"Have you ever been kissed, Ambroisine?"
"Mon Dieu! yes! some of those little pages are so quick, and some of the young nobles so audacious! There is one in particular, Comte Léodgard de Marvejols—you must have heard of him?"
"I! why, you forget that I hear nothing, see nothing, know nothing!—What about Comte Léodgard?"
"Oh! he's a terrible scapegrace, I tell you! a rake, a roisterer, a seducer! There is only one opinion about him, and not a week passes that he does not set people talking about him. He abducts girls, yes, married women even; he beats their fathers or husbands; he fights duels, cudgels the watch, passes whole days and nights in gambling hells, gambling and drinking; in short, he is worse than the devil!"
"O mon Dieu! how frightened I should be of him! He must be very ugly, isn't he?"
"Why, no, and that is just what deceives you; unfortunately, he is not ugly at all; for if he were hideous to look at, he would be much less dangerous. He is a handsome young man, with a forest of long black hair, and eyes of the same color, that shine like carbuncles; and when he looks at you, he has a way of giving them such a benignant expression! You would think sometimes that he is a little saint; but you very soon find out your mistake."
"What a pity! A scapegrace is a reprobate, and that ought to appear on his face. Has that young nobleman ever tried to kiss you?"
"I should say so! there was a time when he came to our place every day; he laid traps for me, tried to make appointments with me, and brought me presents."
"Presents?"
"Which I never received.—It did no good for me to lose my temper, to fly into a passion, to threaten to scratch him—that only made him laugh; he declared that I was even prettier when I was angry.—As you can imagine, it is when my father is not at home that they torment me so; for he would not stand it. But one day I lost my patience: Comte Léodgard had seized my hands, in spite of my struggles, and he was just about to kiss me, when I called father. If you had seen how quickly he took the young nobleman up in his arms and set him down in the street! The count was frantic; he drew his sword and rushed at father. But you know Master Hugonnet—it isn't wise to irritate him. In an instant, he had seized Comte Léodgard's sword and had broken it across his knee. The count strode away, uttering the most horrible threats, swearing that he would teach father what it costs to lack respect for a great nobleman. Father began to laugh, and in a moment he had forgotten all about it. But, for my part, I confess that the count's threats frightened me, and for a long time after I trembled whenever father left me, when he came home later at night than usual; but that was three months ago, and nothing has happened."
"And the young man has not been to your shop again?"
"Oh, no! not since that time."
"In all this, you have not told me why the fine ladies who come to the baths prefer not to bring their servants with them?"
"Ah! what a memory you have!—Well, I have noticed very often that there is a young gentleman below who knows one of the ladies; when she leaves the bath, the young man is there, waiting for her; they talk together, they go away together; so, you see, when a lady knows that she will have a cavalier to escort her home, she does not need to bring a servant."
"If you knew, Ambroisine, how I love to listen to you—you tell me things that are so entirely new to me! Oh! please tell me some more of your adventures!"
But when Ambroisine was about to gratify her friend, perhaps they would hear Dame Ragonde's slow, regular steps approaching. Thereupon, the subject of conversation would instantly be changed, and they would talk exclusively of serious or religious matters until Bathilde's mother said:
"You have talked enough; bid your friend adieu, it is time to separate."
Thereupon Ambroisine would leave her young friend; but all that she had heard furnished Bathilde with food for thought for many days.
Alone in a large and handsome room, richly furnished, the hangings of which, however, were very old and seemed to denote, on the part of the proprietors, a profound respect for whatever had belonged to their ancestors, an old man sat in an enormous easy-chair, whose carved and gilded frame seemed as ancient as the hangings, before a desk on which lay several boxes, books, and papers, which he was apparently engaged in examining with care.
Sometimes he paused in his labors; his brow was clouded, his expression stern, and a deep sigh escaped from his breast.
The Marquis de Marvejols was at this time nearly seventy years of age. He was a tall, spare man, who still carried his head erect, whose gait was firm and his grasp strong, while his proud and assured bearing would have held in respect anyone who should attempt to impose upon him.
The old man's face was handsome, although severe. His white hair left bare a large part of his forehead, on which could be seen a scar caused by a blow from a lance; his moustaches and his beard, also snow-white, harmonized well with that martial countenance, which seemed to defy all dangers; and if the old marquis's keen gray eyes ordinarily wore a haughty expression that inspired fear rather than confidence, on the other hand, the extreme urbanity of his manners soon made one forget the stern and imposing effect of his general appearance.
Knee-breeches and doublet of violet velvet, a leather belt, a very high ruff, funnel-shaped top-boots, with spurs attached—such was the old man's costume, which had something military about it. Over all this he wore a long cloak, trimmed with ermine, which descended almost to his spurs.
Pushing aside with an angry gesture the papers he had been examining, Monsieur de Marvejols threw himself back in his chair, and turned his eyes upon several large portraits which hung on the walls. Two represented cavaliers with helmets on their heads, and their hands on their swords; a third was that of a young man wearing the little cap in vogue in the time of Henri III; and the fourth was the portrait of a young and lovely woman with a little boy on her knees.
In the immense apartments of olden time, space was not spared; people were not shut up, as we are to-day, in the foul atmosphere of rooms six and a half feet in height; the lungs had an opportunity to do their work freely and the chest must have been in much better case.
In those days, it was easy to find room in a salon for those huge full-length portraits, which are ordinarily larger than life. Indeed, one sometimes saw them hung in two rows, and the furniture never reached to the frames.
To-day, in the apartments which our architects measure out for us so sparingly, we must renounce all thought of having large canvases, fine paintings of vast historical subjects, and in many cases even the full-length portrait of one of our ancestors, unless we choose to take the risk, when we sit down, of striking our heads against the painting at the first unpremeditated movement we chance to make.
The Marquis de Marvejol's mansion was on Rue Royale, where one may still see, in our day, some relics of the magnificent apartments of an earlier time. But what a difference! Although, on the outside, it still presents a reasonably well preserved image of what it was under Louis XIII; although it is still red and white, with its bricks surrounded by courses of stone, with its slated roof, its light balconies, its tall windows set in stone frames; although it has retained its low, dark, heavy galleries, which seem to have been built to defy the ages and the elements—on the other hand, the interior of its various wings is no longer the same, and, except in some few instances, the grandeur and magnificence of the olden time have entirely disappeared.
But at the time of our narrative there were, in the neighborhood of the Hôtel de Marvejols, the Hôtels de Lesdiguières, de Guémenée, de Sully, d'Effiat, d'Aumont, de Chevreuse, de Chaulnes, de Saint-Paul, de Liancourt, etc., etc.
At that time, too, the Place Royale was the scene of all the fêtes and carrousels, which attracted the nobility, the bourgeoisie, and the people of Paris, who were called in those days the good people. When the marriage of Louis XIII and Anne of Austria was announced, fêtes lasting three days were given on that square, although it was not entirely finished.
In later times, on that same spot where noble knights broke lances to entertain the ladies of their thoughts, who, seated on the balconies of the neighboring houses, enjoyed the jousting, and encouraged the champions of their charms by tender glances and by showing them in advance the knot of ribbon which was to be the guerdon of victory—on that same spot, we have seen and may still see the peaceable inhabitant of the Marais, who has nothing in common with the paladins of old, exercising his faithful dog and selecting a bench whereon to rest a moment in the sunshine, whose beneficent warmth allays his rheumatic pains. And the young nursemaid, too, with the children in her care, whom she often leaves to bump against trees, or to fall as they run hither and thither, while she is gossiping with other maids on the subject of their employers, which is much more amusing than to watch children. And the modest seamstress, on her way to carry home the work intrusted to her, who crosses the Place Royale, although it is not directly on her road, because she ordinarily meets there a young man who makes flattering remarks to her; there is no law against seeking pleasant meetings.
All this is far removed from the tourneys, the fanfares of trumpets, the sound of clarion and drum; from the great ladies at the windows, from the knights in the arena, from the esquires and pages and servants carrying their masters' weapons and bucklers, and from the charming troubadours, or trouvères, who had seats of honor beside the high and mighty nobles, because they were destined, later, to sing in laudation of it all.
Other times, other manners!
The old Marquis de Marvejols gazed gloomily enough at the portraits which adorned his study—for the enormous room in which he sat was nothing more than that. Soon he leaned over his desk once more, and seizing a bell rang it violently.
A valet, almost as old as his master, instantly showed his bald head beneath a velvet portière which he raised. His face, in respect to the general effect of the features and their mild expression, might have served as a model for a painting of Obedience, as personified in a servant, except that when he raised the corners of his mouth in a smile there were some slight indications of a tendency to be cunning; but if that tendency actually existed in the old servant, it never went beyond the corners of his mouth.
"Did monsieur le marquis ring?" inquired a shrill, cracked voice.
"Has my son gone out this morning, Hector?"
Old Hector pressed his lips together, and the corners of his mouth assumed their sly expression, as he replied in a drawling tone:
"Monsieur le Comte Léodgard de Marvejols certainly has not left the house this morning; I am certain of that."
"In that case, go to my son and tell him that I wish to speak with him—at once, before he goes out."
The old servant looked down at his feet, but did not budge.
"Well! did you not hear me, Hector?" continued the marquis, testily; "have your ears grown dull, that I have to give you the same order twice?"
"No, monsieur le marquis, no, thank heaven! my ears are still good. I have not the least occasion to reproach them. And if I have not obeyed the command you have done me the honor to give me, it is because——"
"Well! because what? finish, I say!"
"I cannot tell Monsieur le Comte Léodgard to come to speak with you, because he is not in the house."
"Not in the house? Why, you told me only a moment ago that my son had not gone out this morning!"
"That is true, monseigneur; he has not gone out this morning, because he did not come in last night."
The marquis put his hand to his forehead.
"Ah!" he cried; "of course, I understand! You did not wish to tell me that, my poor Hector; you would like to conceal my son's disorderly conduct from me! But it is useless for you to try to deceive me. I know everything; and it is much better that I should know everything; for one must know where the trouble lies, in order to put a stop to it. All this has been going on a very long while, and it must come to an end!"
"Monsieur le Comte Léodgard is still very young," murmured Hector, still draped by the portière.
"Very young—when he has nearly reached his twenty-sixth year! A man is a man at that age, and he no longer has the first effervescence of youth for an excuse! Ah! when I was at that age, you were already in my service—do you remember, Hector?"
"As if it was yesterday, monseigneur; my memory is as sound as my ears."
"Very well! I served in the army, I fought, I lived in camp. But, although I was a bachelor,—for I married quite late,—did I ever lead this life of licentiousness, of debauchery, which makes me blush for my son?"
"All young men are not as irreproachable as monseigneur has always been—as bachelor, husband, and widower."
"I do not expect that he shall be faultless! I do not demand the impossible! But I do not propose that weaknesses shall become vices; faults, crimes!"
"Oh! monsieur le marquis! be indulgent to monsieur your son!"
"I have been indulgent enough, too much so, perhaps. I must see Léodgard; he must be made acquainted with my irrevocable determination!—And that rascally Latournelle, his valet—is he still in the house?"
"No, monseigneur; I have not seen him for several days."
"I told my son to discharge that knave; a scoundrel, a blackleg, a gambler, who ought to be hanged."
At that moment, the conversation was interrupted by the sound of a horse galloping into the courtyard.
Hector let the portière fall, went into a reception room, looked out of the window, and returned with a radiant face, saying to his master:
"Here is Monsieur le Comte Léodgard, just coming in."
"Go to him, then; tell him that I await him. Go—do not lose an instant, for he may have gone away again."
Old Hector disappeared to execute his master's command.
In a few moments, Léodgard entered his father's apartment. The young count was pale, his face was drawn and haggard, his eyes sunken from loss of sleep; and the disorder of his clothes, the dust with which they were covered, seemed to indicate that he had recently ridden a long distance on horseback.
He walked forward with a respectful air, but was evidently out of temper. He bowed to his father and remained standing in the middle of the room.
The old marquis pointed to a chair, saying in a stern tone:
"Be seated, monsieur; what I have to say to you will take some moments, and deserves to be listened to with attention."
"I beg pardon, monsieur, but you see the disordered state of my dress; I am ashamed to appear before you in such disarray; allow me simply the necessary time to change, and I will at once return."
"No, monsieur! your dress is a matter of great consequence, in very truth! By Saint Jacques! what matters it to me whether your doublet is more or less fresh? It is not the dust with which your clothes are covered that will mar your escutcheon, but your disgraceful conduct! That it is which sullies the honor of your name much more than the storm has injured your cloak! Be seated—I insist!"
Léodgard restrained with difficulty an impatient outburst; but he threw himself on a chair, and his father continued:
"I have remonstrated with you several times, monsieur, concerning your dissolute conduct; you have not listened to me, you have despised your father's judicious counsel. To-day, when your misconduct has gone beyond all bounds, when your evil deeds—for they are no longer the escapades of a young man, but evil deeds, of which you are guilty——"
"Father——"
"Do not interrupt me!—To-day, when your evil deeds recognize no restraint, I no longer advise, I command you; and you will respect my commands, or this lettre de cachet will deal with you for me.—Look, monsieur; you know that I do not indulge in empty threats; here is your passport to the Bastille, sent me by Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, who also is aware of all your misconduct and has given me permission to make use of this whenever I may think best, leaving in my hands the punishment of him who bears my name."
Léodgard could not help shuddering inwardly when he saw the lettre de cachet which his father took from his desk, and he faltered in a tremulous voice:
"What have I done—what more than many young gentlemen of my age, to deserve to be treated so harshly?"
"Ah! you ask what you have done? That, I presume, is because you hope that I know only a part of it. Unhappily, monsieur, your conduct is too notorious, your vices make too much noise in the world; you are cited too often by all the wellborn debauchees, for the echo not to reach your father's ears. Stealing wives from their husbands, young girls from their parents, passing the night in wine shops and gambling hells, fighting with the king's archers, with the watch, with citizens, incurring debts and not paying them, breaking shop windows and offering no other compensation than a sword thrust, binding yourself to Jews and usurers, thrashing your creditors when they presume to demand what you owe them, what they have been waiting for so long—such are your noble exploits, monsieur! a descendant of the Marvejols does not blush to conduct himself thus!—And yet, cast your eyes about you, look at these portraits which surround you, your ancestors who have left you a glorious name—are not you of their blood, you, who debase it? Ah! if they could come forth from their tombs,—and your excellent mother, who was so proud to have brought forth a descendant of our line,—it would be to crush you with their wrath!"
"Monsieur le marquis, allow me to say a word in my own defence.—My faults have been exaggerated. I have committed some faults, I admit; but they are not so serious as you seem to think."
"And your debts—will you say that they are a mere trifle? You owe five thousand pistoles at this moment, monsieur."
"I do not know, monsieur le marquis, whether you have also been told that I have been stripped clean by that miserable Giovanni, that Italian brigand, who terrorizes all Paris?"
"Yes, I have heard of that. But how did you allow yourself to be robbed by that man?"
"I venture to believe that my father has no doubt that if I was overcome it was not without a vigorous resistance on my part."
"Oh! I do justice to your courage; you would not be my son if you were a coward!"
"It was late at night, about a fortnight ago. I was returning home alone and was passing through Rue Couture-Sainte-Catherine. Suddenly this Giovanni appeared before me, and demanded my purse as courteously as if he were inquiring for my health. The robber seemed to me such an original character that I talked with him a few minutes. But when he repeated his demand, I drew my sword. He had some sort of a short, broad weapon. Practised as I am in fighting, that devil of a man dealt me a thrust,—I do not know how to describe it,—and I was beaten. I felt the point of his sword against my breast; but he was content to take my purse, and disappeared as he had come, without giving me time to see which way he went."
"If I were lieutenant of police of this realm, that adroit thief would have been hanged before this.—However, monsieur, this Giovanni did not rob you of five thousand pistoles, I imagine?"
"No; but I had a considerable sum upon me——"
"Which you had won in some hell, I doubt not.—But let us have done, for the subject of this interview is a painful one to both of us. Here, Léodgard, are papers containing a statement of the amount of your debts; here are your obligations to the Jews who are ruining you; here are your receipts for various sums lent you at exorbitant rates, with a view, doubtless, to my death, which does not come quickly enough to supply you with another fortune to squander."
"Ah! monsieur le marquis——"
"All these papers cost me fifty thousand livres; but I paid it, to save once more your honor, so seriously compromised."
A ray of joy lighted up Léodgard's face; he stepped toward the old man, crying:
"What, father! you have deigned——"
The marquis made a gesture as if to forbid his son to approach, and continued with unabated austerity:
"Yes, monsieur, I have paid the money; but mark well what I say: long ago you squandered the last of the property which your mother left you. I do not choose that you should have debts, but neither do I propose that the fortune of my ancestors, which enables me to maintain my rank becomingly, shall be the prey of harlots, gamblers, and rakes; so attend closely to what I say: if I learn that you have contracted any new debt, I shall instantly make use of this lettre de cachet, and send you to the Bastille; and when you are once there, it may well be that you will remain there for some time! This, monsieur, I will do—I swear it before the portraits of my ancestors! You know now whether I will keep my oath.—Mend your ways, Léodgard; make yourself worthy once more of the name you bear. You know that it is my dearest wish to marry you to Mademoiselle Valentine de Mongarcin. I was her father's comrade in arms; the idea that our children would be united some day made the baron's heart beat fast with joy. Mademoiselle de Mongarcin is worthy of you, her family is on a par with ours; she has a large fortune and is one of the most beautiful women in France. Six months ago, she left the convent where she had completed her education, and took up her abode with her aunt; and she will soon be nineteen years old. What objection have you to urge against this alliance, Léodgard?"
"None, father. I agree that Mademoiselle de Mongarcin is very lovely, although I have seen her but rarely."
"What prevents you from paying court to her? Madame de Ravenelle, Valentine's aunt, is aware of the baron's wishes.—Cease to be a libertine, a rake, and she will give you the hand of this wealthy and noble heiress.—Well, monsieur! what have you to say?"
"Pardon me, monsieur le marquis—but—to marry—to put myself in chains already——"
"Already! A man cannot be happy too soon, monsieur; and you will be happy with a woman who is worthy of you. You will realize the difference between family joys and the orgies of debauchery. Furthermore, numerous suitors for Mademoiselle de Mongarcin's hand have already entered the lists; if you do not come forward, do you suppose that she will send to beg for your homage? Hasten to present yourself, to disperse your rivals! This marriage must take place ere long.—I have often repented, myself, that I married so late in life! I was forty-three when I married your excellent mother. What was the result? that I was already old when you became a man; and that, instead of finding in me a friend, a companion, my son has seen in me only an old man, to whom he has never confided his secrets."
"Father——"
"You have heard me, Léodgard. It rests with you now to be happy and to regain your father's affection. You know how you must conduct yourself for that.—Go; I will keep you no longer."
Léodgard bent his head respectfully before the old man, who responded with a slight nod which indicated no great amount of confidence as yet.
When he was out of range of his father's eyes, Léodgard tore his hair, saying to himself:
"Not incur debts! why, I have no money!—But I must have some! For I promised Camilla that beautiful pearl necklace that she wants so much! Now that I no longer owe anything, I can easily borrow.—But that lettre de cachet!—Ah! I know my father; he did not threaten me heedlessly; he would have me put in the Bastille, and I have no desire to go to that horrible prison!"
Among the numerous habitués of the various bathing establishments might be noticed a tall, lean man, with a yellow complexion, like the description of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. This personage had one of those elongated faces, with prominent cheek bones which call attention to the hollowness of the cheeks; also a long, pointed nose, a chin of the same type, an enormous mouth with a full complement of long teeth, each one of which resembled a tusk, and which terrified beyond words all the little children in whose presence this gentleman was pleased to smile; for he then appeared exactly as if he proposed to swallow the innocent creatures. A low forehead, yellow hair, and moustaches of the same color, the latter twisted at the ends so that they nearly joined the corners of the eyes—such was the Chevalier Passedix, who claimed to be Chaudoreille's godson.
We like to believe, dear reader, whichever your sex, that you have known a certain Barber of Paris, whose adventures made some noise long ago; in that case, you may not have forgotten entirely his friend the Chevalier Chaudoreille, that vain, cowardly Gascon, gambler and shameless liar, who boasted so loudly of his long sword, which he called Roland, and who came to such a tragic end, falling from a roof, and running himself through in his fall with his faithful Roland, which he held in his hand to feel his way along the slippery roof on which he was walking.
The Chevalier Passedix, then, claimed to be the godson of Chaudoreille, albeit the latter, in his negotiations with Touquet the barber, had never mentioned his godson. But there are many people who forget that they ever held a child over the baptismal font, or who do not choose to remember that they have been godparents, in order to evade the duties which that relation imposes on them.
However, Passedix, himself a Gascon, resembled his godfather in many respects; like him, he was a glutton, a gambler, and a liar; like him, he sighed for every woman who looked at him, believing himself to be a very attractive gallant, whereas he might fittingly have served as a scarecrow in a community of women.
But there was one respect in which the resemblance between him and his godfather had no existence. Chaudoreille was always a coward, his battles were mere bluster, and his very death was tragic only because he was fleeing over the roofs from an imaginary danger.
Passedix, on the contrary, was really brave; he would draw his sword on the most trivial pretext, would often take up the cudgels for a perfect stranger, and like Don Quixote, whom he resembled in his great height and his leanness, he would readily have fought against a windmill. But his courage was rarely fortunate, and whether because he handled Roland unskilfully,—for he possessed his godfather's famous rapier,—or because his excessive ardor made him imprudent, or because he was too sure of victory, the chevalier was almost always beaten; indeed, he was very lucky when he came off with a few scratches and was not nailed to his bed to await the healing of his wounds.
On a certain beautiful warm spring morning, several young nobles were chatting and laughing in Master Hugonnet's shop. Some were waiting for their inamoratas to come from the baths, others had come thither in the hope of seeing Ambroisine, La Belle Baigneuse, and perhaps of being shaved by her. The majority were there because it was a favorite rendezvous of idlers, lady killers, and all the young dandies and rakes who were eager to learn the news, the spicy anecdotes of the court and city, to inquire concerning the scandalous intrigue of the moment, in order that they might make merry at the expense of the poor betrayed husband; for we must not forget that husbands were betrayed in the good old times no less than they are to-day.
As there were no cafés in those days for the idlers and gossips, the bathing establishments filled their place. As there were no newspapers to read, people were accustomed to collect to listen to the man who came there to tell some anecdote or some new occurrence. The gossips were welcome and held the floor. Many falsehoods were told, as will always be the case in such assemblages; the man who lied with the most assurance was almost always the one who was most eagerly listened to, and most loudly applauded by those at whom he laughed in his sleeve. To-day, we find blagueurs who delight to hoodwink their auditors. The words have changed, but the characters are the same.
Some of the idlers who were assembled at Master Hugonnet's stood in the doorway of the shop, both wings of the door being thrown open, and amused themselves by watching the passers-by. Rue Saint-Jacques was frequented by students, clerks of the Basoche, and a great number of the lower classes; moreover, the proximity of the Hôtel de Cluny brought to the quarter many ecclesiastics and doctors of the Sorbonne.
Our young gentlemen did not always confine themselves to ogling the passers-by. When a woman who was at all attractive, or a clown with a particularly idiotic face, passed the barber's shop, they addressed a compliment or an obscene jest to the one, to the other some unflattering epithet or some insulting question. And woe to the unlucky wight who should take the jest in bad part! for if he lost his temper and presumed to reply, all the idlers and all the customers assembled at the baths instantly ran out to listen to the complainant; and then, instead of one jest, he had to undergo a perfect hailstorm of witticisms from all sides.
"Pardieu! messeigneurs," said one young blade, all covered with ribbons and lace, as he left the door and threw himself carelessly on one of the hard chairs in the shop, "I have just seen two women of rather attractive aspect go in at the door leading to the baths."
"How were they dressed, Sénange?" inquired the young man who was at that moment in the barber's hands.
"Oh! how curious this little Monclair is! He wants to make us believe that he is waiting here for a fair; that someone is to come here to fetch him!"
"Yes, sambleu! I am expecting someone; what is there so surprising in that? Haven't you at least one mistress yourself, Sénange?"
"One mistress! Vertudieu! if I had but one, it seems to me that it would be almost the same as if I had none."
"Very pretty! but I shouldn't expect it from anyone but Léodgard.—Come, Sénange, be decent; how were the damsels dressed who have just gone into the baths?"
"One—and she must have been the dowager—wore a brown pelisse and hood; her head was all wrapped up in the hood, and there was a thick veil over all; guess at the face, if you can!"
"The other was dressed in pink; there was a border of black lace to her hood, and it fell over her eyes; but her feet were small, her slippers embroidered with silver thread, and her leg well turned, as one could easily see, for she raised her skirts very generously!"
"Oh! it is she, I am sure!"
"By Notre-Dame de Paris!" cried Master Hugonnet, holding his razor in the air; "if you move about like this, my lord, something will happen to your face; that leap of yours nearly cost you your nose, and I assure you that it would not have been my fault. Keep quiet, or I will not answer for the consequences!"
"'Tis well, barber; go on, do your duty; I will try to be calm.—By the way, messieurs, it seems to me that it is a long while since we last saw Passedix in this quarter!"
"True; the valiant Passedix no longer shows himself; where can he be?—Have you seen him lately, Hugonnet?"
"No, messeigneurs; it is several weeks since the Chevalier Passedix has been here."
"That is the more surprising, because, if I remember aright, he was deeply in love with your daughter Ambroisine."
"In love with my daughter—he! He is in love with all women; but it amounts to nothing."
"Did you treat him a little—harshly? You are quite capable of it."
"No, I was not put to that trouble; the chevalier has always been too respectful for me to be angry with him."
"Then it must be that poor Passedix has had some new affair of honor; he has probably fought a duel and come out second best, as usual; and doubtless he is stretched out on his bed of pain at this moment."
"Perhaps he has been attacked by Giovanni, the fashionable robber!"
"Giovanni would not have wounded him; he contents himself with robbing and never does any harm."
"But if a man doesn't choose to be robbed, and defends himself——"
"Look at Léodgard, messieurs; he defended himself gallantly, and yet Giovanni robbed him and did not hurt a hair of his head."
At that moment, loud exclamations were heard at the shop door.
"Oh! what a fine head, my friends!" cried a cavalier who was standing in the doorway.
"What is it, La Valteline?"
"A great clodhopper—some peasant from the South, doubtless, for he wears the Béarnais costume, I believe. He is coming along on an enormous horse. Come, look! it's worth the trouble!"
"Do you expect us to put ourselves out for a country lout?"
"But he has something very seductive en croupe; a fresh, red-cheeked little wench, who, in her rustic costume, would carry off the palm from all the fair who come to visit the baths!"
"Oho! we must see that! we must see that!"
A horse was coming along at a footpace, with two persons on his back. First, a countryman with straight hair brushed flat, which fell to his shoulders, and was partly hidden by a sort of woollen cap ending in a point and surmounted by a small black plume; beneath that original headgear appeared a broad, round, chubby, red face, a most perfect specimen of careless health, with big eyes on a level with the face, which expressed amazement at everything they saw, and at the same time seemed happy to be amazed. The rest of his costume was that of a Béarnais peasant. In his right hand he held a long branch of dogwood, which he used as a crop to accelerate his horse's gait.
Behind this rustic, on his horse's crupper, and clinging tightly to her cavalier, was a young girl of eighteen years at most, as pretty as the Italian madonnas to whom the painters make you long to pray, and as fresh as a rosebud just opening.
Her embarrassment and alarm made her even more beautiful, for she seemed a little alarmed by her position; and while trying to seat herself more firmly, she displayed every moment the upper part of a shapely calf, and sometimes even the red garter that held her coarse woollen stocking in place.
"Jarnidié! that's a dainty morsel!" exclaimed the young men in chorus.
"See the lovely black hair!"
"And eyes quite as black, on my word!—fine lashes, heavy eyebrows!"
"A straight nose, neither too large nor too small!"
"A perfect chin and a tiny mouth!"
"Oh! did you see, messieurs? She uttered a little cry of fright, and I saw the prettiest teeth!"
"Then she lacks nothing, for she is as fresh as she is pretty!"
"Where in the devil is that clown taking this seductive morsel?"
"Pardieu! messieurs, we will find out."
"It shall not be said that a charming creature shall pass us like this, without our taking measures to find her again."
"But this girl, with her square cap and her veil on top of her head, with her striped waist and skirt of such brilliant colors, certainly is not a Frenchwoman; she wears an Italian costume."
"Do you think so, La Valteline?"
"I am sure; it's the costume of the peasants in the suburbs of Milan. Pardieu! I ought to know; I was at Milan last year!"
"You are right; the girl has something Italian or Israelitish in her face, and her slightly bronzed complexion also tends to confirm your conjectures."
The horse and his riders had by this time reached the bath keeper's house, and were about to pass it on their way down Rue Saint-Jacques, when the young Marquis de Sénange ran out and placed himself in front of the peaceful beast, which instantly halted.
Thereupon the young noble, doffing his hat, saluted the girl and her escort with respect, and all the other bystanders made haste to do the like.
The Béarnais peasant, astounded by all these courtesies, deemed it advisable none the less to remove his cap and return the salutations of all those young men who treated him so politely.
As for the girl, she raised her great black eyes and, with an expression in which there was more surprise than timidity, looked about at the persons who were gazing at her.
"Par la sambleu! my dear monsieur, how fortunate we are to fall in with you, and to be the first to present you our respectful homage. But we have been waiting for you a long while.—Pray put on your hat—we entreat you! You must surely see by the joy which your arrival causes us how impatiently you and your charming travelling companion were awaited in Paris!"
"Eh! damme! what's that? we were expected in Paris?" cried the big countryman, who had listened with a dazed expression to young Sénange's harangue.
"Can you doubt it?" said the Chevalier de La Valteline, in his turn, walking nearer to the horse's hind quarters in order to examine the girl more closely. "Do you not know that we are notified in advance at Paris when such interesting travellers as you are to arrive here? Deputations were sent to all the barriers to welcome you. It is very strange that you did not meet them—eh, messeigneurs?"
Shouts arose on all sides, accompanied by roars of laughter, which the clerks of the Basoche and the students could not restrain, and in which the valets and all the blackguards of the quarter did not hesitate to join.
"Pray dismount, my master, and come with us to take some refreshment, you and this lovely child; we will give you a taste of a certain choice wine which we have put aside for the express purpose of celebrating your arrival. I will help your companion to dismount first."
As he spoke, the jovial Sénange offered his knee to the girl for use as a stepping stone, while the peasant, bewildered by what he heard and, it may be, a little tempted by the offer of wine, seemed to hesitate as to what he ought to do, and to be inclined to accept the invitation. But his pretty companion, instead of dismounting as she was invited to do, seized her escort's arm with little ceremony, and said to him, under her breath, but in a firm tone:
"Don't get down, Cédrille; don't you see that all these fine gentlemen are making sport of you and me, for all their courtesies and fine manners? They say that they expected us, but I will wager that they do not even know who we are. Just ask that most dandified one, who has such a smooth tongue, to tell you your name and why we have come to Paris; and you'll see that he won't be able to answer you."
These words changed the peasant's plans. He sat more firmly in his saddle, and, addressing the man who had spoken first, said in a tone wherein it was easy to detect distrust:
"One moment, my fine gentleman; we don't make acquaintances so fast, we peasants don't, especially as we were told that we must be on the lookout in Paris; and that there was a lot of fellows, law students and ne'er-do-wells, yes, and some great nobles, who like to poke fun at poor folks, especially peasants and people who work in the fields. That's an entertainment that we don't care about giving, d'ye see!—You say we were expected in Paris—so you know me and the little one, I suppose? Well, if you know us—who are we?—tell us who we are? Answer, if you please, messeigneurs."
The young men looked at one another and winked.
"This clod is not so stupid as he looks," said one.
"That didn't come from him," said a page; "the little one prompted him to say it."
"He was all ready to dismount, but the girl held him back."
"You ask me who you are," rejoined young Sénange, twirling his moustache; "why, you know who you are! So what need is there for me to tell you what you already know?—Nonsense! come with us, my master, and drink and touch glasses; the wine we will give you is much better than that you drink in your village."
"Oh, no! oh, no! not till you have answered my questions; but you can't do that!"
"Your questions! By what right, pray, do you put questions to us, when we are offering you a civil attention? Do you know, my handsome traveller, that it is not decent to refuse to drink a glass, to empty a goblet, to our health?—Are you afraid to drink? In that case, you would make a dismal companion!—I say, messieurs, what do you think of this lout who fears to compromise himself by drinking with us?"
"Probably the knave has never tasted wine; he thinks that we intend to purge him."
"He is sadly in need of having the rust rubbed off—the clown!"
"Ah! but he must drink! We will pour a pint or two down his throat from the Souris Blanche, which is just across the way."
"We will teach the fool what courtesy is!"
"Ah! so silly talk is taking the place of your civilities now!" said the peasant, with a frown.
His companion touched him on the shoulder and murmured:
"Go on, Cédrille! whip your horse. Don't stay in the midst of all these young gentlemen. They look to me like bad fellows; their shouts and the way they look at me—I am beginning to be frightened."
"Whip Bourriquet! why, they have got hold of his bridle; and how can we go on in the middle of all this crowd? I wouldn't like to ride over anyone, for then they would make trouble for me.—Jarny! Miretta, I am sorry already that you insisted on coming to this Paris!"
"Pray dismount, my pretty Milanese," said the Chevalier de La Valteline, offering his hand to the girl, whose name, as we now know, was Miretta.
"Milanese!" she retorted, refusing the young nobleman's hand. "Ah! you guess that from my costume; it is true that I have lived in the neighborhood of Milan from infancy, but I was not born in Italy; I am from the same province as Cédrille."
"And Cédrille is a Béarnais?"
"Yes, messieurs; from Pau, by your leave," said the peasant.
"Vive Cédrille!"
"Vive Cédrille of Pau!"
And the young nobles, as they shouted the name, waved their hats and handkerchiefs, while the bachelors and squires joined hands and began to dance and caper around the horse and his riders.
The girl's face flushed, her impatience got the better of her; she struck the horse's flank with her hand, while the peasant did his best to urge his steed forward, crying:
"Let go of Bourriquet's rein, seigneurs! let go of my horse, ten thousand devils!"
"Ah! Bourriquet! the horse's name is Bourriquet!"
"His rider should bear that name!"
"Poor bourrique,[B] who has to carry another of his kind!"