Madame Sordeville's behavior after my encounter with Ballangier left me in a morose and melancholy humor, which I was unable to overcome for several days. I would have been glad to see Madame Dauberny, to divert my thoughts. If, while losing my hold upon a pretty woman, I had found a sincere friend, I certainly should not have lost by the exchange. But how was I to see Frédérique? Where could I meet her? Surely I could not go to her house! Strangely enough, I had succeeded in closing the doors of both those ladies; and what had I done to bring about that result? After all, I had no proof that it was Frédérique who had paid Monsieur Piaulard. To write to her on that subject would be a great blunder, even if I were not mistaken; so I concluded to wait until chance should bring us together.

One morning Pomponne appeared, with the mysterious air which he deemed it fitting to assume, even when he brought me my coat. He leaned over me and said in a low tone:

"Monsieur, that woman who came here some time ago, with something in her apron that I couldn't see—she is outside; she wants to know if she can speak to monsieur."

"What woman? I don't know what you're talking about."

"She said: 'Ask your master if he will see Madame Potrelle.'"

"Madame Potrelle! Idiot! why didn't you tell me her name at once? Certainly I will see her; show her in."

Pomponne seemed sorely perplexed; but he went to the door and said:

"You may come in, Madame Potrelle!"

The concierge from Rue Ménilmontant made her appearance, courtesying profusely. She had her apron rolled up against her breast as before; which fact led me to think that she had again taken the opportunity to give one of her cats a little outing.

I motioned to Monsieur Pomponne to withdraw; which he did regretfully, after a piercing glance at the concierge's apron.

"Excuse me for disturbing you, monsieur," said Madame Potrelle, unrolling her apron, in which, instead of a cat, I discovered several waistcoats and remnants of material. "I've brought back the work you gave my young tenant; it's been done more'n three weeks now; and, you see, when I found you didn't come again—— Do you know it's more'n two months since you sent Madame Landernoy this work?"

"What? is it really so long as that, Madame Potrelle? I am too negligent altogether. But I have had many things on my mind since, and I may as well admit frankly that I had forgotten my waistcoats."

"Oh! you needn't make any apologies for that, monsieur. Pardi! a young man in society must enjoy himself; that's easy to understand. And then, you know, as a usual thing, the seamstresses carry the work back to their customers—the customers don't go after it. That's why I says to our young mother this morning——"

"First of all, how is she? how is the child coming on?"

"Very well, monsieur; little Marie's rather delicate; she's slight, like her mother; but she's growing like a little mushroom. As for Madame Landernoy—you know, you saw her before the baby was born; well, you wouldn't know her to-day. Her cheeks and lips are red again, and her figure's slender and her eyes clear. Oh! she's mighty pretty now, I tell you!"

"So much the better, I am sure!"

"Well, no, monsieur; it ain't so much the better! in fact, she don't like to have people call her pretty."

"Why so, Madame Potrelle? I shall never believe that a woman is sorry to be attractive."

"Well, that's the way it is with her, monsieur; because, since she's got to be so fresh and pretty, it's begun all over again."

"What has begun again?"

"Oh! mon Dieu! the young popinjays running after her."

"When a woman doesn't answer the men who follow her, they soon leave her in peace."

"Sometimes, monsieur, sometimes. But some of 'em stick like leeches. Still, as you say, she don't answer 'em, and when they come and apply to me, as a middle-aged man did not long ago—you ought to see how I stand 'em off! He offered me ten francs, the blackguard, to let him go upstairs and say two words to Madame Landernoy; he was sure she wouldn't be sorry to have him come; he had a pretty proposal to make to her. 'Monsieur,' says I, standing on my footwarmer to make myself more imposing, 'you take that young woman for what she ain't; and if you don't clear out this minute, I'll throw two cats at your head.' He saw that I had Bribri in one hand and his brother in the other, and he didn't ask for his change. He ran, and I guess he's running still."

"Very well done, Madame Potrelle! I see that your cats may serve a useful purpose on occasion."

"My cats! Why, monsieur, there's Mahon, the oldest one—he's every bit as good as a Newfoundland."

"Did the man you speak of come again?"

"Never. As you said, you can sweep out such fellows as that very quick. But about a week ago, the poor woman came into the house in a terrible fright, trembling all over. She rushed into my place, and said: 'Protect me! don't let him come in here, or I am lost!"

"Mon Dieu! whom had she seen? Her seducer, probably; that wretch who treated her so horribly!"

"I don't think it was him; for his name's Ernest, and that wasn't the name she said. 'He dares to pursue me again, the monster!'—Anyway, she had a terrible scare, for she hasn't dared to put her foot outdoors since that day."

"And she said nothing else?"

"No, monsieur; when I tried to ask her what had scared her so, she said: 'Oh! don't say anything more about it, Madame Potrelle; he's a villain who did me a great injury; but you mustn't let anybody come up to my room, and I shan't go out again for some time.'—Now, monsieur, I'm coming back to your waistcoats. As I have a shrewd knack of guessing when the waters are low—that is to say, when money is scarce, without being told, I says this morning to our young mother, while she was dandling the little girl on her lap: 'But,' I says,'you have some work here that you finished long ago: Monsieur Rochebrune's waistcoats.'—I took the liberty of mentioning your name, monsieur, because I know it from you giving me your address; and you didn't say anything about keeping it secret."

"No, Madame Potrelle; I told you that I had no reason for concealing my name, for I have no evil designs. Go on."

"'The waistcoats are done, that's true,' says Madame Landernoy, 'but I don't know if the gentleman will be satisfied. I did my very best; but as he don't come to get them——' 'Well,' I says, 'as he don't come to get them, why shouldn't we take 'em to him? It seems to me, that would be more polite, for he's rather a dandy, and he wouldn't want to carry a bundle.'—'Perhaps you're right,'she says, thoughtful like; 'but one thing's certain; I won't go to that gentleman's house.'—Do you see? she's still afraid—yes, she's still afraid of you! In spite of all I could say about you, she couldn't believe you would take an interest in her without some motive. You mustn't be angry, monsieur, for, as the proverb says: 'A burnt child dreads the fire.'"

"It doesn't anger me at all, Madame Potrelle; the better one knows the world, the more fully one realizes how hard it is to inspire confidence. That is sad, like almost all truths."

"So, then, monsieur, I offered to bring you the waistcoats; she was more than willing, and here I am. If monsieur wants to examine the work—here's the pattern."

I looked at what the woman had brought me, and was perfectly amazed at the exquisite quality of the work. I had intended the waistcoats for my servant; but they were as fine as if they had come from one of our most famous tailors.

"The buttonholes are pretty well made, seems to me," said the concierge; "but perhaps monsieur don't agree with me?"

"Indeed I do, Madame Potrelle; and I can't understand how that young woman can have succeeded so well with work that she isn't accustomed to."

"Oh! dame! it's because she was bound to satisfy monsieur. Now, you must see if they fit you all right."

I tried on the waistcoats; we were compelled to admit that there was a defect in the way they were cut; they gaped apart at the top. The poor concierge walked round and round me, crying:

"I'm sure it's a small matter, just a little bit to be taken in somewhere; but we must find out where. If our young woman could see 'em on you, I'll bet she'd know in a minute what needs to be done."

"I should be very glad to go to her room and try them on; but she's so afraid of me! No matter! I'll keep them as they are."

"No, monsieur, no; I don't propose to have her send you work that ain't done right; you pay too well."

"By the way, how much do I owe for these?"

"I don't know, monsieur. Madame Landernoy's never made any before; so she says: 'Let the gentleman pay what he thinks they're worth, and I'll be satisfied.'"

"Four waistcoats, at twelve francs each, makes forty-eight francs."

"Oh! monsieur is joking! Twelve francs for making a waistcoat! You can't mean that, monsieur! At that rate, all women would be waistcoat makers; they can't get any such pay as that."

"You weary me with your scruples, Madame Potrelle; my tailor charges me eighteen or twenty francs, sometimes more, for a waistcoat. With what I paid for the material, these won't cost any more than that, and I certainly don't propose to get them any cheaper."

"Sapristi! monsieur, tailors must do mighty well, then! All right, you can pay that price, since that suits you; but, I tell you, I won't take the money till they fit."

Thereupon the concierge walked toward the door.

"Where are you going, Madame Potrelle?"

"I'm going to tell our young woman she must fix over your waistcoats, monsieur; that they're a gold mine, but that she's got to take 'em in a little. In a word, I'm going to bring Madame Landernoy back with me. What the devil! with me here, she won't be afraid of you eating her, I fancy! To be on your guard is all right; but there's no need of making a fool of yourself! I'll be back, monsieur."

"But your door, Madame Potrelle?"

"My cats are there—and my little niece."

The good woman went away, refusing to listen to my remonstrances. Would she bring Mignonne back with her? I most sincerely hoped that the young woman would not be annoyed thereat. My desire to know her better was due solely to my wish to be of use to her. I was not in love with her. Indeed, since Madame Sordeville had treated me so shamefully, I did not propose to love any woman. That was my intention, at least.

Madame Potrelle had been gone nearly two hours, and I was preparing to go out, thinking that she would not return, when there came a gentle ring at my door, and Pomponne soon appeared, still with his air of mystery and walking on tiptoe, and said:

"Monsieur, it's the old woman who was here just now; she hasn't got anything in her apron this time, but she's brought with her a young woman—or demoiselle—who is very good-looking."

I could not help laughing at Monsieur Pomponne's reflections; but I remembered Mignonne's extreme suspicion. It was essential that I should assume a serious bearing, to banish from her mind any thought of seduction. So that my expression was almost stern when I ordered Pomponne to admit my visitors.

Madame Potrelle entered first. Mignonne came behind her, with a timid, embarrassed air, in which one could read a serious and studied reserve. The concierge had not exaggerated when she said that her tenant had become a lovely woman. It was a long time since I had seen Mignonne, and I am not sure that I should have recognized her. She was remarkable for the refinement of her features, for the beauty of her coloring, which was not red, but a delicate pink, perfectly in harmony with her white skin; for her fair hair, which was neither colorless nor of too pronounced a tone; and, lastly, for the genuine blueness of her eyes—a thing that is seldom seen, for most eyes that are called blue are of any color you please except that.

And then, there was in Mignonne's whole aspect a touch of melancholy that made her doubly interesting, because it was in no wise affected; it seemed to me that everyone must, at sight of her, have a feeling of sympathy for her. Perhaps it was because I was acquainted with her misfortunes that I thought so. This much is certain: that, as I looked upon her, I was touched, deeply moved, and that in my feelings there was nothing resembling love, or the desires to which the sight of a pretty girl often gives birth. There was a large element of respect in the interest that she aroused in me.

"Excuse me, monsieur," said Madame Potrelle, pushing Mignonne in front of her. "Here's Madame Landernoy; I told her there was something to be done to your waistcoats, with which you are well satisfied, all the same."

"I regret the trouble you have taken, madame. However, it affords me the opportunity of congratulating you on the perfection of your work. I was fortunate in having you consent to work for me."

I said this in a very cold tone and without fixing my eyes on Mignonne, who seemed to grow a little bolder and replied:

"But your waistcoats don't fit, monsieur——"

"Oh! I think that it's a very small matter; you are not a tailor, and, of course, you could not succeed in doing everything just right at the first trial; but if you will allow me to try on one of them in your presence——"

"Pardi! of course you must try 'em on," cried the concierge; "there's no other way to see what's wrong! and, after all, a waistcoat's different from a pair of breeches!"

Mignonne lowered her eyes at Madame Potrelle's remark. I removed my coat and put on one of the waistcoats. Mignonne had no choice but to come to me and touch my chest and back, like a tailor taking my measure. But while she was making her examination, I was careful not to look at her once; so that she was somewhat reassured.

"I see what needs to be done, monsieur: the collar is too low; it's not much to do, and then I think they'll fit very well. I will take them away with me, and to-morrow——"

She hesitated, and I made haste to say:

"I shall not be here to-morrow, but that makes no difference; if you bring the waistcoats back, be good enough to leave them with the concierge; you need not take the trouble to come up."

"Yes, monsieur," she murmured, almost smiling, for she was beginning to feel altogether at her ease. Madame Potrelle looked at her with a triumphant expression.

I offered Mignonne the money that I owed her. She looked at it and said:

"What, monsieur, as much as that—for so little work? It's too much, monsieur!"

"Madame," I said, rather sharply, "I have told Madame Potrelle what I have to pay my tailor for a waistcoat. I do not intend to make you a present; but, on the other hand, I don't propose to have anyone think that I am trying to defraud a poor seamstress."

"Don't you go to work and make monsieur angry!" cried the concierge. "As he's in the habit of paying that price, what's the use of vexing him and putting him in a bad humor? you mustn't go against people's grain like that!"

Mignonne said nothing; but she took the money I offered, and made a very modest courtesy. For the first time she looked at me without a suspicious expression in her eyes.

"Now," I said, "will you allow me to make you a proposition, madame? You may accept it or not, as you think best. But, first of all, pray be seated for a moment; and you too, Madame Potrelle."

The concierge did not wait to be urged. The younger woman made more ado about it; her suspicions were reawakened. She waited to hear what I had to say.

"I am a bachelor; I have none of the kind-hearted female relations, no aunts or cousins, who condescend sometimes to cast an eye over a young man's linen closet, where there is always something that needs mending. Our clothes especially are sadly neglected; indeed, no care at all is taken of them. The result is that we spend much more money than we need to spend, which would not happen if some trustworthy person, some skilful seamstress, like yourself, madame, would take charge of affairs. This, then, is my proposition: that you should come once a week—with Madame Potrelle—and inspect this chest of drawers in which my linen is kept; carry away what may need to be mended, and bring it back when it is done; in short, madame, that you should keep this part of my establishment in order. If you are afraid of disturbing me, or of finding company here, come about five o'clock in the afternoon, for I am never at home at that time; the keys are always in these drawers, and my servant will have orders to allow you to do as you please. That is what I propose, madame. As for your compensation for the work, I fancy that we shall have no difficulty on that subject."

Mignonne listened to me with close attention. Madame Potrelle was in ecstasies; she could hardly keep her seat, and did nothing but cross and uncross her legs. At last, after reflection, the young woman replied:

"Really, monsieur, I do not know how I have earned the confidence with which you honor me. What you propose is a new proof of your kindness, and——"

"No, no, madame; pray consider that, by undertaking this work, you will do me a real service; you will bring order, and consequently economy, into my housekeeping. So you see that I shall be your debtor. Well! do you accept?"

"Does she accept!" cried Madame Potrelle, springing up as if she were going to dance. "Why, who ever heard of refusing such an offer as that? a thing that makes her sure of regular work; especially when she sees that it's for a gentleman who—for someone who hasn't any desire to—why, it's as plain as can be!"

"Yes, monsieur, I accept, and with gratitude," said Mignonne; "for I have a child, and by giving the mother assurance of a living you benefit the child no less."

I would have liked to shake hands with her; but I restrained myself, and replied, with the same indifferent air:

"In that case, madame, it is all settled, and it rests with you to say when you will enter upon your duties. You will have work enough, I promise you, for it's a long time since my belongings have been put in order."

"Then, monsieur, as I have nothing to do just now, I'll carry a bundle of linen home with me, by your leave. I'll look it over at home, for I have left my daughter with a neighbor, and I don't like to abuse her good nature."

"That's so," said the concierge; "and I ain't very easy in my mind about the actions of my twins and their sister."

"Do as you please, madame. Just open those drawers; you will find the bed and table linen in this closet."

Mignonne opened one of the drawers in the commode, and hastily made up a bundle, which she wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. She was still engaged in that occupation, when I heard my doorbell, and a moment later a familiar voice in the reception room.

"There's no need of announcing me, my boy; I'll go right in without ceremony. A doctor may always go in."

At the same instant, the bedroom door opened and Balloquet appeared.

"Bonjour, my dear fellow!" he said; "I beg your pardon; I interrupt you, perhaps. But if I intrude, tell me so, and I'll go away."

I had just taken Balloquet's hand, and told him to remain, when Mignonne, who had made haste to tie up her bundle, and was about to leave the room with Madame Potrelle, glanced at the new-comer and suddenly changed color; then, trembling with agitation, she threw her bundle on the floor, seized the old woman's arm, and cried:

"Come, come, madame! Let us go at once; I can't stay here another minute! Oh! it's shameful! It was a trap!"

"Well, well! what makes you throw all that linen on the floor? Why don't you carry it away?" murmured the old woman, aghast at Mignonne's action.

"I won't take the work. I refuse it! I'll never come here again, never! never! Come, madame! let us go at once!"

As she spoke, the young woman ran to the door and went out, refusing to listen to what her companion said; and she, utterly unable to understand what she saw, decided to follow her, crying:

"What on earth's the matter with her? What's got into her? Refuse work, when she needs it! Refuse the offers of an honorable man, who wishes her nothing but good! Faith! it's sickening! Much good it does to take an interest in folks! Excuse me, monsieur, I must follow her; but she's got to explain all this. Excuse her, monsieur; it's some crazy idea she's got in her head. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! to refuse a gentleman like monsieur—there's no sense in it!"

The concierge left the room at last. As for myself, I was so thunderstruck by Mignonne's conduct that it had not occurred to me to ask her for an explanation.

Balloquet, meanwhile, had remained standing in the middle of the room, looking from one to another, unable to understand what was taking place.

"Well! what in the deuce is going on here, my dear fellow?" said the young doctor, when Madame Potrelle had disappeared. "Can it be that my arrival caused all this hurly-burly and put that young woman to flight? She seemed to be a very attractive person—not the one who went out last, but the other. I didn't have time for a good look at her, but she struck me as rather chicolo."

"You didn't recognize her, then, Balloquet?"

"Recognize her? Why, do I know her? I have no remembrance of ever seeing her."

"Ah! I see, I see; I understand it all now."

"You are very lucky, for I don't understand a word of it."

I remembered that Balloquet had been Fouvenard's friend, and it was probable that Mignonne had met him when she was with her seducer; and so, when she saw a man come into my room whom she had seen with him who had deceived her so shamefully, she concluded, doubtless, that I too was a friend of Fouvenard. That being so, was it surprising that her suspicions and her terror should have returned, and that she should have refused to work for me? Poor girl! I had succeeded in winning her confidence, and this accident had destroyed all that I had had so much difficulty in obtaining. It seemed that, with the best intentions, I was fated always to remain an object of terror to her.

I kept my reflections to myself; I deemed it unnecessary to tell Balloquet that the young woman he had found in my room was she whose shame Monsieur Fouvenard had not hesitated to proclaim. My visitor was still standing in the middle of the room, and he cried at last, irritated by my silence:

"Evidently I came at an inopportune moment. Excuse me. I'll come again."

But I detained him and made him sit down.

"No; you could never guess—— But let us say no more about this incident.—You seem in better spirits, my dear Balloquet?"

"Oh! my feathers are coming out again; not enough to pay you, but that may come in time."

"For heaven's sake, don't talk about that!"

"I have seen Satiné, my sweetheart, again. She has gone into another invention now—still in the glove line, however. She cleanses gloves; she has invented, or someone has given her, a secret for cleansing them; and as gloves get soiled very quickly and are rather expensive, there's a lot of money to be made in cleansing."

"True; but I thought the process was already known."

"Yes, it is possible to have gloves cleansed; that's so; but when they had been through the process they smelt of the cleansing liquid—turpentine, or something else. You went into a salon and swaggered about, playing the dandy, and people said as soon as you came near: 'Ah! here's a man whose gloves have been cleansed!'—That was annoying, you must admit. It took fifty per cent off your costume. Some people concluded at once that your coat had been turned and your trousers dyed, that your waistcoat was second-hand, etcetera, etcetera. Conjectures went a long way, sometimes."

"And your charmer has found a way of avoiding that?"

"Yes—that is to say, not altogether; gloves cleansed by her process have an extremely pleasant odor; they smell of rose; oh! you can smell them a mile away; it's amazing! You go into a salon, and people think that the Grand Turk and his whole harem have arrived; they can't smell anything but you."

"But that may have the same drawbacks as the other process, my dear fellow. People will wonder why you smell so strongly of rose."

"Yes; but when I arrive, I shall begin by saying: 'I adore the odor of rose! I have lately bought some essence of rose, so strong that all my clothes are perfumed with it'—In that way, I avert suspicion from my gloves. However, it seems that the new process is a success. My sentimental Satiné is in funds; the odor of rose is popular. For my part, I have had a few patients—among others, a rich old gentleman with whom I am very well satisfied; he has had an inflammation of the lungs for six weeks, and it doesn't seem inclined to subside. I keep it up by means of fumigations. I have paid three creditors already with that inflammation. To-day, as I happened to be in your neighborhood, I said to myself: 'I may as well call on Rochebrune and give him my address;' for I have an address for the moment. Cité Vindé, No. 4, ter or bis. But I'm very sorry that I put that young woman to flight. Have I such a very terrifying aspect? I haven't any moustache."

"I repeat, Balloquet, don't think any more of that incident. You could not have foreseen what happened.—But tell me about that girl who came to consult you while I was in your room; you remember, don't you? the girl who had been so maltreated by a miserable blackguard!"

Balloquet passed his hand across his brow and his face became almost serious—a rare occurrence.

"Yes, I remember; you mean Annette?"

"Annette—that was the name. You went to see her, didn't you?"

"Yes, I visited her nearly two months."

"And then?"

"And then happened what I had anticipated from the very first: she died."

"Died! Great God! you could not save her?"

"It was impossible. All that I could do was to relieve her suffering as much as possible. Poor girl! she suffered too much, even then. A cancer developed, you understand, at that place. I say again, I deadened the pain as much as I could, but it was impossible to save her."

"It is perfectly ghastly. So the unfortunate child was tortured—yes, murdered by that—— Oh! the infernal scoundrel! the monster!"

"Yes, it was that Bouqueton who caused the poor girl's death; I am ready to testify to it, if necessary. But you told me, I believe, that you know the villain?"

"I don't know him, but I know who he is."

"Well, is there no way of avenging the poor creature, of punishing her assassin?—for the man is an assassin, and a hundred times more criminal than those who ply their trade openly on the highroad. If we prosecuted him before the courts, we should have no chance of proving his crime, I fancy. The victim is dead, and there is no evidence. I asked her several times if she had not some letter, or something that came from that Bouqueton; it would have been invaluable. But all that she had was a paltry ring, of no value, not even gold, which he gave her one day as being very valuable."

"Have you seen the ring?"

"Yes; I asked Annette for it several days before she died. The poor child, who had divined her doom, although I did my best to conceal it from her, gave me the bauble, and said with angelic gentleness: 'You may intend to search for the man who injured me so, and punish him; but it isn't worth while, monsieur; after all, I have only received the reward of my misconduct. If I hadn't left my parents to lead a disorderly life, this thing wouldn't have happened to me. I see that I've got to die, but I forgive the man who caused my death."

"Poor Annette!"

"I concealed my intentions from her, but I took the ring. It's all right for the victim to forgive—but our duty is to punish. This is the ring, Rochebrune."

Balloquet took from his pocket a little gold-plated ring, with several colored stones of no value set in the form of a star; its only merit was that it was easily identified by its oddity and its ugliness. I took possession of it eagerly, crying:

"Leave it with me, my friend; let me keep it, I beg you; it will help me some day to avenge poor Annette."

"With all my heart. But I say again, try to let me have a share in the vengeance; don't forget me when the time comes. I saw the victim die, and I should enjoy seeing the murderer punished."

"I promise to let you know at once, when the time comes; and if I need you to help me——"

"Sapristi! I will be on hand then, even if I am pursued by creditors! But my affairs will be settled in due time. Au revoir, my dear fellow! The next time I come to see you, I'll wear a pair of my essence of rose gloves, so that you can tell your friends and acquaintances about them."

Balloquet shook hands with me and took his leave; and I carefully put poor Annette's ring away in my desk.

Annette's death and Mignonne's unjust suspicions of me left me in a melancholy mood; and when, as sometimes happened, Madame Sordeville's conduct came to my mind, it did not tend to restore my self-contentment. I was not precisely unhappy, but I was disgusted to think that I had so misplaced my affections; and, more than all, I craved other affection. Can a man live without love, at thirty years? Indeed, I believe, with Voltaire, that love is necessary at every age, and that it is love that sustains us.

I was in this frame of mind when Madame Potrelle appeared. The good woman began with her usual profusion of reverences, and with an abundance of apologies for the abrupt manner of her departure on the occasion of her last visit; but she hoped that I bore her no ill will therefor.

I reassured her, and asked if she was sent by Madame Landernoy.

"Oh, no, monsieur! she didn't send me—that is to say, not exactly; but she knows I've come. I'll bet she's waiting impatiently for my return; and yet, worse luck! she won't listen to a word about you; she won't work for you; she wouldn't put her foot inside your door for—I don't know what! She's wrong; I'm perfectly sure she's doing wrong, and that she's mistaken in what she thinks about you. So I came to tell you what it was that frightened her, what turned her head."

"I suspect what it was, Madame Potrelle. But, no matter, tell me what you know."

"In the first place, monsieur, as I told you, when she came back from buying provisions a week or two ago, my young tenant rushed into my place, frightened to death, and singing out: 'Protect me! don't let him come in!'"

"Yes; and afterward a middle-aged man offered you ten francs to let him go up to Madame Landernoy's room."

"Yes, monsieur; but that last one was just one of the men who are always following women. But, for all that, it seems he was in earnest, and he watched her a long while after, poor child. When men are—on my word, they're worse'n tomcats. Excuse the comparison, monsieur; I don't mean that for you."

"Let us come to what you had to tell me, Madame Potrelle."

"You see, a woman ends by getting confused with all these blackguards. Dame! she's got to be so pretty again! I didn't lie to you about that, did I, monsieur?"

"Your tenant is very good-looking. Above all, she has an interesting, respectable look, which ought to protect her from the schemes of seekers after adventures."

"Oh, no! not at all, monsieur; just the opposite! Libertines run after virtuous women most of all. They want 'em! they must have 'em! 'Ah!' they'll say; 'there's one that's never gone wrong; I'll just push her down into perdition.'—Excuse me; I'll come back to the point. The other day, when Madame Landernoy went out of here like a rocket, I ran after her, and, dame! as I didn't think she'd done right, I asked her to explain herself; and this is what she said, word for word: 'I was right in not having confidence in Monsieur Rochebrune; I recognized that young man who just came in as a friend of my seducer, of the man who wasn't content with deserting me, but tried to cover me with shame. Now, nothing will take away my idea that Monsieur Rochebrune is one of Ernest's friends, too. How do I know that they are not planning some trap that they mean to lead me into? When I came home in such a fright two or three days ago, it was because I'd met that horrible Rambertin—the man who conceived and carried out the most outrageous treachery! And that man ran after me and dared to talk to me again about his passion! No, Madame Potrelle, I won't go to Monsieur Rochebrune's again, and I won't work for him; for all that he's doing for me isn't natural. Besides, I am sure now that he has seen Ernest, and that's enough to make me feel something worse than fear of him.'—Those are Madame Landernoy's very words, monsieur. I stood up for you; I told her that it wasn't possible that you had any hand in wicked schemes against her; and that I'd put my hand in the fire to prove it—and so I would!"

"I thank you for your good opinion of me, Madame Potrelle, and I assure you that I deserve it in this matter."

"Oh! I don't doubt it, monsieur. But the young woman's got that idea in her brain, and there's no way to get it out. But something came into my head, and I told her of it. 'You think,' I says, 'that Monsieur Rochebrune's a friend of your seducer, and you think it's strange he should take so much interest in you and pay you more for your work than it's worth. But how do you know Monsieur Ernest hasn't repented of the way he's treated you? After all, he's the father of your little girl; how do you know but what he's thinking about her, and wants her to have everything she needs?'—That seemed to strike her; she thought a long while, and then she says: 'Oh, no! no! when a man has tried to cover an unhappy mother with shame, he don't repent! his heart is closed to every honest feeling, and he never remembers that he has a child. And yet, if by any chance—if you have guessed right—— But, no, I can't believe it, it isn't possible!'—At that, monsieur, I saw that in the bottom of her heart she thought I had guessed right; so I says to her: 'Well! I'll just go to Monsieur Rochebrune, and ask him flat-footed how it is, and I'm sure he'll answer me honest.'—So I started off, monsieur, and here I am."

"You did well, madame, to believe that I would answer you frankly. You may repeat what I am going to tell you to Mignonne—that is her Christian name, and she will understand now how I know it.—I do know Monsieur Ernest Fouvenard; he has never been a friend of mine; and if he had been, his treatment of your tenant, of which he dared to boast in my presence, would have been enough to put an end to our friendship. In fact, that is just what has happened between him and the young man whom you saw here. He was intimate with Monsieur Ernest; he broke with him entirely as soon as he learned of this outrageous performance of his. I was profoundly interested by Mignonne's misfortunes; and that interest was absolutely pure, as I did not then know her. I understand why she looked upon me at first with suspicion; when one has been so shamefully betrayed, it is natural to suspect evil designs in the most innocent actions. I saw your young tenant, and I did not fall in love with her—not even after she recovered her beauty. But she aroused the liveliest interest in me, and it would have been a very pleasant task to me to make her lot easier. That is the whole truth; I hope that Mignonne will deign to believe it. As a general rule, men are evil-minded; but there are still some who do good solely for the pleasure of doing it; the exception proves the rule."

"I believe you, monsieur; oh, yes! I believe you," said the concierge, sadly; "but I am sorry that I didn't guess right. I wish that miserable Monsieur Ernest had thought of his child. Whatever she may say, I am sure the poor mother would have been pleased in the bottom of her heart."

"I am not enough of a hero, Madame Potrelle, to give credit to another for the little good I am able to do; besides, when that other is a miserable wretch, a dastard, who prides himself on his infamous conduct, it seems to me that it would be nothing less than downright fraud to give him credit for acts which would imply that his heart was not devoid of every worthy feeling. Mignonne was right in thinking that the man who would have covered an unhappy mother with opprobrium is not capable of repentance. Your supposition was born of a kind heart; but Monsieur Ernest has one that is rotten to the core, and with such hearts there is no resource. Now, I have told you the whole truth; Mignonne will believe me or not; I cannot help myself. But if she does change her opinion with regard to me, tell her that I bear no malice, and that the work I offered her will still be at her disposal."

I dismissed the concierge. Let Mignonne think and do what she chose, I had done all that I could to help her. I neither could nor ought to go any further.

The spring had returned, and one fine day I had left home thinking of Madame Dauberny, whom I would have given all the world to meet, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and recognized my former acquaintance, Baron von Brunzbrack.

"How in der teufel are you?" said the baron, taking my hand.

"Ah! is it you, Monsieur de Brunzbrack? I am delighted to meet you. Do you know that it is more than six months since we met?"

"Ja, I know id veil; but I could not meed you no more, pecause—you know pecause vhy?"

"What do I know? Assume that I do not know—I shall be much obliged."

"Pecause I no longer go to Monsir Sordeville."

"Ah! you no longer go there? Faith! I had no means of knowing that, for the very simple reason that I myself have not put my foot inside that door since—yes, since the night we played baccarat together, against Madame Dauberny."

"Ten you pe like me. Te loafely voman, she vill haf varned us poth."

"Warned—— Who, pray?"

"Te loafely Frédérique."

"Ah! so Madame Dauberny suggested to you too not to go to Madame Sordeville's, did she?"

"Ja! I haf one day received from her ein leedle note, vich I haf alvays keep, pecause I vas much bleezed to receive tat note vich she haf write herself. You shall see; I haf id alvays on my heart, in my cigar case."

And the baron, taking a dainty cigar case from his pocket, produced a small folded paper that smelt horribly of tobacco; luckily, the tobacco was of the best quality.

He opened the letter and handed it to me, but did not let it leave his own hands. I recognized Frédérique's hand, and I read:

I could not restrain a sort of shudder as I read the last name, and reflected that such a woman as Frédérique was that man's wife. Suppose that she knew what he was doing! But, no; she would do something imprudent; it was better that she should not know that story until Annette was avenged.

The baron carefully replaced the letter in his cigar case, and restored the latter to his pocket, saying:

"Vhen I haf tat note received, I vas mad mit choy. I pelieved tat te Frédérique, she vas chealous of some voman who vent to Monsir Sordeville, berhaps of Montame Sordeville herself. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Did you follow the advice she gave you?"

"Ach! pigre! I vould haf no more gone to Sordeville's for ein embire! But I haf called often to see Montame Dauberny; I haf hard luck; she pe nefer in! I haf not pin aple to meed her. And you, mein gut frent?"

"I received the same advice from Madame Dauberny."

"And you opeyed, like me?"

"Not instantly; I went once more to see Madame Sordeville, but in the afternoon."

"Ach! gut! gut!"

"Indeed, I expected to see her often; but an unforeseen event changed all my plans. I have not been there since, and I shall never go again."

"Ach! gut! gut! Is id also to do Montame Dauberny's vish?"

"Not at all; it is for another reason, which I cannot tell you."

"Gut! gut! I no untershtand. You must not—you must not shtill pe in loafe mit te peautiful Frédérique?"

"Mon Dieu! no, my dear baron! When could I have fallen in love with her, pray? I never see her; I never meet her."

"Gif me your hand, mein frent."

"And yet, I confess that I have the greatest desire to see her and speak with her."

"Ach, ja! I untershtand; and so haf I; to ask her vhy she haf forbid us to go to te Sordevilles."

"I should not be sorry to know that. But I want to talk to her about something which interests me more."

The baron drew back with a frown, and muttered:

"You haf a teclaration to make to her—in secret—mit mystery!"

"Sapristi! you are infernally tenacious in your ideas, baron. Once more, there is no question of a declaration! Why on earth have you taken it into your head that I am likely to fall in love with Madame Dauberny? Would it please you very much if I should?"

"Ach! no! no! Gif me your hand, mein frent; I haf pin wrong. I am one pig fool!"

The baron was still holding my hand, when a calèche stopped beside us and a voice said:

"Would you like to take a short drive with me, messieurs?"

We looked up and recognized Madame Dauberny, alone in an open calèche. Herr von Brunzbrack turned crimson with pleasure; for my part, I was well pleased to have met Frédérique at last.

"Faith! madame," said I, "the baron and I were just talking of you."

"Ja, loafely lady; ve haf pin talking of you."

"I suspected as much; that is why I stopped. Well, messieurs, wouldn't you rather talk with me than confine yourselves to talking about me?"

Our only reply was to enter the carriage without more ado. I seated myself opposite Frédérique, the baron by her side, and we drove away.

Unless by keeping my eyes constantly lowered, I could not avoid looking often at Frédérique; and as I had no reason to lower my eyes, and, moreover, as I had always taken pleasure in looking at her, I was able at that moment to enjoy that pleasure to the full.

Madame Dauberny was always dressed in good taste; that morning she wore a gray silk gown, cut very high, which was wonderfully becoming to her. But, after all, is it not rather the wearer who embellishes the gown? For example: I had often noticed that Frédérique's waists fitted her to perfection, and I had rarely noticed that fact in other women. Was it not because Frédérique had a beautiful figure?

I was overjoyed to see that Madame Dauberny's face no longer wore that cold, stern expression which she had formerly adopted with me. Her face was entirely different; I could not say what it expressed, because, although she looked at me often, she never fixed her eyes on mine; but they shone with a brilliancy I had never before seen in them; they were at once softer and merrier than of old; they no longer had, for the moment at least, that ironical or severe expression to which I had once become accustomed.

The baron, who seemed enchanted at first to be at Frédérique's side, soon began, I think, to be sorry that he was not where I was. He constantly leaned forward, trying to see Frédérique's face; but she wore a broad-brimmed gray felt hat, and when the baron leaned forward to speak to her she always turned her head, apparently in a spirit of mischief, so that he could not have the pleasure of looking at her.

"I am very glad to have met you, messieurs," said Frédérique; "in the first place, because it gives me the greatest pleasure to see you—both."

That both she said in a curious tone, and accompanied it with a glance in my direction. I had sufficient conceit to believe, after all, that she still preferred my company to the baron's.

"In the second place, messieurs, I owe you an explanation for the letters I wrote you on the subject of Monsieur Sordeville; for I referred to him solely, and not to his wife, when I urged you to break off your relations with that household. Monsieur Rochebrune paid little heed to my advice.—I do not blame you, monsieur; besides, Armantine is my friend, and, as I have told you before, I have no desire to injure her in your esteem. If her husband is a scoundrel, I believe you to be just enough not to include his wife in the contempt which that man must inspire."

"Go on, madame; what is his business?"

"Haf he made ein pankrupt?"

"Oh! if it were no worse than that! But, in the first place, Monsieur Sordeville was neither banker, nor merchant, nor solicitor; he was nothing, and pretended to be everything. That strange state of affairs aroused my curiosity more than once, especially as he gave parties, lived handsomely, made a good deal of show, and yet he was not known to have any fortune, and Armantine's dowry was very, very small. There is one point upon which I have always liked to be well posted, and that is, the means of existence of the people with whom I associate. Indeed, how much confidence can one have in those who spend a great deal and earn nothing?

"I had several times been tempted to say a word of warning to Armantine on that subject; but she did not trouble herself in the least about her husband's business, and had unbounded faith in what he told her. She led such a life as she liked; for her husband left her entirely at liberty to do just what she chose, and seemed happy to be the husband of a charming woman, only because she attracted numerous guests to his house. You will agree that it would have been horrible to disturb Armantine's peace of mind by giving her a hint of my suspicions; she would have spurned them with horror. Poor woman! More than once, I said to myself that I was a fool, that my ideas were an insult to Monsieur Sordeville; and not until I had learned of several facts that confirmed my suspicions, did I feel absolutely certain of the truth."

"Not yet do I know vat is te trut," muttered the baron, craning his neck in an attempt to see his neighbor's lovely eyes.

"Ah! Monsieur de Brunzbrack, there are some things that are so hard, so painful, to say! Listen: about a year ago, a young man attached to the Dutch legation was suddenly dismissed, without the slightest explanation of his disgrace. He had been an habitué of Monsieur Sordeville's salon for two months. A clerk in the War Department lost his place—no reason assigned. But he, too, had attended Monsieur Sordeville's receptions. And you yourself, baron—did not your ambassador thank you and request you never to set foot in his offices again?"

"Ja! Te ambassador, he haf say to me: 'You talk too much! You haf divulzhe te secrets of te cabinet.'—I haf not untershtand, but id vas all one to me; I haf not care for my blace."

"How is it with you, Monsieur Rochebrune? do you begin to understand?"

"In truth, madame, I fear that I do; but I dare not say as yet."

"Well, monsieur, the young attaché of the Dutch legation had been lured on by Monsieur Sordeville to talk foolishly about certain plans of his government.—You did the same, baron, unwittingly perhaps; that man was so clever at making people talk about what he wanted to find out! As for the young clerk, he had tattled about certain peculiarities of his superiors, and Monsieur Sordeville took care that they were informed. In a word, Monsieur Sordeville was connected with the secret police. That is what I dared not believe at first, what I was determined to have the proof of, if it were true. I never hesitate when the honor of a friend, the safety and the future of people I love, are at stake. I had once rendered a slight service to a person who is employed in the police bureau to-day, but in a position which he can afford to avow; that person had begged me to give him an opportunity to show his gratitude, and I said to him: 'The opportunity has come; find out for me what Monsieur Sordeville's position is.' I speedily received a reply containing these words only: 'Connected with the secret police.'"

"Sapremann!" cried the baron; "I am sorry tat I haf talk mit him! Vat! tat so bolite monsir—he vas ein shpy! Ach! I am shtubefied!"

I shared the baron's stupefaction; Frédérique's revelation appalled me; and yet, I knew that in society the most disgusting vices lie hidden beneath the most brilliant exteriors.

"And—his wife," I said at last; "does she know now what her husband does?"

"She knows all, and I was spared the melancholy duty of telling her. There were some scandalous scenes at Monsieur Sordeville's not long ago. It seems that a certain man—one of the victims of that wretch's denunciations—had succeeded, by unwearying perseverance, in learning the source of the report that ruined him. He also learned the truth with respect to Monsieur Sordeville. Then what did he do? Accompanied by several friends, to whom he had told the facts, he went to the house on a certain evening at home—for they continued to receive, notwithstanding what was told you to the contrary."

This was said to me, and proved that Frédérique knew all.

"He went to Monsieur Sordeville's," she continued, "and there, in the middle of the salon, before all the guests, he called him a spy and struck him! Imagine the uproar, the amazement, the confusion, of all those people, who were thoroughly ashamed to be there; for Monsieur Sordeville turned pale, and did not say a word or return the blow. Poor Armantine fainted, and they carried her to her room. Thereupon the guests all took their hats and fled, assuring the master of the house that they didn't believe a word of what had been said, but fully determined never to go there again. On the next day, Armantine took refuge with me. I dictated the following plainly worded letter, which she sent to her husband:

"'You have deceived me shamefully, monsieur. I leave you, and I lay aside your name. You will never hear of me again, and I trust that I may never hear of you.'

"That is what Armantine wrote to him. You must agree, Rochebrune, that we are not very fortunate in our husbands, either of us!"

Poor Frédérique! She did not know how truly she spoke.

"Now, messieurs, it's all over. The Sordeville family has ceased to exist. Nobody knows what has become of the man, and nobody cares very much. Probably he is still carrying on his profession, on his own account. As to Armantine, luckily she has about eighteen hundred francs a year which her husband cannot touch. She will live on that, in the retreat she has chosen; she will cut less of a figure and not change her gown so often; but perhaps she will be happier."

As she said that, Frédérique fixed her eyes on me for a moment, then continued:

"I hope, messieurs, that you will forgive me now for advising you both to stay away from Monsieur Sordeville's?"

"That is to say, madame, that we owe you our warmest thanks."

"Ach! ja! and I haf te note in your hand; id is alvays here—on my heart."

"You do me too much honor, baron," said Madame Dauberny, with a smile; "and I am quite sure that everybody doesn't do as you have done."

I would have been glad to be rid of the baron, for I had many questions to ask Frédérique. I do not know whether she divined my thought, but she ordered her coachman to drive back to Paris.

"I will not abuse your good nature any longer, messieurs," she said. "I carried you both away rather unceremoniously; and perhaps somebody is impatiently awaiting you."

"No; I am not avaited at all," said the baron; "I am te master of my time."

"Where were you going, baron?" Frédérique asked, as if she had not heard what he said.

"Montame—I vas going—I know not—I vas going novere."

"But as I am going somewhere, I will set you down at your hotel, then I will take Monsieur Rochebrune home."

I was well pleased that she proposed to set down the baron first. To no purpose did he say again and again that no one was expecting him, that he was not sure that he wanted to go home; Madame Dauberny replied simply:

"I am very sorry; but I can't drive you about all day."

Before long, she ordered the coachman to stop; the carriage door was opened and she offered the baron her hand, saying:

"Adieu! until I have the pleasure of seeing you again."

Herr von Brunzbrack decided at last, although with great reluctance, to alight; but when he was on the ground, he looked at me and beckoned:

"Vell! vhy haf not you come, too?"

"Because Monsieur Rochebrune is going in another direction, and I am going to drive him part of the way."

As she spoke, Frédérique motioned to the coachman to drive on, paying no heed to the baron, who declared that he wanted to stay with me. The poor Prussian stood on the same spot, and glared at me in a far from friendly fashion.

"I am not sorry to be rid of the baron," said Frédérique, "for I want to talk with you; if you are really in no hurry, suppose we take a turn in the Bois?"

"That will give me great pleasure, madame, for I too long to talk with you."

"Take us to the Bois de Boulogne, cocher.—Ah! if the poor baron knew this, he would be frantic!"

"Yes, for he's terribly jealous; he sees a rival in every man who has the privilege of knowing you."

"The man believes that everybody's in love with me! he is too stupid! But let us say no more of the baron and his love, which disturbs me very little. Let us come to what interests you. You want to know, of course, what has become of Armantine? Before a stranger, I would not betray her incognito; but to you, it seems to me that I may safely tell where she is, so that you can go there and condole with her. Armantine is living at Passy, on the Grande Rue, near the forest; she has taken the name of Madame Montfort. That is what I had to tell you."

"Is that all, madame?"

"Why, I should suppose that it was a great deal to you, to know what has become of the lady of your thoughts."

"Frédérique, are you willing that we should be friends again?"

As I spoke, I held out my hand. She turned her head away, and for some seconds seemed to hesitate; then she gave me her hand, and replied in a voice that was not quite steady:

"Well, yes, I am willing; sincere friends; all except the tutoiement; for I realize that that is impossible; anyone who heard us would form wrong conclusions."

"Very good. But no more mystery between us; absolute and mutual confidence. If you knew how deeply I have regretted having angered you! You were so severe with me! You spoke to me so frigidly, and sometimes with a touch of irony even."

"Let's forget all that. I am a little whimsical! But it's all over now. We are reconciled. As for—as for what made me angry, I am sure that you won't be guilty of the same offence again. You were a little bewildered that night—otherwise, it never would have occurred to you to kiss me."

I was at a loss what to reply; for there are offences for which it is a blunder to apologize. But Frédérique gave me no time, for she continued:

"Once more, let's say no more about it! The poet is right when he sings:

"'The past is but a dream!'

From this day forth, we are and will remain good friends. You will tell me all your secrets, make me the confidante of all your love affairs. How entertaining it will be to know everything!"

"And you, Frédérique, will you tell me all your thoughts, all the feelings that agitate your heart?"

"To be sure! But you will receive few confidences from me, for I have no intrigues now. I don't propose to form any more liaisons of that sort. In short, I am done with loving; I am happy as I am. I have resolved never to listen to any man again."

"At your age! Nonsense! That resolution won't last long."

"Very well; if I change—why, I'll let you know. But let us come to you, the man of the thousand and one passions! You ought to tell the story of them, as a supplement to the Thousand and One Nights."

"That may have been true once; but I've been getting rusty of late. It isn't virtue, I suppose; but I fancy that I am becoming hard to please."

"You will undoubtedly hasten to console Armantine, who may, perhaps, regret her former position in society, but surely doesn't regret her husband!"

"I, go to see Madame—Madame Montfort! Oh, no! no, indeed! Do you imagine that I still love her?"

"Of course! Weren't you mad over her?"

"Love is a form of madness that can be cured, and I am surprised that you think it possible for me to love that woman still—after the scene that you witnessed on the Champs-Élysées."

"What do you say? What scene?"

"Oh! my dear friend, let us not begin already to go back on the promise we made only a moment ago! You were on the Champs-Élysées, were you not, when an intoxicated man claimed acquaintance with me?"

"Yes; that is, I arrived just at the end. Armantine was running away; I saw that."

"It was you who paid the man who threatened to have the unfortunate fellow I had thrown down arrested."

Frédérique said nothing; she dared not deny it.

"How much did you give the man?"

"Twenty-nine francs, I believe."

"Here is the money, my dear friend; accept at the same time my thanks for your kind impulse, which did not occur to me, because I thought of nothing but that woman who was running away from me. Furthermore, I know that you also offered money to that poor devil, whom I left there."

"That is true; but he refused it."

"I know that too. Ah! Frédérique, you are kind-hearted; you have a generous heart, superior to the prejudices of society. You would not have run away from me, then closed your door to me, simply because a man in cap and blouse had called me his friend!"

Frédérique turned her face away, but her voice trembled as she replied:

"No, of course not! But you must forgive such foibles—the result of a false way of looking at things."

"Forgive jeers, sarcasm, insults, neglect, if you please; I can understand that; but contempt! never! Love must necessarily be destroyed where contempt shows its head."

"But suppose that she has repented of her treatment of you?"

"True; she may have done so, since she has learned that her husband is a spy!"

"Rochebrune! that was a very spiteful remark of yours!"

"I am entitled to say what I think of that lady."

"You are very angry with her, which proves that you still love her."

"When you mention her to me, I remember how she treated me; but for that, I should not think of her at all. In short, I no longer love her."

"You say that because she isn't here. But if you should find yourself looking into her lovely eyes——"

"I should remember the way they looked at me at our last interview on the Champs-Élysées; and I assure you that those eyes would no longer endanger my repose."

"Really? do you no longer love Armantine?"

Frédérique turned toward me as she asked the question, and I had never seen such an expression of satisfaction and pleasure in her eyes.

"If I still loved her, why should I conceal it from you? You know, we are to tell each other everything now."

"True; for we are friends now. We won't lose our tempers with each other any more, will we?"

"I wasn't the one who lost my temper."

"You will come to see me, I hope?"

"You will allow me to?"

"Of course, as the past is only a dream. And I will come to your rooms—as a friend. I am a man, you know. I don't see why I should not come to see you—unless, of course, it would displease you?"

"Never!"

"In any event, when you have company, or when you expect some fair one, you can tell me so, and I will leave you at liberty. It's agreed, isn't it? I shall not come to see you on any other condition."

"It's agreed."

I took Frédérique's hand again and pressed it warmly, nor did she think of withdrawing it. At that moment, we passed a riding party. The young dandies of whom it was composed glanced into our carriage as they passed. Frédérique suddenly turned pale. I looked up, and recognized one of the cavaliers as Monsieur Saint-Bergame. At the same moment I heard his voice, and distinguished this sentence, the last words coming very indistinctly as he receded:

"Ah! so it's that fellow now! Each in his turn!"

Madame Dauberny withdrew her hand from mine, her features contracted, her brow grew dark; but she said nothing. I too was silent; for, not knowing whether she had heard what Saint-Bergame said, I was careful not to tell her. But I had a feeling of embarrassment and of wrath, which banished all the pleasurable sensations of a moment before.

We drove a considerable distance without speaking; and when she turned so that I could see her face, which she had kept averted for a long while, I detected tears in her eyes.

I quickly grasped her hand again, saying:

"What is the matter?"

Thereupon she at once resumed her usual manner, as if she were ashamed that I had observed her emotion, and answered, with a smile:

"Nothing, nothing at all! Mon Dieu! my friend, can one always tell what the matter is? It all depends on one's frame of mind. We are sometimes deeply moved by a remark that isn't worth the labor of listening to.—Take us home, cocher.—I can properly say home, for, thank heaven! I am alone, and mistress of the house for the present."

"Your husband is——?"

"He is not in Paris; he has gone on a little trip, according to the word he sent to me; and you can imagine that I did not detain him. It is true that Monsieur Dauberny doesn't interfere with me in any way, that he doesn't prevent me from doing whatever I please; but, for all that, I feel happier when I know that he isn't under the same roof. Oh! if only he could travel forever!"

I was certain that the man had fled after the ill-fated Annette's death; perhaps he was afraid that she would make damaging disclosures before she died. I was persuaded that fear alone had driven him from Paris, and that he proposed to wait until that affair was forgotten before he returned.

"How long has your husband been absent?" I asked Frédérique.

"About three weeks."

"When is he coming back?"

"I have no idea; you may be sure that I didn't ask him. But, my friend, you seem to take a great deal of interest in my husband's movements: can it be that his absence distresses you?"

I tried to smile, as I answered:

"Oh! not in the least, I beg you to believe. I asked you the question—I don't quite know why."

Frédérique looked earnestly at me and squeezed my hand hard, murmuring:

"So it is true that even sincere friends can't tell each other everything."

The calèche stopped on the boulevard, and I left Madame Dauberny.

"We shall meet again soon," I said.