," said Marguerite, "I have warned her, but fear nothing, she is as amiable as she is good; you can speak without danger before her, she is discretion itself,—besides, she never sees anybody, and never goes out. My master wishes to shield her against the enterprises of these dandies, of these worthless fellows who seek to cajole the poor girls. It is true that my little Blanche is very pretty; she would turn the heads of all our noblemen, you are going to see her, and you can judge for yourself; here we are at her room. Come in, come, don't tremble so; how childish you are."
Urbain was trembling, in fact, and his heart beat so hard that he was obliged to support himself for a moment against the wall. During this time Marguerite opened the door and said to Blanche,—
"Here she is."
Blanche rose and came to meet the young girl whom her nurse had brought, smiling pleasantly at her. Urbain raised his eyes, saw Blanche, and his emotion increased. He had only been able through the panes of the casement to perceive her features very imperfectly, and the charming object which now met his gaze was a hundred times more beautiful than the image which his memory and his imagination had created. He remained for a moment stunned, motionless, not daring to take a step, doubting still whether he could believe his happiness, and looking with delight at the lovely girl, who smiled at him and took him by the hand, saying to him,—
"Won't you come in? Come in and sit down and warm yourself. Why, you're not afraid of me, are you?"
"This is the girl I told you about," announced Marguerite, "but she is a little timid, though she will soon lose that; may she always preserve her modesty in Paris."
Blanche's soft hand slipped into that of the young bachelor and she led him to the fireplace. On feeling the pretty fingers imprinted on his own, Urbain scarcely breathed, and murmured in a feeble voice,—
"How good you are, mademoiselle?"
"She has a very pretty voice," cried Blanche, immediately. "Don't you think so, Marguerite? A voice which I seem to have heard before; it is very singular, I can't recall where I've heard it."
"You are mistaken, my child," said Marguerite, "for myself I think that Ursule's voice is a little rough. But remember that we have not much time to keep her here and she is going to tell us a certain thing."
"One moment," said Blanche, "let her rest for a minute, she looks tired. Do you need anything?"
"No, I thank you," said Urbain, raising his eyes on the amiable child, and immediately abasing them, for he feared that she would read in them all the love which consumed him and it seemed to him that the moment was very ill-chosen to make it known; besides, he was so happy near Blanche that he wished to prolong the time, and, thanks to his disguise, he could see the sweet girl practise her graces, her amiability, and learn her character much better than if he had appeared to her in his true form. Before a lover the frankest girl is always timid, embarrassed, reserved, while with a person of her own sex she expresses without constraint the feelings which she experiences.
"And so you are looking for a place?" said Blanche, seating herself near Urbain.
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Have you been long in Paris?"
"A fortnight, mademoiselle."
"And your parents?"
"I have none, mademoiselle. I am an orphan."
"Poor girl! that's like me, I am an orphan also, and if M. Touquet had not taken care of me I too should have had to go to work to earn my living."
"You, mademoiselle," said Urbain ardently, but he restrained himself and finished in a low voice, "that would have been very unfortunate."
"My dear Blanche," said Marguerite, "it was not that you might tell her your history, but that she might acquaint us with the secret she is keeping that she came here. Now, Ursule, speak my child!"
Urbain sighed; he would much rather have listened to Blanche than have talked to Marguerite; but it was necessary to satisfy the old maid, he needed her; and it was by exciting her curiosity that he hoped often to see Blanche. He commenced his recital, disguising his voice, and while he spoke the beautiful child fixed her eyes on him, a favor which he owed to his costume, but which often made him lose the thread of his discourse.
"You have doubtless heard tell of Jeanne Harviliers, so famous a century ago for her witcheries and sorceries."
"No, never," said Marguerite, drawing her chair nearer and stretching her neck, because the word sorcery had already produced its electrical effect upon the old servant. "Tell us the history of this sorcery, my child, and try not to omit a single fact."
"Jeanne Harviliers was born at Verberie in the year 1528. Her mother, they say, was a wicked woman, who dedicated her child to the devil as soon as she came into the world.
"When Jeanne was twelve years old the devil presented himself to her in the guise of a black man, armed and booted."
"Dear nurse," said Blanche, "can the devil then take any form he pleases?"
"Yes, of course, I've told you so a hundred times; he changes as he wishes."
"You've always said, dear nurse, that he shows himself as a black cat."
"A cat or a man, what does it matter?"
"I was only afraid of cats before, now I shall be afraid of men also."
"Come, mademoiselle, if you interrupt this young girl like that we shall never know her story. Go on, my child!"
Urbain glanced quickly at Blanche and resumed his narration.
"The black man told Jeanne that if she would give herself to him he would teach her a thousand secrets by which she could work good or evil to people according to her will. Jeanne Harviliers yielded to the proposition of the devil, and pronounced the formula which he dictated; she soon became a famous magician, riding to the witches' sabbaths on a broomstick.
"Jeanne practised her art near Verberie, but, being accused of sorcery, she was for some time obliged to hide herself. She had a neighbor who disclosed her whereabouts, and Jeanne asked the devil to give her a charm, that she might revenge herself. He gave her a powder, telling her to place it in a road where her enemy was about to pass, and it would give the latter a malady of which she would die. Jeanne did as the devil had told her, and placed the charm; but another person passed first over the road, and it was she who was the victim. Jeanne, distressed at seeing the sick woman, confessed to her that she had caused her misfortune and promised to cure her, but she could not do as she wished for she was then arrested and thrown into prison. They questioned her; she confessed that she was a sorcerer, and was condemned to be burned alive. She was executed on the last day of April in the year 1578."
"How is that? She was a sorcerer and she let them burn her?" said Blanche with astonishment.
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"How funny that is, and what use was it to her to be a sorcerer then?"
"Blanche you are far too young to argue like that," said Marguerite.
"And the devil, did they burn him also?"
"No, mademoiselle, they could not do that."
"That's a pity, for then we should not need to be afraid of him. Perhaps the devil has been burned now."
"The demon will always exist, my child!"
"You've told me, dear nurse, that St. Michael fought with him and vanquished him."
"Yes, of course he vanquished him, but that is as if he had done nothing. Now, Ursule, go on; for I do not yet see in all that you have told us anything relating to yourself, since this Jeanne was burned close on sixty years ago."
"I am coming to it, mademoiselle," said Urbain, recalling his ideas, which Blanche's beautiful eyes had turned to other things than sorcery. "Since the time of Jeanne Harviliers, they talk of nothing in Verberie and its neighborhood except the witches' sabbaths which were held at the Pont-aux-Reine on the highway to Compèigne, in the wood of Ajeux; and where noises were heard of horsemen riding in squads, witches going to their sabbaths, and wizards of all kinds. The good inhabitants of the country, wishing to put themselves on their guard against these emissaries of the devil, went to Charlemagne's chapel, which is now known as the church of Saint-Pierre, and asked the good religious to give them something which would guarantee them against sorceries of all kinds."
"A very good idea, truly," said Marguerite, "they could not have acted more wisely, and what did they give them, my child?"
"The good fathers gave them a robe which had been worn by a pious hermit, who during his life had always made the demons flee from any place where he came. A tiny morsel of that robe was sufficient to ward off all danger from the one who carried it. You may imagine how anxious everybody was to have a piece of it."
"Oh, I can well believe it. If I had been there there's nothing I wouldn't have given to obtain a piece."
"Well but dear nurse," said Blanche, "is it like mine."
"Hush! let Ursule finish, my child!"
"Finally, mademoiselle, one of my ancestors, who lived then had the good fortune to get a morsel of the pious hermit's robe. She left it to her daughter after her, who left it to my mother, from whom I have it; and that is how this talisman came to me and it is that which makes me afraid of nothing in Paris, and with which I dare risk myself alone in the streets at night."
"Oh, how singular!" cried Blanche, "that's like me; I also have a talisman which preserves me from all danger, however, they won't even let me look out of the window. That's because my protector, the barber, does not believe in talismans."
"He's very wrong, mademoiselle," said Urbain.
"Yes, assuredly he is," said Marguerite, "but, my dear child, have you yours on you now?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. Oh, I always carry it."
"Let us see this precious relic. Only to touch it will do one good."
Urbain felt in his apron pocket and drew forth a small paper folded with great care; he opened it and took out a sample of his breeches which he presented to the old servant, pinching his lips to keep a serious face. Marguerite who had put on her glasses took the little scrap of cloth respectfully, and kissed it three times, crying,—
"That's it, oh, how good that is! that emits an odor all about it, an odor of sanctity."
"Do you think so, dear nurse," said Blanche, who was looking at the little sample of cloth in surprise, "I should never have thought that a little rag like that could have any power."
"A rag! O my dear Blanche, speak more respectfully of this relic."
"My talisman is much prettier than that. It's a little piece of parchment. Wait, here it is." Saying these words Blanche opened her kerchief, and signed to Urbain to look in her corset, half disclosing her virgin neck as she spoke, in order that the supposed Ursule might better perceive her talisman.
"Ah, how charming!" exclaimed Urbain involuntarily.
"Is it not," said Blanche, smiling; "it's much prettier than that scrap of cloth."
Urbain had no strength with which to answer, he remained motionless, his eyes still fixed on the place where the lovely child hid her talisman, while Marguerite, contemplating the fragment of smallclothes, kissed it anew, repeating,—
"The worth of that has been well proven, which makes it all the more precious."
Blanche fastened her kerchief, and Urbain, still moved by what he had seen, sighed deeply.
"What is the matter with you," said the young girl, looking with interest at her whom she believed to be a simple country girl. "You seem grieved."
"Alas, mademoiselle! I was remembering that I was alone and without resources in this city, that I have no parents, no friends."
"Poor girl! Well, we will be your friends. Yes, I feel that I love you already, Ursule."
"Can it be mademoiselle? Ah! if it were only true!"
"Why do you say if it were true? I never say what is untrue; but what I feel I say at once. Isn't that natural? And do you think that you can love me also?"
"Can I love you," said Urbain, warmly; then remembering that Marguerite was there, he resumed less forcibly, but with an accent that came from his heart,—
"Yes, yes, mademoiselle, and all my life."
"Oh, it is so nice to have a friend of one's own age," said Blanche, shaking the bachelor's hand. "At least I shall have some one with whom I can laugh and chat. Marguerite likes to talk very well, but she never laughs and then she never talks of anything but magic and the devil. We shall find other things to talk about, shan't we, Ursule?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"I know very little about anything; always alone in my room, never going out, though I have a great desire to do so; my protector never comes to chat with me; I receive visits from one man only."
"From a man?" said Urbain, anxiously.
"Yes, my music master. Formerly he made me laugh, now he wearies me, for he always sings the same thing to me."
Urbain breathed more freely, and resumed,—
"You sing, mademoiselle?"
"A little," said Blanche, "and do you sing, Ursule?"
"Sometimes."
"That's better still. You shall teach me the songs of your country and I will teach you the ones that I know."
"You will let me come to see you again, then, mademoiselle?"
"Certainly, every evening, if you can. Remember that I am very lonely by myself, in place of which I shall amuse myself with you. She can come to see us every evening, Marguerite, can't she? M. Touquet won't be angry, will he?"
Marguerite during this conversation had remained in meditation and in ecstasy before Ursule's talisman. She would have given all the world to possess it in her new room, where she had much trouble in going to sleep, but the name of her master drew her from these reflections and she cried,—
"What are you saying about M. Touquet; that he knows we are receiving this young girl without his permission? Oh, no, indeed!"
"But, dear nurse, that's why it is necessary to ask him."
"Ah, mademoiselle," said Urbain, "he will refuse it, and I shall be deprived of the pleasure of seeing you."
"In that case we will say nothing; but if he would take you into his service?"
"Monsieur does not wish to have anybody else in the house. What could Ursule do here?"
"It's a pity, for Ursule must find a place to earn her living; how very disagreeable it is to have a talisman which preserves you from all danger and allows you to die of hunger. It's exactly like mine."
"Oh, I still have time to wait I have a prospect of something before me," said Urbain, "and my expenses are so very little."
"Had your ancestors ever any occasion to prove the virtue of this talisman?" said Marguerite.
"Yes, mademoiselle, many circumstances prove that, and, above all, my mother had a very strange adventure."
"An adventure," said the old woman, drawing her chair to the hearth. At this moment the church clock struck nine. "O heavens! nine o'clock," said Marguerite, "it is very late; you must go, my child. If my master perceives that we have not gone to bed he'll want to know the reason; come, it's necessary to part."
"And that adventure which she is going to tell us," said Blanche.
"That will be for tomorrow, if you will permit it," said Urbain.
"Oh, yes, tomorrow. Can she not come tomorrow, dear nurse."
"So be it," said Marguerite, who was also curious to hear it. "But remember to be prudent, Ursule, that nobody may know."
"Oh, I'll answer to you for my silence, mademoiselle."
"That's well. Wait, here is your talisman. Take care not to lose it. Good heavens! how happy I should be if I had a similar one."
Urbain received the little scrap of cloth, dropping a curtsey and putting it in his pocket, while Marguerite took a lamp to lead him.
"You are going alone," said Blanche, "perhaps a long distance."
"To the Porte Saint-Antoine."
"O heavens! and are you not afraid to be in the street so late?"
"Has she not her talisman?" said Marguerite.
"Ah, that is true; I shan't think about it any more. Good-by, Ursule, you'll come back tomorrow, will you not?"
The lovely child held out her hand to Urbain, who was about to carry it to his lips, but remembering that he was a woman he was obliged to content himself with pressing it tenderly and followed Marguerite, after glancing sweetly at Blanche. The old woman reconducted him with the same precaution she had taken in introducing him, and closed the street door softly, saying to him,—
"Good-by till tomorrow, and be sure to take good care of your talisman."
URBAIN reëntered his old dwelling in a state of rapture and intoxication difficult of description. The sight of Blanche, the sound of her sweet voice, her charm, her youthful candor, her touching grace and simplicity, had increased his love; what he had seen of the beautiful girl, had immeasurably exceeded the expectations he had formed of her, from the slight glimpse he had obtained of her on the previous occasion, heightened though it was by a lover's imagination; and when he now reflected that he should see her again on the morrow,—on many morrows, perhaps—that he should hear her and speak to her again, that her soft hand would again rest without fear in his, he could hardly contain himself.
And yet he could not but feel what a pity it was that he could not confess to the lovely child his real identity and the feeling with which she had inspired him, at first sight. For Urbain was painfully conscious that he must not hurry the disclosure of his secret for fear of alarming the timid girl, and that he should first seek to win Blanche's confidence; in his feminine costume that would be very easy, she had already said that she loved him. It is true that the confession of this sentiment was made to Ursule, but, in fact, it was Urbain who had inspired her with it.
During the day the bachelor resumed his masculine garments, and as soon as night returned he attired himself in his feminine costume, in which he had already begun to acquire more ease of manner; besides, the young servant was always ready to help the youth when he wished to disguise himself, she was very obliging to him, and did not neglect to give him lessons. Urbain profited by them, because a young man understands better how to tear a kerchief than to put it on, and a youth who is foolishly in love has many grave distractions, so that the help of the young servant was very necessary to him. Urbain was very prompt at his rendezvous, and Marguerite introduced him with the same ceremonial as on the evening before. Blanche gave him a most amiable welcome. She went to meet him, and as he was making her a modest curtsey the artless child kissed him on each cheek. Urbain was overwhelmed and in the ardor of his joy, had not the voice of Marguerite recalled him to himself, he would have pressed Blanche to his heart, and would have returned a hundredfold the kisses he had received. But the old woman, always eager to hear a story of extraordinary adventures, particularly when it related to a talisman, pushed Urbain to the side of the hearth, and said,—
"Come, children, don't waste time with idle ceremony; you know how quickly it passes when one is relating interesting things. Let us sit down and Ursule will tell us the adventure which her mother experienced."
Urbain, still much moved by Blanche's kiss, began a story which he had composed in the morning, and which delighted Marguerite, because it proved the marvellous powers of the talisman. The story finished, the old woman asked to be allowed to look at the relic; she was persuaded that after having touched it the evening before she ran less danger during the night in her room. Blanche then chatted with Urbain and sang to him in a low tone one of the songs which she knew. The ingenuous child had only known the pretended Ursule since the evening before, but she already regarded her as a sister, called her "my dear," and related to her all that concerned herself; for Blanche, brought up in retirement, had not learned to hide her feelings or to feign those which she did not experience; her heart was pure and her words were only the expression of what she felt.
Blanche did not fail to sing to Urbain her favorite refrain, and the latter trembled with pleasure on seeing that, despite the precautions of the barber, his accents were graven on Blanche's memory, who said to him,—
"The first time that I heard you speak, it seemed to me that I still heard the voice which had sung at night under my window. That was a very pretty voice, and yours, Ursule, resembles it a little. What a pity that you don't know the romance that they were singing."
"I do know it," said Urbain; "at least I think I know it, for I have often heard it sung, and that makes me remember it."
"How fortunate! Sing it to me, Ursule, I beg."
"But if M. Touquet—"
"Oh, he is in his room; besides, you can sing very low. Wait! Just as I expected, Marguerite is asleep; now she won't be able to scold us."
In fact her deep contemplation of the little scrap of Urbain's smallclothes had put the old servant to sleep. Urbain was almost alone with her he adored. His heart palpitated with joy, long sighs issued from his breast, and he was obliged to turn away his eyes that they might not meet Blanche's adorable gaze.
"Well, now," said the amiable girl, pouting a little, which rendered her still more seductive, "aren't you going to sing to me? That would be very naughty, for it would give me a great deal of pleasure to hear that song. I should like to learn it myself. I beg of you, Ursule; you see Marguerite is asleep; come, don't refuse me."
"I refuse you anything? Of course I'll sing for you, mademoiselle."
"Oh, you are very obliging, and I will kiss you with a good heart."
Urbain needed not the temptation of so sweet a recompense. However, he wished immediately to deserve it. He sang, and Blanche listened with rapture; the young man, yielding to the emotion of his heart, sang with much expression and feeling, but his voice no longer resembled that of a woman, and any other than the ingenuous Blanche would have perceived the change; but the latter was far from suspecting the truth, and with her head turned towards Urbain, remained motionless, her eyes fixed on him and seeming to fear lest she should lose a word, while she exclaimed from time to time,—
"Mon Dieu, that is it! that's the same thing! That affects me just as it did the other night. Ah, Ursule, sing again."
However, the songs ceased, for Urbain had not forgotten the promised recompense. For some moments Blanche remained motionless, seeming to be listening still; at last she aroused herself from her ecstasies, saying,—
"It's very singular what a strange effect that romance has upon me."
"Is it disagreeable?"
"Oh, no; if it were I should not want to be always hearing it, and still it makes me feel rather sad; it makes me sigh; but all the same, Ursule, you will teach it to me, will you not?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; but you promised me—"
"To kiss you. Oh, I'll do that willingly."
Without further asking, Blanche imprinted her cherry lips on Urbain's burning cheek. This time the latter was about to return her kiss, and had already taken the young girl in his arms when Marguerite, in sneezing, just missed falling into the fire, and awoke herself with a start, crying,—
"Dear good patron saint, save me; I see the black man and the sorcerer of Verberie."
"Where is he, dear nurse?" said Blanche, leaving Urbain, who was vexed that he had not sooner finished his singing.
"Where?" said Marguerite, rubbing her eyes; "where is what? What did I say?"
"You said you saw the sorcerer."
"Ah, that is because I was thinking of him, apparently. Come, Ursule, it is time for you to go, my child."
"That's a pity, I was going to tell you of an adventure which happened to my aunt which was even more marvellous than the others."
"Oh, that's delightful; that will be for tomorrow," said Blanche. "That will suit you, dear nurse, won't it? You see my good friend suspects nothing; besides, if he should see Ursule and be angry, well, I'll take all the blame on myself and I can pacify him."
"Come, then, tomorrow night, and we will learn all about your aunt's adventures."
"Yes, Mademoiselle Marguerite, but will you have the goodness to give me back my talisman."
"Yes, my dear child, that's right. O my God! what have I done with it? Has Satan tricked me out of it? I was holding it just this minute."
"Wait, dear nurse, here it is," pointing to the hearth, "you have let it fall in the cinders."
"Faith, so I did," answered the old woman, picking up the little scrap of cloth. "Oh, my goodness! it's a little scorched."
"Oh, that's all right, mademoiselle," said Urbain, "that won't have taken away any of its virtue."
"No, assuredly not, my dear child, and if it had been burned its ashes would have retained the same properties."
Urbain took his talisman, said "good-by" to Blanche, repeating to her, "I shall see you, tomorrow," and left the barber's house.
Several days rolled away and every evening the young bachelor had the good fortune to see Blanche. He was incessantly inventing new stories to pique Marguerite's curiosity, and the old woman regularly opened the door of the alley at seven o'clock. The fictitious Ursule's presence had become necessary to Blanche and Marguerite. The latter experienced great pleasure in hearing her relate the doings of the magicians, and the young girl in learning her cherished romance; but Marguerite did not always go to sleep, and even when she was awake Blanche wished Urbain to sing; the latter obeyed her, but in order to prevent the old woman from suspecting him he was careful to disguise his voice, and Blanche exclaimed with vexation,—
"That's not at all good! You don't sing so prettily as usual today, and it doesn't give me the same pleasure."
While Urbain was elated with the happiness of seeing Blanche, and drinking from her eyes the sweetest sentiment; while the young girl was giving herself, without restraint, to the pleasure which Ursule's society afforded her, and in confiding to the latter her slightest thoughts; and while old Marguerite, her head filled with frightful stories and miraculous deeds done by the sorcerer of Verberie, was securing herself against the snares of Satan by rubbing between her fingers every evening the little scrap of the bachelor's breeches,—what was passing in the little house of the Vallée Fécamp? was the brilliant Julia still there? and was the Marquis de Villebelle taking the trouble to feign a little love in order to subdue the young Italian.
The barber, having received the price of his services, disquieted himself very little as to what was passing in the small house. Chaudoreille, who never left the gambling-houses while he had money in his pocket, had not appeared at the barber's for a month, but at the end of that time he appeared at his friend's towards the middle of the day. The Gascon's face was longer then usual. His ruff, all in rags, had been stained in several places, and the feather on his hat had been replaced by the gold-colored rosette which formerly decorated Rolande's handle. Chaudoreille's piteous face made the barber smile.
"Where do you come from," said he, "and what have you been doing since I saw you last?"
"I've been very unfortunate," said Chaudoreille, heaving a big sigh, and drawing from his belt the old silk purse, which he shook without producing a single sou. "You see, my friend, I'm reduced to zero."
"How's that? do you mean to say that nothing remains to you of the sum I gave you."
"Not a penny, my dear fellow. I've been robbed in a shameful manner."
"That is to say, you have been gambling."
"Yes, that's true; I've played, but with robbers. They have tricked me in an infamous fashion. If, at least, they had been amiable about it, one knows well that among people accustomed to play there are a thousand little ways in which one can make fortune favorable, but to despoil a friend, a comrade—it's horrible! I'll never play again in my life. Say now, don't you want me to go to the little house to see my dear friend Marcel?"
"On the contrary, I forbid you to do so. Without the marquis' order nobody should allow himself to go there."
"That's vexatious, and how did the adventure end?"
"What does that matter to you? For the matter of that I have not seen the marquis again, but from the moment I ceased to be employed the intrigue was nothing to me; besides, it will end like all the others. It is a caprice which will last for some days and will be succeeded by another."
"That's correct; but the little one appeared to me to have some strength of mind. She said some very peculiar things to me; she asked me, among other things, if I knew your parents."
"My parents," said the barber, with visible emotion, "that's singular."
"Yes, very singular. I told her you were from Lorraine and that that was all I knew about you."
"My parents," repeated Touquet, striding about the room. "I am almost certain that I have none. My poor father is undoubtedly dead. Oh, I was a very worthless fellow in my youth! Precocious in my passions, a taste for play and a thirst for gold caused me to commit a thousand excesses."
"Yes, the follies of youth. I know all about that. As for me at six years old I was flogged for having stolen a leg of mutton out of the dripping-pan. At ten for having, in a fit of abstraction, taken my grandmother's purse to go and play at little quoits; at twelve years old I took a rabbit off the spit and put in its place my old aunt's cat; but in my ardor to hide my larceny I forgot to skin the cat, which was roasted with its hair on. Happily my father was short-sighted, and he thought it was a little wild boar; at fifteen years—"
"What does it matter what you did?" cried the barber, impatiently. "Did the young woman say anything else about me?"
"No, but if you like, I'll go and draw it from her, adroitly."
"Idiot! you forget that she is the marquis' mistress? When her reign is ended I shall see her, and I shall know." The barber said nothing further and would not answer Chaudoreille, and the latter, after having uselessly repeated several times that he had been fasting since the evening before, on perceiving that Touquet paid him no attention left the shop in an ill-humor, murmuring between his teeth,—
"People who become rich are always niggardly and stingy. That's a fault that I shall never have."
Some hours after this conversation, the barber, returning to his customers, met near the Louvre the brilliant Villebelle, who, wrapped in his mantle, seemed to be still in high feather.
"I have succeeded, my dear fellow," said he, drawing Touquet under a portico, where no one could hear them. "Julia has given herself to me; but truly the conquest was more difficult than I had thought. The young girl is passionate, romantic; she wishes to be loved, and I have made her believe that I love her. In fact her singular character, her pride, united with her tenderness, her strange conduct, and her speeches, nearly enthralled me. She spoke to me about Estrelle. I don't know how she knew that adventure."