They had all returned to their duties. But hardly an hour had passed since the count's return, when a young woman appeared at the gate. The gardener happened to be alone in front of the house at that moment, and he admitted Violette, for it was she who had arrived at Nogent and had succeeded in finding the house she had sought.
"Is this Monsieur Malberg's house?" the girl asked timidly.
"Yes, mamzelle, this is the place."
"Is Monsieur Malberg at home?"
"Yes, he came back from Paris about an hour ago."
"And could I—could I speak to him?"
"Oh, yes! I think so. But come in, mamzelle, and I will go and tell monsieur."
Violette passed through the gate tremblingly; the gardener, who had taken a step or two toward the house, returned to her and said:
"Who shall I tell monsieur? What is your name?"
"My name, monsieur—but it isn't worth while; Monsieur Malberg won't remember my name; or else, perhaps then he wouldn't want to,—and in that case I would rather—oh dear! I don't know!"
"Bless my soul! I don't know either."
"Just be kind enough to tell Monsieur Malberg that it's a girl who has come from Paris, and who would like to speak to him."
"Very good."
The gardener went into the house; Violette glanced timidly about, hoping that in those beautiful avenues which she admired, in the fields which she saw in the distance, she might catch a glimpse of Georget; then she said to herself with a sigh:
"No, it is much better that he shouldn't see me, for he would think that I came here after him, and he would be quite capable of running away from this house too."
"If mamzelle will come this way, monsieur is ready to receive her," said the gardener, returning.
Violette was greatly agitated, but she followed her guide toward the house.
The count was in his study on the ground floor; all the curtains at the windows were drawn, night was coming on, and the room was dark and silent.
"Here's the young woman," said the gardener, pushing Violette before him, as she did not dare go in, and saying in her ear:
"Don't be afraid, he won't eat you!"
"Who is it who wishes to see me?" said the count, who was seated at his desk.
"Excuse me, monsieur, it is I."
Violette had finally made up her mind to enter the room; she was then close to Monsieur de Brévanne's desk, and he, as he raised his eyes, was thunderstruck to see the young flower girl before him.
"What! you? you here, in my house?" he cried, almost angrily.
"Yes, monsieur, yes; you recognize me, do you not, monsieur?"
"Recognize you? oh, yes; your features are too deeply engraven in my memory!—But once more, mademoiselle, why have you come here? Who sent you?"
"Sent me? No one sent me, monsieur; I have come of my own accord. It is very bold on my part, no doubt, but when one does not know which way to turn, when one receives fresh insults every day, which one does not deserve—for I swear to you, monsieur, that I have no fault to reproach myself with, that I can walk with my head erect, that I can look my comrades in the face without blushing; and yet I am suspected, and more than that, people say that I am a good-for-nothing, and those who ought to defend me are the first to abandon me, to despise me. Oh! I am very unhappy, monsieur. Excuse me for coming to tell you this; I know that it doesn't interest you, and yet, if you would take up my defence, monsieur, I am very sure that people would believe you; and he—he who is here at your house, with his mother, if you should tell him that it's horrible to say unkind things about me—for what he believes he tells to others, to his friends, and yesterday Chicotin, who is a good fellow, although he loafs too much, Chicotin, who has always been friendly to me, why, even he insulted me, he treated me with contempt! Ah! that was too much; I felt that my courage was giving way; and to get back a little of it, I thought of you, monsieur, who like so much to do good; I said to myself that you would take pity on a poor girl without parents, without friends, without anybody on earth to help her; that you would defend her; and that is why I came, monsieur."
Violette ceased to speak and waited for the count to answer her; but he seemed absorbed in his thoughts, his head had fallen upon his breast, and he said nothing.
After a pause, the girl continued:
"Monsieur seemed the other day to take a little interest in me, and that is what encouraged me to come here."
"Ah! in my house! you!" cried Brévanne, roused from his meditations by these words; "why, you know very well, mademoiselle, that my house is no place for you; that you less than any other ought to come here; that it's like defying me, like hurling an insult in my face, to come here!"
Violette felt her strength giving way; as she was utterly unable to understand the indignation of this man who had been described to her as so kind-hearted, she lowered her eyes and faltered:
"Monsieur, I did not know—I did not think—God knows that I had no such intention as you suppose. Excuse me, monsieur, I see that I did wrong to come, as it makes you angry; but I thought that you would have pity on me, a poor girl, alone on earth, without——"
"Without parents? Who told you that you were without parents? I am almost certain that you have parents, for I know them."
"Mon Dieu! can it be possible, monsieur, that you know my parents, that you can tell me whether my mother is still alive? Oh! for heaven's sake, do not deceive me, do not give me a false hope! See, monsieur, as your questions the other day led me to think that you might help me to find my family, to-day, when I came here, I thought I would bring with me the only object that I have that belonged to my parents."
"Ah! you have something that proves to whom you belong—a paper, a letter, no doubt? Give it to me, give it to me; I shall recognize their handwriting."
"No, monsieur, it isn't handwriting, it's nothing but a handkerchief. It seems that it was among the things they gave my nurse to procure clothes for me; you see I had a very strange kind of layette, monsieur; there were trousers in it and waistcoats and cravats; probably my parents thought I was a boy."
"But this handkerchief—"
"The handkerchief my nurse thought was so beautiful, so nicely embroidered, that she did not cut it up to make me a cap, but she kept it for me. Mon Dieu! now I can't find it; but I am sure that I brought it. Ah! here it is, monsieur, here it is."
And Violette handed the count a handkerchief of the finest linen, with embroidery in each corner. The count walked to a window, examined the embroidery, and recognized his wife's monogram and his own, as well as his coat of arms and his coronet.
That proof was convincing; it removed Monsieur de Brévanne's last doubt; and although he was previously almost certain that Violette was the daughter of his wife and of Roncherolle, on recognizing the monogram, he felt a violent wrench at his heart, and a shudder ran through his veins; for, however suspicious one may be of a fact, there is a vast distance between that and certainty.
"Does monsieur see on the handkerchief anything that helps him to identify my parents, and to tell whether they are still alive?" murmured Violette, while the count kept his eyes fixed on the handkerchief.
"Yes, yes, I have no doubt whatever now, and I had rightly divined who you were."
"In that case, monsieur will certainly tell me——"
"But whoever entrusted you to a nurse must have given you some name, have told her the name of your parents, or given her their address. Tell me, mademoiselle, what name did they give? Answer; I insist that you conceal nothing from me!"
The count's wrathful expression, and the tone in which he questioned the girl, made her tremble; poor Violette dared not meet the angry glances that were bent upon her, and she hardly had the strength to reply:
"Mon Dieu, monsieur, I am not concealing anything; on the contrary, I came here to find out. I don't remember my nurse, but the kind lady who took me in, and who brought me up and took me to Paris, was careful to write down all that the nurse had told her. That is how I know that the gentleman who placed me in the nurse's charge told her that my name was Evelina de Paulausky; but he didn't give any address; he said that he would come to see me, that he would write; but no one came, no one ever wrote, they forgot me, abandoned me; that is all that I know, monsieur, absolutely all; for if I knew anything else, why should I not tell it to you, monsieur, as it might help me to find out who my parents are?"
"Evelina de Paulausky!" exclaimed the count, pacing the floor. "At least they had the decency to conceal their names! But Roncherolle? Why didn't he give her his?—Because, after doing the wrong, he did not choose to take the consequences, and they considered that the simplest way was to abandon the child. Ah! the wretches!"
Violette waited in fear and trembling for the count to speak to her; for she saw from his excitement, and from the threatening expression of his face, that he was still angry, and she dared not question him further; but, as time passed and the count, absorbed in his reflections, continued to pace the floor and to pay no attention to the girl, she mustered all her courage and said to him at last:
"Since you know my parents, monsieur, in pity's name be kind enough to tell me who they are. Is my mother still alive?"
"Your parents?" cried Brévanne, halting suddenly in front of the girl; "your parents? Ah! you want to know who they are, do you? Well, learn that you are the child of crime—treachery! Your mother was false to all her duties, she was false to the oaths she had taken to an honorable man, she was obliged to lay aside the name which she had sullied. Your father! ah! your father betrayed friendship in the most dastardly way; believing in nothing, respecting nothing, mocking at all that is held sacred in the world, turning to ridicule the most sacred sentiments, he betrayed his best friend!"
"Oh! pity, pity for them, monsieur!"
"Pity! why, you see that they had no pity for you;—for they abandoned you—and now you think that I will take care of you,—of you, their child, the fruit of their adulterous intercourse!—No, no! I do not want to see you again; your presence reopens all my wounds.—Leave my house, mademoiselle, and enter it no more."
"Oh! pardon, pardon, monsieur! if I had known——"
"As for this handkerchief, which belonged to your mother, I will keep it, for there are monograms on it and a coat of arms which you have no right to retain. Go, go; I do not want to see you any more; your presence distresses me."
Violette felt as if she were dying; but the count's wrath terrified her; utterly crushed by what she had learned, she had not the strength to say a word; she left the study and the house; two streams of tears flowed from her eyes, and she did not think of wiping them away. She crossed the lawn and went toward the gate; the gardener, who was still there, struck by the girl's suffering, called to her, asked her why she was weeping, and urged her to stop a moment in the summer-house, observing that the weather was very threatening and that a storm was brewing. Violette did not listen, or did not hear, but walked on at a rapid pace, and soon passed through the gate and left the count's residence behind.
Despairing, humiliated, distressed beyond measure at having been so maltreated by the man who had made Georget and his mother welcome, Violette walked for a long time without any idea where she was going. But what did it matter to her? She paid no heed to the road that she was following, but she walked very quickly; not to gain shelter from the rain which was beginning to fall, for she did not feel it; her head was on fire, her limbs shook with fever; but she walked on, saying to herself:
"I am a child of crime! my mother was guilty, my father was false to friendship! ah! no doubt that is the reason why he drives me from his house, and forbids me to ask help and protection from him. Well, in that case, it is not worth while to live; it was not enough to have been abandoned by my parents; now that people know who I am, I must expect to be turned away with contempt wherever I go. How he treated me, that gentleman who is said to be so kind! Oh, no! I cannot live like this, I am too unhappy. Despised by the whole world,—I had done nothing to deserve that; and now my birth is thrown in my face! Did I ask to be born?"
Violette walked on, but darkness came on rapidly and soon she could see nothing, and kept running against trees. She had gone astray in the wood of Vincennes, and the rain was falling in torrents. The poor girl leaned against a small tree, whose foliage was insufficient to protect her from the storm; but she did not notice the water which drenched her garments, for she was absorbed by her grief. A little covered wagon, drawn by a meagre horse, passed along the road by the side of which Violette had stopped; a peasant, who was inside, saw the girl exposed to the fury of the storm; he stopped his wagon and called out to her:
"You are not in a very good place there; you are getting the whole of it; get in with me; if you are going to Paris, I'll put you down at the Barrière de Belleville."
"Thanks, monsieur, thanks, it isn't worth while;" replied Violette in a feeble voice. "I am all right here."
"All right! oh, yes! you are all right to catch a sickness; I won't leave a woman in the woods at this time of night, and in such weather as this!—Oho! you don't want to get in, don't you?—Well, I am going to make you! yes, I tell you you've got to get in!"
The peasant jumped down from his wagon, took the girl under the arms, forced her to the step, put one foot upon it and at last succeeded in making her get in. Violette submitted like a child. The peasant seated her upon his cabbages and carrots, saying:
"You will be better in here than under that little tree, catching all the rain; you're wet through already, and I'm sure that's what made you numb. Poor girl, she can't talk nor move her legs; but the jolting of the wagon will warm her up.—Come on, get up, Blanchet!"
Blanchet started; the cart, having no springs, did in fact shake its occupants in a fashion well calculated to rouse their wits. Violette submitted to the jolting, and said nothing; she seemed indifferent to all that went on about her; she understood but one thing, and that was that she ought not to live any longer, because she would be despised by everybody; she was unhappy enough when she went to Nogent in the morning; now she was desperate, and she came away from there with death in her heart; she had hoped to find consolation and protection there, but she had found shame and contempt; she had been turned away, and she did not feel that she had the strength to endure that last affront.
The peasant who had taken the girl into his wagon did not notice her gloomy despair; as he talked all the time, as he asked questions and answered them all himself, other persons did not need to open their mouths with him; his mouth was a word-mill, which was always at work. Thus they arrived at the Barrière de la Courtille, where the peasant stopped Blanchet, and said to the girl:
"My child, this is where I stop; I can't take you any further. But here you are in Paris, and the best part of it is that the rain has stopped; indeed I believe that the weather is going to be fine again; it wouldn't surprise me. I will help you down, for you must have limbered up by now, haven't you? My wagon always produces that effect. Come, lean on me—that's the way! You see, there's Faubourg du Temple in front of you, and the boulevard's at the end of it. That's the way you want to go; all right, good luck; but you'd better dry yourself as soon as you get home."
The peasant left the young girl and entered a wine shop. Violette had not even found a word of thanks to say to the good-natured man; she was in the street, she looked at the barrier, passed her hand over her forehead as if to collect her thoughts, then entered Paris, saying to herself:
"I know where I am, the canal is over yonder!"
Violette was no longer weeping, her eyes were dry. She walked rapidly through the faubourg, and when she reached the canal, instead of crossing the bridge, she turned to the left and walked for some time along the bank. It was ten o'clock at night, and there were few people on the path that she followed. A fatal idea had taken possession of the girl's mind—she was determined to die; she thought that she was dishonored because the man whose assistance she had implored had turned her out of his house. She said to herself that Georget could never love her again now, and she was resolved to rid herself of an existence which would henceforth be nothing but torture to her.
Suddenly she stopped and looked about her; no one was passing. She stepped over the chain which was between her and the edge of the canal. In front of her there was a large coal barge; she hesitated a moment, then she reflected that she could throw herself into the water from the barge without being seen. She crossed a plank and was soon aboard of the barge; and before jumping into the water, she fell to her knees and murmured this prayer:
"O my God! forgive me; it is a crime that I am about to commit, but I no longer feel strong enough to endure life, to be despised by everybody, although I have not committed the sins of which I am accused. He can no longer love me, for his protector turns me out of his house; but perhaps he will regret me, and will learn some day that I was innocent."
She had no sooner finished these words than she rose and rushed forward; but someone who was hidden within a few steps of her and who had heard her prayer, stepped out and stopped her, holding her in a powerful grasp, and exclaiming:
"Upon my word! jump into the water! by all that's good! you shan't do it. God help me! how glad I am that I happened to be here, and that I took Père Chiffon's place as watchman on the barge! Poor Mamzelle Violette! you—mean to die?"
"Yes, because I am despised by everyone."
"Oh! you won't be any more, mamzelle, you won't be any more! In the first place, not by me, Chicotin, for I heard you just now talking to the good Lord, and people don't lie to Him. I heard you, poor girl! you are innocent, and I understand how you must have suffered; but I will be one of the first to do you justice."
And Chicotin fell on his knees before the girl, took off his cap, and said to her in a humble voice:
"Mamzelle, I ask your pardon for suspecting you, for believing ugly things that were said about you. To-day I would swear before all the magistrates that you have never ceased to be virtuous. So forgive me, mamzelle, for suspecting you."
Chicotin's touching act, the words that he had uttered, revolutionized Violette's whole being; her tears flowed afresh, but this time they were soothing and relieved her; her heart expanded, she breathed more freely, it seemed to her that she had returned to life. She held out her hands to the young messenger, saying:
"Thanks, thanks, my friend; what you have done is well, I feel greatly relieved; yes, I no longer feel as I did; it seems to me as if you had relieved me of a heavy load that I was carrying here on my breast. Ah! I do not want to die now."
"Is that really so, Mamzelle Violette, is it really so? I tell you, that if I was still uneasy about that, I wouldn't leave you any more than your shadow."
"No, Chicotin, I no longer want to die, I swear; you have brought me back to life; and now, I will tell you that I am glad that you prevented me from carrying out my fatal design."
"Ah! that's what I call talking; but what was the cause of this attack of despair? Has somebody else been making you unhappy?"
Violette told Chicotin about her trip to Nogent, and of how she had been treated by Georget's protector.
"Mamzelle," said the young messenger, "that isn't natural; to make that gentleman, that people tell so much good about, get so angry with you, there must be something about your birth that isn't clear, and that worries him tremendously. Ah! if Georget had seen you sent away like that, I am very sure that he would have taken up your defence!"
"No, for he believes me guilty, he despises me."
"Oh, I will open his eyes, I will!"
"What I regret is that Monsieur Malberg kept that handkerchief, which was all that I had that belonged to my parents; for he said he wouldn't give it back to me."
"Oh! never fear, mamzelle, he'll have to give it back to you; I'll see to that.—But come, mamzelle, let's go away from here; I will take you home. The coal can look out for itself; besides, you live here in the faubourg, I believe."
"No, Chicotin; I have taken another room in a quieter house, on Rue de Crussol, and I've been living there a week."
"Rue de Crussol! I have a customer there. It would be funny if it was the same house. Come, mamzelle, take my arm; you are trembling and cold; I'll bet that you've got a fever."
"Perhaps so, a little; I got wet through; I have just come from Nogent, and I was out in part of the storm."
"You must go to bed at once when you get home, and try to keep very warm."
Violette took the young messenger's arm. They crossed the bridge at Rue d'Angoulême, and soon reached Rue de Crussol. The girl stopped in front of the house where Chicotin had found rooms for Roncherolle.
"This is the place," said Violette.
"Ah! what a coincidence! this is my customer's house. Which floor do you live on?"
"Oh! way up at the top, under the eaves; I believe it's the sixth floor; but the room is very pleasant, I assure you."
"That must be right over my gouty man. Is Mère Lamort your concierge?"
"Yes, a very good-hearted woman who always wants to get my breakfast."
"Well, mamzelle, take my advice and tell her to bring you up a mulled egg to-night; that will prevent you from being sick. Good-night, mamzelle; when I go to see my old gentleman, I'll ask the concierge about you. You don't bear me any grudge, mamzelle, do you?"
"Oh! no indeed, Chicotin; on the contrary, you prevented me from committing a crime, and you have brought hope back to my heart."
"Good-night then, mamzelle; I'll go back to look after the coal."
Let us turn back a little and pay a visit to Madame de Grangeville, whom we left at the moment when she found herself alone with her husband, in the little wood belonging to Monsieur Glumeau.
That meeting excited the lady intensely, not with that emotion which makes the heart beat fast by recalling pleasant memories, for the baroness had always been too much of a flirt to be sentimental; but the sight of her husband had caused her anxiety, almost terror; then, turning back for a moment to the past and comparing it with her present situation, she had been unable to keep from regretting the position which she occupied when she was Comtesse de Brévanne, and the fortune which permitted her to gratify all her whims.
The five hundred francs which Monsieur de Merval had handed her, on the pretence that he owed them to her, had not lasted long in the hands of a woman who had always been a consumer of money.
When Madame de Grangeville saw at a milliner's a hat or a bonnet to her liking, she must have it, no matter at what price. As for the interior of her establishment, we have seen that she turned over the management of it to her maid Lizida; the result was that the creditors were numerous.
On the morning after the little party given by the Glumeaus, at which the baroness was present, she rang for Lizida the instant she woke.
"Did madame enjoy herself yesterday at Nogent?" asked the maid. "Madame returned at daybreak, I believe. Was there a carriage there to bring madame back to Paris?"
"Oh! my dear Lizida, I have many things to tell you. Yes, some young gentlemen brought me back in their carriage. They were very good-looking, those same young gentlemen, and dressed in the latest fashion. But if you knew whom I met at the party! I am still all of a quiver thinking of it!"
"Some suitor, some lover of madame, who would have liked to abduct her by force, to carry her off into the country?"
"Oh, no! you are nowhere near it!—At that party I met—my husband!"
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, Lizida, and you must understand how that upset me. Luckily it was in the woods; he was not very near me, but I recognized him instantly; he has hardly changed at all; it is surprising, but I really thought that he was better-looking than he used to be."
"And of course he recognized madame too?"
"Oh! instantly; I saw that by his expression."
"He looked at madame with affection, I warrant?"
"No, there was no affection in his eyes. He is such a proud man, so absurdly proud! Just imagine that everybody else had left, and we two were all alone in the woods."
"Did madame try to have an interview with her husband?"
"No, I did not want to. But I don't know what the matter was with me; my emotion took away all my strength, and I could not move; I was afraid."
"What folly! and monsieur your husband took advantage of that moment to fall at your knees, to ask your pardon for his base conduct——"
"Oh! yes, of course! He glanced at me askance; he was leaning against a tree, and I assure you that I didn't feel safe at all. Luckily the company, disturbed at my non-appearance in the salon, sent three or four young men to look for me; they found me in the woods, and I assure you that I was very glad to go back with them."
"And after that—your husband?"
"Oh! he didn't come into the salon, and I was delighted. I didn't see him again.—Well, Lizida, what do you say to all this?"
"Faith, madame, I say that monsieur le comte certainly is not agreeable; when he found himself alone with a charming little woman like madame, after a long separation, then or never was the time to throw himself at her feet, to be reconciled, and to come together again!"
"Yes, it is certain that many husbands would have done that."
"And madame is so kind, I am sure that she would have forgiven him."
"That is very possible; but, however, that didn't happen. All the same, I am delighted that that man saw me with the dress I wore yesterday; he could not have suspected that I am short of money."
"Madame's costume was certainly magnificent."
"Just look in my bureau, Lizida, in the top drawer, and see how much money I still have."
Mademoiselle Lizida looked into the drawer and answered:
"Madame, I find twenty francs."
"What! only twenty francs! and you changed a note for five hundred only a few days ago! It isn't possible; you haven't looked thoroughly."
"I assure you, madame, that there is no more. But if madame will remember all that she has spent, she will understand that there can hardly be any more.—In the first place, we paid the dressmaker one hundred and twenty-three francs, then the grocer ten francs, and after that fifty more, because he came and made a row."
"That is true; it is hateful to have to give so much money to those people."
"And then, madame bought that lovely hat that she wore yesterday—sixty francs, I believe."
"Yes, and that was none too much."
"And then madame bought that superb silk dress with the figured flounces—one hundred and twenty francs, I believe——"
"Yes, it was as cheap as dirt!"
"All these make nearly four hundred francs; and then there were purchases at the perfumer's, gloves, and so forth; and then, we have had to live. So madame sees that she can hardly have more than twenty francs left."
"That is true. Mon Dieu! how the money goes! somebody ought to invent something else, of which one could have more. Well, I must not hesitate any longer; whatever the course of the market, I must sell my Mouzaias!"
Madame de Grangeville ordered her last resources sold; the securities that had cost her two thousand francs produced barely nine hundred. With that sum the baroness's household went on for some time; but as she still had many debts and the creditors became threatening, it was necessary to give them something on account; and with her mania for gratifying all her fancies, Madame de Grangeville was incapable of economizing. The result was that the end soon came of the proceeds of the Mouzaias, and then she was obliged to forego gratifying her caprices; then she was compelled, in spite of herself, to reflect, to think of the future; and that was appalling for that woman, who had never known how to occupy her time, even in those kinds of work which well-born women do not disdain, and which become a resource when adversity succeeds cloudless days.
Madame de Grangeville was obliged constantly to send to the Mont-de-Piété some article of clothing or some jewel, in order to obtain money. She was surprised at the very small amounts which they advanced on these objects, but Mademoiselle Lizida, who became much less amiable as the resources diminished, did not scruple to say to her mistress:
"Perhaps madame thinks that they will lend her what these cost! madame imagines that the frippery for which she has paid so much has some value. Not much! for example, a bonnet or a hat that madame paid forty francs for at the Temple, they will advance fifteen sous on. And the trouble is that madame bought such things so often; that is what ruined us."
"But that silk dress that you carried to-day to pawn, Lizida, is not frippery; it is one I bought to go to the Glumeaus' at Nogent—about two months ago; it isn't worn at all, and it cost me one hundred and twenty francs."
"True, but it's faded, and there's spots on it; madame spots her clothes terribly; the design isn't fashionable any longer, nor is the color; in fact, I shall have difficulty in getting twenty-two francs for it, and that won't carry us far!"
Madame de Grangeville heaved a profound sigh and said to herself:
"What will happen when I have nothing more to pledge?"
"Oh! you see, madame," rejoined the lady's maid, becoming more and more familiar, "you didn't have any tact! when you met your husband in the woods at Nogent, you ought to have made some advances, have smiled graciously on him. A husband who is so rich, dear me! is worth a glance; if you had made eyes at him, it would have flattered him, and he would have come back to you."
"I don't think so," replied Madame de Grangeville coldly.
"Bless me!" rejoined the lady's maid; "unless that gentleman has some reasons—well, I don't know the explanation!"
Meanwhile the summer had given place to the autumn, and already new necessities made themselves felt. Madame was cold in the morning and wanted a fire in her room; but they often lacked wood, and instead of trying to obtain some by playing the amiable with some new dealer, Mademoiselle Lizida thought of nothing but looking for a new place, having no desire to remain at a house where there were no more profits to be had. Anxiety and annoyance aged Madame de Grangeville rapidly. In six weeks she changed more than in six years. The deprivation of a fashionable bonnet or hat was to that woman a sharper grief than all the other events of her life. The wrinkles became more numerous and more visible on her face, and she was forced to go without any of those fashionable gewgaws with which a woman often conceals them. For a coquette, that was the most cruel torture; she had not the courage to endure her ill-fortune, and by worrying over it she made its ravages more rapid.
One morning, when the wind was blowing from the north and the baroness absolutely insisted upon having a fire, Mademoiselle Lizida, having no firewood, had already broken up a chair from the reception room, and several mushroom boxes, with which she was preparing to make a brisk blaze, when the concierge rang, and delivered a letter on which there was nothing to pay.
"A letter for madame," said Lizida, as she handed the missive to her mistress. "Open it, madame; perhaps it's some good news. If somebody should send you some money, how handily it would work in just now!"
"I don't expect any," said the baroness.
"An additional reason, madame; when one expects things, they don't come; when one doesn't expect them, they come; and then, see what a lovely square letter, with three wax seals."
"That is true."
"And the lovely handwriting; it is like copper-plate."
"Yes, it is probably some circular from a scrivener. However, let us see what it is."
Madame de Grangeville had no sooner torn the envelope than several bank notes fell out; she uttered a cry of surprise, while Mademoiselle Lizida began to dance about the room, crying:
"What did I tell you, madame? Bank notes! fortune is smiling on us again! oh joy!"
"One thousand, two thousand, five hundred—somebody has sent me two thousand five hundred francs!"
"Good! we can go on for some time with that."
"By the way, Lizida, don't burn the mushroom boxes."
"That's so; we may use them again."
"Ah! here's a short letter with the notes; let me see who sends me this money—'Madame, one of your old acquaintances, knowing that fortune is not propitious at this moment, begs you to deign to accept this sum. Every six months the same person will take the liberty of sending you the same amount.'—And no signature."
"Every six months as much! that is rather nice; that makes five thousand francs a year for madame.—Ah! there's an agreeable acquaintance. But still, it doesn't surprise me; for madame is so kind, so noble, so generous when she has money, that it's no more than fair that somebody should treat her in the same way. I will bet that this comes from someone whom you have previously benefited. Does madame know the writing?"
"Dear me, no! the letter is written in the same hand as the address. It is perfect writing—too good to be the writing of anyone who does not make a business of it."
"So madame does not know, does not guess, from whom this money comes?"
"Oh! I guessed instantly. It's from the same man who obliged me once before: dear De Merval! what a delicate creature! he does not want to name himself now, he is afraid that I would refuse his help. Ah! how that man loved me, Lizida! why didn't I marry him?"
"Oh! it's a gentleman who was once in love with madame, is it?"
"Yes, indeed, much in love!"
"In that case, madame, this means that he is still. He must be a fine man! to send bank notes, and not even be willing to be thanked! there are not many friends so unselfish."
Thanks to this gift, which Madame de Grangeville attributed to Monsieur de Merval, that lady recovered her peace of mind. She had no more anxiety for the future, and she could once more give all her attention to her toilet, while Mademoiselle Lizida became as flattering as before.
It was a few days after this event that Madame de Grangeville received the bouquet which Roncherolle sent her by Chicotin.
The name of Roncherolle could not fail to quicken the beating of the woman's heart, who for that man's sake had lost the place in society which she had occupied. For many years she had not heard her former lover's name; she did not know whether he was still alive; and on learning that he was in Paris, on receiving the bouquet which proved to her that Roncherolle was still gallant, she fancied herself once more in the days of her love-affairs; she persuaded herself that she had not grown old, and she expected to find her lover still as deeply in love as before.
But the gout had prevented the gallant from following the bouquet; and in order not to allow the lady to think that he had forgotten her, we have seen that he ordered Chicotin to call upon Madame de Grangeville again and to present to her this time a bunch of violets.
"I am deeply touched by Monsieur de Roncherolle's souvenirs," the baroness said to the young messenger. "But although I love bouquets, say to him who sends you that I should much prefer to see him than these flowers. Why does he not come himself?"
Chicotin did not reply: "Because he has the gout;" for Roncherolle had forbidden him to mention that. He said whatever came into his head, and returned to make a report of his errand.
But a few days later, Roncherolle, feeling able to walk, bent his steps toward Madame de Grangeville's abode.
"Madame, there is a gentleman here who wishes to see you," said Lizida to her mistress one day.
"Did he give his name?"
"He would not; he says that he prefers to afford madame the pleasure of recognizing him."
"It is Monsieur de Merval, no doubt—the same gentleman who came last summer?"
"Oh, no! it's not that gentleman, madame; I should have recognized him. It's one whom I never saw before."
"What sort of looking man? Has he a distinguished appearance? is he stylishly dressed?"
"So far as being distinguished goes—yes, madame. He acts as if he was in the habit of being waited on. As for his dress, why, his clothes don't look as if they'd just come from the tailor's!"
"Arrange my cap, Lizida; does my hair look well?"
"Madame is pretty enough to paint."
"Well then, show the gentleman in; if by any chance it's the unknown friend who sends me bank notes!"
"Oh! he doesn't look like it, madame; or else he's well disguised."
The maid left the room, and in a moment Roncherolle was ushered into his old friend's presence.
Madame de Grangeville was seated on a causeuse, dressed in a pretty morning gown, with a charming cap on her head, beneath which great clusters of hair, curled à la neige, served as a frame to a face which unfortunately could not be arranged like the hair. The days of privation had left accursed traces which refused to disappear, despite cosmetics and inventions of the perfumer. Wrinkles are most persistent acquaintances; when they once visit us, they never go away.
Roncherolle had made himself as fine as possible; his linen was extremely white, his whole costume scrupulously neat. Unluckily that immaculate neatness could not prevent his coat's being threadbare, his overcoat shabby and of an old-fashioned cut, his trousers of a color that was no longer worn, his waistcoat very ragged on the edges, and his hat much too glossy from overmuch brushing.
Despite all this, however, the former king of fashion presented himself with his distinguished manners of long ago; but he dragged his left leg a little, leaned heavily on his cane, and on removing his hat disclosed a grizzled and almost bald head.
"Here I am, belle dame! It is I! Better late than never, eh?"
As he spoke, Roncherolle halted in front of Madame de Grangeville and scrutinized her with a peculiar expression; on her side, that lady examined closely and with an air of amazement the man before her, and tried to think where she had seen him before.
"Well! can it be that you don't recognize me?" continued Roncherolle, walking still nearer, the better to see the baroness; and he added, like a person who fears that he has made a mistake:
"Surely it is Madame de Grangeville to whom I have the honor of speaking?"
"Yes, monsieur; and you are——"
"De Roncherolle, at your service, if you will permit."
"Roncherolle; is it possible? is it really you?"
"Why, yes, it is really I, my dear Lucienne."
"Dear fellow! What a pleasure to see you again! Come and sit here, beside me."
Roncherolle limped to the causeuse, saying to himself:
"Bigre! how old she is! what a ruin!"
While the baroness thought:
"How he has changed! how ugly he has grown! I should never have known him!"
"Tell me, my dear friend," said Roncherolle, making himself comfortable on the causeuse, "didn't you expect a visit from me? Didn't you receive my bouquets?"
"I beg pardon; indeed I expected you, and most impatiently, I assure you; but the fact is——"
"That I am devilishly changed, eh? What can you expect? time spares no one; and then the gout—that makes one suffer, it wears one out!"
"Have you had the gout?"
"Yes; indeed I have it now."
"That accounts for it then; I noticed in your gait something—that you used not to have."
"I should say so; I limp like an old horse!"
"You have lost your hair too."
"I have lost a lot of things."
"You are no longer as slender as you used to be."
Roncherolle, beginning to be weary of these remarks, replied with his ironical air, pretending to laugh:
"Ha! ha! what do you expect, my dear friend? We aren't either of us what we were twenty years ago! You yourself haven't that wasp-like waist that called forth universal admiration, and those irreproachable teeth that drove all women to despair."
Madame de Grangeville flushed and bit her lips in anger. She tried, however, to maintain an affable manner as she said:
"Ah! so you find me changed? That is strange; there are people who declare that I am just the same."
"That is because those people haven't passed twelve years without seeing you. But we two old friends, old acquaintances, have not met to flatter each other. Bless me! we know each other too intimately and of too long date not to be frank between ourselves. Poor Lucienne! ha! ha!"
"Well, monsieur! what makes you laugh like that, pray?"
"Because I am thinking; I remember that you used to ride like an angel in the old days; and I myself was a very good horseman. We sat in our saddles, I like Baucher, you like a bareback rider at the Hippodrome. Well, just imagine us now if we should have to mount a horse!—Ha! ha! ha!"
Madame de Grangeville made an impatient gesture and turned her head away, saying to herself:
"Mon Dieu! what wretched ton he has now!"
"But let us drop that, my dear, and talk of our affairs a little. We parted twelve years ago—on rather bad terms, as I remember; but we were still lovers then, and lovers often quarrel; at all events, two people can't love each other forever—it grows monotonous. To-day there's no question of all that; we are old friends, and you cannot doubt the interest that I take in whatever concerns you."
"Interest! it seems to me, however, that you have displayed very little interest in me. I have passed twelve years without a word from monsieur; at that time my fortune was already much impaired, and since then I have had time to become ruined altogether, to be reduced to a very straitened, very embarrassing position; but have you troubled yourself about it? Not the least in the world! And yet it seems to me, monsieur, that if you had had any affection for me, if you had taken any interest in me, you would have had an opportunity to prove it."
"Come, come, belle dame, let us not lose our tempers, and above all let us not condemn without a hearing. You accuse me wrongfully. In the first place, I supposed that you were still in comfortable circumstances at least; and in the second place, I myself have not been for a long time in a position to assist my friends. I did it often formerly,—without reciprocity; but that would not have prevented me from continuing to do it if fortune had permitted. But she turned her back on me, she deserted me utterly; I treated her too cavalierly and she bore me ill-will. I was unlucky in everything—cards, bets, races, investments; it was impossible for me to retrieve myself in any direction! And what remains now of a handsome property?—some claims on which I can collect nothing, and a few wretched industrial stocks, which I am obliged to sell in order to live, and which will soon be all gone; that is where I am now; so that I can't think of others, being always compelled to think of myself; that is reasonable."
"Ah! so you are reduced to that!" rejoined Madame de Grangeville coldly, casting from time to time an inquisitive glance at the different parts of her former lover's attire. "That is very sad. I understand now. I said to myself: 'Why, Monsieur de Roncherolle, who was always so elegant, so coquettish in his dress—why does he neglect himself so?' But of course, if you can't do otherwise!"
Roncherolle bit his lips, swaying back and forth on the causeuse, and replied:
"Oh! that is the least of my troubles! I attach little importance to those trifles now. At our age, you see, my dear friend, coquetry serves no purpose, unless it be to make us ridiculous! When the time has come, it's no use to paint and bedeck ourselves—it doesn't take away either a wrinkle or a year!"
"He has become painfully tiresome, has this man," thought Madame de Grangeville, as she put a phial of salts to her nose. After a moment, she rejoined with a nonchalant air:
"Thank heaven! everybody hasn't deserted me; I have some friends who remember doubtless that I obliged them formerly, and one of them is giving me an allowance of five thousand francs at this moment."
"The devil! that is handsome, that is very handsome! Is it a male or a female friend who treats you in such magnificent fashion?"
"Mon Dieu! I have no idea! the person doesn't divulge his name; he prefers to remain anonymous, in order not to be thanked even. Isn't that a noble act?"
"Superb! and I regret exceedingly my inability to be the author of it. But you must certainly be able to guess, despite the mystery with which this person surrounds himself."
"No—that is to say, I have some suspicions, which I believe to be well founded."
"Indeed! but it seems that you did not suspect me?"
"Oh, no! not for one moment!"
"That is very amiable on your part."
"You see that I was right."
"But you were not aware of my unfortunate plight."
"What does that matter? as if you would ever have thought of me!"
"That is an extraordinary reproach! It seems to me that I proved to you abundantly that I thought of you in the old days."
"Yes, yes,—unfortunately.—Ah! if one could foresee what is going to happen, if one could read the future!"
"True! there are lots of things that one would not do—that one bitterly regrets having done!"
A long silence ensued. Madame de Grangeville broke it by exclaiming suddenly:
"You could never guess whom I met in the country last summer—Monsieur le Comte de Brévanne!"
"Really?"
"Yes, at a party, in a wood, where there were a great many people. I saw him at a distance in the crowd; I saw that he was looking at me and that he recognized me."
"Do you think so?"
"Do I think so! It was evident enough, for his manner was very agitated. I too recognized him instantly; he has changed hardly at all, except that his hair is turning gray; the face is still the same; he is good-looking—yes, he is a very handsome man!"
"Had you never discovered that before?"
"What an unkind thing to say to me!"
"Well! did you speak?"
"No; I am inclined to think that he was strongly tempted to speak to me; he hovered about me in the wood, and he was on the point of speaking to me, I believe, when some people came up; they surrounded me, took me away, and I lost sight of him. He must have gone away, for I didn't see him again during the evening."
"And that is all?"
"Yes, all."
"Well, madame, I too have seen Brévanne, and not very long ago."
"Is it possible? Did you meet him?"
"No, he came to the house in which I was living, expressly to see me; he had learned my address by chance."
"He came to see you—for what purpose?"
"Why, for the same purpose that led him to seek me everywhere twenty years ago—to fight me."
"To fight you! nonsense! it's impossible!"
"Why impossible, I pray to know?"
"Because men don't fight after so long a time for things—which have no present existence."
"Ah! very prettily put; I am sorry that your husband didn't hear it! But although in fact the motive for fighting is lacking now—the present existence—De Brévanne is still bent upon it—oh! obstinately bent upon it. Probably he has been looking for me constantly, for twenty years; and he had no sooner learned where I was—was perched, than he rushed to the spot, the same as ever, waving his sword, to demand satisfaction. But as I was suffering then from a violent attack of the gout, the sight of my agony convinced him that I was not in condition to stand up to him; so he granted me a respite."
"Then it is only postponed; you will end by fighting, I see."
"I admire the stoicism of your nature; you say that as if you were talking about your husband and myself going to the Opéra ball!"
"Mon Dieu! you have become very censorious, very severe! Should I weep when I say it?"
"No; indeed that is not your nature; you were never very tearful. To make you shed tears it would be necessary that your hair should be unbecomingly dressed at a large party; and that is an accident to which you were never likely to be exposed."
"You are still satirical, caustic, as always, Monsieur de Roncherolle!"
"If you find anything about me that has not changed, I am delighted beyond measure."
"A truce to jesting, monsieur; when is this duel to take place? I beg you to believe that I am deeply interested."
"Don't be alarmed, madame, the duel will not take place. I am as obstinate as De Brévanne. I have sworn not to afford him the chagrin of killing me, and I shall keep my oath."
"The chagrin! so you think that the count would regret it if he should kill you?"
"I am sure of it; and it would be even worse now than if he had killed me long ago."
"You are a surprising creature, on my word! A man who has been seeking you for so many years so persistently! You must see that he is as furious as ever against you; consequently, I fancy that he would not grieve very bitterly over your death!"
"You are wrong, madame; the count is no longer furious with me; rage doesn't last twenty years; it dies long before that time. It is nothing but the sentiment of honor that impels your husband now; and that sentiment would not stifle the regret that he would feel if he should kill a man whom he once loved with the most sincere affection."
"But whom he now holds in the greatest possible detestation!"
"No, madame, I assure you that he no longer detests me. When a man grows old, he remembers the happy days of his youth much more vividly than the troubles of his maturer years; the latter are effaced in the jolting and hurly-burly of life; the first remain and rise to the surface, to divert our thoughts, to charm our memories—and that is why I believe that De Brévanne no longer detests me.—What I say surprises you—you do not agree with me; but women do not understand friendship!"
"You have an amusing way of practising it! However, how do you propose to prevent this duel?"
"As I have prevented it for twenty years; I propose to elude the count's search. I have moved already; I no longer live in furnished lodgings, and I should be very much astonished if he should find me where I am now."
Madame de Grangeville said nothing more; Roncherolle seemed to reflect; and the ex-lovers were silent for a considerable time. At last the gouty gentleman put out his hand toward his hat, and seemed about to go, when his former friend detained him, saying with some hesitation:
"Monsieur de Roncherolle, I have something to say to you on another subject of—of deep interest to us both."
"A subject of interest to us both?" repeated Roncherolle, replacing his hat on the table; "you surprise me; I thought that we no longer had anything of interest to say to each other. What is it all about?"
"You must have a very short memory, monsieur, since it is necessary for me to remind you of that—that result of our liaison—of our wrong-doing, alas!"
"Ah, yes! thrice alas!"
"Well, monsieur, that child, that little girl—for it was a girl—tell me, monsieur, what became of her? Formerly, when I questioned you on that subject, you always answered: 'Don't be disturbed, I know where she is, we shall find her again.'—But that was more than twelve years ago, monsieur, and it seems to me that it is high time that I should know what became of that child!"
Roncherolle moved about on the causeuse as he replied:
"Yes, yes, that is very true; there is the subject of the little girl; I had forgotten about her entirely, and you will understand in a moment why I had forgotten her; it was because it would have done no good to think of her, for I have no idea what became of her after I put her out to nurse."
"You don't know what became of her! why, that is abominable, monsieur, it is frightful; you break my heart!"
"No fine words, my dear friend. I beg you; with me, as you must know, they will miss their effect; I break nothing at all of yours; for if you had chosen to be a mother, to know and to enjoy the happiness which that title affords, you would not have begun by begging me to rid you of your child as soon as possible the instant that it came into the world."
"Monsieur, that is not true; you insult me, you slander me!"
"You are beginning again. Come, Lucienne, stop acting and listen to me. When you were in an interesting condition and on the point of emerging from it, we were journeying through the fertile pastures of Normandie; suddenly the fancy seized you to visit Ermenonville, the village that became so famous because a so-called philosopher—for I consider that that Monsieur Jean-Jacques had little claim as such, and that a man can hardly call himself the friend of mankind when he constantly inflicts injury on those who have conferred benefits on him—but no matter, he made the village of Ermenonville famous by living there, and especially by being buried there. I remarked to you that it was imprudent to approach Paris, where your husband might be, especially in your condition; but you were always obstinate in your whims, and I have never been able to thwart a lady. We reached Ermenonville in horrible weather; very good. The next day you felt ill and insisted on returning to Paris, to be sure of having all the necessary assistance in your condition; that was another imprudence. But no matter—I yielded. We reached Paris; we had hardly arrived, when whom should we see on the street but your husband! Very good; he didn't see us; you wanted to go away again, but it was too late; you brought a daughter into the world.—- In the confusion and embarrassment into which that event, anticipated though it was, cast us, you began by saying to me: 'Take the child away at once! find a nurse instantly, and let her go back to her home in the country this very day,'—I continued to do your will; I carried the little one—who was a sweet little thing, on my word!—to a room above yours, which I was occupying temporarily; and I said to my servant—I had Comtois then, a most intelligent fellow, whom I could never replace—I told him to find me a stout, healthy nurse. Comtois went away and very soon returned with the desired object: she was a peasant woman of excellent appearance—a Picard. I remember distinctly that she was a Picard. I gave her the child, and she raved over her; then she asked me for the layette; I confess that that embarrassed me sadly; you ought to have thought of that, madame, but you never considered it. I gave her all that I found at my hand: trousers, dressing-gown, shirts, cravats; I remember too that I gave her a handkerchief that belonged to you, and that I happened to have in my pocket. The nurse laughed heartily when I gave her all those things. I handed her a hundred francs in addition. She made a price for nursing the child, and it wasn't exorbitant. She asked me the little girl's names, but you and I had not fixed upon any. I said to the Picard: 'You may call the child Evelina de Paulausky'—yes, those are the names I gave her; I had just read a novel the heroine of which bore that name.—I then asked the nurse for her name and address, so that I might send her money and have news of the child. She gave them to me, and then she started off with her nursling. It was all arranged very quickly, as you see."
"Certainly, monsieur, I have nothing to reproach you for, up to that point—except the layette, which you might have bought."
"That is to say, which you should have bought beforehand."
"Oh! monsieur, when one is travelling all the time, has one any opportunity to make purchases?"
"In that case, madame, when could I have bought it, as I was travelling with you?—Besides, is that sort of thing a man's business?"
"Well, monsieur, let us drop that and return to the nurse. You heard from the child through her? you sent her money?"
"I never heard from the nurse, madame, for the very simple reason that I did not give her my address; I refrained, from prudential motives; and then too we were always in flying camp at that time, and I really don't know what address I could have given her."
"Then, monsieur, you must have written to her?"
"Mon Dieu! that is what I expected to do, and to send her some money; and then I would have given her an address, poste restante, so that she might answer me. But at that point difficulties arose. Imagine, if you please, that, when that woman gave me her name and address, I did not take the precaution to write them down at once; we were in such a hurry, so completely upset! What with giving my clothes for the layette, and the child's crying, and your sending to ask what was going on—in short, I didn't write down the confounded address at the time, feeling sure that I should remember it. The nurse went away. We had a thousand things to do: I had to obtain money to resume our travels, and we were constantly beset by the fear of being discovered by your husband.—As you will remember, we started for the Pyrenees as soon as you were in a condition to endure the journey."
"I know all that—well?"
"At last, one fine day, you asked me about the child. I answered: 'She is well; she must be all right.' But that reminded me that I had neglected to send the nurse any money since the little one came into the world, six months before. I said to myself: 'Pardieu! I must repair that neglect.'—I instantly wrote a few lines in haste, but when it came to writing the woman's name and address, I could not possibly remember them! She was from Picardie, and her first name was Marguerite; but Marguerite what? there are Marguerites everywhere! And the name of that wretched village—I could not remember that either!—I said to myself: 'A little patience and it will come back to me.'—Six more months passed and I thought again of the child; I tried once more to remember the nurse's address; but I could not recall it!"
"And you kept telling me that the child was well!"
"What would you have had me tell you? I couldn't say that she was ill, because I didn't know.—In short, for nineteen years I have tried very often to think of that address, but it hasn't come back to me yet."
"And so, monsieur, by your fault, I am deprived of my daughter forever, and the poor child is without a family! It is shocking!"
"Pardon me, madame, pardon me; on mature reflection—in the little one's behalf first of all—I am not sure that it is a great calamity that she has never known the secret of her birth; she would still have been in a false position; and then life in Paris wouldn't have been as good for her health as the fresh country air—especially in Picardie. That's an excellent region; they drink cider there, which is very healthy. If she is still alive, I am sure that she must be in good health. She lives in the fields and woods—bless my soul! she is happier, no doubt, than she would be here; especially as I could never give her an establishment with the remains of my fortune."
"But what of me, monsieur?—do you make no account of my regrets? I am deprived of my daughter's caresses!"
"I beg pardon, madame, but the longing for those caresses takes you rather tardily."
"Why, monsieur, it is twelve years since I last saw you."
"But for seven years we were almost never apart, and you were perfectly willing to leave the child at nurse; you asked me about her sometimes—at long intervals; but you never said: 'Do send for her.'—You thought that the attention you would have to give the child would disturb your pleasures; and for my part, I believe that her presence would embarrass you even more now; for the girl is nineteen years old; and a daughter of nineteen would be terribly repugnant to you; she might rob you of conquests!"
"Monsieur, you do not mean to insult me, I trust?"
"By no means, my dear friend! We have had an explanation, and I have confessed the truth. 'I had to do it!' as Bilboquet says; and now I will take my cane and my hat and return to my Marais."
"Do you live in the Marais? What a horrible neighborhood!"
"Oh, no! however, one lives where one can! I have not, as you have, anonymous admirers who make me an allowance; but I congratulate you; you can still gratify your taste for pleasure, for fine clothes. I consider you very rich now—compared with myself."
"No, indeed! no, indeed!" Madame de Grangeville replied eagerly, with an embarrassed air. "I have only what I need to live; a woman requires so many things, you know; it would be impossible for me to accommodate anybody."
Roncherolle put on his hat, leaned on his cane and exclaimed with a savage glance at the baroness:
"Did you suppose by any chance, madame, that I intended to ask you for anything, or to borrow anything of you? I hoped that you had lived with me long enough to know me. I have spent a devilish lot of money on women; they have led me into all sorts of folly, but nothing base. I have ruined myself for them, and I had a right to do it. I have made love to them much, loved them sometimes, deceived them often; but thank God! I have never accepted anything from them; I am entitled to say to them just what I think, and I avail myself of that right on occasion.—My respects, my affectionate friend!"
With these words, Roncherolle bowed to Madame de Grangeville with a mocking expression, and left her apartment, saying to himself:
"Ah! these women whose lives have been nothing but coquetry—when you search their hearts, what a barren soil you find! Sow benefactions there and you never reap anything but ingratitude."
As for Madame de Grangeville, as soon as her former lover had left her, she called her maid and said:
"If by any chance that gentleman should come again to see me, Lizida, I shall not be at home to him! The idea! a ruined man, who dresses shabbily, who drags one leg, and who has nothing but disagreeable things to say!"
"Madame is quite right. That is a good sort of man to keep out."