"A mere love story!" he said; "a woman seduced! What have I to do with all that? Comte Léodgard's intrigues do not concern me!"

"But a poor girl who is on the point of becoming a mother, and whose child, spurned by its father, will have no name, nothing to eat—that concerns you, for you are compassionate to children, I know!"

Jarnonville stopped; he passed his hand across his forehead, heaved a profound sigh, and returned to Ambroisine, saying:

"Come with me!"

The chevalier retraced his steps to Léodgard's house and knocked; the gate swung open and he bade Ambroisine enter with him.

Seeing the girl in the courtyard, the concierge, who recognized her, cried:

"What are you doing here? Monsieur le comte will not receive you, as you know quite well! I have orders to send you away whenever you come here, so——"

"This young woman is with me," said Jarnonville, in a tone that imposed silence on the concierge. "Hold your peace!"

And taking Ambroisine's hand, he led her through the vestibule at the right into a room preceding the banquet hall, and said:

"Oh! thanks! thanks a thousand times, seigneur!—I knew that you would help me!"

Jarnonville left the room; and Ambroisine, undismayed, awaited Léodgard's appearance. She was not embarrassed at finding herself in that sumptuous abode. Grandeur loses all its prestige when it loses its power to inspire respect.

Hardly five minutes had passed when Léodgard entered the room in which Ambroisine awaited him.

"A lady to see me?" he exclaimed; "why does she not come to the salons where my guests are assembled?"

"Because that is not her place, monsieur le comte, and because, no doubt, you would not be pleased to see her there," said Ambroisine, stepping forward with a resolute air.

As he recognized Hugonnet's daughter, Léodgard could not restrain an angry gesture. He glanced at her disdainfully and muttered:

"What! is it you? By hell! you are persistent! You have been to my house too often already; you must have understood that I did not choose to receive you. You have no right to violate a person's domicile thus!—Understand, my dear, that this is not your father's bathing establishment, where anyone who pleases has a right to enter."

"On my soul, I believe that she presumes to be impertinent!—Begone! I have nothing to say to you!"

"And I did not come here to talk, monsieur, but to demand an answer to the letter you have received."

"What letter?"

"The letter from Bathilde—that poor girl whom you have deceived and seduced, and who bears within her the result of her fault. When she implores you in her child's name, can you be deaf to her prayer? What shall I say to Bathilde, monsieur le comte?"

"Nothing! I do not answer such letters! Upon my word, these girls are mad! We do them the honor to think them pretty, to make love to them, and they expect that sort of thing to last forever!—Your friend will be consoled.—Adieu!"

"Monsieur le comte," said Ambroisine, falling at Léodgard's knees, "for the love of heaven, have some pity for Bathilde, who believed your oaths!—Give her back her honor; remember that her parents have cast her out!—Excuse me for not addressing you with more respect. Treat me as harshly as you will, but be moved by Bathilde's suffering, I implore you!"

As he spoke, Léodgard roughly extricated himself from Ambroisine's hands, and hurried from the room.

"The villain!" said the girl, as she rose. "Ah! poor Bathilde, who will take care of your child?"

"I will!" said Jarnonville, who had returned to Ambroisine; and he made haste to escort her from the hôtel in Rue de Bretonvilliers.

One fine winter's day, the Chevalier Passedix, who had left his lodgings in the morning shivering with cold, being but poorly protected by his threadbare and scanty cloak, returned to the Hôtel du Sanglier with a radiant face and with his head in the air, throwing the doors open like a man who is not afraid of being rebuked for making too much noise.

Instead of going upstairs to his lodgings, the chevalier entered the room on the ground floor with which we are already acquainted, wherein Dame Cadichard, the mistress of the establishment, was wont to sit and take her meals.

"Sandis! what a beastly chair! May God damn me if it isn't stuffed with nutshells!"

Widow Cadichard cried out in amazement, almost in anger, when she saw the lack of ceremony with which her fifth-floor tenant presumed to make himself at home before her, and carried his impertinence to the point of criticising her easy-chair.

"What is the meaning of this tone, these manners, Monsieur de Passedix?" she demanded at last, pausing over her panada. "Since when has it been the fashion to enter a room where there is a lady without even putting your hand to your hat? And why do you stretch yourself out in that chair, if you don't find it soft enough for you?"

"Enough, sweet Cadichard, enough, I beg! Put a curb on your tongue, whose intemperance begins to annoy me. I have been patient with your nonsense long enough, and I am disposed to be so no longer.—Put that in your pocket, Dame Cadichard!—That panada you are eating has a very sorry look. For shame! I will bet that there's no sugar in it! I desire a breakfast somewhat more substantial than that.—Where is Popelinette, that I may send her to the nearest wine shop?—Holà! Popelinette!"

Without a word in reply, the Gascon took from his belt a stout purse full of gold pieces, and threw it on the table at which his hostess was seated. Then he said to her:

"Well! belle dame, there is enough money to pay more than I owe you. Be good enough to make up my account, so that we may become good friends once more! For I have learned to appreciate the truth of the proverb: 'Short reckonings make long friends!'—That is very melancholy for the human race! It proves that the human race is damnably selfish! But I do not undertake to correct it; I take it as I find it.—Make up your account, Dame Cadichard, and pay yourself from this all that I owe you to this day."

The hostess was struck dumb by the sight of that well-lined purse, which had almost fallen into her soup; for the gold which it contained shone with the brilliancy of good alloy. In the joy and amazement caused by her tenant's action, she tried to say something; but she could only stammer a few incoherent words, ending with a sneeze, whose ramifications extended to her panada. So she confined herself to stirring that compound, until, recovering her speech at last, she cried, with the most gracious of smiles:

"What has happened to me, my dear hostess? Why, one of those very simple events which happen every day to people who have rich relations.—One of my uncles has deceased; mortuus est! And that uncle, who could not endure me, who was never willing to see me on his birthday, or on New Year's Day, thought better of it when he was on his deathbed, and made me his only heir, to the exclusion of certain cousins who fawned on him and wheedled him from morning till night!"

"Ah! that is fine, monsieur le chevalier!—Believe that I share with you in your joy at what has happened."

"I do not doubt it! And first of all, you will share with me by taking your dues from this purse.—Well, this morning, I met a friend who was coming to bring me the good news!—He threw his arms about my neck and embraced me until he nearly strangled me.—I was about to ask him the reason, when he cried:

"'Your uncle Flic-Flac, of Pézenas, has closed his shop—in other words, put out his lantern—in other words, broken his pipe; in short, he has started on the long journey, and has left you all his property—about two thousand crowns a year!'"

"Two thousand crowns a year! why, that's a very pretty income, Monsieur de Passedix! It's the same as six thousand livres."

"'Craquenard, you are making sport of me,' I cried; 'you are telling me lies. If you are, I will run Roland through your belly!'"

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier, how ill-tempered you become all at once!"

"What can you expect? I cannot help it—my blood is always forty degrees above zero.—But Craquenard replied:

"'To prove that I am not telling fables, just come with me; I'll take you to Maître Bourdinard's, the solicitor; he has received a copy of the will, and is instructed to hand you the money you have inherited.'

"You will understand, Dame Cadichard, that I did not have to be asked twice to accompany Craquenard to the solicitor's! There, as soon as my identity was established, they offered to give me something in advance on what will come to me when everything is settled. And that is why, my sweet hostess, I return with such a well-lined purse! To say nothing of another little sack which I have in my belt.—Aha! wealth is very nice, indeed! Sandioux! I never felt so happy in my life.—Make up your account, if you please."

"Fie! fie! who ever heard of a gentleman like me verifying an account? That is all well enough for the lowborn, for clowns!—We do not always pay, perhaps! but, at all events, we never verify!—Once more, take from this purse what I owe you, so that I may be entirely square with you."

The hostess opened the purse, took out several gold pieces, counted on her fingers, then with a pen, and receipted her account, which she handed to the chevalier, with the purse, which was still well filled.

"That is all settled, Monsieur de Passedix. When you have time, you may make sure that the account is not padded by a single denier."

"Oh! Dame Cadichard! once more, what do you take me for?—I should be very sorry to look at this paper. See—this is how much I care for it!"

And Passedix tossed the account into a tiny fire that burned in a huge fireplace, whose feeble heat hardly changed the temperature, which was very cold outside.

Dame Cadichard, marvelling at the noble indifference with which her tenant paid his debts, said to him, with a respectful inclination of the head:

"Monsieur le chevalier, would you accept a plate of this soup? That will help you to wait for what you propose to send for to the wine shop."

"I beg pardon, monsieur le chevalier,—at once, instantly."

And Dame Cadichard, leaving her soup, left the room and went into the hall to call her servant in such shrill, imperative tones that old Popelinette soon came running in in dismay, crying:

"What's the matter? who's sick? where's the fire? Something must have happened!"

"The matter is, Popelinette, that Monsieur le Chevalier de Passedix wants to send you on an errand, and he must not be kept waiting."

"What! was it for that thing that madame was yelling as if she wanted to sprain her throat?"

"That thing!—Popelinette, try to express yourself more respectfully when you are talking about Monsieur de Passedix!"

The old servant stood with a dazed expression in the middle of the room, unable to understand how it happened that her mistress spoke so kindly now of a tenant whom she had abused so roundly only that morning.

Passedix put an end to the servant's conjectures by placing a gold piece in her hand, with these words:

The sight of a fine gold doubloon instantly made the servant as polite and zealous as her mistress. What a mighty influence has that metal, which acts in the same way upon almost all temperaments! Physicians have never found its like among all the drugs that they force us to take.

When Popelinette had gone, the chevalier resumed his seat at the table and said to his hostess:

"Now, Dame Cadichard, let us talk a little. You will readily understand, I think, that a man with two thousand crowns a year, to say nothing of the lesser objects, cannot continue to live under the eaves, where he has for fellow lodgers rats of all dimensions."

"Oh! of course, monsieur le chevalier, I realize that this lodging is not worthy of you; and be sure that, if I put you up there, it was because special circumstances forced me to do it.—It was very much against my will."

"Enough! enough! Dame Cadichard, you should never recur to unpleasant subjects.—Do you consider me wealthy enough now to resume my handsome apartment on the first floor, which you let to that noble Spaniard, the so-called Comte de Carvajal?"

"I wish that I had a much handsomer one to offer you, Monsieur de Passedix; but my first floor is at your service."

"Never.—One night, when you were absent, I was very much surprised when Monsieur de Carvajal, who had not given me any notice, came in and said: 'Madame Cadichard, I must leave your house instantly; news just received forces me to return at once to Spain.'—Thereupon he paid me what he owed me, gave Popelinette a handsome pourboire, sent for a porter to take his trunks, and disappeared, leaving me amazed at his abrupt departure."

"Oh! the villain! the traitor! He did not start for Spain, for that same night—I remember it only too well, because, when I asked about your tenant the next morning, I was told that he had left the hotel the night before—that same night following his departure, as I was walking with a young lady to whom I was paying court, we met on the street a sort of rustic, or vagabond,—I don't know what to call him,—who threw himself between me and my fair.—As you can imagine, I unsheathed at once——"

"I do not doubt it, monsieur le chevalier."

"But that simpleton, that clown, had under his cloak a short, broad sword, which he used like a hatchet.—That disconcerted me. I am accustomed to fighting with people who know how to stand on guard. I tried to thrust a little too far, and Roland slipped from my hand. While I was looking for him, my knave disappeared with my belle, whom, by the way, I have not seen since."

"This is the connection: the rustic was not a rustic; I had met him before, in the guise of an artisan. And again, the artisan was not an artisan; I had previously had dealings with him, when he was dressed as an old Bohemian. And finally, all these disguises concealed the Comte de Carvajal, your magnificent tenant."

"The Comte de Carvajal! is it possible? But, in that case, he must be a very mysterious personage. Disguise himself like that—what can be his purpose?"

"I have no idea. The man was probably a political spy, sent here by his government to observe, to discover the cardinal's projects; perhaps to organize a conspiracy against him!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! why, if that's so, his stay in my house might have compromised me!"

"Sandis! I should say so! They would have ended by razing your house. It is great good fortune for you, Dame Cadichard, that that fine spark has bade you adieu!"

"You make me shudder, monsieur le chevalier!"

"Never fear, monsieur le chevalier, I will send him up to you."

"To the first floor, Dame Cadichard. Don't forget that I have come down. I shall go up again some day, perhaps; it is not safe to swear to anything."

"Oh! Monsieur de Passedix!"

"But that worries me very little.—Six thousand livres a year! Sandis! I used to make conquests galore, but now I shall be overwhelmed with them!"

The chevalier resumed possession of the apartment on the first floor; he stretched himself out luxuriously in an enormous easy-chair that was almost suitable for a bed, and glanced about the room, saying to himself:

Popelinette returned with two waiters from the wine shop, bringing dishes and bottles. In a short time, a dinner fit for Gargantua was spread before Passedix; but the newly made heir seemed not at all alarmed when he saw the contents of the dishes that were served him; and from the way in which he attacked them one might fairly presume that he would reach the end of them.

Passedix had already put away half of his repast, and was attacking the second half, when Popelinette, the old servant, who had become as courteous as her mistress, came in with repeated reverences and informed him that Monsieur Bahuchet and his comrade, Monsieur Plumard, had arrived, and wished to speak with him.

"Very good! I know what they are here for!" cried Passedix; "they have brought new clothes, in the latest style.—Usher these young men into my presence; I will choose such things as seem worthy of my person, and it will not prevent my finishing my dinner!"

We have seen in what fashion Master Landry treated young Plumard, whom he had taken for a lover of his daughter.

We know, too, that little Bahuchet, having betaken himself to a wine shop with the purpose of regaling himself there, had found means to obtain a thrashing from Master Hugonnet, to whom he had applied for some pomade which would make the hair grow. As in those days hair dressers employed neither bear's grease nor lion's flesh, the bath keeper had taken the young clerk's request in very ill part. Bahuchet had returned home sorely vexed because he had been beaten, but even more dissatisfied because he had obtained no pomade; for he was most solicitous to recover possession of the gold piece that he had given to his comrade Plumard, and which the latter had promised to return to him on receipt of the precious cosmetic that was to restore to the nape of his neck the shade which it had lost.

After having considered some time what he could make it of, the little clerk took some gum, mustard, pitch, starch, and molasses, and with all of these he compounded a solid paste which gave forth a not very sweet odor, but which clung so persistently to the hands that it was extremely difficult to free them from it. He filled a small jar with this substance, wrapped it in a paper, put his seal upon it, and walked proudly to the office, saying to himself:

"Plumard shall have his pomade, and I my gold piece."

The two clerks accosted each other, each with a most amusing expression.

"Well, friend Plumard, did you do my errand? did you deliver the white plume?"

"Yes, to be sure; I put it into Master Landry's own hands."

"How did he take the thing?"

"In very bad part, and at one time I thought he was going to treat me shamefully; luckily, I ran away in time.—But I would not undertake such a commission again! it was too dangerous!"

Plumard's face beamed; his hand was already put forth to grasp the little jar, but Bahuchet pushed it away, saying:

"One minute; how about my gold piece?"

"Oh! of course, I will return it to you; I ask nothing better; I much prefer this jar!"

"I should think so! a wonderful invention like this! I ought to have made you pay me its weight in gold; but between friends, you know. Besides, a promise is a sacred thing! Here, take your stuff!"

And Bahuchet, having received his money, handed his comrade the little jar.

Plumard was in such a hurry to experiment with his pomade, that he instantly tore off the paper and looked at and smelt the contents of the jar.

"It is black," he said.

"I suppose that it has to be black."

"It has a strange smell."

"Probably because the old sibyl uses plants that are unknown to us."

"How hard it is!"

"You must warm it a little before using; then it becomes more ductile."

"No matter; I mean to put some of it on my head at once."

"What! here, in the office? You had better put it on at home."

"You don't imagine, I suppose, that your hair will grow instantly? You must give the stuff time to act on the capillary tissues."

"Very good; but the sooner I put some of it on my head, the sooner the hair will grow.—By the way, is there any particular way of using it?"

Bahuchet reflected a few moments, then replied:

"Yes; wait till I recall the old witch's instructions.—Ah! now I have it: first heat the pomade, then rub your skull with it, put on a good lot; then you must cover it with a small round piece of linen, cotton, or woollen stuff—the material is not important; you must simply be sure that the pomaded part is well covered. Then, in a few days you will see your hair!"

"Very well! I will follow your instructions to the letter; I will warm it on the stove. But what in the devil shall I put on my head to cover the pomade?"

"See—there's an old black woollen stocking that Maître Bourdinard's servant must have left here by mistake; you can cut a cap out of that."

"Faith! you are right; I shall look like a little abbé. Come, let us set to work!"

The next morning, young Plumard put his hand to his head to make sure that his plaster was still firm. As he passed his fingers over it, he felt a sort of crust, but the woollen covering did not stir, and the clerk was convinced that the process of growing was under way.

A week passed.

Plumard had tried, but to no purpose, to remove the piece of woollen stocking that covered his head.

"Let it alone, for heaven's sake!" said Bahuchet; "if it sticks, it must be that the work is going on; when the hair has grown a little, your skullcap will fall off of itself."

Another week elapsed, and Plumard made another attempt to remove the piece of stocking, but obtained no better result.

At last, after a month, he could stand it no longer; he determined to find out what was under the skullcap, and he said to Bahuchet one morning:

"Take off this piece of woollen, which is beginning to be a nuisance; it is high time to see if my hair is growing."

"Stop!" he cried; "you are tearing off my skin!"

Bahuchet's pomade, being composed largely of pitch, had, when it dried, become firmly glued to the scalp, while the piece of stocking was so stuck to the pitch that it was utterly impossible to detach it. To pull off even a small fragment, it would be necessary to pull off a bit of the pitch, and the skin would inevitably come with it. We can understand, therefore, why Plumard screamed aloud when Bahuchet tried to remove his skullcap.

"Don't you want me to try again?" inquired Bahuchet.

"Why, can't you see that you are tearing the skin off my head? I don't want to be trepanned!—What infernal kind of pomade did you give me?"

"Probably you are in too great a hurry; the work is not done yet; you must keep the covering on a while longer."

"Alas! I am beginning to think I shall keep it on forever; I don't want to have my skin torn off!"

"After all, that black cap is not bad-looking; you look as if you had on a wig, or, rather, as if your hair was cut too short. I assure you that it is preferable to your bald head."

To appease his comrade and restore their friendly relations, Bahuchet lost no time in taking him aside after the Chevalier de Passedix paid his first visit to the solicitor's office.

"There is a chance for a good windfall," he said; "this Gascon has inherited a lot of money; he wants to replenish his wardrobe. You have an uncle in the old clothes trade; let us go to his shop and select an outfit—we can make a hundred per cent on it with the Chevalier de Passedix. And then, I have an idea that he will be a profitable acquaintance for us; the newly made capitalist seems inclined to spend his inheritance merrily, and it is quite as well that he should run through it with us as with somebody else; don't you think so, Plumard?"

Plumard, having scratched his black woollen patch, with a wry face, pulled his other cap over his eyes and left the office with his comrade, saying:

"All right! let us go to see my uncle the old clothes man."

Bahuchet and Plumard bowed low to the newly made heir, like Turks before a pasha. Passedix bestowed a gracious smile upon them and pointed to two chairs.

"Be seated, young men," he said; "with your permission, I will finish my dinner."

"With our permission!—We are at monsieur le chevalier's service; and we are in no hurry—are we, Plumard?"

"Not at all," replied Plumard, who, as courtesy demanded, had removed his cap; and he passed his hand from time to time over the piece of stocking, which he still hoped to detach.

"Are you both employed in Maître Bourdinard's office?"

"Yes, monsieur le chevalier; we are the two chief clerks."

"Is it a good office?"

"Excellent; the result is that we have too much work."

"And you are not handsomely paid?"

The old servant went away, and Bahuchet whispered to his comrade:

"You hear—he doesn't haggle. He will pay for these duds whatever we ask."

Passedix filled the goblets; the two clerks respectfully touched the chevalier's with theirs, and he exclaimed as he looked at Plumard:

"Why, my poor boy! you don't seem to be in very good condition!"

"How so, seigneur chevalier?" rejoined the clerk, drawing himself up.

"Because I see that you have a plaster on your head, such as they put on sick dogs."

Plumard turned purple, while Bahuchet made haste to say:

"That's nothing, he has a cold in his head, and it's a blister he's trying.—But while monsieur le chevalier is finishing his repast, we might show him the superb costume we have brought.—Open your bundle, Plumard."

"You are right, little clerks; show me the clothes."

Passedix was overjoyed with the short-clothes; he took them in his hand, examined them closely, and cried:

"Charming! delicious! they are in the best taste—they are dainty and elegant! The breeches please me exceedingly, and I have an idea that the orange color will be very becoming to me.—Let us see the doublet."

The doublet was of the same material and embellished with slashes of lemon-colored satin, like the short-clothes.

Passedix was enchanted.

"This harmonizes perfectly with the breeches!" he said; "it is perfect.—And the girdle?"

"Here it is," said Plumard, producing one of orange silk with fringe of the same color.

"Oh! how pretty it is, and how well they all go together!" said Passedix. "Now let us see the cloak."

Bahuchet smilingly presented the cloak, which was orange velvet, faced with lemon-colored silk.

"Admirable! magnificent!" cried Passedix. "Still, if the cloak had been of another color, to form a contrast with the rest——"

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier, it is much richer, much more stylish, like this. Look at our king, Louis XIII—does he wear several colors? is he not almost always dressed in black throughout: short-clothes, doublet, and cloak?"

"We shall have the honor to serve you as valets de chambre, monsieur le chevalier."

"You are too obliging! Drink, I say, young clerks!"

Passedix, who was as impatient as a child over the prospect of putting on a new garment, hastily finished his dinner, then proceeded to his toilet. With the assistance of the two clerks, he speedily donned short-clothes, doublet, girdle, and cloak. Then he strode about the room, looked at himself in the great mirror that adorned the mantelpiece, and seemed not to tire of viewing himself both before and behind.

"How do you find me?" he asked the young men; "tell me, without flattery."

Every part of the costume was much too large for the Gascon, whose thin, lank body danced about in his new clothes. But Bahuchet assumed an expression of admiration as he gazed at him, and exclaimed:

"It suits you magnificently, seigneur chevalier! One would swear that the costume was made for you; it makes you stouter.—Egad! how handsome you are now!"

"The short-clothes are perhaps a little full, are they not?"

"That will be all right; you are superb!"

"You will find no cruel fair, seigneur."

"He is very agreeable, this little clerk!—It's a pity that your friend has that plaster on his head—it makes him look too much like a poodle; if I were in his place, I would rather sneeze than wear that.—By the way, messieurs, I forgot the most essential article—the price of these clothes."

"Thirty pistoles for the whole outfit," said Plumard, curtly, for he was not pleased to be thought to resemble a poodle.

"Thirty pistoles it is! we will draw on the little bag. Money is made to keep moving, sandis!"

While Passedix counted out the thirty pistoles to Plumard, for a costume which his uncle the second-hand dealer had said that he would sell for fifteen, Popelinette returned with a basket containing divers bottles.

The old servant was dumfounded at sight of Passedix, whom she did not recognize.

"Who in the world is this person?" she murmured.

"I am inclined to think that he was not admired at all!" said Plumard to his comrade.

"Oh! monsieur le chevalier—why, you look like an orange now!" replied the old servant.

"So much the better, my dear, so much the better! The orange is a distinguished and sweet-smelling fruit. I will go to some perfumer's shop this evening, and cause myself to be sprinkled from head to foot, so that people may smell me five minutes before they see me.—But let us drink, my dear clerks, let us taste these bottles—let us empty them, cadédis!—and no heeltaps!—Come, young plaster! Cheer up, and take off that shocking blister, which makes you look like a spaniel."

Plumard made a wry face, but he drank; Bahuchet laughed at his companion's expression, and emptied his glass, which Passedix refilled.

The two clerks were soon more than hilarious, and began to make remarks which might have compromised them in Passedix's eyes, if he had been in a condition to notice them; but, being engrossed by his new costume and his newly acquired wealth, and being passably excited himself by his frequent libations, the chevalier did not hear what the two clerks said; especially as the wine had loosened the tongues of all three, so that they all talked at once.

"Six thousand francs a year! O fortune!—How becoming this color is to me!"

"Plumard, we must go into the old clothes business; it pays."

"Why does he call me spaniel and poodle? I get tired of that, in the end.—Let's take a drink!"

"Your health, boys!—Ah! when she sees me thus, as brilliant as the sun, I shall be one too many for her four-faced lover!"

"Bahuchet's infernal pomade is responsible for my wearing this round thing on my head!"

"Your health, O my infanta!"

"Thirty pistoles! I make a profit of a hundred per cent, and I am tempted not to give my uncle anything."

"O Miretta! I will lay my little hoard at thy feet, and myself as well!"

"The devil take Maître Bourdinard's office! I propose to enjoy myself; I work no more!"

In the midst of this hubbub, the bottles being empty, Passedix paid no further heed to the two clerks, but left the hotel, to display himself to an admiring Paris and to seek Miretta.

Bahuchet and his friend followed him to Place aux Chats. There they stopped, looked at each other, and began to laugh. They linked arms, each thinking that he was supporting the other, and Bahuchet stammered:

"I never had any such intention. My uncle can afford to make me that little gift."

"If he loses his temper, you can tell him that somebody stole the bundle, the clothes."

"That is true. I'll say that the famous Giovanni stripped me."

"Bravo! the very thing; let us charge the accident to Giovanni's account. Par la sambleu! the fellow is stout enough to take a lot of robberies on his shoulders."

"Now, we will have some sport. We must make the thirty pistoles dance.—Look out, my dear boy, steady!"

"Where shall we go to spend it?"

"We must go out of Paris, or we might meet some of our comrades, and then we should have to treat them too."

"No such fools!"

"Let us go to the village of Le Roule."

"Where is that village?"

"Le Roule?—It's a pretty village, just after you leave Paris by Porte Saint-Honoré.—There's a leper's hospital there."

"A leper's hospital! Thanks! What an attraction! Do you propose that we go for diversion to a leper's hospital?"

"So be it! let us go there; lead the way."

"Try not to waver so on your legs."

"Isn't he delicious!—when it is he who stumbles at every step."

The two clerks, each supporting the other, and sometimes describing zigzags which terrified the passers-by, set out for Le Roule, which was then only a village, although destined to become one of the great faubourgs of Paris.

Since Bathilde had learned the result of Ambroisine's visit to Léodgard, since she had learned in what way he had treated the person who went to implore him in her behalf, a profound melancholy, a gloomy resignation, had succeeded the impatience, the anxiety, the hope, which had divided the empire of her mind at first.

It has often been said, and justly, that anxiety is worse than misfortune itself.

But one thought still tormented the poor child: she was afraid that her presence was a burden, not to Ambroisine, but to her father; she was afraid that her prolonged sojourn in Master Hugonnet's house was an embarrassment, an inconvenience, which, from kindness of heart, he was careful to conceal from her.

But in her plight, without money or resources of any sort, whither should she go if Ambroisine's father sent her away?

Bathilde was wrong to conceive such fears; Master Hugonnet did not do good for ostentation's sake; he simply followed the biddings of his heart, and he was happy himself when he could render a service; it never occurred to him to plume himself upon it. The thought of sending the poor girl away who had come to him for shelter would never have entered his mind, and it was not necessary that she should be Ambroisine's friend to induce him to be kind and charitable toward her; kind hearts do not require to be stimulated; they who need a great number of witnesses in order to do a good deed are not truly generous.

Friendship is ingenious when it seeks to dissemble its kindly acts.

Bathilde smiled at her friend and pressed her hand; but tears fell from her eyes, despite her efforts.

"Weeping again!" said Ambroisine, one day. "You are not reasonable. You have no further reason to tremble for your child's future. Did I not tell you that the Sire de Jarnonville had promised to be a father to it? And he will not break his word! I judged him rightly when I thought that beneath that savage, yes, terrifying manner, the Black Chevalier concealed a heart accessible to pity. How could he fail to be moved by the sufferings of others, he who had suffered so terribly himself in the loss of his child?—He has been here several times since the day that I met him in Rue de Bretonvilliers. He comes to me when I am alone, and asks in an undertone: 'How is your friend? Does she need anything? Do not forget that I propose to be a father to her child.'"

On the day following this conversation, Ambroisine was alone in her father's shop, just at nightfall, when the Black Chevalier crossed the street, halted in front of her, and said in a curt tone which ill dissembled what was taking place in his heart:

"That poor girl—your friend—can I do anything for her yet?"

Ambroisine looked up at Jarnonville, and, as if struck by a sudden idea, cried:

"Pardon me, seigneur; you can assist me to restore her honor, perhaps.—For I see plainly that my poor Bathilde cannot console herself for the abandonment of her lover and the curses of her mother. Since yesterday an idea, a hope, has come into my mind. Heaven, doubtless, suggested it to me.—Sire de Jarnonville, Comte Léodgard's father is still living, is he not?"

"To be sure—the Marquis de Marvejols."

"What sort of man is he?"

"The old Seigneur de Marvejols is an upright, just man, who is sensitive to the last degree in the matter of honor. Proud of the name that his ancestors have handed down to him, he is no less proud of having no unjust act for which to reproach himself in the whole course of his life. Stern in his speech, he has nevertheless a sensitive and generous heart; the evil-minded may tremble before him; the unfortunate never."

"What you tell me, seigneur, confirms me in my plan."

"To go to Comte Léodgard's father, to lay before him the whole story of his son's behavior toward Bathilde, and the events that have resulted from it, and to demand justice for the victim of a shameful seduction."

And seeing that Jarnonville kept silence, Ambroisine continued:

"Do you disapprove of my project, seigneur chevalier? What have I to fear, after all? My poor Bathilde cannot possibly be more unhappy! Her seducer cannot treat her any more cruelly!—Yes! I am determined to attempt this method of restoring my friend's honor! This old marquis, who is such a just man, will perhaps insist upon his son's keeping the promises, the oaths, he made to Bathilde."

"But how will you prove to Léodgard's father that his son did really make your friend a solemn promise! He will tell you that all men who seek to seduce a woman use the same language, and that it is her place not to listen to words whose value she should know."

"How will I prove it! Oh! luckily enough, I have kept a letter written to Bathilde by the count when he had not succeeded in his projects. It is the first and, I believe, the only letter he ever wrote to her. The poor child gave it to me at the time, to be rid of the temptation to read it all day long. For the eloquent oaths of love which it contained were beginning even then to turn her head. Writing is something more than mere words."

"I have always kept it carefully; something told me that it might be of use to Bathilde some day; she thinks, no doubt, that I burned it long ago."

"In that case, carry out your plan. But I do not see in what way I can be of use to you in all this, and why you claim my assistance?"

"To help me to gain access to the old Seigneur de Marvejols—that is why I appealed to you."

"Do you know where the Hôtel de Marvejols is?"

"Yes, chevalier; it is on Place Royale. I went there once, expecting to find Monsieur Léodgard there."

"Well! go there now; ask for monsieur le marquis; say that it is a poor girl who desires to speak with him, to obtain justice, and you will speedily be admitted to the old nobleman's presence. To obtain access to the upright man who reckons duty superior to birth and fortune, one needs no influence; it is enough to be oppressed and to claim his support. Therefore, a sponsor would be of no use to you; on the contrary, it would offend the old marquis, by showing him that you confounded him with those powerful men who are insensible to the laments of the unfortunate."

"Oh! thanks, Sire de Jarnonville, thanks! To-morrow I will go to the Hôtel de Marvejols."

"Does your friend know of your plan?"

"Go, brave girl, and may you succeed in your noble purpose!"

The next day, about noon, Léodgard's father was alone in his study. The old nobleman's countenance had seemed sterner than ever of late, because it had become more melancholy.

The desertion of his son, who had entirely ceased to visit the old Hôtel de Marvejols, was the probable cause of the grief which the marquis concealed beneath a prouder and more gloomy expression. But upon that noble brow, furrowed by age, there was something else than sternness to be read.

The marquis was seated in his great easy-chair; a book lay open before him on a table; but he was not reading; his head was resting on his hand, and he seemed absorbed in profound meditation. From time to time he glanced at certain papers that lay scattered over the table, and murmured:

The old man had relapsed into meditation, when the door of his study opened, and old Hector discreetly showed his face before the rest of his body.

"What do you want, Hector?" inquired the marquis, raising his head; "I did not ring for you."

"What is it, pray? Speak, explain yourself, Hector. Does someone wish to speak with me? Is it my son, or someone from him?"

"No, monsieur," replied the valet sadly, turning his eyes upon the floor; "no, it is not Monsieur Léodgard who sends—although the person probably knows him, for she came here to ask for him several months ago."

"The person—who is this person?"

"It is a young girl; she asks to be allowed the favor of speaking with monseigneur—in private."

"A young girl—and an acquaintance of Comte Léodgard—I can have nothing in common with such a person! Send the girl away, Hector!"

"I have the honor to assure monsieur le marquis that the person in question appears to be no less virtuous than respectable. She implores monseigneur to consent to hear her; she demands justice and says that she has no hope of obtaining it except through him."

"Justice!" muttered the marquis. "In that case, Hector, do not keep this girl waiting—admit her at once."

Hector gently pushed the lovely girl into the room, whispering to her:

"Don't be afraid! Monsieur le marquis is not so terrible as he looks."

Then, at a sign from his master, the valet bowed and disappeared, leaving Ambroisine alone with Léodgard's father, who motioned for her to come forward, saying:

"Come nearer, take a chair, and tell me what you desire from me, young woman."

"Justice, monsieur le marquis," replied Ambroisine, raising her head; for the old man's deep voice, instead of frightening her, seemed to restore her courage by reminding her of the motive that brought her thither.

"Justice? Has someone wronged you? have you reason to complain of someone?"

"I am not the one who has been wronged, seigneur; and it is not for myself that I have come to implore your assistance; it is for a friend, who is very unhappy, greatly to be pitied, but who would never have dared to come herself to tell you of her trials; and yet——"

"Explain yourself more clearly, my girl, and, above all things, be careful to tell nothing but the truth!"

"Ah! monseigneur, could anyone dare to lie before you? But I beg you to excuse me if I cannot express myself very well."

The old man listened to Ambroisine with interest, and without interrupting her; while she was speaking, he sat with his head resting on his hand, seemingly weighing every word. When she finished, he looked at her with a kindly expression and said:

Ambroisine, without replying, took from her breast the letter written to Bathilde by Léodgard, and with a trembling hand presented it to the old man; he had no sooner cast his eye on the paper than he recognized his son's hand. Thereupon his expression changed, a cloud darkened his brow; he controlled his emotion, however, and read the document that he held in his hands. As he read on, his expression became more severe, and when he had finished he let his head fall forward on his breast and seemed utterly crushed by that fresh blow.

Ambroisine, hopeful and afraid by turns, sat perfectly still, not daring to break the silence, and prayed under her breath that heaven would move the old man's heart to pity for poor Bathilde.

And the old man, raising his head proudly, said to Ambroisine in a firm voice:

"Go back to your friend, my girl, and say to her that she will hear from me ere long."