“If you had come sooner,” said Madame Giraud, “you would have heard a fine performance. Ah! we had something very fine just now.”

I was tempted to reply that it was not at all fine at present, but I did not do it; in society it is not safe to say all that one thinks; one who did so would be very unwelcome. In a moment, Madame Giraud exclaimed:

“Where on earth is Monsieur Giraud? What is he doing with his lamp? This one won’t go now! How unpleasant it is!—What do you think of that young woman by the fireplace? Forty-five thousand francs in cash, and expectations. That is not to be despised. You will hear her in a moment: she is going to sing something Italian. Ah! how angry Monsieur Giraud makes me!”

At last Monsieur Giraud reappeared, proudly carrying the lamp, which diffused a brilliant light. He placed it on a table, saying:

“It will go now. There was only a little thing to fix.”

“You must do the same with the other one now,” said Madame Giraud, “for, as you see, that won’t burn.”

“Ah! that’s so. Well! I’ll take it out and do the same thing to it.”

Madame Giraud detained her husband as he was going to take the other lamp, and said to him in an undertone, but not so low that I could not hear her:

“Just fancy that Dufloc refusing to sing!”

“The deuce! really?”

“He says that he has a cold.”

“It’s just spitefulness. It’s because we haven’t invited him to dinner.”

“We must start something, however. There’s no life at all in the thing.”

“We had better begin the dancing right away.”

“Then try to get Montausol and his wife to sing, or Mademoiselle Dupuis. Arrange that, while I attend to the lamp.”

The husband and wife separated, and I, taking advantage of the renewed light, thought about fulfilling my mission, and I passed the company in review, to see if Montdidier and his chaste spouse were present.

There were in truth some very pretty women in that salon, and they would have been still more so if, instead of the yawns which they strove to dissemble, their faces had been enlivened by pleasure. There was one especially, near the piano; she was evidently unmarried. She was charming; her face betokened sweet temper and intelligence, and those are two qualities which one rarely sees in the same face. Lovely fair hair, not too light, blue eyes not too staring, a pretty mouth, a very white skin, pink cheeks, and refined taste in her dress and the arrangement of her hair; it seemed to me that there was refinement in every curl. She did not seem to be bored, which fact indicated that she was accustomed to society.

I did not discover Montdidier in that salon. I thought that he might perhaps be in the bedroom, where they were playing écarté. I tried to go there; but it was not an easy matter. I wondered if no one would make bold to break the circle formed by those ladies, and I determined to seize the first opportunity.

The dog barked; that announced new arrivals. That dog played to perfection the part of a servant. The newcomers were ladies. So much the better; it would be necessary to break the circle in order to enlarge it. And that is what actually happened. As soon as I saw an opening, I stepped in. A young man, who was not sorry for an opportunity to approach a certain lady, followed my example; then another, and another; the old story of Panurge’s sheep. The circle was definitely broken. The men mingled with the ladies; it became possible to move about, and it was to me that they owed it! I had caused a revolution in Giraud’s salon; a revolution, however, that did not cause anybody’s death.

But the piano began again—someone was going to sing. It seemed to me that I might remain long enough to hear the performance. It proved to be the Montausols, who were about to give us a duet. They must have been a very united couple; one of them never sang without the other. Imagine a short but enormously stout man, whose violet cheeks seemed on the point of bursting when he drew a breath, and who consequently was a frightful object when he sang in a stentorian voice that vibrated like a bass-viol. His wife was very short too, and at least as stout as her husband; she seemed to suffer terribly in her efforts to produce from her chest shrill tones that pierced the drum of the ear. The couple had a passion for difficult pieces; they proposed to regale us with grand opera. A lady was seated at the piano. The husband glanced at his wife, puffing like a bull during the prelude; the wife looked at her husband, raising one of her hands to mark the time. Each seemed to say to the other:

“Now, stand to your guns! Let us carry this by storm! Let us deafen them!”

The recitative began; at the third measure the audience no longer knew where they were. The husband and wife hurled their notes at each other as two tennis players drive the ball with all their strength. When one of them made a mistake or lagged behind, the other’s eyes flashed fire, and he or she moved his whole body in order to restore the time.

I was amusing myself by watching our melomaniacs, when the lights suddenly went down; Montausol leaned over the music, and during the pauses in his part exclaimed impatiently:

“Snuff the candles, snuff the candles, I say! We can’t see at all.”

But the darkness was not due to the candles; it was the lamp which Giraud had fixed, which had suddenly lost all its brilliancy. Madame Giraud hastily summoned her husband, who was still busy over the other lamp. Giraud appeared with a huge pair of scissors in his hand and exclaimed:

“I don’t understand it at all; it can’t be the oil, for that is new.”

“Papa,” said the little girl, “I saw my brother Alexandre putting little lead men in the lamp yesterday.”

“Parbleu! if that little rascal has been playing with the lamps, I don’t wonder they won’t burn. My wife lets him play with everything! Some day he’ll upset my desk.”

The mother was interrupted by a loud noise in the reception room; the dog barked and the little girl appeared at the door of the salon, crying:

“My little brother just upset the waiter with the glasses on it.”

This incident turned the whole household topsy-turvy: the mother ran to her broken glasses; the father left his lamps to try to catch his son; and little Alexandre ran between everybody’s legs and finally crawled under a sofa, sticking his tongue out at his father.

The duet came to an end amid this uproar; indeed the singers had continued to sing after the other guests had ceased to pay any heed to them. So the Montausols left the piano, in evident ill humor. They took seats behind me, saying to each other:

“They won’t catch me singing at their house again!”

“I should think not. These people don’t know what good music is.”

“No, they must always have something new! We will go away after the punch.”

“Yes, if there is any.”

I left the salon and walked into the bedroom. I saw Montdidier talking with several men. I could detect nothing unusual in his face, but he was talking earnestly. I drew near with apparent indifference. Indeed, I was at liberty to listen with the rest; there was no secrecy about it.

And Monsieur Montdidier began to laugh again, as did his auditors; I followed their example with all my heart; in fact, I was the one to laugh the most heartily. And so Montdidier, seeing how greatly amused I was, came to me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying:

“Did you hear about my wife’s adventure?”

“Yes.”

“And her meeting with Bélan? Wasn’t it most amusing?”

“Exceedingly amusing!”

“I would give a napoleon if Bélan would come here this evening, so that I could have a little fun at his expense.”

I made no reply, but I disappeared in the crowd in order to obtain for that unfortunate husband the pleasure that he desired. It seemed to me no more than fair that he should have a little pleasure.

While I was speaking, Bélan’s features recovered all their serenity. Before I had finished he was leaning over the table and holding his sides with laughter.

“This is charming! It is delicious! That will do, Blémont, that will do. I shall die with laughter.—So I jumped in through the window! Oh! these women! They have ideas, inventions for every emergency! I was a fool to be worried.”

“That is what I told you a little while ago, but then you were not in a condition to listen to me.”

“Yes, I admit, I was in torment—not for myself, but for her. But it is all right; let’s not think any more about it, except to laugh at it. Waiter, take out the price of three glasses of water. I can’t be at Giraud’s soon enough. Is it a brilliant affair? Are there many people there?”

“It is not exactly brilliant, but there are a great many people, and I noticed some very pretty women.”

“Pretty women!—Wait till I arrange my cravat.”

“But you know, Bélan, that this adventure was to have reformed you; that you swore never again to have anything to say to the ladies.”

“I did not include all ladies; those who are free are not included in my oath. And then, deuce take it! a man may say that in the first excitement. Let us go to Giraud’s; I will sing; I know a new song. You will suggest to them to ask me to sing, won’t you?”

“You evidently are determined that I shall be your confederate.”

I found Giraud in the reception room, staring in dismay at his two lamps, which were on the point of going out. He did not see that I came in from outside, for he was entirely engrossed by his wicks; and he said as he handed one of them to me:

“This is incomprehensible. You will bear witness that I am putting in new wicks; we will see if they char like the others.”

“Yes, I see that you take a great deal of trouble to entertain us.”

“Oh! when they once begin to burn well!—Théodore, Monsieur Théodore, will you be kind enough not to touch the cakes! For shame! A great boy of your age!—He is more of a glutton than his little brother.”

“Let me take one, papa; I want it to play at having dinner.”

“Play at having dinner, at eleven years! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t touch the cake.—But it’s very slow inside! My wife don’t know how to keep things going. We ought to begin to dance. Monsieur Blémont, it would be very kind of you to start the dancing.”

“You know very well that I don’t play the piano.”

“No, but you might tell my wife to ask somebody to play a contradance. We don’t lack players.”

“Before I do your errand, pray tell me who that pretty young woman in pink is who was sitting near the piano?”

“In pink, near the piano—with gold ornaments in her hair?”

“No, she hasn’t any gold in her hair; she is a blonde, rather pale, and exceedingly pretty.”

I saw that there was nothing to be obtained from Monsieur Giraud at that moment, so I returned to the salon. A gentleman had seated himself at the piano, but not to play for dancing; it was to sing, to play preludes and detached passages, as he happened to remember them. Beside him was a friend, who, when he had finished one fragment of a tune, instantly asked for another, saying:

“And that air from Tancrède. And the romanza from Othello. And that pretty bit from the overture to Semiramide.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Try to remember that.”

And the gentleman played on, began, stopped, branched off to something else; in short, acted as if he were at home; you will understand how entertaining that was to the company. It had been going on for a long while, and the gentleman seemed to have no idea of stopping; it was as if the piano had been placed there for him, and we were too fortunate to have the privilege of listening to the preludes, the flourishes, and whatever he happened to remember. I have met in society many original creatures like that gentleman.

In vain did Madame Giraud bustle about to find a singer of either sex; every virtuoso had some reason for refusing. That annoyed the hostess, who was anxious to be able to say that she had had a concert before the ball, and who saw that everyone was doing his utmost to avoid listening to the essays of the gentleman at the piano. She made up her mind at last to say to him that the company desired a contradance; and the gentleman left the piano with a nonchalant air, running his hands through his hair and humming a fragment of Rossini.

I determined to invite the young woman whom I found so attractive; not that I intended to make a declaration during the contradance; such things are done only at a public ball, or possibly at a wedding party at a restaurant; but I proposed to try to talk a little, if she seemed to be in a talkative mood. There are many young women with whom it is impossible to obtain more than three words in succession when they are dancing. I arrived just in time and my invitation was accepted; we danced. I tried to say something besides: “It is very hot,” or: “This is a very pretty dance.” It is really very hard to think instantly of something to say to a person whom one does not know, especially when one would like to depart from the usual commonplaces.

But Giraud returned with his two lamps resplendent with light. There was a subject of conversation.

“We needed them; there is nothing so dismal as a badly-lighted ballroom; is there, mademoiselle?”

“That is true, monsieur.”

“There are some ladies here, however, who might prefer a half light.”

She contented herself with smiling.

“You have not sung, mademoiselle?”

“Then it must have been before I came. That makes me deeply regret that I came so late.”

“You didn’t lose much, monsieur.”

“I cannot believe you as to that; but if—Ah! it’s your turn.”

The figure interrupted our conversation; it was most annoying, for perhaps we had made a real start.

After the figure I tried to renew the conversation.

“Will you not sing again, mademoiselle?”

“I sincerely hope not; I have paid my debt and that is enough.”

“Are you not fond of music?”

“Yes, very fond of it,—with people whom I know. I do not see the necessity of entertaining people whom one has never seen, and who often listen only from politeness.”

“You judge society already with——”

The deuce! another figure. At last the final figure came and the dance was at an end. No matter, I had had an opportunity to decide that the young woman was not a fool. Perhaps she would not have said as much of me.

I seized Giraud as he was about to turn up his lamps, which were already beginning to go out.

“You saw me dancing with that young lady opposite us?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was my partner whom I was asking you about just now.”

“Oho! that is Mademoiselle Eugénie Dumeillan.”

“Who is Mademoiselle Dumeillan?”

“She is the daughter of Madame Dumeillan, who is sitting beside her.”

“I do, I do. But, you see, she isn’t on my list of marriageable women. However, she is of marriageable age, but they haven’t begun to think about it yet; whereas that tall brunette yonder, in a turban—my dear fellow, she has a hundred thousand francs in cash. That’s not bad, is it? Ah! if I were not married!—Wife, look after your son Alexandre; he will upset the tea-things, and all the cups will meet the fate of the glasses!”

“My dear Monsieur Giraud, I care very little about the amount of that tall brunette’s dowry. Can you tell me anything more about the ladies opposite?”

“I beg your pardon. The mother is a widow; Monsieur Dumeillan was deputy chief in some department or other, I don’t know what one; however, he was a deputy chief and he left his widow four or five thousand francs a year, I believe. Mademoiselle Eugénie has had an excellent education; she is an accomplished musician and she will also have something that an aunt has left her; I don’t know just how much, but I can find out. She will not be a bad match; she’s an only daughter. Would you like me to speak in your name?”

“Don’t play any such trick as that on me! Who in the devil said that I proposed to marry? Can’t a man open his mouth about a woman without thinking of marrying her?”

“I don’t say no; but as one must come to that at last——”

It was Mademoiselle Giraud who made this announcement. Giraud left me to whip his older son. Thereupon Bélan approached me.

“Haven’t you told Giraud to ask me to sing, that he doesn’t mention it?”

“Mon Dieu, Bélan, let us alone with your singing! We’ve had quite enough of it! We prefer to dance.”

“That is because you have not heard me; I know very well that I should have given pleasure; I learned a tune on purpose. By the way, you don’t know—Hélène treats me coldly, yes, very coldly; she doesn’t like it because I ran away so suddenly when I saw her husband. Can you imagine such a thing? As if I could guess that she would invent a story on the instant! However, she can be mad if she chooses, it’s all one to me; I no longer care for her in the least; I still see her putting her hand in my eye when we tipped over. She wasn’t pretty then. I have views on that little woman in black yonder—do you see, a stout party, with an ardent glance; that is promising.”

“But she is married; her husband is playing écarté; he is a receiver in the Registration Office.”

“Good! so much the better, we will play some fine tricks on the receiver.”

More dancing; this time Mademoiselle Eugénie was at the piano. She played with much ease and taste. I regretted that I was not a musician; I had given painting the preference. Painting is a delightful art, but it does not afford the same advantages in society as music. In a salon, people will neglect the painter to pet and coddle the musician: in truth, one does not always think of dancing and singing.

“Faith! I give it up, I am wasting my time. Théodore, tell the maid to bring more candles.”

Théodore left the salon, but only to pay a visit to the sideboard in the dining-room. A third contradance was formed without any improvement in the light; it began, accompanied by the cries of Madame Giraud, still calling for more candles; by the lamentations of Giraud, who kept raising and lowering the wicks of his lamps to no purpose; by the howling of the three children who were quarrelling over the sweetmeats, and by the barking of the dog, who escorted all the departing guests to the door, yelping at their heels.

Bélan, who was dancing opposite the stout party, paid little heed to the noise and thought only of performing his figures; but the semi-darkness which reigned in the salon prevented him from seeing a slice of orange which Monsieur Théodore had dropped from his pocket; as he tried to execute a slide, Bélan slid in good earnest, and fell between the legs of his vis-à-vis.

The ladies shrieked with terror. Bélan rose, holding his side and swearing that he would not have fallen if he had not trodden upon something. The little Giraud girl picked up the crushed slice of orange and cried:

“It was my brother who threw that on the floor.”

And the father left the salon, giving Bélan his word that his son should be punished when everybody had gone.

Everybody departed. I went downstairs at the same time as Mademoiselle Dumeillan and her mother. I offered the latter my hand, while looking at the daughter only; I assisted them into a cab and bowed. That was as far as I could go at a first meeting.

I heard someone laughing and humming behind me. It was Bélan, following the lady in black and her husband; as he passed he whispered in my ear:

“I am following her, it’s all right. As for La Montdidier, that is all over, it’s broken off, we are sworn enemies. Adieu, I must pursue my conquest.”

A moment later Montdidier and his wife passed, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired youth who had stood behind madame’s chair all the evening.

I smiled as I remembered Bélan’s purpose to be virtuous, and I could not forbear exclaiming:

“Oh! these men! these women!”

I knew that there were at the top of my house—that is to say, of the house where I lived—some small, unplastered rooms, with cracks in the walls and loose doors and windows, where the chimneys smoked, where one froze in winter, where the rats and mice came every night to visit the occupants, and which, none the less, the landlord let for the highest price that he could obtain; however, he would not accept everybody as a tenant, but insisted upon having none but quiet people. I had never been up to inspect those little rooms. It was not for lack of inclination, however, for I had met several times on my staircase a very pretty girl, who, as I knew, occupied one of the most modest apartments on the fifth floor. She had not the aspect of a common working girl, nor had she the wide-awake air of a grisette, and yet she was almost that, for she worked for her living. She made wreaths, so the concierge told me, and mended linen when people chose to give her any to mend. But she seemed so young that she inspired little confidence in the people to whom she went to ask for work; and yet one may be quite as honest at sixteen years as at forty. Honesty is in the blood; when one must look to time and experience for it, it is never built on a very solid foundation.

Despite her innocent air, Mademoiselle Marguerite had a lover; but when a girl has but one, when she receives only him and goes out only with him, she is justified in saying that she is quiet, and even honest. Honesty does not consist solely in innocence. I once had a maid who was absolutely virtuous, and who stole my cravats.

I knew nothing of all these details when I first met the girl on the stairway. When I saw those small features that indicated that she was barely fifteen, those great light-blue eyes, that tiny mouth, that tiny figure—for, except her eyes, everything about Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed to be tiny—I made eyes at her, that is to say, I looked hard at her, and tried to make her look at me; but she paid no attention to my ogling and ran quickly down the stairs. Another time I ventured upon a few words, a compliment or two, but she did not reply; after that I ceased to ogle her or to speak to her, for I am not obstinate, and according to my belief, in order to please a woman one must please her at the outset.

Once, however, Mademoiselle Marguerite had rung at my door; when I found that she had come to pay me a visit, I did not know just what to think; but the girl, whose eyes were swollen with tears and who was sobbing pitifully, gave no thought to the impropriety of what she was doing. She came to ask me if I had seen her cat, which had disappeared that morning. On learning that I had not seen her poor Moquette, she darted away like an arrow, paying no heed to the consoling words which I attempted to offer her.

“Yes, she is very quiet,” said the concierge, “except when she is running after her cat, which she plays with as if she was only five years old. But after all, she is very young still. And she has a friend who is almost as young as she is. He’s a very nice fellow, too. But they’re as poor as Job! A room with nothing in it but a bed, and such a bed! four pieces of wood, which fall apart as soon as you touch ‘em, a little sideboard that ain’t worth more than fifteen sous, four chairs, a wash bowl and a little three-franc mirror; how can anyone get along with that? That’s what Mademoiselle Marguerite calls her household! But still she pays her rent, and there’s nothing to say.”

“Her lover is a workman, I suppose, an apprentice?”

“No indeed! he’s a dandy, a gentleman, in fact; but he seems to think that she’s well enough off as she is, or else he can’t do any better; and I give you my word that the girl eats potatoes oftener than anything else. But as long as she can see her Ernest and play with her cat, she’s as happy as a queen.”

Since I had known all this, I had regarded the girl with a friendly interest simply. Some time after, that interest became still greater. I overheard involuntarily a conversation between Mademoiselle Marguerite and an old count who lived on the same landing with me. Monsieur le comte was an old rake; there was nothing extraordinary in that; we are all rakes more or less. He, too, used to ogle our young neighbor, and one day, when I was about to go out, my door happened to be ajar, and the following dialogue reached my ears:

“Listen, listen, my pretty little minx; I have a couple of words to say to you.”

“What are they, monsieur?”

“Oh! if that’s all, it is——”

“Listen, my dear love, I wish to make you happy.”

“Happy? Why, I am very happy, monsieur.”

“A girl can’t be happy when she lives under the eaves, in a wretched, poorly-furnished chamber. I will give you a pretty apartment and money to buy whatever you want.”

“What’s that, monsieur? What do you take me for?”

“Come, come, Mademoiselle Marguerite, don’t play the prude; when a girl has a lover, when she lives with a young man, she should not be so severe.”

“Because I have a lover, monsieur, is that any reason why I should listen to such things?”

“Your little popinjay of a lover gives you nothing, and will drop you the first thing you know; whereas I will agree to give you an allowance, and, if you behave yourself, I——”

“I beg you to say no more, monsieur, and never speak to me again; if you do, I will tell Ernest that you called him a popinjay, and how you have been talking to me. Ah! he will teach you a lesson.”

“What’s that? You insolent, impertinent little hussy!”

“Bah! you old fool!”

And with that, the girl ran quickly upstairs. Monsieur le comte returned to his room grumbling, and I said to myself:

“She must really love her Ernest, since she prefers poverty with him to comfort with another;” and I was almost ashamed of having made some few sweet speeches to her, for, without being constant oneself, one may well do homage to constancy.

I knew him only by his family name; I did not know that his name was Ernest. When we met on the stairs, he smiled and we bowed. I did not try to stop him, he always went up so rapidly. I understood that he was more anxious to be up there with her than to talk with me.

It was a long time since I had met Marguerite and her young lover. On returning from Giraud’s party, I noticed much commotion in my concierge’s lodge; the husband and wife were both up, although it was after midnight, and one of them was ordinarily in bed by eleven o’clock. An old cook who lived in the house was also in their lodge; they were talking earnestly and I overheard these words:

“She is very ill; the midwife shook her head, and that’s a very bad sign.”

“Who is very ill?” I asked, as I took my candle.

“Why, monsieur, it’s little Marguerite; she has had a miscarriage.”

“You don’t mean to say that you haven’t noticed it, monsieur? She was four and a half months gone.”

“Is not Monsieur Ernest with her?”

“Oh! he is like a madman. He has just gone home; it’s only a few steps away. He took our little nephew with him, so as to bring something back with him probably; for there ain’t anything at all upstairs.”

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the gate. Someone opened it and Ernest came into the courtyard with a mattress on his head; the young man had not hesitated to endanger his fine clothes by doing the work of a porter; when it is a question of helping the woman one loves, such things are not considered. Moreover, at midnight, the streets are not crowded.

The little nephew came behind, bringing an armchair covered with Utrecht velvet; I saw that young Ernest, without the knowledge of his parents, had despoiled his own chamber in order to provide his young friend with a little furniture.

“It is high time that you came back, monsieur,” said the concierge, with that alarming manner which heightens the effect of bad news. “Mademoiselle Marguerite is very sick; there’s complications. In fact, she is losing all her blood, and you know it can’t go on long that way.”

I reached the door of little Marguerite’s bedroom. It was not locked, and yet I dared not go in. I knew that the girl was so poor; and one should be especially careful when dealing with poor people. Perhaps she and her lover would be offended to think that I had ventured to come up. And yet, since she was so ill——

While I was hesitating, standing at the door with the mattress on my shoulders, I heard a shrill voice say:

“Send for a doctor, monsieur; I won’t be responsible; you must have a doctor, she needs one very bad.”

A very weak voice, which I recognized as the young girl’s, said:

“Stay here, Ernest, don’t leave me. I feel better when you are here.”

I pushed the door open and dropped the mattress in a corner of the room, saying:

“I will go out and call a doctor; stay with her, as it does her good.”

“Oh! yes, yes, do go,” said Ernest; “oh! how grateful I shall be to you!”

I heard no more; I descended the stairs rapidly and nearly overturned the concierge’s little nephew, who had only reached the third floor with his chair; I believe that the little rascal sat down on it at every landing. At last I was in the street; I ran at random, looking about for some shop that was still open, where I could inquire if there was a doctor in the neighborhood.

Where should I apply? Everybody was in bed; I saw many midwives’ signs, but a midwife was not what I wanted. I ventured to ring at several doors; I jerked the bells and made an infernal noise.

“Who is there?” the concierges asked me; and I shouted:

They answered me with abuse, or not at all; people are not polite when they want to sleep.

I knew two doctors, but they lived so far away that the poor child would have time to die before they could get to her. What was I to do? I did not wish to return alone. I was tempted to cry fire. That method, which has been employed in several plays, might serve in real life as well; one always has to frighten one’s fellow-citizens, to obtain anything from them. Then, when everybody had come to the windows, I would call for a doctor.

I was about to give the alarm, when two men passed me, talking with great earnestness. I recognized Ernest’s voice; it was he, in fact; fearing that I would not return quickly enough, he had followed me; but he had thought to ask the nurse for the address of a doctor, and he had found one. I ran after him, and he thanked me, although I had been of no service to him. We returned, walking rapidly, without speaking; poor Ernest had but one thought, to save his little Marguerite. We arrived. Ernest went up to his mistress with the surgeon. I remained in the hall, going upstairs and down in my excitement. I had simply said to Ernest:

“If you need anything, I shall be here.”

How long the minutes seemed to me! Those young lovers loved each other so dearly! the poor girl was so sweet! if she should die, how her lover would grieve for her and regret her! To lose such a long future of happiness! Ah! Death goes sadly astray when it closes eyes of sixteen years.

“My friend, my friend, she is saved; there is no more danger!”

“Ah! I am so glad to hear it!”

We shook hands. He had called me his friend, and a few hours earlier we had hardly known each other; but there are events which bind two people more closely than sixty evenings passed together in society. It was one of those events which had happened to us.

The surgeon came downstairs and Ernest ran to meet him.

“Are you going, monsieur? Then she is out of danger?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, have no fear; everything is all right now, and as it should be; I will answer for her; all she needs now is rest.”

“But you will come to-morrow morning, won’t you, monsieur?”

“Yes, I will come to see her to-morrow.”

With that the doctor went away and Ernest followed him to the street door, gazing at him, and listening to him as to an oracle. Ah! that is a noble art which gives us the means of saving the lives of our fellowmen. The man who has saved the life of a person whom we love ceases to be a man in our eyes, and becomes a god.

I was about to go to my room, but Ernest said to me:

“Come up with me a moment; it will please her.”

Ernest walked very softly to the bed; but the girl instantly held out her hand to him, saying:

“Oh! I am not asleep, I have no desire to sleep; but I am very comfortable now. The only thing is that I am afraid it will tire you to sit up all night; you are just getting over a sickness yourself, and you are not strong yet. Go home; you know that I am out of danger; the doctor said so, and since madame will stay——”

“Oh, yes, I will stay,” said the midwife, in a sour tone, “although it puts me out; but still—great heaven! how cold it is in this room! the wind blows everywhere. A fine fire that! just two sticks! ain’t there even a pair of bellows here?”

Ernest hastily fetched the bellows, and handed them to the woman; then he returned to the bed, saying:

“You must know, my love, that I shall not leave you. But here is Monsieur Blémont, who was good enough to go out to call a doctor, when he came up an hour ago; we haven’t so much as thought of thanking him.”

“Ah! that is true, my dear.—I beg pardon, monsieur, pray excuse me; but I was in such pain then——”

“You owe me no thanks, for it was not I who found your doctor.”

“What a miserable pair of bellows! Not two sous’ worth of wind! it must be pleasant here in freezing weather!”

I turned toward the woman; I should have liked to impose silence upon her, for it seemed to me that her indiscreet remarks must be painful to the two lovers. But I was mistaken; they were not listening to her. Ernest was holding his darling’s hand, and she was gazing lovingly into his eyes; after their fear of an eternal separation, it seemed to them that they had recovered each other. They were entirely absorbed in their love. But Marguerite sighed, and after a moment I heard her whisper to Ernest:

“What a pity, my dear! it was a boy!”

Poor child! although hardly able to keep herself alive, she wanted a child, because every woman is proud to be a mother, and a child is an additional bond between her and her lover.

I was about to leave them when there was a loud noise outside; it was a crash of broken glass, and it seemed to be on the roof near the window of the chamber in which we were.

The midwife uttered a cry of terror, and ran behind me, exclaiming:

“It’s thieves! did you hear, monsieur? They’re coming in the window. We must rouse the whole house.”

I confess that I shared the opinion of the nurse, and I was about to open the window to see what was afoot, when Marguerite, who, instead of showing signs of alarm, had smiled faintly, motioned to me to stop, and said to us:

“Who on earth is Monsieur Pettermann, and why does he make such a noise going into his room?” asked the midwife.

“Monsieur Pettermann is a tailor, and works in his room; but he gets drunk at least three times a week; on those days he always loses his door key; then he climbs out on the gutter under the window of the landing and crawls along, at the risk of breaking his neck, to his own window, puts his fist through a pane so that he can throw back the catch, and gets into his room that way. Ask Ernest if we haven’t heard him do it more than a dozen times.”

I could not help laughing at Monsieur Pettermann’s habits, while the nurse exclaimed:

“Oh! the idiot! he gave me a fright. The idea of walking on a gutter! and when he is drunk, too!”

“If he was sober, madame, he probably wouldn’t take the risk.”

“But some day this neighbor of yours will break his neck.”

“So I have often told him. The day after, when he has his window mended, he swears that it shall never happen again. The concierge has already threatened to warn him out if he doesn’t enter by his door, and doesn’t come home earlier.”

At that moment we heard someone storming and swearing on the landing. Monsieur Pettermann, having entered his room, had succeeded in opening his door, which was fastened only by a spring lock.

“Perhaps he wants a light,” said Marguerite; “it very seldom happens that he asks me for anything; but he may have seen that we haven’t gone to bed here.”

“I say, neighbor, haven’t you g—g—gone to bed, n—n—neighbor? What would you s—s—say if I should ask you to l—l—light my little c—c—candle-end?”

I was curious to see neighbor Pettermann, and before Ernest had had time to drop Marguerite’s hand, I opened the door.

The tailor was still young, with a frank, honest face; but the habit of drinking too much had made his nose purple and swollen, and his dress was marked by a lack of order which also betrayed his intemperance.

On seeing me, he opened his eyes and said:

“Hello! have I made a mistake? This is funny. Ain’t this my neighbor’s door, or has she moved?”

“No, monsieur,” said Ernest, “but don’t shout so loud; she is sick. What do you want?”

“Ah! she is sick, is she, poor little woman!” And Monsieur Pettermann walked toward the bed, saying: “Are you sick, my little woman? What’s the matter with you?”

Ernest stopped the tailor, who was reeking with liquor; and he, always very polite, although tipsy, fearing that he had done something wrong, stepped back to the armchair in which the midwife was seated, and sank upon her lap, saying:

“I beg pardon, that’s so; it’s none of my business. Ah! prout!”

“Will you get up?” cried the nurse, striking the tailor in the back. He turned about, stammering:

“Ah! I was sitting on one of the fair sex, although I hadn’t a suspicion of it.—Excuse me, my little woman, I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear.”

“Yes, neighbor, if you would be so kind. I couldn’t use my flint because I scratched my right hand a little, while getting into my room.”

Not until then did we notice that the poor fellow’s right hand was covered with blood, two of his fingers being badly cut. The girl pointed to a closet in which there were some rags, with which Ernest hastily bandaged the tailor’s hand. He made no objection, but said:

“Oh, mon Dieu! it’s nothing at all, a trifle. I don’t know what was the matter to-night, but I broke two panes instead of one.”

“But Monsieur Pettermann, don’t you ever propose to give up your habit of going into your room through the window?”

“What would you have me do? I lose my key—these keys slip out of your pocket without your knowing it, and besides, I believe my pocket has a hole in it. But I promise you that I’ll look after it now, especially as it is going to be hard for me to sew it up.”

“Here’s your candle.”

“Many thanks. Good-night all. Better health to you, neighbor. If you ever need my services, call on me; don’t hesitate.”

“Thanks, thanks, Monsieur Pettermann.”

“No, don’t hesitate; call me; it will be a pleasure to me.”

Ernest, who did not suspect that I wished to say anything to him, wished me good-night and was about to go upstairs. I caught his arm to detain him; I felt that I must make up my mind to speak.

“Monsieur Ernest, I am delighted to have become better acquainted with you; I hope that our acquaintance will not stop here.”

“I thank you, monsieur. I hope so too. I tell you again that I shall not forget your interest in my grief to-night. There are so many people who would have laughed at my distress, and who would have blamed it.”

“Such people never see in love-affairs anything more than momentary pleasure; the moment any pain enters into them, they think they should be broken off.”

“Ah, yes! you are quite right. But good-night, I must go.”

“One moment more. I wanted to say to you—First of all, I pray you, excuse me; I trust that what I am going to say will not offend you. Young men can afford to speak frankly. Although I am five or six years older than you, I remember very well that when I was eighteen, and was still living with my parents, I was sometimes sorely embarrassed to give presents to my mistress. Now listen: your young friend has met with an accident that will entail expenses which you did not expect so soon. A young man who lives with his parents is sometimes short of money. Allow me to offer you my purse. You can repay me when you are able.”

Ernest shook my hand warmly as he replied:

“Then you accept my offer?”

“Oh, no! I never borrow money when I am not certain of being able to return it. That is a principle from which I shall never depart.”

“But when you have plays accepted, which are going to be produced——”

“A play is never a certainty; it is a cast of the dice. I thank you a thousand times; but I have something left with which to face the present. As for the future, we will hope, we will build castles in the air.”

“I am sorry that you refuse.”

“And I am very glad that you have made the offer, for you are the first one of my friends to suggest anything of that sort, and yet you have been my friend for only a few hours.”

“Good-night, Monsieur Blémont. If you have time to come up for a moment to-morrow, we shall be glad to see you.”

“Yes, I will come to enquire for my neighbor. Good-night.”

Ernest went up to the fifth floor and I went into my room.

I went next day to visit my neighbor on the fifth floor and found her alone with her lover; the midwife was no longer there; Ernest had taken her place, no less from inclination than from necessity; for the lovers were happier not to have a third person with them all day, and what would be a privation to others is a satisfaction to lovers.

Ernest was seated beside his friend’s bed; I was afraid that I was in the way, and I intended to remain only a moment, but my visit lasted more than an hour. “Pray don’t go yet,” they said every time that I rose to take my leave. Why was it that the time passed so quickly, that we got along so well together? It was because we all three allowed our real sentiments to appear, because we talked freely of the things that interested us, and because we poured out our hearts without reserve. Marguerite spoke of the child that she hoped for, and her eyes, fastened on Ernest’s, seemed to say to him:

Ernest smiled and spoke encouragingly to her; then talked about his two plays that had been accepted; they were his children, too. For my part, I talked to them of the theatre, balls, and love-affairs. I told them, without mentioning any names, the adventure of Bélan and Hélène. That made them laugh heartily. I was not aware that I spoke with more interest of Mademoiselle Dumeillan than of others; but when I mentioned her name, I noticed that Mademoiselle Marguerite smiled and that Ernest did the same.

At last, after one of my anecdotes, Ernest said to me:

“My dear Monsieur Blémont, I should say that you were in love.”

“In love! I! with whom, pray?”

“Parbleu! with the fair-haired young lady who talks so well, who plays the piano so charmingly, who has such a sweet expression.”

“What! Have I said so to you?”

“No, but we guessed it from the way in which you talked of her; didn’t we, Marguerite?”

“Yes, yes; you are certainly in love with the young lady in pink.”

“Oh! I give you my word that——”

“Don’t swear, monsieur; you would not tell the truth.”

“Mademoiselle Eugénie is very pretty, it is true; but I hardly know her.”

“Acquaintance is easily made.”

“That is right: go; then you must come back and tell us how you progress.”

I confess that the devoted love of those two young people made me long to enjoy a similar happiness. Perhaps the thought of the charming Eugénie had much influence upon my reflections. I was twenty-six years old, and I was already weary of commonplace love-affairs. Still it is very amusing to have three or four mistresses and to deceive them all, at the same time; to have them make a row, follow you, watch you, threaten you, and become more passionately enamored of you with each infidelity. And the poor husbands that you make—Oh! they are most amusing too! But amid all such enjoyments, it seemed to me that my heart was sometimes conscious of a void. Did not Ernest and Marguerite enjoy a more genuine happiness than I? I did not know, but I proposed to try it and find out.

I had eight thousand francs a year. That is not a fortune, but it is a competence. Moreover, I had gone through the regular course of study and had been admitted to be an advocate; that was something; to be sure, I had not tried many cases since I had been entitled to wear the gown. Pleasure had too often diverted my thoughts from my profession; but if I married, I should be more virtuous; indeed, I should have to be.

My mother, who passed her summers in the country, and her winters in Paris at a whist table, would certainly be very glad to have me married; she had three thousand francs a year which would come to me some day; but I never thought of that; when one loves one’s parents, one must always hope that they will not die.

I indulged in these reflections, I could not say why. After all, I had no purpose of marrying, or at all events of entering into one of those marriages which are arranged beforehand by parents or friends. If I married, I should have to be very deeply in love, and to be absolutely certain that I was dearly loved in return.

As I walked along, musing thus, I reached Giraud’s door. Should I go upstairs? Why not? I would pretend that I had lost a cane, a switch, the night before. I never carried one, but no matter. It was two o’clock, and I thought that Giraud would be in his office. I went up, and found the door on the landing open. The three children, dressed like little thieves, and as dirty as ragpickers, were in the reception room, playing with the dog, on whose head they had put their father’s black silk night-cap. I noticed that the rooms had not been put to rights. The maid was sweeping the salon, and told me that Giraud was at home. I supposed that he was in his office; but the little girl called out to me that her papa was dressing her mamma, and I dared not venture to enter Madame Giraud’s chamber. Someone went to call monsieur and I waited in the dust, pursued by the broom.

“Good-morning, my dear Blémont.”

“I am distressed to have disturbed you; I came up as I was passing, to——”

“You do not disturb me in the least; on the contrary, you have put an end to my sufferings. I was doing my utmost to fasten my wife’s dress. Ah! my thumbs! heavens! how they ache! I couldn’t succeed in doing it, and yet she pretends that her dress is too big; I don’t believe a word of it. Françoise, go and fasten my wife’s dress.”

“But, monsieur, you know very well that madame says I go about it awkwardly, that I’m not strong enough.”

“Never mind, go; you can finish the salon afterward.”

I supposed that we should go into his office and that we should find a fire there, for it was not warm; but Giraud invited me to sit down on the couch, saying:

“I don’t take you into my office, because it hasn’t been put to rights yet. Lord! how my thumbs ache!—But we can talk as well here; the fire will be lighted as soon as the salon is swept. Is it late? I haven’t found time to dress yet.”

“Why, it is after two o’clock.”

“Mon Dieu! and I have three appointments for this afternoon, to interview people who want to be married.”

“I do not wish to detain you.”

“Don’t go; they must wait for me. In truth, nothing is ever done here.—My friend, marriage is a very fine thing! I hope that you will soon take your place in the class of respectable married men.”

“Oh! I have time enough.”

“You must be tired of a bachelor’s life?”

“No, indeed.”

“Oh, no! that isn’t what brings me here; but I thought that perhaps I left a pretty little stick of mine last night.”

“A stick! you must ask the children about that; they are the ones who find everything that is left here. They are as smart as little demons.—Théodore, Alexandre, daughter——”

“Oh, don’t disturb them.”

“Yes, yes; I am not sorry to have you see them, they are so cunning in their answers.”

I dared not say that I had already seen the cunning creatures. Their papa continued to call them. Théodore appeared on all fours, carrying Alexandre on his back, the latter having the dog in his arms. The better to imitate a horse, Théodore had put on long paper ears, and the little girl was whipping him behind with a bunch of quills.

I laughed at the picture, and Giraud considered it very amusing at first. But in a moment he recognized his black silk cap on the dog’s head, and he did not laugh any more.

“What, you rascals! you have taken my silk cap to put on Azor!”

“I did it to make a Croquemitaine of him, papa.”

“I have forbidden you a hundred times to touch any of my things.—And you, mademoiselle, what are you whipping your brother with?”

“Papa, with——”

“With a bunch of quills that was on my desk—very expensive quills, rooster’s quills, which I keep to write my circulars with. Who gave you leave to touch anything on my desk? But just come here, Monsieur Théodore. What did you make those ears with?”

“On the floor! God bless me! it is Monsieur Mermillon’s letter, in which he tells me in detail what his daughter’s dowry will be! You little villain! to make horse’s ears with my letters! Some day he will take thousand-franc notes from my desk to make horns with. I will deal with you, young man.”

Giraud started to run after his son, but I stopped him; I heard madame calling in an angry voice: