"Good God! is it possible, monsieur? An inheritance you didn't expect?"

"No more than I expect to be elected to the Academy.—Rich! wealthy! Now I shall no longer be despised; my homage will no longer be spurned; that adored woman will be mine!

My hat—my handkerchief—my gloves—I have all that I require. Ah! my certificates of birth and of baptism and marriage. No, I don't need the last; it's of no consequence. Now I'm off."

"Monsieur has not drunk his coffee."

"Drink it, Madame Monin, drink it; it is no more than fair that you should partake of my good fortune."

Chamoureau called on the notary, who confirmed what he had written and advised him to go at once to Havre, in order to obtain immediate possession of the fortune which was held at his disposal there.

That same day, our legatee took the express train for Havre. There he exhibited to the notary all the documents which proved that he was the Sigismond Chamoureau to whom Monsieur Eustache-Hector Chamoureau, his cousin and godfather, had bequeathed all his property.

"No, I am not dreaming; I am really in possession of a very respectable fortune; therefore I may aspire to the woman whom I idolize. I must not delay; my fate must be decided at once."

He seated himself at his desk and wrote:

Having signed this letter, Chamoureau went out and gave it to a messenger in whom he had confidence.

"Ten francs for you," he said, "if you bring me an answer. If she says that she will write, insist, implore her to give you a line on the spot. I will wait for you in this café, where I shall absorb much chartreuse, to give me patience and courage."

Since the adventure on the Champs-Elysées, the fair Thélénie's humor was uniformly morose; sometimes she passed whole days absorbed in her thoughts. Her friend Héloïse's society had not the power to divert her, and when that young woman said to her:

"Do you mean to pass your whole life regretting that little fellow?"

Thélénie would reply:

"I no longer regret him, I no longer love him; I hate him now! But I shall not be satisfied until I have had my revenge."

Chamoureau's messenger found Thélénie in this frame of mind. She read the letter which was brought to her, and to which she was told that an answer was expected. She read it a second time more carefully, then handed it to Mademoiselle Héloïse, saying:

Mademoiselle Héloïse punctured her perusal of the letter with many "ohs!" and "ahs!" and when she had read it through she exclaimed:

"Mon Dieu! why, this is magnificent!—twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year! it's superb! And a man who will ask no questions concerning the past and will have blind confidence in the future! Why, that's a model husband! Is it possible that you can refuse all that?"

"I find it difficult to believe that it's true; I suppose it's another miserable joke on the part of those who played that detestable trick on me before. As for this Chamoureau, he is a downright idiot, who is quite capable of seconding the schemes of those men because he doesn't suspect them."

"But if it should be true! a splendid fortune, my dear!"

Thélénie rang for her maid.

"Who brought this letter, Mélie?"

"A messenger, madame."

"Is he still here?"

"Yes, madame, he absolutely insists on having an answer."

"Let him come in."

The messenger was ushered into the presence of the ladies. Thélénie examined him for some seconds, then asked him:

"Who gave you this letter?"

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, madame, he often employs me. He keeps a real estate office; I know him well."

"Was he alone when he handed you this letter?"

"Yes, madame, he came to my stand for me; he was all alone."

"What did he say to you?"

"He said—Well! he seems to be very anxious to have a written answer from madame, for he promised me ten francs if I'd bring him just a line."

"Very well; you shall earn your ten francs."

Thélénie took her writing-case and wrote:

"I will receive you at my apartment this evening. But bring the proofs of what you tell me, or you won't leave my house with both your ears."

She handed the note to the messenger, who left the house with a radiant face. He had no sooner gone than the door opened again and Monsieur Beauregard entered the apartment, unannounced. At sight of him, Thélénie turned pale; then she motioned to her friend, saying:

"Go into the salon while I talk with monsieur."

Mademoiselle Héloïse rose and left the room, muttering:

Beauregard threw himself upon a chair, facing Thélénie. When Mademoiselle Héloïse had left them alone, they gazed at each other for some time without speaking; but one could read on their faces that the same thought was not in the minds of both.

The beautiful courtesan pressed her lips together in a convulsive fashion, her eyes avoided her companion's and wandered about the room, and she opened and closed her hands with a sort of nervous contraction of the muscles that indicated an impatience which she could hardly control.

Beauregard, on the contrary, seemed perfectly calm and placid; he amused himself watching the woman before him, and the ironical expression of his eyes might have created the impression that he took a secret pleasure in the annoyance which his presence caused her.

"May I be permitted to know to what I owe the honor of seeing you, monsieur?" said Thélénie, breaking the silence at last.

"Because I know that my beauty has long been entirely indifferent to you; we have got beyond the complimentary stage!"

"Which may be interpreted to mean that we no longer tell each other falsehoods, may it not?"

"I don't interpret it so! When you told me that you thought me pretty, that I pleased you, I was pretty enough to justify me in believing that you meant it."

"Yes, we men sometimes tell the truth; I am convinced that, as a general rule, we lie less than women."

"Do you think so? it is quite possible! Did you come here to work out that problem?"

"No, indeed; it would take too long; I should prefer the labors of Hercules. Restrain your impatience, madame, I am coming to the purpose of my visit. The liaison which once existed between us two was not without result, as you know."

Thélénie turned paler and pressed her lips together more tightly; but she kept silent and waited.

"Yes, monsieur, it was a boy; and you didn't even answer my letter."

"Because I was very much occupied then; but when I returned to Paris, nine months later, I lost no time in calling upon you; I had some difficulty in finding you; I had even more in obtaining an audience. You were so surrounded by adorers, courtiers, slaves! You had them in all ranks of life—bankers, Hungarian counts, speculators!—Oh! I must do you the justice to say that you have always had a very marked penchant for finance!—and you no longer cared to receive a visit from me."

"It was my turn, monsieur, to be very much occupied."

"My reign had gone by; I do not presume to make any complaint on that score, madame!"

"And you are wise, for you have no right to; didn't you leave me first—to go to Italy?"

"Possibly; it may be that I had reasons for leaving you. But let us not recriminate; that matter is not in question now. When I saw you again, my first remark was to ask you where my son was; and you replied that he died three months after his birth."

"I certainly did, monsieur; and as it was true, I could make no other answer."

"Why should I have desired it, monsieur? For a long time we had ceased to have anything to say to each other."

"Pardon me, madame; I had certain questions to ask you concerning the particulars of the child's death; and those questions seemed to annoy you exceedingly, for only with the very greatest difficulty did I succeed in obtaining the answers I desired."

"There are subjects which it is painful to revive; that was one of them; it could not fail to renew my grief."

"Oh! as for your grief, madame, you will pardon me if I refuse to believe in it. I think that maternal love does not fill a very large place in your heart."

"Why do you think that, monsieur?"

"Because, if it were otherwise, you would have been the first to talk to me about our son, to give me a thousand and one details of his birth and death. Whereas, on the contrary, your answers on those subjects were so short and sharp that it was easy to see that you were in a hurry to put an end to the interview."

"Did you expect me to give you very many details of the life of a child that lived three months?"

"A mother would have found them."

"I was not a mother, then?"

"Well, what then?"

"Then I went to Saint-Denis myself; I asked for Madame Mathieu, wife of a farm hand; nobody knew such a person. I visited all the houses near the church, and it was impossible for me to discover that nurse. I found two women named Mathieu at Saint-Denis, but one was eighty years old, the other sixty-six; so that neither of them could be the one I was looking for—quite uselessly, for you had lied to me."

"I beg you, monsieur, to choose your expressions more carefully."

"I have no need to be considerate toward you, madame, for I know you and I know what you are, what you are worth.—A melancholy knowledge, for which I have paid very dear!"

"What do you mean by that, monsieur? It seems to me that you never ruined yourself for me."

"I told you all that I knew, monsieur; it was not my fault if the woman had left the place where she once lived."

"Peasants don't move about like lorettes, and if they do happen to change their place of abode, everyone knows everyone else so well in a village, that it is easy to find them."

"Saint-Denis is not a village, monsieur, it's a town."

"Once more, madame, I am convinced that you lied in everything that you told me on the subject of that child."

"Why should I have lied to you, monsieur?"

"Because you did not wish to be a mother; because you had never manifested anything but regret at being one; because you were capable of sending the poor little fellow to the Foundling Hospital."

"That is a shocking thing for you to say to me, monsieur!"

"I have told you, monsieur, all that I can tell you on the subject of your son; it is useless for you to ask me anything more."

"You have told me a parcel of infamous lies!" cried Beauregard, whose eyes assumed a threatening expression; and he sprang to his feet, pushing his chair back with such violence that he overturned it. Having made the circuit of the room two or three times, he confronted Thélénie once more, and demanded with renewed emphasis:

"I tell you again, monsieur, that he died at the age of three months."

"Where?"

"At the nurse's."

"Then find that nurse for me, let me see her, speak to her, find out where the child was buried."

"I can only tell you again what I have already told you about the woman: she lived at Saint-Denis. It isn't my fault if she has left her house—and the neighborhood too, very likely. I could not answer for such things."

"But when a child dies, no matter how young it may be, there is always a certificate of death; that certificate the nurse should have sent you with a minute of the expenses for the child's burial, for which she was entitled to be reimbursed; such things as that, nurses never forget to do. Well! show me that certificate."

"I lost it when I moved."

"Ah! you are a villain, capable of anything!—Poor Duronceray! who lost his head because I took his mistress from him. Gad! he has no idea how much he owes me! But men never look beyond the present; they never foresee the future."

Some minutes passed thus, Thélénie contenting herself with picking up the chair Beauregard had overturned.

At last he halted in front of her once more, saying:

"Your mind is made up—you refuse to tell me anything more?"

"Because I have nothing more to tell you."

"Very good! now mark well what I say to you: I shall seek for that child, and if I succeed in finding him, I shall teach him to hate and despise the woman who has tried to deprive him of his father's affection! You seem to defy me. You make a great mistake; for I am your enemy now, and I shall act accordingly whenever I find an opportunity. I had forgiven your inconstancy, your conduct, which has been decidedly scandalous at times. One may be vicious without being really wicked; but now I see that everything about you is perverse—mind as well as heart. Your nature is complete!"

"It seems that yours consists now in making impertinent remarks; but I care little for them."

"Beware if you find me in your path! and as for that unhappy child, if I succeed in finding him, rest assured that, though you are in the midst of the most brilliant festivity, be it ball or reception, he will appear and present his respects to you. Adieu!"

"Do what you please," she muttered, "you won't find your son! that would require a combination of chances,—so extraordinary—no, it is impossible! So I will simply forget Monsieur Beauregard, who will leave me in peace hereafter, I trust. The idea of that man—a ne'er-do-well, a confirmed rake, a man who believes in nothing and has passed his life making fun of everything—taking it into his head to feel a father's love for a little boy that he never saw, that he doesn't know! It is amusing, on my word!—I am very glad to avenge myself on this Beauregard; he was the cause of my missing a fine fortune; for Duronceray would have married me, I am sure; he loved me so passionately. Oh! I made a great fool of myself!—But I must forget the past and think only of this new and brilliant position which is offered me."

Thélénie recalled Mademoiselle Héloïse, who, in accordance with her habit, had not failed to listen at the door; that fact, however, did not prevent her from asking:

"What did that big bouncer, with his pretentious air, want of you? He always looks as if he were going to laugh in your face. I knew him by his yellow skin; he's the fellow who stalked into our box at the Opéra ball."

"Yes, that's the man."

"Was that man ever your lover?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Because at that time I was adored, idolized by an extremely rich man, who would certainly have married me, if I had been true to him, or if he had not discovered that I was deceiving him."

"It would seem that you weren't so shrewd in those days as you are now; you wouldn't allow yourself to be caught to-day!"

"Mon Dieu! who can tell what may happen? the most adroit are taken by surprise sometimes. But let us dine at once. I can hardly wait for this evening, to find out if this Chamoureau has told me the truth. Twenty-two thousand five hundred francs a year—that's not bad."

"I should say so! I haven't even the odd hundreds!"

"With the ten thousand francs I have, it would make a fortune; I could go everywhere, be received everywhere!"

"You would become a very comme il faut person!"

The two friends dined in haste. Thélénie ate little; she was too preoccupied to have any appetite.

But Mademoiselle Héloïse did not lose a mouthful; and while her companion formed projects for the future, she confined herself to signifying her approval by an occasional monosyllable, never a complete sentence; at table she maintained a laconism which she did not lay aside until coffee was served.

"Do you mean to turn the poor man's head altogether?" cried Mademoiselle Héloïse, as she swallowed her second glass of crême de vanille.

"Oh! I know that that is already done; but as this is a matter of great importance, I want to confirm my power; for, as you may imagine, I shall impose conditions."

"Trust you for that!"

At eight o'clock the bell rang, and the maid announced that Monsieur Chamoureau desired to know if he might see madame.

Thélénie at once dismissed her friend, saying:

"Come to-morrow morning, and you shall know the result of the interview."

Mademoiselle Héloïse would have preferred to step into an adjoining room, in order to listen at the door; but as she was accustomed to obey without comment, she took her leave.

A moment later the former business agent was ushered into the presence of Madame Sainte-Suzanne, who awaited him, half reclining on a couch, in a pose calculated to deprive her adorer of what reason he still possessed.

"Everyone knows that I have the means to do just as I please."

Chamoureau, then, appeared before Madame Sainte-Suzanne with less than his usual timidity; but when he saw how lovely, how fascinating she was, he became so perturbed that he instantly forgot the sentence he had prepared, and could only stammer:

"Madame—it is I who—I had the honor to write you—still more in love—more enamored—and—how are you?"

"Very well, monsieur, thank you. Won't you sit here beside me?"

Chamoureau made one leap to the couch, and dropped upon it with so much abandon that he broke one of the springs. But he reflected that he was rich and could venture to break many springs, even those of the steel skirts which ladies wear nowadays.

"Enough, Monsieur Chamoureau; I beg you not to refer to that affair again. I am convinced that you were not to blame, but those two gentlemen whom you have just named, they acted like vile blackguards, like true bar-room loafers; it doesn't surprise me on their part, and in a moment I will tell you my intentions with regard to them. Let us come now to your own affairs. Is it true that you have inherited money, monsieur?"

"Perfectly true, madame; twenty thousand francs a year."

"Why, that is a very pretty little fortune! Do you know, monsieur, that this is like a dream, like a tale from the Thousand and One Nights, or the conclusion of a comedy! A legacy which you did not expect, which fell upon you suddenly, from the clouds!"

"Good fortune almost always comes like that; when you are looking for it, it keeps you waiting!"

"True; indeed, there are some people who wait for it all their lives."

"Here is the wallet which contains my fortune; be good enough to examine it, madame, to make sure that I have not deceived you."

"Oh! I believe you, monsieur."

"Yes, you are rich; there are more than four hundred thousand francs there. What do you propose to do with this fortune?"

"Did I not write you that I offered it to you, with my hand?"

"Yes, you did write me that; so the offer is serious, is it?"

"Is it serious! as serious as is my love for you, which has become a passion that I cannot control."

"Do you know that you are a very dangerous man? that it's hard to resist you?"

Chamoureau's face became radiant; his eyes dilated like a cat's; his nostrils swelled; he seized a hand, which was not withdrawn, and kissed it again and again, puffing like a man who has ascended seven flights of stairs without stopping.

When Thélénie considered that her visitor had kissed her hand sufficiently, she withdrew it, saying in her sweetest voice—for she had inflections for all occasions:

"Be good, and let us talk seriously.—I am going to tell you what conditions I should impose if I consented to become your wife."

"Oh! I agree to them all beforehand."

"Oh! madame!"

"A man who is none of those things, may become one or the other! In a word, I wish to have the sole right to keep the key to the cash-box, to handle our fortune. You know that I myself have ten thousand francs a year."

"Yes, charming creature; but if you had nothing——"

"Let me speak. I desire that, when you marry me, you will certify that I have brought you property to the amount of four hundred thousand francs——"

"Certainly; twice that, if you choose."

"You will leave to me the management of our fortune. It will not diminish, never fear."

"I trust implicitly in you."

"I will give you two hundred francs a month for your clothes and your private expenses; I should say that that was enough, eh?"

"It is more than I need! I shan't spend it."

"You will not have to worry about the housekeeping; that will be my business and mine alone."

"That will be all the better."

"Do you agree to all these conditions?"

"With the greatest pleasure."

"That is understood. Indeed, I shall regret them very little; I will break with them forever!"

"Unless, however, as the result of events which cannot be foreseen, I myself authorize you to see them again."

"Of course, if you authorize me, I must obey you."

"Nor do I want you to speak to a certain Monsieur Beauregard, whom you have met here, I believe?"

"Ah, yes! a gentleman with a bilious complexion!"

"He is a detestable fellow; he paid court to me long ago, and as I refused to listen to him, he spreads all sorts of slanders and falsehoods about me!"

"I guessed as much, belle dame; I said to myself: 'This man abuses Madame de Sainte-Suzanne too much not to have been rigorously treated by her.'—I won't talk with him any more, and if he should try to talk to me, I'll turn my back on him at once."

"Very good; you are submissive. Look you, I believe you will be an excellent husband."

"With you, who would not be? no man could fail to be!"

"By the way, there is one thing more; it is a weakness, a puerile fancy, but I am set upon it nevertheless."

"Speak; I am here to obey."

"I don't like your name—Chamoureau; no, I don't like it at all!"

"The devil! that's rather embarrassing; I can't unbaptize myself."

"There's not the slightest doubt of that."

"Where were you born?"

"At Belleville."

"Belleville—very well; from this moment you are Chamoureau de Belleville, and you will not sign your name in any other way. Furthermore, you will be careful to use only the last name with any new acquaintances you may make; in that way, before long your name of Chamoureau will be entirely forgotten and you will be Monsieur de Belleville!"

"Pardieu! that's very nice! you have a mind as big as yourself! Monsieur de Belleville—that's an altogether coquettish name, and it pleases me beyond words.—Then you consent to become Madame de Belleville?"

"I must, since you promise to agree to everything I have stipulated."

"And to everything you may order in future; I swear it at your feet!"

And Chamoureau, rising from the couch, threw himself at Thélénie's feet, took her hand and kissed it with rapture, and even tried to take her knees; but his haughty conquest checked him, saying, with an air which had a faint suggestion of dignity:

"Monsieur! remember that I am to be your wife! and respect me until I no longer have the right to deny you anything."

"Do so; I approve your purpose and you have my consent; I will not conceal from you now that I desire the marriage to take place at once."

"Ah! dear love! you overwhelm me! I'm beside myself! You share my impatience! Oh! permit me to——"

"Well, monsieur?"

"Fichtre! I was going to put my foot in it again! Your hair is so lovely—you are so alluring!—Upon my word, I believe that I shall do well to go, for I can't answer for myself."

"Go; to-morrow I will look about for an apartment suited to our future position; you will trust me, I suppose?"

"In everything, and blindly. Whatever you do will be approved."

"Au revoir then, my dear De Belleville."

"De Belleville! really I am mad over that name. Au revoir, my goddess!"

Chamoureau kissed once more the hand that was offered him; then took his leave, as light as a feather, saying to himself:

While her newly-rich adorer went away in raptures, Thélénie, alone once more, said to herself:

"A new name—an apartment in a distant quarter—a new position in society! Madame Sainte-Suzanne will be lost to sight, and she will hear no more of the Croques and the Beauregards. But she will be careful not to lose sight of those upon whom she is determined to be revenged!"

Honorine and Agathe were installed in the little house at Chelles, and Poucette was with her new mistresses. The first days were devoted to arranging the furniture, deciding where to put the various things, making the necessary changes, and attending to the innumerable petty details which follow every change of abode, and which are of much more importance when one takes possession of a house one has purchased. During those early days the two friends hardly had time to walk in their garden or to glance at the landscape.

Agathe would pause in admiration before a linden or an ash tree, crying:

"Ah! my dear! how lovely the trees are! I never saw this one before!"

"You did see it," Honorine would reply with a smile, "but you didn't notice it because it had no leaves."

"Do you think so? it may be true; and the garden too seems to me a hundred times lovelier than when we first came to see the house."

"For the very same reason."

"It certainly does make a great difference! What a pity it is, when you live in the country, that it isn't summer all the time!"

"If it were, we shouldn't have the pleasure of seeing the leaves grow, of seeing all nature come to life anew. Believe me, my dear girl, God has done well everything that He has done, and we are ungrateful when we murmur against the order He has established."

In short, the two women were enchanted with their new life; ennui had not once made its way into their abode, for they always found something to do which occupied their time; as a general rule, ennui visits only the slothful.

One morning, when Père Ledrux came to work at Madame Dalmont's, the peasant, after watching the hens for a long time, as usual, to see if they did not fight—their failure to do so always seemed to surprise him—went into the house, bowed to Honorine, who was breakfasting with Agathe, and said to her:

"I say, pardon, excuse me if I tell you this; but it's only so that you may know it, and then you can do as you choose; it's none of my business; I just came to tell you because sometimes folks are glad to know what other folks say about 'em."

"What's that, Père Ledrux? do you mean that people are talking about us?" said Honorine, who, no less than her friend, had felt strongly inclined to laugh at the gardener's long preamble.

"Very good, Père Ledrux; we are an event, I understand that. What next?"

"Why, they says like this at Madame Droguet's: 'Let's see if they come to call on us, these newcomers.'—Excuse me, but as you ain't been here long, they call you the newcomers."

"That doesn't offend us at all. Go on."

"Monsieur Droguet says: 'They're young women, they must dance; we must invite 'em to come here.'—But it seems that Madame Droguet answered: 'We'll invite 'em, if they come to call first; because the latest arrivals ought to make the first call on the people who live in a town, and it ain't for us to begin by going to see them.'"

"That is true; Madame Droguet is quite right."

"Yes, Père Ledrux, and there's no harm in it. Is that all?"

"No; for, you see, as you've been in Chelles more'n two weeks, and you haven't called on anyone yet, and nobody ever meets you anywhere, because you don't go to walk—why, folks are beginning to say:

"'Those ladies must be female bears; they don't go to see anybody! they don't go out! They're good mates for the owner of the Tower; all they need is a dog!'—That's what folks say, and I only repeat it so that you may know it; because it's none of my business, after all."

"Thanks, Père Ledrux; I am not sorry to know what people say about us. It is at Madame Droguet's, I presume, that public opinion is formed?"

"It must be there! That's where all the bigwigs meet."

"I admit that the conjectures of the 'bigwigs' will have very little influence on our mode of life. We care little for society, but we are not desirous either to be looked upon as bears; and Agathe is old enough not to avoid society. When the opportunity presents itself to make Madame Droguet's acquaintance, we shall not let it pass; but there is no hurry, is there, Agathe?"

During the day which followed this conversation, Poucette came to Honorine to say that Monsieur Luminot desired to pay his respects, as one of her neighbors.

"Show Monsieur Luminot in," said Honorine.

"Neighborliness is about to commence," murmured Agathe; "I have an idea that this man is a bore!"

"My dear girl, we are not in the world solely to enjoy ourselves; we need no other proof than all the trials that are imposed on us."

Monsieur Luminot, former wine merchant, was a tall, stout man, with a red face; an excellent type of those rustic buffoons, who deem themselves very clever because they make a great deal of noise wherever they are, and are always the first to laugh at what they themselves say; a device which very rarely fails to arouse the laughter of those who listen, especially as those who listen to such fellows are generally entitled to be numbered among Panurge's sheep.

"I must wear it out," he would say; "it's very good still. I can't have another coat made while this looks like a new one."

"Good-morning, mesdames, how do you do? Allow me to congratulate myself on the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

"Pray be seated, monsieur," said Honorine, offering a chair to her visitor, who entered the room with a radiant expression and approached her as if he proposed to begin by embracing her.

"With pleasure, belle dame; I don't like to remain standing, one has enough of that in the street. Ha! ha! ha! that is a mot! you will excuse me, I know; I make many mots! I am an inveterate joker. Ha! ha! ha! As the ballad says: 'We must laugh, we must drink to hospitality.'—I believe it's in Le Déserteur, but I am not quite sure."

"Does monsieur live in the neighborhood?"

"Oh! a thousand pardons! I am a reckless fellow," rejoined the former wine merchant; "I made a mistake; I had not looked carefully at mademoiselle; I see now that you are her aunt."

"You are not a sorcerer to-day, monsieur, you do not guess right. Agathe is simply my friend; but I love her like a daughter and a sister at once."

"We haven't seen it yet."

After a moment or two, Monsieur Luminot, discomfited to find that he was laughing all by himself and that his jests did not make the ladies gasp with merriment, rose to go, saying:

"Pardon me, ladies, for disturbing you in your household duties; I do not desire to intrude. I leave you, hoping that you will permit me to cultivate your delectable acquaintance."

"Whenever it is agreeable to you, monsieur," said Honorine, rising to show her visitor to the door.

"Those women are very good-looking," he said to himself as he went away, "but they don't seem to be very cheerful."

"Mon Dieu! what a foolish man!" cried Agathe, when Monsieur Luminot had gone. "If that's a fair specimen of the society of the place, we shall do well to deprive ourselves of it."

"My dear girl, we must not be too severe; everything is relative. It may be that this gentleman is very agreeable in the circle that he frequents; we are not yet accustomed to his language, but perhaps we shall end by laughing at it with the rest."

"Let us hope that we shall never reach that point."

Not five minutes after the former dealer in wines had taken his leave, Poucette announced that Monsieur Jarnouillard desired to know if he could see the ladies.

"This is our day for callers," said Honorine; "let us see Monsieur Jarnouillard; he is married, and he comes first, which surprises me; he must be anxious to know us.—Show the gentleman in."

The newcomer was a man of some fifty years, very thin, very ugly, and very slovenly in his dress, although it was plain that he had tried to make himself clean for his visit to his neighbors. He wore a cravat that was almost white, and a shirt collar almost black; a long redingote, which fell to his heels, and might at need be used as a dressing-gown; shoes half blacked; and a broad-brimmed straw hat like those worn by women who work in the fields.

Monsieur Jarnouillard had a long, pointed nose, a square, protruding chin, prominent cheek-bones, tawny, furtive eyes, thin, compressed lips and an earth-colored complexion, like one who deems any sort of ablution superfluous.

All this formed an ensemble which did not prepossess one in his favor.

"Mesdames, pray permit me to pay my respects," said Monsieur Jarnouillard in a clear, metallic voice, pronouncing every syllable distinctly. "Jarnouillard, land-owner and annuitant; it is several years since I retired from business and came to this place to live, with my wife. She will come to pay her respects to you; she did not come with me to-day because we have a stew for dinner and she had to stay at home to watch it; we have no servant, my wife does everything; it amuses her and distracts her thoughts. I have asked her several times: 'Do you want a maid? if so, take one.'—But she replies: 'Indeed I will not! to have everything stolen!'—It is true that servants are a vile lot; one is very lucky when one can do without them."

"Since it suits yourself and your wife, monsieur, you are very sensible to adopt that course; one should always follow one's own tastes, and not worry about what people may say."

"You are perfectly right, madame, you speak very wisely. I think that you will like this neighborhood, although there are very few people to associate with."

"We did not come here for the society, monsieur."

"You have bought this house of Courtivaux's, it isn't large, but it's large enough if there are only you two."

"And one servant, monsieur; we are not afraid of being robbed, you see."

"An additional reason, monsieur, why we should be happy because we are able to employ someone belonging to them."

"Yes, when they know how to serve; but I doubt very much whether that tall girl knows how to do anything; where can she have learned?"

"She will learn with us, monsieur, and I congratulate myself every day on having taken her into my service, for she is exceedingly zealous, willing and intelligent."

Monsieur Jarnouillard simply bowed, while he inspected once more everything within his range of vision. Then he resumed:

"Madame is a widow?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Without children?"

"Alas! yes, monsieur! I had a son, but I lost him!"

"The old fool!" muttered Agathe; "to revive my dear love's sorrow with his questions! What an inquisitive man!"

"We haven't any children either, my wife and I, and we congratulate ourselves on it every day! it's just so much less turmoil and trouble!"

"And I, monsieur, do not pass a day without regretting the son whom I lost; to my mind, it is so much less of happiness and of the purest love!"

Monsieur Jarnouillard bowed again; then he continued:

"Twenty thousand, monsieur, and I do not consider it dear."

"Pardon me—the garden is small, and it yields nothing; you haven't enough rooms to let——"

"It has never been my intention, monsieur, to try to let rooms to strangers. My house is quite large enough for my friend and myself, and that is enough."

"Oh! that makes a difference. You have furnished it very nicely; it was furnished already, but you have added various things; this couch was Monsieur Courtivaux's, but that étagère wasn't here, or these easy-chairs—Oh, yes! they did belong to Monsieur Courtivaux, but those two pictures weren't his."

"I should say, monsieur, that you had taken an inventory of the property. You must know how many trees there are in the garden?"

"Not exactly, but very nearly; and wretched trees, too—worth nothing! oh! miserable trees!"

"Monsieur doesn't know much about trees, I judge," exclaimed Agathe angrily. "We have the finest lindens it is possible to imagine!"

"Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle, but I consider no trees good that do not bear good fruit and in large quantity. The linden bears nothing—oh, yes! they do make an infusion of the leaves, but you can buy a great quantity for two sous! As a general rule, the land hereabout is poor; it's very stony."

"Oh! as a matter of business, you know. I still do a little something. When I can accommodate people, I never refuse, although it's very dangerous, they are all so tricky!—There's a piano which certainly was not here in Monsieur Courtivaux's time. Are you ladies fond of music?"

"Very, monsieur."

"It's very nice for people who have nothing to do. My wife used to play the guitar a little, but I put a stop to it; she broke too many strings; and then, when a woman wants to look after her housekeeping, she must give up music. I said to her: 'My dear love, you must choose: if you keep on playing the guitar, your dishes will be badly washed.'—She realized the force of that reasoning, and the instrument was sold."

"That does credit to your good wife, monsieur, but everybody hasn't so pronounced a fondness for washing dishes; my friend and I are not conscious of a vocation for that—are we, Agathe?"

The pretty blonde smiled at her friend, and Monsieur Jarnouillard regarded Agathe for some moments.

"Is mademoiselle related to you?"

"No, monsieur, she is my friend."

"Ah! I see—her parents placed her in your care?"

The two ladies, who were beginning to be annoyed by their visitor's questions, thought fit not to answer; but their silence did not deter him.

"If I ever marry, monsieur," said Agathe, "it will be according to my own taste, and not by the interposition of strangers."

"We can't tell, mademoiselle, there's no knowing. I have arranged several marriages; they didn't turn out well, it is true, but one can never answer for results.—Really, you are very comfortable here, it is quite elegant. Let us see the other rooms."

And the gentleman rose and was about to walk into an adjoining room; but Honorine closed the door, observing somewhat curtly:

"Pardon me, monsieur, but that room is not arranged yet, and no one can go in."

"Oh! that makes a difference; some other time then. I must go home, for I am afraid my wife has forgotten to skim her stew."

"That would be surprising on the part of a person who washes dishes so well."

Honorine escorted the visitor to the door, and bowed, but did not utter a word. As soon as he had disappeared, Agathe cried:

"Oh! what a horrid man! so inquisitive and presuming! He has a bad word for everything."

"You see, Agathe, that, as compared with Monsieur Jarnouillard, we are driven to regret Monsieur Luminot!"

"That is so; he may be a fool, but he hasn't such a nasty, sneering way. Mon Dieu! if Madame Jarnouillard is like her husband, she must be perfectly ghastly!"

"There was no need of his being so emphatic about not insisting that people should call on him; he need have no fear—we shall never set foot inside his door."

A quarter of an hour after Monsieur Jarnouillard's departure, Poucette appeared once more, with a smile on her face, saying:

"Now it's Monsieur le Docteur Antoine Beaubichon, who asks permission to salute the ladies."

The short, stout, puffy little man, who gasped for breath when he had climbed a flight of stairs or walked a little faster than usual, appeared in his turn, and saluted the two ladies as old acquaintances.

"It is I, madame, come to pay my respects—that is to say, if I don't disturb you; if my presence at this moment is inopportune, pray tell me, and I will go at once."

"No, monsieur le docteur, your presence is not inopportune; on the contrary, we hope that it will make up to us in some measure for the visit we have just received."

"Ah! have you had visitors from Paris?"

"Not from Paris, but from the neighborhood: first, Monsieur Luminot; he seemed to us to be very jovial, although his jests are not always in the best taste; but after him there came a certain Monsieur Jarnouillard.—Really, we could very well have done without his visit! Everything about the man is disagreeable,—his face, his dress, his language; and his curiosity is beyond words!"

"More than ever, doctor; and our house pleases us so much that we never leave it."

"Haven't you seen our square yet, the Poncelet promenade?"

"No, but it seems that it is very pretty, for we have already heard of it."

"Why, yes; it's a square worthy of a large city.—And then you mustn't judge our society by Monsieur Jarnouillard; we have some very pleasant people—large land-owners; to be sure, they stay at home and rarely come to our houses.—Have you been to walk in the direction of the Tower yet?"

"Not yet; but we already know the owner of the place, doctor."

"Really? you know him?"

"That is to say, we met him and his dog on the bank of the Marne, on our way to Poucette's uncle's field."

"Well, what do you think of the man? Hasn't he something savage in his expression?"

"Why, no; he has the look of a man who doesn't care for society, and who doesn't shave; but, as he walked by very rapidly, I couldn't examine him closely."

"But I," said Agathe, "won the heart of his beautiful dog. He looked at me and caressed me. His master had to call him, to induce him to leave me."

"Oh! the good dog! how grateful the child's parents must be to him!"

"Parents?—the little fellow who was drowning hasn't any; it was the lost child."

"The lost child! Mon Dieu! what does that mean?"

"The peasants have given that name to the little fellow, because no one, not even his nurse, knows to whom he belongs. It's a mysterious story."

"Tell us about it, doctor; you always have interesting things to tell, and we enjoy them ever so much."

"You see—the local disease, curiosity, is taking hold of you!"

"That's very possible; but tell us about the lost child."

"Naturally the poor sister asked nothing better than to join her sister who was wealthy, or, at least, in comfortable circumstances. So she arrived at Chelles one fine day with a little boy about three years and a half old.

"'Hallo!' said Madame Tourniquoi to Jacqueline—that is her sister's name—'I thought you didn't have any children, that you lost your only one when he was only a year old. But never mind, you and your son are welcome.'

"'This little fellow isn't mine,' replied Jacqueline, 'it's a foster-child that was placed in my charge, and left on my hands. I'll tell you how it happened. I was nursing my boy, who was four months old, and as we weren't rich, I said to my husband, who was alive then: "I'm going to Paris, to enter my name at the nurses' bureau, and then I'll wait for a child to nurse."—He agreed, so I started for Paris. When I got there, I asked a lady who was passing, what way I should go to get to the nurses' bureau. The lady, who was dressed very simply, examined me for some time, then she says:

"'"You mean to go to the nurses' bureau and enter your name and get a child to nurse?"

"'"Yes, madame," I says, "I've come to Paris just for that."

"'"Where do you come from?"

"'"I live at Morfontaine, ten leagues from Paris."

"'I listened to the lady with joy in my heart; I was delighted to find what I wanted just as soon as I got out of the stage, and I was glad, too, to get the child of a rich person, because they always pay better. So I told the lady that I asked nothing better than to go with her; then she took me to a big square where there was lots of carriages, told me to get into one of them with her, said something quietly to the driver, and we started.

"'I don't know anything about Paris, and I don't know where they took me. At last the carriage stopped; we were in a narrow, dirty street, and I says to myself: "It's a funny thing that rich people in Paris should live in such nasty streets!" But the lady says to me:

"'"We're going in at the rear of the house, because the noise of the carriage can't be heard so distinctly and it don't bother madame la baronne so much."

"'"Good," says I to myself, "the child's mother's a baroness—that's fine."

"'I waited quite a long time; at last she came back after me and took me into another room, where I saw a handsome lady stretched on a beautiful couch with a pile of cushions under her. Oh! she was terrible pretty, that lady was! she was dark, and her long black hair was combed smooth and fell over her shoulders on both sides. And her eyes! oh! what eyes! they were big and black, and I never saw such bright eyes, but they weren't soft. By the lady's side, in a dainty little cradle, was the little three days old boy; he was strong and healthy, I tell you, although he'd never had anything but the bottle. But when I offered him the breast at a sign from his mother—my word! you should have seen how the little rascal bit at it!

"'While the child was nursing, the handsome lady seemed to be doing a lot of thinking. At last she says to me:

"'"I see that this child will be in good hands with you, and I place him in your care. How much do you want a month?"

"'I made bold to ask for thirty francs; I didn't expect to get it, but the lady agreed right off; she took a purse from under a cushion and took out a hundred and fifty francs in gold, and gave it to me.