I had done all that I could, all that it was possible for me to do at that moment for Mignonne; and I felt better satisfied with myself. I determined to forget her for a while and think of my new love.

I made up my mind to go to Monsieur Sordeville's on Thursday. I must wait until then to see the charming Armantine. The intervening four days seemed very long. There are some men who kill time and shorten the period of separation by talking of their loved one with their friends; but I have never had confidants; true love is always better placed in the depths of our hearts than in the memory of indifferent persons, who take no interest in it, or recall it only to laugh at us if we are betrayed, to call us fools if we are loyal, to envy us if we are happy. Moreover, is it true that we have any real friends? For my own part, I know of none. In my youth, I believed in the friendship of some young men with whom I was often thrown in parties of pleasure; at that time, over-flowing with confidence, I asked nothing better than to lay bare my heart, to devote myself in all sincerity to those who pressed my hand; but I was very ill repaid for my frankness and my kindliness. My delusions were destroyed too soon, and I held aloof from men and drew nearer to women; I have never repented of it, for in friendship women are infinitely superior to men.

I do not call those people my friends whom I meet by chance at parties or dinners, like Balloquet and Dupréval; they are acquaintances, nothing more.

Thursday arrived, and I betook myself to Monsieur Sordeville's, on Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin: a handsome house, handsome hall, handsome apartments; a servant to announce the guests; all the externals which indicate opulence. I entered a very spacious salon, in which there were already many people, and passed rapidly through a throng of unfamiliar faces. Monsieur Sordeville left a group of men, with whom he was talking, to come to meet me and shake hands as if we were old friends. I could not help laughing inwardly at the prodigious expenditure of handshakings in society, among people who know one another as little as Monsieur Sordeville and myself, and often are not at all fond of one another. 'Tis a pity; it would be so pleasant to have one's hand shaken, if it were to be depended upon as an assurance of affection and good will. But men have spoiled everything, and the most expressive words and gestures mean nothing now, because they have been so abused.

Monsieur Sordeville, still holding my hand and pressing it, took me to his wife.

"My dear," he said, "here is Monsieur Rochebrune, who has been good enough to accept our invitation."

The charming Armantine wore a fascinating gown, with infinite grace and coquetry. I did not recognize in her the unconstraint of my partner at Mademoiselle Guillardin's wedding party,—to-day she was a true petite-maîtresse, a little affected, and a little ceremonious too. But she was a very seductive woman still. Moreover, it was natural enough that in her own house she should be more punctilious in her manners than at a wedding ball. Doubtless it seemed to her becoming to assume a more dignified bearing to receive her guests; a hostess is a different person from a guest at a party, who has not to play a leading part.

It was too bad! she was so attractive at the ball! she laughed so readily, and seemed to invite one to laugh with her. However, she did the honors of her salon very gracefully; she welcomed me with an affable smile, and thanked me as her husband had done for remembering their invitation. I cannot say what answer I made; my eyes must have said more than my mouth. I tried to detect in her eyes an expression that would at least tell me that she understood me, that she guessed my meaning; but I saw only that gracious smile with which she received the homage of all the men who came up to salute her.

A person is always awkward and embarrassed in a company to which he is an entire stranger, and where he can find no familiar face. I walked away from Madame Sordeville, as it was impossible for me to stand staring at her; that would have made me look like a fool, and would not have advanced my interests at all. With women whom one is anxious to please, one should, above all things, avoid looking like a fool; to be sure, that does not always depend on one's self.

I looked about for Madame Dauberny; I looked forward to meeting her there, because she had seemed to me to be very intimate with the mistress of the house. I did not see her. Men were in a large majority; why were there so few women, and, above all, so few pretty ones? Was it intentional on the part of the hostess? Surely she was pretty enough to fear no rivalry!

The guests were chatting together in groups in different parts of the salon. There was a piano, but thus far there had been no suggestion of music. I walked into another room, where two whist tables were in operation. There were fewer people there. If she should come into that room, I could talk more freely with her. But she was too busily engaged in receiving her guests and listening to the compliments they paid her; she seemed to me to be a great flirt. It has frequently been said that all women are—the desire to please is so natural! As if men were not flirts, too! Everybody wishes to produce an impression: the ugly man seeks to please by his wit; this one by his magnificence, another by his generosity, another by his attentions, his servility, his flatteries; but the end is always the same. So, let us not blame women for being coquettish; nature, when endowing them with beauty, grace, and charm, seems to have taught them what use they could make of these advantages. But the one person that I cannot endure is a capricious woman; is there anything more insufferable than to be greeted coldly or sulkily, when you do not know the reason and have done nothing to deserve it? Certainly I had no right to complain of Madame Sordeville; still, after her friendly treatment of me at the wedding party, after the sort of intimacy which the disclosure of my secret had at once established between us, I had flattered myself that she would receive me less ceremoniously. But I must wait and see.

Monsieur Sordeville came to me and asked me if I cared for whist.

"I like all games," I replied.

An old gentleman, who closed his eyes when he spoke, as if he were going to sleep, joined us; I had no idea what he said, for the fascinating Armantine entered the room where we were, and I followed her with my eyes. A handsome young man with light hair was walking behind her, talking to her in an undertone—at least, so it seemed to me; the pretty creature laughed heartily, with divers little gestures and expressions that would have brought a regiment to terms. I was annoyed; it was unreasonable of me, perhaps, but I could not bear to have her listen so to that fellow; I was strongly tempted to join in their conversation. But it was impossible; the man who talked with his eyes closed was telling me things that must have been very interesting, judging from the way he emphasized every syllable. Mon Dieu! what tiresome people there are in the world! But, among the various species, the most insufferable, in my opinion, is the man who never stops talking, who joins the story he tells you on to another one, which in turn becomes entangled in a third, after the style of the Thousand and One Nights; so that he is quite capable of keeping you a whole evening in a corner of the salon, without ever giving you a chance of escape, unless you decide boldly to break away from him in the middle of one of his tales.

I have no idea how my conversation with those two gentlemen veered around to politics, of which I have a perfect horror. I discovered to my surprise that Monsieur Sordeville was in government employ and already hinted at opposition. But it did not interest me. I was tempted to close my eyes, like the old gentleman; then I should be more at liberty to think of something else. Luckily, someone began to play on the piano, and gave me an excuse for leaving my politicians.

I returned to the salon, and approached the mistress of the house, intending to say something agreeable to her. But I did not know how to begin the conversation, and I finally asked her if she were going to sing.

"No, I don't sing; but I am ready to play an accompaniment, if anybody wants me to."

"Do you play the piano?"

"Yes, monsieur; and you?"

"A little."

"Do you sing?"

"Only at home, when I am alone."

"Ha! ha! that's selfishness."

"Prudence, rather."

"Surely you will depart from your habit this evening, and sing in company?"

"Oh, no! I should not dare to, before you."

"Why so? do I frighten you?"

"You do something very different."

She smiled, as she smiled at the ball. Ah! how sweet she was at that moment!

But somebody spoke to her, and I was separated from her again. Someone was going to sing, and silence was requested; I took a seat behind two consummately ugly women, who would not distract my thoughts.

The singer was a man, a stout, square-shouldered young man, who struck an attitude like Monsieur Keller as Hercules. I expected a voice that would make our ears ring and the windows rattle; surely nothing different could come from that colossus. In truth, at the first note everybody shuddered. What a voice! indeed, I doubt if it could be called a voice. For my part, I could think of nothing but the roaring of a bull. But there were some people who thought it magnificent. He sang an aria from Robert le Diable. The two ladies in front of me emitted ohs! and ahs! which led me to believe that they agreed with me and that the performance deafened them; especially as the singer, not content with bursting our ear drums, was almost invariably off the pitch; he sang false with imperturbable assurance. There were moments when he put forth such a volume of voice that I wondered if people passing through the street would not think that a crime was being committed in the house.

At last the performance came to an end. The two ladies turned toward me with smiling faces, and I could not help saying:

"I prefer an orchestra with four drums. I don't know yet whether I have any ears left; I believe they are split."

The words were hardly out of my mouth, when the bulky singer walked across the salon and halted directly in front of the two ladies.

"I am not in good voice this evening," he said; "it seemed as if my notes wouldn't come out. What did you think, mother?"

"Why, my dear, you sang beautifully, I assure you."

"Yes, brother; you sang very well, and you made a great impression. You can depend on us; we know what we are talking about, you see. There are people who set up for judges of music, but who don't understand the first thing about it. So much the worse for them! You sang with perfect taste, and I am sure that you made many people envious of you!"

I had addressed my criticisms judiciously! the ladies in front of me were the singer's mother and sister! So the ohs! and ahs! indicated admiration, and I must needs tell them that I preferred to listen to drums! An additional proof that we should be careful what we say when we do not know the person to whom we are speaking.

I saw that the singer's sister was casting withering glances in my direction, so I decided to walk away and take up my position on the other side of the salon. I had made two enemies; another time I would be more prudent.

After the roaring of our friend, the audience required something soft to soothe its auditory nerves. A lady seated herself at the piano and sang an air with an abundance of trills and roulades. What a misfortune to think of singing in public when one has a shrill, squeaky voice! But I determined to make no comments this time, or express an opinion in any form of words. A young man behind me was not so scrupulous.

"They call that singing with a lemon on the key-board," he muttered.

"If this sort of thing goes on," I thought, "it certainly can't be for the music that people come to Monsieur Sordeville's."

But the hostess made us some amends by executing with much dash and brilliancy a theme with variations which had the merit of not being too long. Next, the fair-haired youth whom I had seen talking with Armantine sang several ballads. He had a pleasant voice and sang with good taste. That added to my vexation, for I was convinced that he was paying court to her. But I did him the justice to admit that he sang well.

While a duet for piano and violin was being performed, I went into another room; I confess that I was not enjoying myself. The hostess was so surrounded by courtiers and adorers that it was impossible to talk with her an instant. Indeed, she made no effort to give me an opportunity. Ah! how different from the night of the wedding ball! There were times when I fancied that she was not the same woman.

I sat down at a baccarat table which had just been made up. I was well pleased to play cards, for I have always considered it the best of all ways to entertain people in society.

I had been playing for some little time, when, happening to turn my head, I saw Madame Frédérique. Never did a meeting afford me greater pleasure. She smiled at me, and said:

"Good-evening! Are you in luck?"

"Not thus far."

"Will you give me an interest in your play? I will bring you luck."

"With pleasure!"

"Here is my stake."

She tossed me a purse filled with napoleons, and turned away without giving me time to ask her how much she wanted to bet. Strange woman! But, at all events, she was just the same as she was the other evening; she was not like her friend.

My partnership seemed to bring me luck in very truth; for the vein changed, and I won. I looked about for my partner, to ask her if she wished to go on, but I did not see her; so I continued to play, and won again. I dared not stop then; but the game was interrupted when tea was served. I saw Monsieur Archibald, Monsieur Guillardin's son, a few steps away, and bowed to him; he returned the bow, but very coldly, as if he did not care to renew the acquaintance. He need have had no fear, I was nowise inclined to strike up an intimacy with him; I remembered the way he looked at me on the night of his sister's wedding. I fancied that he looked upon me as a rival aspirant for Madame Dauberny's favor. How many false conjectures are constantly made in society!

Certainly I had had very little entertainment in that house. Madame Sordeville laughed and talked with everybody but me. I was evidently mistaken the other evening, when I thought that she looked kindly upon me, that she felt drawn toward me.

"Oh! these women!" I thought; "one never knows what to depend upon with them! But, yes, there is one thing that one can depend upon; I do not deem it necessary to name it."

I was strongly inclined to go away; but I must first settle my account with my partner, and Madame Dauberny was at that moment deep in conversation with a gentleman possessed of a superb pair of red moustaches, and chin whiskers of the same hue. He was talking with much animation; and I am very much mistaken if he was not making a declaration of love to Madame Frédérique.

You will say that I am prone to discover love intrigues everywhere. The fact is that they are the commonest things in the world. And if we see many of them, you may be sure that there are many more of which we have no suspicion. Madame Frédérique was listening to her companion as if he were telling her the story of Telemachus. I determined to wait until they had finished. I sat down in a corner of the salon, and pretended to listen to a man who had been drumming on the piano for a long time, without anyone being able to tell what he was playing. Luckily for him, nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him.

In the midst of that assemblage of persons, almost all of whom were unknown to me, I had a feeling of emptiness, of melancholy, which did not surprise me at all. There was no one there who cared anything for me! Why should I care for them? I had come there on account of a woman who had fascinated me, whom I already loved, whom I would have adored; but her cold greeting, and her coquetry with all of her male guests, had forced back into the depths of my heart the sentiments she had inspired. I was vexed that I had fallen in love with her; I determined to think no more about her. Balloquet was more fortunate than I: he never took love seriously; he made an acquaintance as he ordered a coat; when the coat ceased to please him, he tossed it aside, often before it was worn out. He was right; that is the only sure way of being always well dressed. For my part, I have always had a deep-rooted feeling for the women who have been my mistresses. I do not refer to those I have known for a few days only; I do not call them mistresses. You will find it hard to believe that a man loves sincerely, when he confesses that he has had several mistresses at the same time. But are you familiar with the workings of the human heart? Nature has eccentricities and secrets which we shall never know.

It is probable that my reflections had not given a cheerful cast to my expression; they absorbed me so completely that I did not notice the superb Frédérique, who had stopped in front of me and finally said to me in a mocking tone:

"Mon Dieu! how you seem to be enjoying yourself, Monsieur Rochebrune!"

"Enjoying myself! No, indeed! and but for you, I should have gone away long ago. We won twenty-eight napoleons, and I have put your share in your purse; here it is, madame."

"That is first-rate! I brought you luck, you see."

"True; but that's all the luck I have had to-night."

"I understand! Poor boy! somebody has not treated him as he had hoped."

I contented myself with a slight movement of the head.

"I am tempted to afford you a little diversion," continued Frédérique. "Will you come and take supper with me?"

I looked up at Madame Dauberny. She saw that I took her suggestion for a joke, and she instantly added:

"What is there so extraordinary in that? I am in the habit of having supper every night; I invite you to join me, and, if you accept, I shall invite another gentleman, who has just made me a most grotesque declaration of love; but he's a Prussian, and hasn't perfect command of our language."

"Is it the gentleman with red moustaches?"

"Just so; Baron von Brunzbrack. There's a name for you! I have fairly turned his head, but I give you my word that I did it unintentionally. Come, what do you say—do you accept?"

"With great pleasure; but, if I remember rightly, the night that I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance, you denied me the favor of calling on you."

"That is quite possible; you see, that night, I thought for a moment that you proposed to make love to me. I was an idiot! You are in love with Armantine only; and as you have discovered to-night that many others besides yourself are in love with her, you are melancholy, ill-humored, desperate. Ha! ha! I have guessed the truth, haven't I? Come, monsieur, give me your hand; by taking you away, I advance your interests much more than you do with your languishing airs; all women are jealous of their conquests, and Armantine will think that I am trying to steal one of hers. You will be the cause of a dispute between us, but it will be only a cloud which the slightest breeze will blow away."

The hope of causing Madame Sordeville some chagrin made me radiant. I gladly took the hand that was offered me. A large part of the company had already disappeared. Madame Dauberny said a word in the ear of the Prussian baron, who was standing like a sentinel in the middle of the salon. That word produced a magical effect: Herr von Brunzbrack jumped back and landed on the feet of the gentleman who talked with his eyes closed; he opened them very wide now, however, exclaiming:

"Take care, monsieur! you've lamed me for life! What on earth is the matter with you?"

Herr von Brunzbrack was profuse in his apologies; but at that moment he was so transported by the invitation he had received from Madame Dauberny, that, while he was apologizing, he trod on the dress of a lady who stood beside him, then overturned a chair, and, as he stooped to pick it up, caught his coat buttons in the lace-trimmed cloak of a lady who had just put it on to go home. The poor Prussian lost his head; he did not know where he was; he dared not take a step forward or back. Frédérique extricated him from his plight by taking his arm and leading him away.

"Come, baron, come," she said; "we are waiting for you!"

We three left the salon; I cast a glance at Madame Sordeville, who seemed thunderstruck to see me go away with Madame Dauberny, who had sent the baron on ahead and had taken my arm with the greatest familiarity.

I felt a thrill of joy and satisfaction, which fully compensated me for all the tedium of the evening. Frédérique was right; by taking me away with her, she had served my passion more effectually than I had done by all the ardent glances I had bestowed upon the seductive Armantine. Women are never mistaken as to what it is necessary to do to make sure that the arrow reaches its mark.

The baron's carriage, which was at the door, conveyed us in a very short time to Madame Dauberny's, on Boulevard Montmartre.

On the way we said little; the baron was still dazed by the gaucheries he had committed and his joy at being invited to sup with the fair Frédérique; and, besides, I fancy that my presence embarrassed him; he did not know upon what footing I stood with the lady, but he saw that I too was to sup with her, and I think that that fact kept his mind busy.

Our singular hostess also seemed to be in a contemplative mood, and I was thinking of the glance Madame Sordeville bestowed upon me when I left her salon.

But Madame Dauberny resumed her playful mood as soon as we reached her house, and devoted herself to the duties of a hostess. I was very certain that we should not meet her husband; I had a secret conviction that he never attended her little supper parties.

"Three covers," said Frédérique to a servant who was in the reception room. "And a good fire, for there's no satisfaction in eating when one is cold. Is there a fire in the salon?"

"No, madame; but there is one in your room."

"Very well! let us go to my room, then, messieurs; you will allow me to receive you in my bedroom, will you not? At one o'clock in the morning, we may snap our fingers at etiquette."

"Ah, madame!" I said, bowing low; "it is a great favor, for which we thank you."

"Ah, montame!" said the baron, in his turn, with a still lower bow; "id vould pe fery bretty in any room mit you."

Without listening to our thanks, Madame Dauberny had already left the room before us. A lady's-maid carried a light. We arrived in the bed chamber of the lady whom Monsieur Archibald called a gaillarde. It was a delicious spot, furniture and draperies being in the most perfect taste; an alabaster globe hanging from the ceiling cast a soft light upon everything. Quantities of flowers, in lovely Chinese vases, filled the air with an intoxicating perfume. It was the retreat of a petite-maîtresse; there was nothing there to suggest a gaillarde. I expected to find foils, pipes, and statuettes; I found nothing but flowers, and inhaled nothing but perfumes.

We were hardly ushered into her room when the charming Frédérique left us, saying:

"Messieurs, I crave your permission to go and make myself comfortable."

I was left alone with the Prussian baron; I examined him more closely, while he gazed amorously at the bed which stood at one end of the room. Herr von Brunzbrack seemed to be about forty years of age; he was tall and well built and powerful—a man of the type of those from whom Frederick the Great recruited a regiment of grenadiers. His blond coloring was a little too pronounced, although his hair, cut in military fashion, was less red than his moustaches; he had great blue eyes on a level with his face, which were always wide open, and which had not an intelligent expression; but, on the other hand, there was frankness in them, and a kindliness that soon gave place to wrath if anybody seemed inclined to make sport of him. Taken as a whole, Herr von Brunzbrack had what is conventionally called a "good face." He laughed very readily, opening a cavernous mouth; but he resumed his seriousness so suddenly that one was surprised to have heard him laugh.

As he spoke French with difficulty, he deemed it advisable to accompany his words with a pantomime which he considered most expressive, I doubt not, but which was often more grotesque than intelligible.

I do not know whether he was taking the trouble to draw my portrait at the same time, but I noticed that he glanced at me now and then out of the corner of his eye.

I tried to converse with him.

"This chamber is decorated with exquisite taste!"

"Ja! te shamber pe fery bretty."

"This cabinet is full of curious and well-selected objects."

"Ja! tere's a lot of leedle chems—for shildren."

"But the ladies like them, too."

"Oh, ja! te ladies haf shildren for blaytings."

"But I don't think that Madame Dauberny has any children."

"Oh, ja! all apoud—and on te mandel, too."

I did not understand him. I looked at the flowers in the vases, and said:

"There's nothing prettier and more ornamental than flowers! What a pity that they are perfect poison in a bedroom!"

The baron opened his eyes even wider than usual, and looked all about; I am not sure that he did not stoop to look under the bed. Then he rejoined:

"I see no poisson [fish] in te room."

Luckily, Madame Dauberny's return put an end to this interview, in which I found little amusement.

At sight of Frédérique, a cry of admiration escaped the baron and myself. She had put on an ample robe de chambre, of blue cashmere, caught in at the waist by a girdle of orange silk. The gown was buttoned to the neck, about which was a narrow white silk cravat, carelessly tied. Her feet were encased in fascinating orange slippers, studded with steel beads. Lastly, on her hair, which she had arranged in haste, in a bandeau on one side, and on the other in long curls, she had placed a small blue velvet toque, with an enormous silver tassel, which hung down on the same side as the curls and seemed to intensify their brilliancy.

It is impossible to describe the charm which that négligé costume imparted to its wearer. Her figure was so gracefully outlined by the folds of the cashmere, her unique headdress gave so much expression to her features, that the baron and I remained under the spell and could not tire of gazing at her.

"Here I am," said Frédérique, with a smile. "As you see, I take the liberty of supping in a robe de chambre."

"Ah! how loafely you pe so!" murmured the baron, passing his right hand over his face as he spoke, kissing it, and throwing kisses to the ceiling.

"All right, all right, my dear baron! As I have told you, I can understand you without pantomime; so you may spare yourself so much extravagance of gesture.—Let us toast ourselves, messieurs, while we are waiting for our supper."

As she spoke, Frédérique seated herself in a great easy-chair in front of the fire; we took armchairs and moved them to her side, and in a moment all three had our feet on the andirons.

"Now," said Frédérique, "a few words by way of prologue to our supper.—You, Baron von Brunzbrack, I have known only two months, having met you in society; but I know that you are an honorable man. This evening you made a declaration of love in due form. You think, perhaps, that it was on that account that I invited you to sup with me. It is my duty to undeceive you. I do not love you, my dear baron; my heart will never beat one little bit faster because of you. It was to tell you that, and, at the same time, to offer you sincere friendship in place of love, that I asked you to sup with me. I trust that you are content with my course of action, and that you will show yourself worthy of my friendship."

The baron rolled his eyes about in most extraordinary fashion; he made a piteous face; he did not know whether he ought to appear offended or gratified; he looked down at the floor, heaved a sigh, and was about to take refuge in pantomime; but Frédérique placed her hand on his arm, saying:

"Sit still, and let me go on. I now present to you Monsieur Charles Rochebrune; I have known him only five days; he is a more recent acquaintance than you, but I know whom I am receiving; I know monsieur as well now as if we had been brought up together. Well, baron, do you know why I have invited monsieur to share my supper with you? It is because I know that he has no thought of loving me, of paying court to me; because his heart is wholly occupied by a very pretty woman, who has tormented him cruelly this evening, but who will be more amiable another time, no doubt."

The baron had no sooner heard these details concerning me than his face beamed with joy. The honest German had probably taken me for a rival, and a happy rival, I suppose; but as soon as he learned that nothing of the sort was true, and that I was not in love with Madame Dauberny, he turned to me and grasped my hand, crying:

"Ah! you not rifal of me. Gif me your hand; ve pe gut frents, ve untershtand each oder, ve tell each oder all ve haf onto our hearts."

And Herr von Brunzbrack put one of his hands to his breast, shook his head violently, and stamped on the floor like a horse anxious to leave the stable. I hastened to give him my hand, which he squeezed until he hurt me, repeating:

"Ve pe gut frents. Montame, she not bleeze you, hein?"

"We need not go so far, monsieur le baron; I beg you to believe that I do full justice to madame's wit and grace and abundant charms."

"Oh! enough! enough!" cried Frédérique; "you will alarm him. Just tell him simply that you are not at all in love with me and never expect to be."

I do not know why I was reluctant to say that; I looked at the graceful folds of Frédérique's gown, and did not reply.

"You see, my dear Herr von Brunzbrack," continued our amiable hostess, "I thought it best to tell you that Monsieur Rochebrune does not love me, that his heart is engrossed by another; in short, that you must not look upon him as a rival, for I saw you glaring at him with your big eyes, which are very savage when they are not very sweet; and because it is more agreeable to me to see perfect harmony between my guests. But do not reason from that, that other men do not make love to me, and that I do not love anybody. I have told you that you would never be my lover, so that you have no rights over me; and whenever it pleases me, even in your presence, to allow myself to be made love to, remember that you will have no right to say the least little word. Otherwise, it's all over between us; I withdraw my friendship, and I see you no more."

The baron heaved a sigh that reminded me of the low notes of the stout singer I had heard that evening. He beat his brow, gazed at the ceiling, then took my hand and shook it so that he nearly put my shoulder out of joint.

"Ah! my gut frent," he murmured, "montame can pe fery unkind. I know not how to say. But, nefer mind, ve must do als she say. But alvays shall I loafe her; alvays shall I loafe her madly."

"As for that," said Frédérique, "you may do as you please; I have no further concern with it. But I am not at all worried about your future repose. When a man sees that he cannot retain any hope, he soon ceases to love."

"Not te Prussian! Nein! nein! te more unhappier he is, te more constant he is!"

"So much the worse for the Prussian, then; the best thing he can do is to adopt the French fashion. But we have had enough of love and of unveiling the secrets of our hearts; you must understand, baron, that this subject of conversation would soon become monotonous to us all. I propose that we don't have any more of it at supper."

"Madame is served," said a footman.

"Bravo! Come, messieurs, give me a hand each. I will escort you. Remember that I command here, and that I must be obeyed."

"Here and everywhere, madame."

"Ja," said the baron, "eferyvere and elsevere."

Frédérique led us through a narrow hall, at the end of which we entered a small room, well carpeted and deliciously warm; in each corner, and between the windows, were boxes of growing flowers. The apartment was too elegant for a dining-room, and not enough so for a boudoir. A table was laid there, with all the luxurious appointments that add so much to the charm of a repast.

"This, messieurs, is what I call my Petit Trianon, or my petits appartements—that is to say, it is the room where I receive my friends. I need not tell you that my husband is never admitted here. I believe that you did not come here to see him. We are like the sun and the moon: we are never seen together unless there is some serious disturbance in the solar system. As we have agreed that each of us shall enjoy absolute liberty, we live up to our agreement."

"Ten id is apsoludely as if you haf no husbant, hein? Ha! ha!"

"Oh! it isn't the same thing, by any means.—To table, messieurs!"

We took our places, Frédérique between us, of course. Her affable, unconventional manner instantly put her guests at their ease. The baron was radiant; he rolled his eyes about, and kept repeating:

"Ich loafe sehr viel your betit Trille-anon."

"Flowers everywhere!" I said, glancing at those on the table, and at the boxes that surrounded us.

"Yes, I adore them; I must always have some about me."

"Birds of a feather flock together."

"Oh! my dear Rochebrune, pray don't put me on a diet of insipid compliments! I detest them. I prefer the volnay. Come, messieurs, drink! Do you prefer chambertin—or pomard? You have only to speak."

"I should mit bleazure trink all te drei."

"And you are quite right. Vive variety! It is charming, isn't it, messieurs?"

"It's very nice, in the matter of wine."

"And in everything else! own up to it, hypocrite!"

"I am too honest to contradict you."

"That's right! Why, see my flowers—how lovely they are! these roses and camellias and hyacinths and cactuses! Would the bouquet be so pretty, if I had nothing but roses?"

"Evidently, flowers are your passion."

"Faith! yes; and I believe the only one I have ever had thus far. Perhaps that is the reason I have been so frivolous, so fickle."

"I vould like to pe a tulib," murmured the baron.

"You choose ill, baron; the tulip has very little charm for me; I care little for odorless flowers."

"In tat case, I vould like to pe—a beony."

"Ha! ha! ha! you are not happy in your choice of flowers. Well, messieurs, what did you think of Monsieur Sordeville's reception? Was the concert good? I arrived very late."

"Faith! that was lucky for your ears; for there were a lady and a gentleman who put us to a severe test. By the way, a young man, with a very light complexion, sang some ballads tolerably well. Who was he, I wonder? He talked a good deal with Madame Sordeville."

"Oh! I know: it was Mondival. He's very good-looking, but a fool; he's conceited, and I hate conceited men. I prefer them ugly—and clever. I don't mean that for you, messieurs."

And the fair Frédérique laughed aloud. The baron felt called upon to follow suit. I said nothing, for I was thinking of Armantine. My neighbor, noticing my serious face, nudged me with her knee.

"Well! he has nothing to say!" she exclaimed. "Have I offended you? But, no—I said nothing that was meant for you."

"Offended me? How, pray?"

"He doesn't even know what I said! He's thinking of his Armantine; I was sure of it! Do you love her so much, then—with all your heart, as they say?"

"Yes—that is to say, I did love her."

"And it's over already, because she played the coquette?"

"She paid no more attention to me than if I had been a perfect stranger."

"But she hasn't known you so very long! And then, I warn you that she is extremely capricious."

"Oh! I have noticed that; it's a wretched fault."

"It's common enough among petites-maîtresses. I am not capricious, myself; to be sure, I am not a petite-maîtresse! Pray drink, messieurs; you lag behind. You're not lusty suppers! Look at me: I'll set you an example."

Frédérique emptied her glass at one swallow. The baron tried to do the same, but swallowed it the wrong way; he left the table, to cough and stamp on the floor. The servant brought champagne and malvoisie; the supper was delicious. I began to feel less melancholy; Madame Dauberny's example led me on, and I did honor to the good cheer.

The baron, having ceased to cough, resumed his seat; his cheeks were beginning to turn purple.

"In a moment," said Frédérique, "I will dismiss the servant; then we will put our elbows on the table and talk nonsense."

"Ja! ja! nonzenz, I like to talk nonzenz; und mit unser foot on te table; tat vill be sehr amusing."

"Not the feet; that would be uncomfortable. I said elbows."

"Ja! te knees."

"Impromptu parties forever! they are the only merry ones. Certainly I had no idea this morning that I should have you gentlemen to supper this evening, or rather to-night; and you didn't expect to come here."

"We did not foresee our good fortune."

"Oh! you are stupefying with your compliments, Rochebrune! I like to believe that you talk differently to the women you love. However, there are women who like that sort of talk; Armantine doesn't detest compliments."

"I assure you, madame, that I had no intention of paying you one. But one can no longer say what one thinks. This supper is a genuine piece of good fortune, so far as I am concerned: I was depressed, you have restored my good spirits; I had abandoned all hope, you have renewed it; in truth, I can't tell you why I feel so happy now! You are willing that we should say just what we think, are you not?"

"Oh, yes! for I do, myself."

"Well, you have a headdress that does my heart good! If you knew how becoming it is to you!—Isn't it true, baron, that madame's headdress is fascinating?"

The baron began by offering me his hand; I had no choice but to take it; and he began to shake mine, crying:

"You not pe in loafe mit her, nicht wahr? you haf id to me pevore supper bromised."

I could not help laughing at the baron's anxiety concerning the state of my heart.

The seductive Frédérique shrugged her shoulders slightly, and said with some show of impatience:

"Why, no, a thousand times no! he doesn't give me a thought! Can't a man tell a lady that her headdress becomes her, that he likes that style of headdress, without being in love with her? If you return to that subject, Monsieur le Prussien, I'll put an end to the session."

"I am dumb."

"Oh! talk, but talk about something else.—Vivat! we are free at last!"

The servant had left the room, after bringing the dessert. Frédérique filled our glasses, then rose, and rang a bell.

"I forgot the best of all," she said.

The servant returned.

"Bring cigars, cigarettes, pipes, and tobacco, Jean. Hurry!"

The baron uttered something very like an oath of admiration.

"Sapré tarteff!" he cried; "are ve going to schmoke? Is id bermitted?"

"I not only permit it, but set the example; not always, by the way, but to-night we are so snug and cozy, and I am like Rochebrune, I am satisfied with my supper."

"Ah! do you smoke, madame?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"Nothing surprises me that you do?"

"Really! I don't know whether I ought to take that as a compliment. But I must, must I not? one should take everything in good part."

"Is it possible that I could dream of criticising you, who have been and still are so kind to me?"

"Really! you think that I am kind?—Ah! here is what I sent for."

The servant drew a small table near the supper table, and placed on it a large assortment of pipes, cigars, and several kinds of tobacco. Each of us chose what he liked best. I supposed that Frédérique would confine herself to cigarettes, but she took a very fine Turkish pipe and filled it with tobacco from the same country. Then she threw herself back in her chair, emptied a glass of malvoisie, and smoked with the abandon of a Mohammedan.

The baron clapped his hands, murmuring:

"Sehr gut! sehr gut! you haf all te qualidies to bleeze."

"Because I smoke? Why, my dear Brunzbrack, many people would call that a vice."

"Ach, ja! I say tat to you id pe most pecoming; you pe a she-pear——"

"A she-bear! Ha! ha! that can't be what you mean."

"Bardon—how do tey say?—an animal of te desert—te female of te king of animals."

"A lionne [lioness]; that is what you mean."

"Ja! you be te lionne à la mode; id is all te same."

I took a cigar, and the baron an ordinary pipe, and in a moment we were all smoking for dear life. Herr von Brunzbrack, whom the pipe seemed to make thirsty, emptied his glass very frequently and belauded the champagne; for my part, the malvoisie suited my taste exactly; and I had such an exquisite sense of well-being, seated at that table beside that original creature, who acted just like a man!

"Messieurs," she said, blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling, "life has some very pleasant moments."

"It is delicious to me just now."

"Id runs ein leedle; but id is gut."

"What's that, baron? your life runs a little?"

"I did not untershtand; I said id of mein bibe."

"Oh, indeed!—It's a pity that we have bad days, that melancholy thoughts sometimes take possession of us!"

"Melancholy thoughts come only as a result of disappointments of the heart."

"True, you are right, Rochebrune; that is why your thoughts are so sad to-night, isn't it? The handsome Mondival distanced you; he had the pole to-night. Ha! ha! what a way to talk about love! What will you think of me? that I am a very mauvais sujet, eh?"

"We should be too fortunate if that were so!"

"Ach, ja! as mein frent Rochebrune say—if id vas so—— Sapremann, id is running again!"

"Pray take another pipe, baron; there are enough to choose from."

A thought that had come to my mind several times during supper still absorbed me. I do not know whether Frédérique could read it in my eyes, but, after looking at me a moment, she said:

"What are you thinking about? Come, tell me! It has come to your lips several times, and you keep it back. Is it something very unkind, pray, that you are afraid to say it?"

"No; it's a very natural reflection, but one that I have no right to make, perhaps."

"But you seem to have taken the liberty to make it. I don't like the things one keeps back; they are more dangerous."

"Your gut healt', montame, and te bleazure id gif me to schmoke tis bibe in your company."

"Thanks, baron, thanks!"

"Vill you trink mit me?"

"Certainly I will."

While she honored Brunzbrack's toast, Frédérique kept her eyes on me, and they peremptorily bade me to speak.

"Well, madame," I began, hesitatingly.

"Why do you continue to call me madame? I call you Rochebrune."

"But, if not that, what may I presume to call you?"

"I have told you to look upon me as your friend, your comrade. If I were a man, you would call me Frédérique, as I call you Rochebrune; so, call me Frédérique."

"I shall never dare!"

"Why not, when I give you leave?"

"Because you don't seem to me in the least like a man."

She smiled queerly, passed her hand over her head, took off her little cap and tossed it on the floor, ran her fingers through her curls, rumpled up the bandeau, and made curls of that, saying, as she thus rearranged her coiffure:

"Does Monsieur Charles Rochebrune refuse to tell me what he has had on the tip of his tongue several times?"

"I beg your pardon, madame—I was thinking—I was surprised—not to find—another person here."

Frédérique curled her lip and frowned slightly.

"Do you refer to Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" she said.

"Yes."

"It is true that—three days ago—I should not have taken supper without him. But we have quarrelled."

"Ah! you are on bad terms now?"

"Yes."

"Not for long, I presume?"

"Perhaps so. When one has been able to pass two days without trying to see a certain person, one can pass a week; when one has passed a week, there is no reason why one should not pass a month, and so on. He did something that—displeased me, and I told him so. Instead of apologizing, he thought it became him to make a scene, and he made a miserable failure of it. He should have come the next day—that same night, indeed—to beg my pardon; he didn't do it, and now I think it would be too late. Look you, my friend—I want to call you my friend, and you give me leave, do you not, monsieur?—I believe that I can do without Saint-Bergame much better than I thought."

As she spoke, she offered me her hand so prettily that I was tempted to throw my arms about her and kiss her. But I confined myself to taking her hand and putting it to my lips; whereupon she hastily withdrew it, crying:

"Well, well! what in heaven's name is he doing? Are men in the habit of kissing their male friends' hands? that is a new idea, on my word!"

The baron, who was beginning to be drowsy with the combined effects of the wine and tobacco, and whose eyes were not nearly so wide open as at the beginning of the supper, saw me, none the less, when I kissed Madame Dauberny's hand. He immediately snatched his pipe from his mouth and glared at me, crying:

"Mein gut frent, is id drue tat you pe not ein leedle pit in loafe mit montame? not ein leedle pit, I say?"

"What has stirred you up now, baron?" laughed Frédérique; "are you going to begin again?"

"Nein, but for vat do mein gut frent Rocheverte, he kiss your hand? I haf seen him kiss your hand."

"I did it without concealment, baron, and I ask nothing better than to do it again."

"So! in tat case, so vill ich do id again; but I haf not yet done id at all."

"Fill your pipe, baron, and let my hand alone. We were saying that Armantine's concert this evening was a bit mouche, to use a slang term—eh, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame."

"I haf not seen if tere vas mouches [flies] at Monsir Sordeville's; but he pe ein sehr bleazant man, sehr—how you say?—he make me much talk; he loafe ven I talk; he say tat I shpeak vell te language."

Frédérique's face suddenly changed; her brow grew dark, and her expression was no longer the same. She looked keenly at the baron, saying:

"What did you talk about with Monsieur Sordeville?"

"Ve talk of pizness. As I haf come to France mit der ambassador, he haf question me of bolitics, of te gufernment, of many serious subjects. He pe a brovound man, he haf alvays agree mit me."

Frédérique seemed to be lost in thought.

"And this was only the second time that you had been to Monsieur Sordeville's?" she asked, after a moment.

"Ja! id vas te second time. I haf met te monsir at te house of Montame de Granvallon, vere I haf had te bleazure to meet mit you."

"And you did not know Monsieur Sordeville before?"

"Not at all; but he make agwaindance so easy, he vas sehr amiable; his vife, as he tell me, she haf peen much frent mit you."

"Yes, Armantine and I were at the same boarding school; we were friends. I left the school long before she did; I refused to learn to do anything except fence and ride, and those things were just what they didn't teach there. I would have liked to go to the Polytechnic, and then to Saint-Cyr; to be a soldier, in fact. I held up to my parents the precedent of the Chevalier d'Éon, who, although a woman, was cunning enough to lead a man's life for years. But they declared that it would be too great a risk. Parents constantly thwart their children's inclinations like that.—When I met Armantine again, she was married, and we renewed our old friendship. She is good-humored, merry, a little inclined to be capricious, a great flirt, but good at heart. As for her husband—in my opinion, he pays too little attention to his wife; he gives her too much liberty. I don't say that she abuses it, but, you see, you gentlemen are sometimes very gallant, very adventurous! And when the husband is never on the spot, why, it's his own fault if anything happens to him."

"What is this Monsieur Sordeville's business?" I asked Frédérique. She did not answer for some time, but at last she said:

"I thought that you knew him?"

"From having met him two or three times at a house where they give balls and play cards. He talked with me, more or less; he doesn't lack intelligence, he talks well, and possesses the much rarer gift of making others talk. We see so many people in society whose conversational powers consist in interrupting one at every instant, and who do not understand that one may have something better to do than listen to them. I had some talk with Monsieur Sordeville, as I say; and then I met him again at that wedding party, where you were so kind to me, and where he invited me to his house. But I did not dream of asking him what his profession was. Indeed, if he is rich, he is justified in having none."

"It seems that he has some property; but I have an idea that he speculates on the Bourse. Were you better pleased with him this evening than with—did he make himself agreeable? He received you cordially, I have no doubt; but what did you talk about with him? not his wife, I presume?"

"No; he was discussing serious subjects with an old gentleman who kept blinking, or rather closed his eyes altogether, when he spoke. They got onto politics, and talked thereon a long while."

Frédérique was not at all the same woman as our hostess of a few moments earlier. After quite a long silence, during which our lovelorn Prussian continued to drown his heartache in champagne, I touched my neighbor's arm softly, saying:

"You seem to be a long way off. Are you tired? do you wish us to go?"

Frédérique raised her head, passed her hand across her forehead, and resumed her jovial air.

"Ah! you are right!" she exclaimed; "scold me, my friend. I have fits of musing, sometimes; I fall into a train of thought that is utterly void of sense! It is very wrong in me, for when you are with me is no time for me to have such thoughts. But I don't want you to leave me yet; we get along so well together! Are you inclined to sleep?"

"Oh! no, madame!"

"Madame again! You irritate me! Beware! if you go on in this way, I am no longer your comrade."

"Pray don't say that—Frédérique."

"He called me Frédérique! that's very lucky for him! What a lot of trouble I had, to bring him to that! Ah! I am very glad I succeeded."

She sprang to her feet and began to waltz about the table; then stopped in front of a mirror over the mantel, and changed the arrangement of her hair once more, this time twisting a red silk handkerchief about her head, à la Creole. Then she went to the baron, took him by the shoulders, and shook him, crying:

"Well! my friend Brunzbrack, you don't open your mouth! Have you gone to sleep?"

The baron raised his head, rubbed his eyes, and tried to open them, as he replied:

"Ach! zaperlotte! gone to shleep, me! ven ich bin mit ein so bretty voman! mit ein voman who turns mein head und mein heart!"

"I don't know whether I have turned your head, but it seemed to me that you were hardly following the conversation."

"Id vas te bibe vich haf make mein head heafy ein leedle pit. But I haf not seen! Mein Gott! how you pe bretty mit tis oder way to do your hair! I know not vy you like to blay all tese leedle dricks mit your head, als if id haf not peen bretty enough pevore!"

"Herr von Brunzbrack is right," said I, looking at Frédérique, to whom the red silk handkerchief gave a saucy, wanton look that changed her completely. "Do you know, my friend, that it is ungenerous to keep changing your coiffure, and to invent such alluring ones? Do you want the poor baron here to die of love?"

"Ha! ha! I'm not afraid of that. I have put on my nightcap; isn't a body at liberty to put on her nightcap? But I don't want you to go to sleep, baron! Come, let's sing and drink and laugh! Oh! I am in a laughing mood to-night!"

"Ja! ja! let's trink und sing!"

"Do you begin, baron; but no love songs, and, above all things, no languorous lamentations. What we want is something lively, a little décolleté even. Do men stand on ceremony with one another?"

She filled our glasses, then threw herself back in her chair, laughing till the tears came, because the baron gazed at her with such a tender expression, that his eyes were invisible and his face resembled an egg-plant.

"Come, baron; we're waiting for you."

"Ach! I must sing te first; und so vill I. Vait, till I remember me some bretty song; I know many—vait. Trum, trum, trum, trideri, tram, tram, tram. Sapremann! So many I know! Vait! Troum, troum, troum, tradera, tradera. Id is sehr—how you say?—astonish! Ich kann nicht te peginning remember. Vait—trim, trim, turlulu, traderi——"

"I'm afraid you are stuck fast, my poor Brunzbrack. While we are waiting for your memory to come back, Rochebrune will sing us something."

"I?"

"To be sure. Well! has this one lost his memory, too? Why, what sort of men are these two, that a glass of champagne puts their wits to flight?"

"I am perfectly willing to sing; but I know nothing but nonsensical things."

"Sing us a nonsensical thing! I will allow anything that isn't downright bad. Moreover, I am sure that my friend will not sing me anything unseemly."

"On the contrary, I am very unseemly, sometimes."

"In that case, monsieur, keep quiet."

She assumed a pouting expression, and I hastened to hum a tune, saying:

"This is only a little free."

"Go on, then; I'll let it pass. Vadé, Gallet, Favart. Clever things are never indecent, because if they were they would not be clever."

"I am trying to remember the tune."

"Mon Dieu! how insufferable they are with their tunes! Here, how is this: Tra la la la—tra la la; you can sing any song to that."

"You are right; it's from the Famille de l'Apothicaire."

"I don't know what family it's from, but if it's all right—— Begin, monsieur."

"Here I go! I am going to sing Le Vent. Have I your permission?"

"Le Vent it is!"

"I beg you to believe that it is not the Vent which is the key to the riddle in Le Mercure Galant."

"I trust not; it's the vent [wind] that blows through the mountains; the vent de Gastibelza."

"Just so. I am going to begin:

"'Quand on te propose——'

Ah! that won't go to the tune of the Famille de l'Apothicaire."

"That's strange; it ought to. Try some other tune."

"I think the Baiser au Porteur will do the business."

"Oh! how long it takes you to get started, my dear fellow!"

"I begin:

"'Quand on t'offre une promenade——'"

"Trum, trum, trum, traderi dera, troum, troum, troum."

"Oh! please be kind enough to hold your tongue, baron, with your troum troum!"

"I dry yet to find mein tune."

"You can find it later; listen now to Rochebrune, who is going to sing us a risqué little chansonnette."

"Ach! gut, gut! risqué! tat must pe sehr amusing! Risqué! Vat is a risqué chanson?"

"That means lively; but we may as well speak out, as we are all men: it means naughty."

"Ach! id vill pe sehr bretty so! I loafe tat kind! Ve vill much laugh. Let us hear te naughty song. Ha! ha! How id vill pe amusing! Ho! ho!"

The baron laughed so heartily in anticipation of the pleasure in store for him, that Frédérique had much difficulty in silencing him; he ceased at last, and contented himself with muttering between his teeth: "Naughty, risqué!—risqué, naughty!" while I sang to the tune of the Baiser au Porteur:

I paused after the first verse and glanced at Frédérique. She smiled; that was a good sign. As for the baron, he repeated each line after me, sometimes with variations, and with an accompaniment of loud guffaws. We heard him mumbling:

"Noding so slyer als der vind! Ho! ho! ho! Gut, gut! Naughty!"

"Go on," said Frédérique.

I cleared my throat, drank a glass of wine, and cried like Ravel in the Tourlourou:

"Second verse, same tune: