"And that is why you have a weakness for Alfred, I suppose?"

"Oh! never! never! I laughed at his oaths of love. Perhaps it amused me a little to listen to him.—But, although he is agreeable and bright—as to loving him, oh! I promise you that I never dreamed of such a thing. Pray do not think that!"

"If you defend yourself so eagerly, Jenny, I shall end by believing that you adore him."

"Oh! upon my word, I——"

She lowered her voice again. Robineau tilted his chair a little in order to hear; but for several minutes the two friends spoke in such low tones that he could not catch a word. At last the charming Jenny observed aloud:

"You did well, very well. I am sure that it puzzles him tremendously to see us talking together, for he thought that we were at odds. Did he never talk to you about me?"

"Why, no; he talked about nobody but myself."

"Ah, yes! of course. I assure you, Clara, that I shall remain a widow; I shall never marry again!"

"Can anyone be sure of that, my dear? Remember that you are only twenty-two years old."

"An additional reason for not endangering the happiness of my life. Is not what I have known of marriage likely to make me avoid it? Monsieur de Gerville married me when I was eighteen, having never paid court to me; without any idea whether I liked him or not, he asked my parents for my hand. He was rich, so they gave me to him. However, Monsieur de Gerville was young and good-looking. I might have loved him if he had taken the trouble to try to win my love, if he had simply tried to make me think that he loved me. I was such a little idiot then! I believed whatever anyone chose. But no—I was his wife, and he would have considered that he disgraced himself by making love to me, by paying me any attention. He had two or three mistresses who deceived him; but that was much better than loving his wife, who did not deceive him. However, he is dead, and it is my duty to forget the suffering he caused me; but I confess that that taste of married life left me with a very poor opinion of men in general. I believe them to be, as a rule, selfish, inconstant, unjust to women: they must have everything, and we must do without everything; they are pleased to be unfaithful, but they demand constancy from us; they are good-humored so long as we are fortunate enough to please them, but as soon as they begin to sigh for another woman, they do not give us another thought; instead of trying to conceal their unfaithfulness by redoubling their attentions and consideration for us, they become sulky, capricious, bad-tempered; and if we are so unfortunate as to manifest any regret at the change in their treatment of us, they accuse us of being jealous and exacting!"

"O Jenny! Jenny!"

"You will find out, my dear Clara, that it is all true. In fact, what happy couples can you mention? Only those where the wives close their eyes to their husbands’ infidelities. Oh! when we let them do whatever they choose, go in and out and run after other women, without ever calling them to account for their actions, then we are what they call good wives, and they deign to offer us an arm once a month."

"I see that Alfred’s inconstancy has soured you!"

"What do I care for Monsieur Alfred’s inconstancy? I tell you again, I listened to him only for the fun of it, and I never took his declarations of love seriously. However, I am very glad that I know—that I conceived the idea of——"

Here they lowered their voices once more; and as they had reached a very interesting point, and as Robineau was most desirous to learn what the idea was that had occurred to Madame de Gerville, he tilted his chair a little more in the hope of hearing. But the weight of his body overturned it, and before he could recover himself, he rolled at the feet of the two friends.

As they had paid no attention to their neighbor, they were not a little surprised when that gentleman fell almost on their laps. But Robineau rose hastily, stammered an apology and walked away, muttering:

"They polish their floors a great deal too much! It’s almost too slippery to stand up! I don’t understand why all the dancers don’t fall on top of one another. To be sure, they walk instead of dancing.—Curse that chair! I was just going to learn the idea of that pretty brunette—Madame Jenny de Gerville. I will remember the name, and I’ll drive Alfred crazy. Ah! it’s very amusing!"

Robineau returned to the ball-room and looked about for other groups of people conversing. He heard laughter near at hand, and found that it came from two ladies who were not dancing; there happened to be a vacant chair behind them and Robineau took possession of it.

"These ladies are laughing," he said to himself; "I’ll wager that they are making fun of some other women among the company. I mustn’t miss this! I didn’t have time to look at them, but I will scrutinize them when they turn.—Attention!"

"Oh! what a ridiculous creature that man must be, and how I would have liked to see him dancing with you! You must point him out to me when you see him."

"Oh, yes! never fear; he is easily recognizable. I can’t imagine where Monsieur de Marcey found him!"

"Good!" thought Robineau; "they are making fun of someone—I was sure of it."

And he moved nearer to them, taking care not to tilt his chair.

"Just imagine, my dear love, a short, fat, heavy, awkward man, with a big nose, stupid little eyes, lips that he presses together when he talks, and hair curled so tight that he looks like a negro!"

"Ha! ha! ha!"

"And with it all, such a pretentious manner! He asked me to dance—they were just forming for the first contra-dance; I accepted, and during the dance he tried to play the amiable, but he had nothing to say except the most commonplace things, all so flat and wornout that it made me very sorry for him!—When he found that I made no reply to those entertaining remarks, he took the liberty to squeeze my hand while we were dancing!—Ha! ha! ha!"

At that point, the lady who was speaking turned, and Robineau recognized the countess with whom he had danced the first contra-dance. The blood rushed to his face. Meanwhile, the lady, who instantly recognized the gentleman of whom she was speaking, with difficulty restrained an inclination to laugh, and gently touched her friend’s knee. But before the latter had time to turn, Robineau was already far away. He was beside himself with rage, and glared furiously about, muttering:

"Well, upon my word! that woman must be a great joker! I don’t know whether it was I she was talking about, but in any event, I hope she may find many of my kind!—But she’s too ugly to have any attention.—To say that I squeezed her hand! that is false! These ugly women are forever slandering us men; it’s because they are furious at not finding any lovers."

Having lost his desire to listen to conversations, Robineau bent his steps toward the card-room, making such a horrible grimace that Alfred, meeting him beside one of the tables, stopped him and said:

"Mon Dieu! what a face you are making, my dear Robineau! Have you been having hard luck?"

"I have lost three hundred francs!"

"That’s nothing; you will win them back." And Alfred walked away, while Robineau said to himself:

"He takes things easily! That’s nothing, he says! If I had lost three hundred francs, I should never get over it! But I am very sure not to lose any such sum, as I have only twenty-one francs fifty. I must risk that. I will try to win; but they say that it isn’t very prudent to play écarté at these large parties. However, at Monsieur le Baron de Marcey’s there can’t be any but honest people. No matter; I am going to bet on the one who is winning—that’s the best thing to do.—Who is having the luck?" asked Robineau as he drew near the card-table.

Unluckily for him, the luck changed; in a very short time he lost his twenty-one francs. Thereupon, making every effort to conceal his ill-humor, he turned away from the table.

"Good-bye to the trip into the country and the dinner at the restaurant on Sunday!" he thought. "Fifine will have to dine at her aunt’s, and I will play the guitar. It was well worth while for me to put myself out, dress in my best clothes and hire a cab, to come to a grand party!—It is very amusing, isn’t it? Women who laugh at you; men who stare at you as if they would like to walk on you; gamblers who win your money without giving you time to see where you are! Fifine is right: one has much more fun at Madame Saqui’s or at the Funambules when they play Le Fantôme Armé.—Let us take a look at the buffet. If I can’t put ices in my pocket, I can put some oranges and cakes."

Robineau went to the refreshment room; there were no oranges left, but there was an abundance of cakes. He stuffed his pockets with them while the servants brought refreshments, and he was about to make for the stairway when Edouard appeared in front of him. The young author stopped.

"Good evening, Monsieur Robineau," he said; "I haven’t seen you before—there are so many people here!"

"True; and look you, between ourselves, I don’t consider these enormous crushes very amusing; I confess that I have had enough of it, and I am going away."

"Already? Why, it’s only two o’clock. Oh! you must stay; Alfred wants us to take supper in his apartment after the party, and talk nonsense."

"Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, if we are to have supper. The devil! if I had known, I wouldn’t have eaten so much sweet stuff. But no matter—I will stay."

"Let us walk about and look for pretty partners."

"I will gladly walk about; but as to dancing, I am done."

Robineau slapped his pockets softly, to flatten them, and followed Edouard, saying to himself:

"I am not sorry to be seen talking with an author; I will talk theatre with him, and people will think that he and I are working together on a play.—I will bet that you prefer the play to an evening party, eh, Monsieur Edouard?"

"That depends; there are pleasant parties and very tiresome plays."

"Oh! of course; but I mean to say that it is very pleasant to be an author.—I must tell you of a plot—I say a plot, but I have a dozen in my desk!—Oh! I have some astonishingly good ones!"

"I believe it."

"Plots for grand operas, opéra-comiques, vaudevilles, melodramas. Oh! I do a little of everything; I have an inexhaustible imagination, and if I had time——"

"Yes, time is always what those people lack who produce nothing."

"That is so, isn’t it? But I will show them to you. What I should like more than anything would be to have free admission to the theatres.—Ah! to be able to go behind the scenes, to see the actresses at close quarters, and the ballet-dancers, who make pirouettes, so they say, as they bid you good-evening! What a lot of conquests one might make!"

"Not so many as you think; you get accustomed to the wings, as you do to the auditorium, and you talk with a Turk or a Polish girl without noticing their costumes."

"Of course; habit—I understand; but to produce a play, to superintend the rehearsals and the performance."

"It is delightful when one succeeds; but even so, what vexations have to be undergone before that point is reached! Rehearsals where people are never prompt, where they talk instead of studying their parts, which makes it necessary to rehearse forty times what they should have learned in fifteen; actors who want to make over their parts, managers who want to rewrite your plays, actresses who don’t like their costumes, claqueurs who want all your tickets, and last of all the public, that will have none of your play: such is often the result of six weeks of discomfort, annoyances and hard work!"

"He says all this to take away any inclination on my part to write plays," thought Robineau. "All authors are like that; they try to disgust beginners. I won’t show him my plots; he would steal my ideas, and then say they were his own.—You are rather inclined to look at the dark side of things now, Monsieur Edouard," he said aloud, "because you are still sore from your failure."

"Oh! I assure you that I have forgotten all about it."

"Bah! nonsense! For my part, if I should be hissed, I think that I should be in a horrible humor.—By the way, have you seen your little sempstress again? But I suppose that she is already replaced, is she not?"

"Faith, no! I am beginning to be tired of these bonnes fortunes, in which, as Larochefoucauld says, there is everything except love. I think that I should prefer a little love and less pleasure."

"That is like me, I am for sentiment, for what is called pure sentiment. I have adored all the women I ever knew, even my figurante at the Porte-Saint-Martin; and on their side, they have all treated me with peculiar favor; I am their spoiled child."

"You are very fortunate, Monsieur Robineau!—For my part, I would like to find—I don’t know just how to express it, but it seems to me that there should be a secret sympathy acting at the same time on two hearts that are made for each other."

"Yes, I understand you; that is what happened to me with my first inclination, whom I met at the Bal du Colisée. We fell while waltzing, both at the same time. I instantly discovered a secret sympathy therein."

Edouard allowed a faint smile to escape him, and drew near to a quadrille in which some very pretty women were performing.

"What do you think of that little blonde, Monsieur Robineau?"

"Why, nothing extraordinary; a good complexion, and youth; but she doesn’t turn her feet out enough."

"You are hard to suit! I think her very attractive; her eyes are lovely, her bearing full of grace. She does not seem to have made a careful study of dancing, but anyone can see that she enjoys it.—And what of the tall one, opposite?"

"She is not pretty; her nose is much too long, and there seems to be no end to her arms; her hair is badly arranged——"

"Well, I think that she has a very bright face, and it seems to me that, while she is not pretty, she must be attractive. I will wager that her conversation is very agreeable—And that stout brunette that’s dancing now?"

"She is a perfect bundle, and she tears about like one possessed."

"But see how light she is, despite her stoutness! What vivacity gleams in her eyes!"

"I say, Monsieur Edouard, you claim to be weary of bonnes fortunes, and yet you find all women to your liking; they all attract you!"

"Although I am weary of ephemeral liaisons, I did not say that I proposed to love no more; on the contrary, I am at present in search of an opportunity to fall in love in earnest."

"Well, well! so am I, messieurs," cried Alfred, who had stopped beside his two friends and had overheard Edouard’s last words. "I have a heart to place, and may the devil take me if I have known what to do with it for the last fortnight!—Here are plenty of good-looking women, however!"

"Faith! messieurs," said Robineau, throwing out his chest, "I protest that I contemplate all the ladies with a most indifferent eye. I am a philosopher, you see; besides, I have what I need, and it would be difficult for me to find anything better."

"Aha! Robineau, then you must show her to us. You must ask us to dine with her."

"Upon my word! do you mean to say that you think that she’s a woman for mixed parties? a woman to be taken where there are men?"

"Are you trying to make us think that she’s a duchess?"

"Why—look you—that might be."

"Ha! ha!—What on earth have you got in your pockets, Robineau? Are you wearing false hips to please your Dulcinea?"

Robineau blushed and put his hands over his pockets as he replied:

"It’s some papers that I forgot to take out of my coat."

"If you danced with such pockets as that, you must have produced a tremendous effect!—Ha! ha! it’s worse than Mère Gigogne!—Are these ministerial papers, too?"

Robineau turned away in a pet and threw himself on a sofa, heedless of the fact that he was crushing his cakes; and there he remained until the end of the ball, when Alfred came to him and said:

"We are going up to my rooms, Robineau; we are going to finish the night at the table, with a few faithful friends. Will you join us?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Then make up your mind to leave your couch, to which you seem to be glued like a pasha."

Robineau followed Alfred. Young De Marcey’s apartment was above his father’s, and contained everything that luxury, refinement and variety could suggest. It was a retreat that any petite-maitresse might have envied.

Four young men, as heedless and reckless as the master of the place, soon appeared in response to their friend’s invitation, and with Edouard and Robineau completed the party.

"Messieurs," said Alfred, presenting Robineau to his young friends, "allow me to introduce an old school-mate, a very good fellow, albeit slightly irascible when you talk to him of his conquests or his employment. Do not pay any attention to the size of his pockets; he maintains that it makes him more graceful. He is a little out of temper now because he lost some money at écarté; but we will make him tipsy and he will be a delightful companion."

All the young men laughed, and Robineau followed their example, crying:

"That devilish Alfred! always joking! But, as for making me tipsy, I defy you to do it, messieurs. I have a hard head, I tell you; I have never been known to get drunk."

"On my honor, Alfred, your quarters are delightful. Everything is so fresh and bright, and decorated with such taste! It is an enchanting spot," said one of the young men, as he walked about the apartment.

"Faith, messieurs, if you like it, so much the better. But I have nothing to do with it; my father looks after everything that concerns me, and he has lately had all the furnishings of my apartments replaced, saying that what I had was not handsome enough. I let him do as he pleases."

"Nobody can deny, Alfred, that you have a most agreeable father!"

"Oh! as to that, messieurs, I do him full justice. He is so kind that I am sometimes tempted to reproach him for indulging me too much. If I incur debts, he pays them; if I want money, he gives it to me; if I express a fear that my follies displease him, he embraces me, saying: ‘You are young, and you must enjoy yourself; be happy, my dear boy—that is all I desire.’ And I give you my word, he is so kind that I often pause in the act of committing some extravagance; for I have no secrets from my father, and I should be terribly distressed if I did anything that grieved him. Yes, messieurs, his indulgence will keep me in the paths of prudence, whereas, if he had thwarted me, if he had been harsh toward me, I should have done a hundred times as many wild and foolish things."

"In short, each of you loves the other dearly," said Edouard; "and it seems to me that one should always be happy to have one’s father for a friend."

"My father was very fond of me too," said Robineau; "however, he broke a cane over my back one day because I had lost my handkerchief. He was orderly to the last degree, was my father, but he loved me dearly all the same."

"To the table, messieurs, to the table, and let us see who can say the most foolish things! After an evening of dignified behavior, it is pleasant to take one’s ease for a while."

They took their seats at the table, and attacked a fine fowl and a ham roasted in currant jelly. Those who had danced a great deal were hungry; the others were incited by their example, and Robineau forgot that he had stuffed himself with cakes, in order to do honor to the sugar-cured ham, which he considered delicious. Bordeaux and chambertin circulated freely; the conversation became more and more animated, and as they drank they laughed and jested; each had his anecdote to tell, each had some love-making adventure with which he was anxious to regale his friends; the subject of women is inexhaustible, and men are always glad to return to it, for there is no man to whom it does not recall pleasant memories.

"Messieurs," said a young man, who seemed to be rather inflammable, "there is one incontestable truth, and that is that if we wish to be loved by the women, we must not love anyone of them."

"Oh! upon my word!"

"I leave it to Alfred; am I not right?"

"Faith! I am inclined to think just the opposite; for I am rather fortunate with the fair sex, and yet I love them all."

"Very good; you love them all, therefore you love none of them; which is just what I said."

"It would be a great pity, messieurs," said Edouard, "to think that a deeply rooted sentiment may not be reciprocated; and that as soon as we are really in love with a woman, she will cease to love us."

"When a man is in love, he loses all his advantages, and he is stupid enough to be carved."

"That is true," said Robineau, "he is terribly stupid."

"The woman we love doesn’t think us stupid, when she returns our love."

"Monsieur Edouard is right," said Robineau, tossing off a glass of chambertin; "when she returns our love, why, that is another matter! it is altogether different!"

"But when she doesn’t return it," said one of the young men, "then she makes sport of us and laughs at our sighs; she makes us look like downright jackasses, and we don’t discover it."

"We don’t even suspect it," said Robineau, filling his glass with chambertin again, "and that’s the amusing part of it."

"A woman, messieurs," rejoined Edouard, "who laughs at a man because he is really in love with her, such a woman is a flirt, and it seems to me that society is not made up entirely of flirts. How many passionate, loving hearts there are, ready to respond to our love! How many women who cannot help loving a scapegrace in secret, and who exert every effort to conceal what they feel!"

"They are innumerable," said Robineau.

"Faith! coquettish or sentimental, artless or passionate, they are fascinating," said Alfred; "except, however, when they run after us, follow us and set spies to watch all our movements."

"Oh! the devil! a woman who follows a man is a horrible creature! In the first place, it’s very bad form! But such a thing is never seen now."

"Yes it is, sometimes."

"For my part, messieurs," said Robineau, who persisted in talking constantly, although his tongue was beginning to thicken, "when a woman follows me, and I discover it—for when I don’t discover it, I close my eyes—but when she follows me, I say to her: ‘My dear love, you are following me about and I don’t like it. When I choose to be with you, I will tell you so; but if I choose to speak to another woman, I don’t need your presence in order to make myself agreeable; on the contrary, it paralyzes my faculties.’"

"Bravo! bravo!" laughed the young men; "he talks like Cicero."

"Now for the champagne, messieurs," said Alfred.

"Champagne it is!"

"Yes, champagne!" cried Robineau, "and let’s see who will drink the most; I never get drunk."

The corks popped, they partook freely of the champagne, and soon everybody was speaking at the same moment and each imagined that he was being listened to. But amid the uproar and the outbursts of laughter, Robineau succeeded in making himself heard because he shouted louder than all the others, and the tipsier he grew, the more he insisted upon arguing to prove that wine did not go to his head.

"My dear friend," he said, addressing Alfred, "you haven’t a suspicion that I am in the secret of your love-affairs, of your conquests; that is to say, a sweet little brunette, a widow; I don’t propose to mention her name, because we must be discreet, but it seems that you made love to her in great shape, and that the said Madame de Gerville set out to put your constancy to the test——"

"Madame de Gerville! how do you know that? How do you know Madame de Gerville?"

"In the first place, I haven’t said that it was Madame de Gerville; I didn’t mention any names, did I, messieurs?"

"No, no!" cried the young men, laughing heartily; "oh, no! he knows too much for that! anybody can see that he never gets tight!"

"Why, messieurs," said Robineau, putting a glass of champagne to his lips, "I swallow this like milk; I have a head of iron!—But all the same, Alfred, the young widow says that you’re a monster! a perfidious wretch! It would seem that she was really taken with you."

"I don’t know whether Madame de Gerville was taken with me; but I confess that I was deeply in love with her,—so much so that for a moment I thought it was serious. Jenny is lively, amiable, clever; but one fine day I met a certain Clara at her house; I didn’t know that she was her particular friend; there are many women who see one another every day, but don’t love one another. This Clara is very attractive too; I told her that I considered her a charming creature—the most natural thing in the world; but it seems that she repeated it to Madame de Gerville, and that Madame de Gerville didn’t like it. Faith! it matters little to me. To the devil with constancy! I know nothing but pleasure myself!—Let us drink to the health of all pretty women!"

"Ah! messieurs, everybody must live! here’s to the ladies in general!" said Edouard.

"Yes," said Robineau, holding out his glass to touch Edouard’s, "the ladies in general! and in particular, too; for I have a particular one—ha! ha!—and a solid one, too! Virtue personified, with a wanton air, and plenty of morals—the whole disguised as a milliner."

"Aha! so your duchess is only a milliner now!" said Alfred! "and you wouldn’t invite her to dine with us!"

"Well, messieurs, what’s the odds, after all? What does rank amount to when beauty is in question?"

"He is right. Haven’t kings been known to marry shepherdesses? The ancients weren’t so proud as we are. Did not Shechem, the son of King Hamor, marry Dinah, the shepherd Jacob’s daughter? Did not one of the Pharaohs of Egypt fall in love with Sarah, a shepherd’s sister?"

"Very good! in that case, long live the grisettes! I know of no one like a grisette for the combination of love and dancing; for patching your breeches when you tear them, for keeping your breakfast hot in the morning and lighting your lamp at night. Just go and ask some fine lady of fashion, such as I saw here to-night, to sew on a button or mend your suspenders—you’d be well received, wouldn’t you?—Long live the grisettes! I stick to that!"

"Long live the grisettes!" echoed the young men, laughing; and they plied Robineau with drink, because he was beginning not to know what he was saying, and that greatly entertained the young men, especially Alfred, who was not sorry to hear him contradict, when he was drunk, the lies into which his self-conceit had led him when he was sober.—Liars should never drink too much. The old proverb, in vino veritas, is true. How many people there are who would make fools of themselves in their cups, if they did not take care to keep sober! What reckless admissions, what piquant confessions we should hear, if—But the ladies never get tipsy!

"So it seems, Robineau, you’ve a very pretty milliner for a mistress?" said Alfred, filling his friend’s glass.

"Pretty, messieurs! Why, I don’t mean to say that her face is absolutely beyond criticism; and there are some defects in the contour, too. But her figure! oh! it’s like a model! If she was here, I’d have her stand up on this table, so that you could admire her. In short, she is Fifine! that tells the whole story!"

"Ah! her name is Fifine, is it?"

"Yes, messieurs; a charming girl! a regular dragon! who has never been able to resist an invitation to drink,—that is when she took a fancy to the man."

"And she took a fancy to you at once, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes! instantly; that is to say, she made me run about a good deal. And the boxes I carried! and the rolls I paid for! How I did pay for them! She is decidedly fond of rolls, is Fifine.—No matter; here’s her health, messieurs!"

"Fifine’s health!" replied the young men. This toast moved Robineau to tears; he took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, and pulled from his pocket with it, and scattered about the floor and on the table, all the cakes he had purloined, which had became as flat as pie crust. The young men roared with laughter, and Alfred emptied Robineau’s other pocket on his plate, crying:

"Here’s a provident fellow, messieurs; he put his dessert in his pocket."

"It was for my canary, messieurs," faltered Robineau, dumfounded for an instant by the spectacle of the little cakes; "for Fifine’s canary, I mean, who says ‘kiss me quick’ like a starling.—Still, you understand, it was only a joke, a wager; I am not reduced to that means of getting bird food. Not that the loss of my twenty-one francs doesn’t embarrass me a good deal; but——"

"I thought you had lost more than three hundred?" said Alfred.

"The deuce! three hundred francs! A copying clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year! Why, that would be more than two months’ salary!"

"You are mistaken; you earn a hundred louis, and you are soon to have an increase."

"Nonsense! A hundred louis! And as for getting an increase, my deputy-chief, who rules the roost, told me only this morning that, if I didn’t write better, they would be obliged to discharge me. That sounds well from him, when his writing is like fly tracks, and he earns six thousand francs! It seems to me that he ought to write better than me.—Well, messieurs, you don’t seem to be drinking; I was sure that I would beat you all!"

The young men were, in fact, beginning to yawn; Alfred tried in vain to wake them up—he too was overcome with drowsiness. The young men took their hats and bade one another good-night, pretending to be very firm on their legs.

It was broad daylight, and the streets were already alive with workingmen on their way to work; the peasants were returning leisurely to the country from the market, where they had been to sell their vegetables. The fresh, ruddy faces of the husbandman and the mechanic formed a striking contrast to the pallid faces of our young rakes; but the former had slept, while the latter had been up all night and were about to retire when the others were already beginning their day’s work.

Robineau left the hôtel with the young men. When he was alone in the street, he had some difficulty in making up his mind what to do; the houses seemed to be moving about, and the very earth to be unstable beneath his feet. He gazed with a frightened expression at the people who passed; and it is probable that they detected something peculiar in his face or his costume, for they laughed as they looked at him. Determined, however, to overcome what he took for a passing dizziness, Robineau pulled his hat over his eyes, and, exerting himself to the utmost to maintain the perpendicular, ran all the way home without stopping, and arrived there completely exhausted.

The first person Robineau met on the staircase was Fifine, who was going down to buy some milk for her breakfast.

"What! have you just come home?" she asked Robineau, who was trying vainly to put his key in the lock.

"Yes, my dear love, the party is just done."

"The party! why, it’s been daylight a long while; it’s after six o’clock.—Well! what makes you fumble at your door like that?"

"I don’t know what’s got into my key, Fifine, but it simply won’t go into the lock."

"Give it to me; I’ll find a way to unlock it."

Fifine opened the door, and exclaimed, after looking at Robineau more attentively:

"Mon Dieu! what a face! Your eyes are coming out of your head!"

"I don’t know what’s the matter with me, my dear; but this much is certain, that I don’t feel very well."

"Oh! I see well enough what the matter is; it seems to me that you have been having a good bout!"

Robineau had thrown himself into a chair, and was sighing piteously. Fifine followed him and stood gazing at him with a scornful shrug. At last, finding that he said nothing, but continued to sigh, she exclaimed:

"How much longer are you going to groan like that? You seem to have come back from your ball in fine spirits!"

"Ah! Fifine, that is because I consider a ball a very foolish thing!—These great parties—the trouble one has to take in dressing—all for the sake of being bored to death!—Ah! I should have done much better to keep my money to go into the country with you."

"Oho! I see how it is; monsieur has lost his money at écarté; and then morality comes to the front."

"Yes, my darling girl, I have lost my all! I have nothing left!"

"I wish all your écarté players had the jaundice, and you too!"

"I don’t know if I have the jaundice, but I feel very sick at my stomach."

"Oh! I believe you; your disappointment evidently didn’t interfere with your eating and drinking."

"I took almost nothing, I assure you; but there was a magnificent supper."

"Did you bring me any good things?"

"I had my pockets full; and I don’t know how it happened, but I haven’t anything at all now!"

"Ah! I recognize you there! How kind of you!"

"Fifine, if you find fault with me, I shall be ill."

"That means that your supper was too much for you. What a charming creature—a lover like this, who goes off to enjoy himself with other people, and comes home with an attack of indigestion!"

"Don’t abandon me, Fifine, I implore you!"

"That’s it! I must nurse him now!—Well, stay there; keep quiet, and I’ll make you some tea."

"Oh, yes! make me some tea; I don’t want to drink anything else."

The young milliner hastened downstairs and bought all that she needed for Robineau, who had a severe attack of indigestion. But Fifine was active, quick-witted and skilful; in an instant she lighted a fire, heated some water and gave the sick man a cup of tea. Thanks to her attentions, he felt better after a little, and at each cup of tea that the girl gave him, he cried:

"Ah! I shall remember your kindness, Fifine; I won’t spend my money with anybody but you. I wish I had a crown to offer you, and even then I should not think that I had paid you for your devotion.—As for these big parties, I shan’t go to any more of them. Society offers no temptations to me;—a cottage and you—that is true happiness!"

IV

UNEXPECTED FORTUNE.—A RIDE.—THE EFFECTS OF WEALTH

"I say, messieurs, to my mind, that was a very pretty little prerogative that entitled the lord to be the first man to put his legs into a newly married woman’s bed.—But I will make rosières[2]—that will be just the same thing."

"Pending the time when you make rosières, pay the bill and let us go."

"Already?"

"Do you propose to pass your life in restaurants?"

"No, of course not; but it’s only half-past twelve, messieurs.—What does one do all day long when one is rich?"

"Attends to his business, when he has any, and enjoys himself when he has an opportunity—and that doesn’t happen every day."

"I don’t propose to leave you to-day, my friends. I will take you wherever you would like to go; to the Bouffes if you please; there’s a performance there to-day. That’s the rich man’s theatre, and I shall go nowhere else; but it isn’t one o’clock, and we can’t go to the Bouffes in the morning."

"Edouard and I are going for a ride," said Alfred, "and we shall probably take a turn in the Bois de Boulogne."

"To ride!" cried Robineau; "the devil! that’s my style; I’ll go with you!"

"Do you know how to sit a horse?"

"Never fear. It would be a great joke if a man with twenty-five thousand francs a year shouldn’t know how to sit on a horse!"

"In that case, come with us; I’ll lend you a mare that has a very gentle trot."

"That’s the thing; and I’ll make her gallop all the time. By the way, my friends, another word before we go: do me a favor."

"What is it?"

"After this, don’t call me Robineau any more, but call me by my Christian name—Jules; that is more distingué, it has a pleasanter sound."

"I will call you Monsieur le Marquis Jules, if you choose," laughed Edouard.

"As for me," said Alfred, "I shall call you whatever comes into my head."

"Try to let nothing come into it but Jules, I entreat you."

They returned to Alfred’s house, on foot this time, because, despite Robineau’s entreaties, the two friends did not care to crowd themselves into his cabriolet again. The nouveau riche decided therefore to dismiss his carriage, and accompanied his friends on foot; but on the way he assumed airs and graces which caused his companions much amusement. He did not deign to glance at the multitude, he refused to turn aside for anyone, for in his opinion everybody should have been eager to give way to him. But such was not the case; and as his impertinent air did not prepossess people in his favor, they did not make way for him; some even ventured to jostle him, and he received more than one blow for persisting in blocking the path.

"It’s very foolish to go on foot when you have a carriage!" he exclaimed; while Alfred and Edouard observed in an undertone:

"There’s something more foolish than that."

They arrived at the hôtel De Marcey. The two friends were soon in the saddle, and Alfred’s groom led out for Robineau’s use a pretty little mare which pawed the ground and displayed a noble ardor for the road. Robineau began to frown and walked around the horse, saying:

"It seems to me that this horse is a vicious-looking animal."

"On the contrary she is the gentlest creature you can imagine; she’s a lady’s horse."

"Then she will do for me. But why does she stamp so?"

"Because she’s impatient for a gallop."

"The devil! if she’s impatient, she’ll run away; I don’t want to ride like a madman!"

"Don’t be alarmed! Don’t you know how to mount?"

"Yes, yes; but when one has just breakfasted, one should go gently; that’s a principle of mine."

"If you don’t wish to go at all, you are at liberty not to do so; let us go without you."

"No—par Dieu! I am with you! Oh! you will see how gracefully I ride—what a seat I have!"

"Mount then."

"Which side do I mount?"

"What! you don’t know on which side to mount?"

"I have forgotten; it was a long while ago that I learned."

"My dear Robineau, you’ll have a fall."

"Jules! I told you to call me Jules; why won’t you do it?—I say, Germain, just hold the stirrup for me—that’s right."

"Boldly now! Ah! how heavy you are!"

Robineau succeeded at last in placing his right leg on the other side of the saddle; he was fairly mounted and he glanced triumphantly about.

"Let us be off," said Alfred; and he gave the rein to his horse; but Robineau, bounding up from the saddle, cried:

"Stop! stop! I am not ready. What the devil! you fellows start off without giving me time to get settled; my stirrup leathers are too long, my toes hardly reach the stirrup."

"That is the way to have them; you will rise less."

"Why, I came just within an ace of going over my horse’s head. I like my stirrup leathers very short; that gives one a much firmer seat.—Take them up a little for me, Germain—a little more; that’s right.—There—now I am glued to my saddle."

"Well! may we start now?"

"Yes, yes; let us start."

Alfred and Edouard rode off and Robineau followed them. Despite the shortened stirrup leathers, he bumped and rolled about on his saddle, although he had grasped the pommel with his right hand. As they were in Paris, they went no faster than a slow trot, and Robineau succeeded in keeping pace with them, calling out from time to time:

"Not so fast, messieurs! galloping in the streets of Paris is forbidden."

"But we are not galloping, are we?"

"Never mind—don’t go so fast, I beg you; I am not used to it yet, and then it’s more amusing to go slowly."

When they reached the Champs-Elysées, Robineau was already drenched with perspiration, and his hat, which the jolting had displaced, was so far back on his head that his hair flew about unconfined over his brow.

"Come on, Monsieur Jules," said Edouard, "let us have a bit of a canter here; it’s a superb road."

"Yes, yes, the road’s very nice; but it seems to me that my breakfast rises a little higher with each step that this infernal beast takes; she has a terribly hard trot, this mare of yours!"

"Bah! you are joking; let her canter then."

"One moment; my stirrup leathers are still too long."

"You don’t mean that; your knees are on the level of your horse’s ears!"

"Never mind; I learned to ride in accordance with certain principles."

"Very pretty, your principles are!"

"There—now I am ready."

"Off we go then!"

The two friends set off at a gallop. Robineau had no desire to ride at that pace; but the mare he bestrode was determined to follow the other horses, and her rider was fain to gallop whether he would or not. As he had never ridden at such a pace, he did not know what to do; he threw himself forward and backward, pulled the reins tight, then suddenly dropped them. He was convinced that his steed had taken the bit in her teeth, and he shouted with all the strength of his lungs:

"Stop her! stop her, I say!"

But Alfred replied:

"Don’t be afraid, Robineau, let her go."

And Edouard called back to him:

"Come on, Monsieur Jules; steady, sit straighter; you should be a little more graceful than that!"

The unskilled equestrian answered to neither name; he was utterly bewildered; he lost his hat, and ere long he himself lay sprawling in the dust; and Alfred, who was far ahead with Edouard, suddenly saw the little mare by his side without a rider.

The young men concluded that some accident had befallen their companion; so they turned back, leading Robineau’s horse. He had picked himself up and found that he had escaped with a few bruises, and after going back to get his hat, he had entered a café, where his friends found him.

"How is this? did you allow yourself to be thrown?" queried Alfred, smiling when he saw that Robineau was not hurt.

"Yes, messieurs. Parbleu! it’s a most surprising thing! You went off like the wind! My horse tried to follow you, and ran away. You told me to let her go, and I did let her go to such good purpose that I fell off. You see, I didn’t tell you that I could ride like Franconi or Paul!"

"We have discovered that!—Well! will you remount?"

"No, thanks; I have had enough for to-day. Besides, I am rather sore. Go and finish your ride; I will wait here for you and read the Petites-Affiches while you are having your canter; as I want to buy an estate, you will understand that the Petites-Affiches interests me more than the Bois de Boulogne."

The little mare was stabled, and the two friends rode away. Robineau, sipping a glass of sweetened water the while, as a restorative after his fall, ran through the Petites-Affiches, and read all the advertisements of estates for sale; but he constantly shrugged his shoulders, with such muttered comments as:

"These are too small! twenty thousand francs! forty thousand francs! They must be mere hovels! I want something better than that!—Dovecotes!—gardens in full bearing! What do I care for that?—I am not buying an estate in order to have pigeons and plums to eat; but in order to be called Monsieur de la—that is to say, by the name of my estate.—Ah! eighty thousand francs; that’s better; but pastures—farm lands—I can’t give balls and be a great lord in a farmhouse.—Aha! a château—two châteaux—twelve guest-rooms! That is what I want. Let’s see what the price is—three hundred thousand francs—two hundred and forty thousand francs. It’s absurd to fix such a price as that for a château! It seems to me that there ought to be cheaper ones for amateurs."

Robineau knew the Petites-Affiches by heart when the two young men returned from their ride. As he absolutely refused to mount his horse again, Alfred led the little mare by the bridle, and Robineau followed in a hired cabriolet. They returned to the hôtel De Marcey; but it was only half-past three, and they could not dine until six. Alfred went to his study to write some letters, Edouard went out to pay some visits, and Robineau, who did not understand that the days last twice as long when one does not know what to do to amuse one’s self as when one is at work, betook himself to his notary’s to pass the time.

At six o’clock, the three young men were together once more, and they went to a restaurant. Alfred and Edouard, who had concocted the scheme beforehand, persuaded Robineau that it was good form to eat very little and to send away most of the dishes ordered without touching them. So Robineau sent away several dishes which he was very desirous to eat, sacrificing his appetite to what he believed to be the acme of good form.

In the evening they attended the Bouffes. Robineau, who listened to music without appreciating it, dissembled as well as he could his overpowering desire to yawn.

"Bravi! brava! bravissima!" he cried; then looked at his watch to see if the play would soon be done. It came to an end at last; Alfred returned home, Edouard to his lodgings, and Robineau reëntered the cab that awaited him at the door, to take him to Rue Saint-Honoré.

Robineau stood in front of his abode, where he hoped not to sojourn long; for the house seemed to him a wretched place, and the entrance disgusting. However, he must needs sleep there once more. But before entering, he ordered François, his new servant, to call for him early the next morning with the cabriolet.

"Early to-morrow morning with the cabriolet!" cried a person who happened to be in the passage just as Robineau entered. And he recognized Fifine, whom he had not seen since the change in his fortunes.

Fifine held in her hand a candle wrapped in a half sheet of brown paper, and lighted; she had stopped and was waiting for Robineau, who did not quicken his pace.

"Hallo! is it you, my dear friend?"

"Yes, to be sure it’s I."

"What has become of you since the day before yesterday, that I haven’t laid eyes on you, monsieur? And all this style? this cabriolet? Have you made yourself a duke and peer while riding?"

"Let us go upstairs, Fifine; I can’t endure to talk in the hall—it’s very bad form!"

"Oh! mon Dieu! His Highness is afraid of compromising himself! Ha! ha! ha! Pardon me, Your Excellency; if I had known at what hour you would return, I would have cut my candle in four pieces to illuminate the staircase."

Robineau went upstairs, and entered his room, followed by the young milliner, who still held her candle in her hand. Robineau threw himself carelessly on a chair, and Fifine held her light to his face, saying:

"I say—what is the meaning of this coat? I didn’t know that you had any coat except the one that used to be black, and the threadbare gray."

"Well! now you know that I have another—that’s all."

"And this gold chain! these watch charms!—Ah! something must have happened."

"Yes, Fifine, there has been a very great change in my circumstances since the day before yesterday."

"Really! Have they given you a bonus of a hundred crowns?"

"A hundred crowns! Mon Dieu! a mere trifle!" said Robineau with a smile of contempt.

"What’s that? a trifle! Do me the favor to give me a dozen trifles like that, and I’ll go up in a balloon to-morrow morning."

"Fifine, listen to me attentively."

"Wait till I sit down, for what you are going to tell me may produce a deep impression on me."

Fifine put her candle in a candle-stick, and seated herself in front of Robineau, who tried to assume an important air before he began.

"Mademoiselle, I——"

"What! mademoiselle? are you talking to me?"

"Certainly."

"And you call me mademoiselle!—Try first to be a little more decent than that! What a fool you make of yourself with your demoiselle!"

"Well, then, Fifine—I must tell you that you no longer see before you the young man whose salary of fifteen hundred francs composed his whole fortune; the hopes that I have mentioned to you more than once are realized. I knew that my uncle would end by enriching me. Dear Uncle Gratien! he is dead and has left me twenty-five thousand francs a year."