“That is so, we dine out. Just imagine, my dear Blémont, that we have so many invitations that we don’t know which to accept.”

“They dine early too. Oh dear! how unfortunate I am! I shall never be ready in time.”

Madame Giraud had said enough for me. Delighted by what I had learned, I walked toward her.

“If you will allow me, madame, perhaps I may be more successful than your maid.”

Madame Giraud smiled most graciously at me and instantly turned her back, saying:

“How kind you are, Monsieur Blémont! What, do you really mean that you——?”

“With great pleasure, madame.”

I was not a novice at fastening dresses; I took the belt on each side, and although I hurt my fingers a little, the dress was fastened; and I did it as if it had cost me no effort at all.

“That’s the way,” cried Madame Giraud triumphantly; “that’s the way; isn’t it, Monsieur Blémont?”

“Yes, madame; it’s all right now.”

“There, Monsieur Giraud, you see. When one knows how—and monsieur did not seem to make any effort.”

“No, madame, none at all.”

“Faith, my dear fellow,” said Giraud, “if you will come here every day when madame is dressing, you will do me a great favor.”

“Hush, Monsieur Giraud; you ought to be ashamed.—Excuse me, Monsieur Blémont; I must go and finish dressing. A thousand thanks.”

“My friend, marry. Believe me, it is the happiest state. I have three superb matches at your disposal.”

“All right, we will see.”

“If your stick is found, I will put it away.”

“Oh! I am inclined to think, after all, that I didn’t leave it here. Adieu.”

So Mademoiselle Eugénie would be at the Porte-Saint-Martin Theatre that evening. The Girauds would be with them, so I should have an excuse for going to pay my respects to them. And yet those Girauds were so stupid, so ridiculous, with their mania for marrying everybody; I was sorry to find that they were intimate with those ladies. But perhaps it was only a society intimacy; one of those in which people call on one another merely to pass the time, but do not care for one another.

I awaited the evening not too impatiently, for I was not in love. I desired to see the young woman again because I had nothing better to do, and because my eyes, fatigued by feigning love so long, ached to rest upon other charms in order to recover a little of the fire which they had lost.

I went to the theatre late, for I desired that they should be there when I arrived. I cast my eyes over the boxes, and I discovered the ladies in an open box on the first tier. The mother and Madame Giraud were in front, Mademoiselle Eugénie on the second bench. I did not see Giraud; probably he had some marriage to arrange that evening. There was a vacant seat beside Mademoiselle Eugénie. Did I dare? But the box was theirs and I could not presume to go in; it was essential that I should be invited.

The performance had begun. They did not see me, although I had drawn nearer to them. Madame Giraud was entirely engrossed by her figure. I was sure that she was suffocating. She did not know enough to look in my direction.

Someone opened the door of their box,—Giraud, no doubt. No, it was a young man; he saluted the ladies and Mademoiselle Dumeillan smiled upon him; she talked and laughed with him! It was well worth while for me to go there to see that! Mon Dieu! how stupid a man can be! I was jealous, and all on account of a person whom I hardly knew, and to whom I had not said a word of love. Was not that young woman at liberty to have a lover, ten lovers indeed, if she chose? I blushed at my folly, and to prove to myself that she was absolutely indifferent to me, I went at once to the box next to hers, for I did not see why the presence of those ladies, who were almost strangers to me, should prevent me from talking with Madame Giraud, whose dress I had fastened that morning.

I entered the box. I did not look at Mademoiselle Eugénie; indeed, I pretended not to see the ladies. But in a moment Madame Giraud called to me:

“Good-evening, Monsieur Blémont. How kind of you to come to see us! So you remembered that I said that I was coming here to-night with these ladies?”

The devil take Madame Giraud with her memory! I replied very deliberately:

Then I bowed coldly to Madame Dumeillan and her daughter, after which I turned and looked at the audience. But Madame Giraud soon began again to talk to me; she was inclined to overwhelm me with marks of friendliness since I had succeeded in fastening her dress.

I pretended to listen to Madame Giraud, but I had no idea of what she was saying. I was listening to the young man who was talking to Mademoiselle Eugénie. His remarks were very vague; he had nothing particular to say to her, and talked about nothing but the play. I felt that my ill humor was vanishing. I turned toward the ladies and joined in the conversation, but I did not rest my eyes on Mademoiselle Eugénie. I should have been sorry that she should think that I had come there on her account.

Before long the young man took leave of the ladies and returned to his party. He left her; did that mean that he was not in love with her? I cast a furtive glance at Mademoiselle Dumeillan. After that young man’s departure she was as light-hearted and seemed to enjoy herself as much as when he was there. I began to think that I was mistaken and that he was not a lover.

In the next intermission, Madame Giraud, who was talking with Madame Dumeillan, suddenly turned to me and said:

“By the way, madame, Monsieur Blémont is a lawyer; he knows all about the laws, and what rights people have. My husband isn’t very well posted in such matters; his forte is marriages. Consult Monsieur Blémont about your business; he will tell you whether you are in the right or not.”

“I should not dare to annoy monsieur,” replied the mother, “or presume to take his time.”

I eagerly offered my services and asked what the business was; but she could not explain it to me at the theatre; it was necessary for me to look over documents and title deeds. That was just what I hoped. Madame Dumeillan gave me her address, and, while renewing her apologies for the trouble I was about to take, thanked me in advance for calling upon her some morning. She thanked me for something which I would eagerly have asked as a favor! How happy I was! But I succeeded in concealing my delight. I did not again put my hand near Mademoiselle Dumeillan’s; it was especially essential then that I should be careful not to act like a man in love. A novice throws himself at people’s heads, but a clever man knows how to husband his privileges.

The next day arrived and I hesitated about calling upon the two ladies. Would it not be showing too much eagerness? No, it would be no more than polite; since they chose to have confidence in my talent, I ought not to keep them waiting.

I waited until the clock struck two; then I went to Madame Dumeillan’s. The condition of affairs there was not the same as at Giraud’s. The maid had finished sweeping the rooms. The one who admitted me ushered me into a room decorated without display, but with taste; there was a good fire and I found the young lady of the house practising upon the piano.

Mademoiselle Eugénie left her music to inform her mother of my arrival; I dared not tell her that it was on her account alone that I had come; that would have been going too fast. What a pity it is that one cannot go straight to one’s goal. How much time we waste!

Eugénie returned and we talked of less serious things. The mother was very agreeable; Eugénie was bright and well informed, and although I had not yet become intimate with them, I was already on very good terms with them. After an hour’s visit, I took my leave; I did not need to ask permission to call again, for I had a foothold in the house.

I did not go to Madame Dumeillan’s again for two days. I am a peculiar man; I was determined to conceal my sentiments, and I should have been distressed to have Mademoiselle Eugénie suspect the impression that she had produced upon me. At last I made my second call. I had made a thorough study of the case in which the widow was threatened with a suit. I was persuaded that she was in the right; I so assured her and I offered my services to look after the matter, which I considered as already won. Madame Dumeillan was overjoyed; she thanked me and accepted my offer. I was no longer a stranger in the house; they seemed to look upon me as a friend.

For my own part, I think that I was not often agreeable. No one ever is when he is really in love. I liked to see the ladies in private; then I was much happier. If Eugénie played, there was no young man leaning over the piano, ready to turn the leaves for her. If I talked with her, we were not interrupted by some dandy coming to pay her a compliment; and yet I realized that they could not receive me and no one else.

I did not neglect the business that was entrusted to me; the prospect of winning the suit was doubly agreeable to me: I should oblige the ladies and I should give them a favorable opinion of my ability. It did not require much eloquence to succeed; madame triumphed over an adversary who had sued her because he had a mania for litigation. Only two months from the time of my first call, I had the pleasure of bringing the affair to a successful termination.

Sometimes I promised myself to change my manner toward Eugénie; I tried to do as the other young men did who came to her house: to be agreeable and gallant, to laugh and joke when others were about her; but I did not play my part well, my gayety was forced; Eugénie seemed to notice it, and that made me still more awkward.

It was very hard for me to adhere to that resolution, for I had never passed more than two days without seeing her! However, a week passed, and I had kept my word; on the ninth day I reflected that Madame Dumeillan, who always was very friendly to me and always seemed to be very glad to see me, would think it strange that I had allowed so long a time to pass without calling. After all, if her daughter was cool to me, it was not that excellent lady’s fault, and it should not make me discourteous to her. On the tenth day I decided to call there in the evening.

I did not select a reception day; however, I found some old acquaintances of Madame Dumeillan there who had come to play boston; two ladies and an old gentleman were playing with the mother, and Eugénie was alone, in a corner of the salon, embroidering.

Madame Dumeillan inquired with interest for my health; she had been afraid that I was ill and was intending to send to my apartment the next day. I thanked her, and apologized on the plea of a press of business; then I left the mother to her game and took a seat beside Eugénie.

She bowed coldly to me; she did not raise her eyes and addressed to me only the most trivial remarks; she was not even so polite as to reproach me for having allowed a long time to pass without calling. It seemed to me then that that young woman was as odious to me as she had been fascinating; if I had dared, I would have taken my hat and left the room instantly; but that would have been discourteous.

A half hour passed in this way. She continued to work with the same assiduity, and I was still beside her, saying little and sighing involuntarily. Suddenly the door of the salon opened; it was Monsieur Gerval, one of Eugénie’s most persistent suitors, who often played and sang with her in the evening. This Gerval was a good-looking fellow and very agreeable; so that he was one of those whom I detested most heartily. I am sure that I changed color when he came in; I instantly felt an enormous weight settle down upon my chest. While Monsieur Gerval went to pay his respects to Madame Dumeillan, I walked quickly to the corner of the room where I had placed my hat; for I did not propose to stay a minute longer; I wished that I were a hundred leagues away; I was angry with myself for having come. I already had my hat in my hand and was on the point of leaving the room without a word to anyone, when a hand clasped mine, pressed it gently, and detained me; at the same moment Eugénie, for it was she, said to me in a tone which I had never before heard from her lips:

“Why are you going away? To pass a fortnight without coming and then go away like this! Really, I can’t understand you. What have we done to you here, that you should stop coming?”

I thought no more about going away. Eugénie returned to her seat and Gerval came to speak to her; but I was not jealous any more, Gerval had ceased to be offensive to me; it had required only an instant to change the whole current of my thoughts. I returned to Eugénie’s side. While talking with Gerval, she succeeded in looking only at me. The young man suggested to her that they should sing together. She looked at me again, and seemed to ask me if that would be agreeable to me. I added my entreaties to Gerval’s. She consented to go to the piano, but on her way there she passed close to me and our hands met. When she sang with Gerval a duet in which two lovers sing to each other of love, her eyes addressed to me the words that she sang. Ah! when two hearts understand each other, there are a thousand ways of proving it.

After that duet, Gerval proposed another; she declined on the ground of a sore throat, and returned to her seat by my side. Gerval remained for some time; it seemed to me that he was less merry, less sparkling that evening than usual. At last he said good-night and left.

How rapidly the time passed! I was so happy with her! The card players finished their game, and Madame Dumeillan called to her daughter to give her her purse. The others were going away, and I must needs do the same.

“I hope that it will not be so long before you come again,” said Madame Dumeillan kindly. And Eugénie, as she passed me, whispered:

“You will come to-morrow, won’t you?”

My eyes alone answered, but she must have understood them; I saw a loving smile upon her lips. I went away, drunk with love and pleasure. I returned home hardly touching the ground. It seemed to me that my happiness bore me aloft and transported me to the third heaven,—that is to say, if there is a third heaven.

As I went upstairs, I thought of my young lovers on the fifth floor. I had neglected them sadly for some time! But I had been constantly depressed and jealous and in ill humor, and the picture of their love would simply have aggravated my suffering. Now I could safely go to see them. I should not be sad and gloomy with them, and they would understand my happiness.

It was only a quarter-past eleven, and I decided to see whether they had gone to bed. I went upstairs, knocked and mentioned my name; Ernest opened the door.

“Where on earth have you been?” he said, laughing; “it’s a month since we’ve seen you.”

“He has just come from his Eugénie,” said little Marguerite. “Oh! how happy we look! It seems that our love-affair is progressing finely!”

“What difference does that make? One is always agreeable when one is in love.”

I told them all that had taken place that evening between Eugénie and me. They listened with interest, they understood me, for they loved each other dearly. When I had finished my story, I sprang up and danced about the room; I could not keep still.

“Look out!” said Marguerite; “you’ll smash everything. Why, don’t you see how fine it is here now, monsieur?”

I had not so much as looked about the room. In fact, there was some change: the wretched bed was replaced by a low bedstead of painted wood, but very neat and clean. There were curtains and a canopy above the bed. The chairs, which I remembered as almost all broken, had been replaced by six new ones; and a black walnut commode had replaced the little sideboard. Lastly, there was almost a good fire on the hearth.

“Do you see how fine it is?” said Marguerite; “my Ernest gave me all this. His play has succeeded. Oh, it is very pleasing indeed, his play is! When the author was called for and his name was given, I was so happy that I longed to shout: ‘It was my little man who did that!’—He has a great mind, has my little man!”

“Will you hold your tongue, Marguerite?”

Poor child! how little she needed to esteem herself rich! So many people would have considered that chamber a wretched place still. I congratulated her and admired everything that she showed me. I complimented Ernest on the success of his play. I shared their happiness most sincerely; it made me happier to see how happy they were. I remained with them for more than an hour, talking of Eugénie and of our love. They told me of their little plans for the future, of the hopes in which they indulged,—very modest hopes, which proved that, being engrossed by their love, they knew neither ambition nor vanity.

I had not begun to think of retiring, and I believe that we should have passed the whole night talking thus; but suddenly we heard a loud noise on the roof, and broken glass falling on the leads and into the yard. I was startled at first; but I soon recovered myself and began to laugh as I glanced at Ernest and Marguerite, who did the same. It was Monsieur Pettermann breaking into his room.

I believe that that good woman had divined my sentiments long before; parents are not always deceived by our little stratagems, by our affectation of coldness and ceremony; but when they pretend not to see, it means that they secretly approve our inclinations. Madame Dumeillan saw that I went there every day, and one does not go every day to a house where there is a pretty woman, unless there is love underneath. Eugénie pouted when I was late, and scolded me when I suggested going away; her mother heard it all and simply smiled. I saw that our love was no longer a secret to anyone.

“Henri, I no longer enjoy society; I like it much better when you alone come to see us.”

Perhaps Eugénie was a trifle too susceptible; she yielded too readily to first impressions. I found that she would sometimes take offence and sulk for several days on account of a remark misunderstood, or a perfectly innocent act; but I was sure that that trifling defect would disappear with time and experience. I believed also that Eugénie would be jealous, yes, very jealous; she changed color and was evidently disturbed when I happened to talk a long time with the same lady. But, far from blaming her for that sentiment, I was secretly overjoyed by it; that jealousy was a new proof of the love that I inspired in her. I should have been very sorry to have her indifferent when I was talking with a pretty woman; for then I should have thought that she cared but little for me. Moreover, I had not hoped to find a perfect mortal; they say that such do not exist. And if there were such a thing as a perfect woman, I should not care to marry her; I think that a man would be bored with her.

Every day increased my love for Eugénie, and every day I obtained new proofs of her attachment to me. Those delightful hours which I passed with her, but always in her mother’s presence, made me long for a still greater happiness. Why should I delay to settle my fate? Eugénie, I felt sure, would accept joyfully the title of my wife.

Thus far I had spoken to her of love only, not of marriage. But what need had I to utter that word? And could Eugénie mention it to me? A well-bred young lady doesn’t ask the man who is making love to her if he proposes to marry her, for she cannot assume that he has any other purpose. She who asks such a question always places herself in an unfavorable position; it is as if she said: “I will love you when I am sure that you will marry me.” A wretched sort of love that, which one can order or countermand at will!

One day I went to Madame Dumeillan’s. It was about noon. By an extraordinary chance Eugénie was alone; her mother had gone to pay a visit, and Eugénie had succeeded in excusing herself from accompanying her; she hoped that I would come. She told me so with that charming smile which transported me and filled me with rapture; she gave me her hand, which I pressed ecstatically; then I seated myself beside her, very close, as close as I possibly could. I talked to her of my love; I told her—as I had told her a hundred times before—that I was happy only with her. But one is never weary of listening to protestations of a passion which one shares; when such assurances tire us, it means that our hearts are beginning to change.

“Come, monsieur, come to the piano, you must take a lesson this morning.”

I felt incapable of looking calmly at the notes; I detained Eugénie by the hand.

“Let us continue to talk, please! We have plenty of time for the piano.”

“We can talk while we practise.”

“It would be impossible for me to practise this morning.”

“Why so, monsieur? Do you mean that you are tired of your music lessons already?”

“Oh, no! but I have so many things to say to you! It so seldom happens that I find you alone!”

“Does mamma’s presence prevent you from talking with me? Don’t we talk hours at a time every evening, while they are playing cards?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the same thing; it’s much pleasanter to be alone! Dear Eugénie! I would like to pass my life with you and nobody else!”

“Oh! you would very soon get tired of that!”

“Tired of being with you! Impossible! But perhaps you yourself would not be willing to sacrifice to me the attentions of this mob of young men who sigh for you.”

“Oh! how mean it is to say that! When I am bored to death everywhere where you are not! Do you mean to say that I listen to the compliments and flattery of a lot of young men? Nonsense! come to the piano, monsieur!”

“Just a moment!”

I held Eugénie’s hand, which she abandoned to me; I could not speak, but I covered her hand with kisses. I did not know if she guessed all that was going on in my heart; but a deep flush covered her cheeks, and she turned her eyes away in order to avoid mine. At last I stammered in an undertone and with an almost shamefaced air:

“Eugénie—will you be my wife?”

She did not answer, but her hand pressed mine affectionately; her bosom rose and fell violently; I met her eyes, which she tried to avert, and they were wet with tears. How sweet are the tears which pleasure causes one to shed! I fell at Eugénie’s feet, reiterating my oath to love her all my life.

I was still at her feet—one is so comfortable in that position before the woman whom one adores! It has been said, I believe, that nothing is more absurd than a man at a woman’s feet; that may be true with respect to a woman who resists us, but with her who loves us, I can see nothing absurd in that position—I was still at her feet, when the door of the salon opened; it was Madame Dumeillan. She found me at her daughter’s feet.

I was not confused at being surprised in that attitude, for I had no guilty designs; and Eugénie herself looked at her mother without alarm; but she said to her, with a blush:

“Mamma, he swears that he will love me all his life; he asks me if I will be his wife.”

“What answer has Eugénie given you?” asked Madame Dumeillan kindly. “I am inclined to spoil her a little, you know; if she doesn’t want to marry you, I warn you that I shall not force her.”

As she said that, the good woman glanced at her daughter mischievously; she knew very well that my love was returned. Eugénie threw herself into the arms of her mother and concealed her sweet face upon her breast; she could not speak, and I myself had hardly the strength to do so. Madame Dumeillan took her daughter’s hand and placed it in mine. Eugénie’s face was still hidden, but her hand answered my pressure. Her mother put her arms about us and held us to her heart. What a blissful moment! Shall I ever enjoy a purer happiness?

This first outburst of enthusiasm passed, Madame Dumeillan exclaimed:

“Well, on my word! I am acting very thoughtlessly for a mother! Here I am joining your hands, and I do not even know whether you have your mother’s consent, whether an alliance with our family will be agreeable to her.”

“Oh! yes, madame, I have no fears in that direction. My mother will be overjoyed to see me married; the choice that I have made cannot fail to please her. I have never yet mentioned it to her because first of all I wanted to know whether Eugénie,—whether mademoiselle your daughter——”

“Nonsense! say Eugénie, monsieur; you have that privilege now; you give him leave, do you not, my daughter?”

“Dear Eugénie! oh! how kind you are, madame! But I will go at once to see my mother; I propose that she shall come herself to-morrow.”

“Oh, dear me! give her a little time.”

“No, madame, we must move quickly in order to be happy. You have given your consent, may I not be in haste to call you my mother, too?”

“To call her your wife, you mean, you rascal!”

“Well, yes, I am crazy to call her my wife! Dear Eugénie! I am so happy! I will hurry to my mother’s.”

“So soon! Why, he is mad, on my word!”

“You will come again this evening, Henri?”

“Can you ask me such a question?”

I kissed Eugénie’s hand and Madame Dumeillan’s, and hurried from the house, to go to my mother. Ah! I was very happy; and yet I longed to be a few weeks older, in order to be even happier. But we are forever longing to grow old, and if we had our whole lives at our disposal, we should use them up in a very short time.

My mother was not at home. What a nuisance! She had gone out to make some calls. Upon whom? Where should I look for her? I went away, informing the servant that I would come again. I went away, but I had no idea where to go. My mother lived on Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule, and I knew no one in that neighborhood. Eugénie lived too far away for me to return there, for I intended to go to my mother’s again soon. I determined to walk about on the boulevards in the Marais; they are less frequented there than elsewhere, and I could think of my Eugénie without being distracted by the crowd.

A little man passed me, turned about, then stopped, barring my path. I had paid no attention to his performance, but he called out:

“I say! what in the devil are you thinking about, that you don’t recognize your friends?”

It was Bélan. I shook hands with him.

“I beg your pardon, my dear Bélan, but I did not see you.”

“You were terribly preoccupied. You were thinking of your love-affairs, I’ll wager.”

“Faith, yes; I don’t deny it. I was thinking of the woman I shall adore all my life.”

“Oho! how exalted we are! I recognize myself in that!”

I was like a child, I longed to tell everybody what made me happy. I told Bélan of my love and of my impending marriage to Mademoiselle Dumeillan. The little rake made a pirouette and clapped his hands, crying:

“The deuce! you are going to be married? On my word, there is a secret sympathy between us: I am thinking of marrying too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In fact, I am fully decided upon it; I am tired of bonnes fortunes. And then, when your life is always in danger, it becomes wearisome after a while. Since my adventure with Montdidier—you remember?”

“Oh yes! perfectly; it was that day that I first saw Eugénie at Giraud’s.”

“Oho! so you met your future wife at Giraud’s, did you? Then it was they who arranged the marriage?”

“Never mind; as it was at his house that you met the young woman, he will be furious if he isn’t invited to the wedding, if he doesn’t manage the whole thing, if his wife is not near the head of the table, and if his three children aren’t allowed to stuff their pockets with dessert.”

“In that case I fancy that he will have a chance to be furious.”

“To return to myself, my dear fellow, I must tell you that since my adventure with Madame Montdidier, I have had some very disagreeable times: obliged to jump out of the window of an entresol; another time, to pass the night on a balcony, where I caught a cold that cost me eight bottles of syrup; and lastly, to avoid being surprised by a husband, compelled to hide in a chest, where I nearly stifled! I stayed in it an hour, and when they let me out, I was purple; my breath was all gone; faith! that completely disgusted me with love-affairs and intrigues; and like yourself, I propose to have done with them. I am courting a young lady who lives on Rue de la Roquette. I am going there now. You may have seen her at Giraud’s—Mademoiselle de Beausire?”

“I don’t remember seeing her.”

“Ah! she is a very handsome girl; regular features, aquiline nose—I am very fond of aquiline noses—extraordinary eyes, small waist, beautiful figure,—everything is there!”

“Everything,—you are sure?”

“I don’t wonder.”

“Yes, for ‘I don’t know what to say to you’ meant: ‘I am afraid of saying too much.’”

“With a well-disposed person it might mean that.”

“Since then I have made no secret of my intentions. Indeed, she is an excellent match; she has a dowry of eighty thousand francs, and brilliant expectations. Her family is noble. And look you, my dear fellow, I confess that, in order to make myself more attractive to the mother, I ventured to put a little de before my name; it was Giraud who advised me to do it. I am now called Ferdinand de Bélan.”

“Oho! so you have ennobled yourself on your own authority?”

“My dear fellow, I believe that I have a right to do it; while searching through my family papers, I discovered that one of my ancestors was an officer of the kitchen to Louis XV, and a man had to be of noble birth to fill that post. It was during the Revolution, no doubt, that my father dropped the de, from fright.”

“But I have often heard you profess the most profound contempt for titles, and make sport of old parchments.”

“Oh! a man often says a thing, you know, just so as to seem to have an opinion;—You must see my future wife, you must see her, that’s all I say. And my mother-in-law—a superb woman still, and with such a manner! she used to be at court, so she is a little strict in the matter of etiquette; but she adores her daughter and she has sworn never to part from her!”

“Oh! that is merely a figure of speech. But this is the time of day when the ladies are visible. Adieu, my dear Blémont; I invite you beforehand to my wedding; for I propose to have a magnificent wedding party at Lointier’s; his rooms are superb. I have already in my mind the two costumes which I shall wear on that great day, and the steps I shall perform to open the ball. I trust that I shall go to your wedding, too?”

“Really, I don’t know whether we shall have any celebration. That will be as Eugénie wishes; I assure you that I do not give any thought to that.”

“Well, I dream every night of weddings, banquets and dances; twice I have tipped over my somno, thinking that I was opening the ball. Really it is very nice to be married: if anyone would assure me twelve thousand francs a year, I wouldn’t remain a bachelor. Adieu, my friend: I must hurry to wait upon those ladies.”

For my part, I went again to my mother’s, and that time I found her. She had not finished asking me about my health when I began to tell her of my love-affairs; and I did not stop until I had begged her to go to Madame Dumeillan’s with me at once.

But my mother did not share my eagerness, which indeed made her smile. She was very glad that I was thinking of settling down, and she had no doubt that I had made an excellent choice; but she fell back on the heartless conventional phrases:

“We must see; we must make sure; we must not be in a hurry.”

I had no choice but to make the best of it. I left my mother, and I would have sworn that, before I reached the foot of the stairs, she had already forgotten my visit, and was wondering what partner she would have at whist that evening.

I returned to Eugénie after dinner. Nowhere else could I be patient and find means of passing the time until the day when I should be her husband.

Unluckily, it was the evening of Madame Dumeillan’s reception; many people came, and we could not talk. My eyes expressed to Eugénie all the impatience that I felt because I was unable to talk to her of my love; and her glances told me that she shared my annoyance. At that moment, society was most disagreeable to us. If all those people had known how pleased we should have been to see them go!

Madame Giraud walked away from Eugénie with evident displeasure. Eugénie glanced at me with a smile; I had guessed aright the subject of their conversation. The husband and wife met and whispered earnestly together; then they walked toward Madame Dumeillan and surrounded her, one at her right, and the other at her left; she could not escape them. They evidently proposed to try to learn more from Eugénie’s mother; but I knew that they would waste their time, that Madame Dumeillan would tell them nothing; she invented an excuse for leaving them after talking a few moments.

Giraud and his wife were very angry. They came toward me again, and I expected that they would hurl epigrams at me and tear me with their claws. I was not mistaken; Madame Giraud began, speaking to her husband so that I should hear:

“It is very amusing, isn’t it, Monsieur Giraud?”

“Yes, Madame Giraud, very amusing; there is a great deal of diplomacy here.”

“Yes, they make a mystery of something that is everybody’s secret.”

“Aha! they evidently take us for fools.”

“It seems that way to me.”

“Wouldn’t anyone say that it was a question of uniting two great powers?”

“Perhaps they are afraid they will have to invite us to the wedding.”

“I declined an invitation to another to-morrow. And there is poor Bélan who has already invited us to his, which is to be at Lointier’s.”

“That young man will make a very good husband. Does he get along all right with Madame de Beausire?”

“Oh, yes! since I went to see the mother-in-law, all the obstacles have disappeared. There are some people who aren’t afraid to let me take a hand in their affairs, and who are greatly benefited by it.”

“Let us go, Monsieur Giraud; we still have time to go and see our good friends who have that expensive apartment on Rue de la Paix, and whose daughter you found a husband for two months ago.”

“You are right; I am sure that they expect us to have a cup of tea.”

The husband and wife disappeared without a word to anyone. And those creatures were offended with us because we found it natural and convenient to manage our own affairs! But in society it takes so little to make enemies, especially of narrow-minded people.

The guests began to leave, and I found a moment to talk with Eugénie. I told her that my mother would come to see her the next day. She blushed and sighed as she replied:

“Suppose she doesn’t like me? suppose she isn’t willing to have me for her daughter?”

Not like her! who could fail to like her? I was not at all disturbed. I reassured Eugénie, and I left her at last when the clock so ordered, as I had not as yet the right not to leave her at all.

“I hope that you will come to see us sometimes, although Marguerite will soon cease to be your neighbor.”

“Is she going to move?”

“In a week. She is not going to live in an attic any longer, thank heaven! Poor child! she has been miserable enough; she has made so many sacrifices for me, that I may well be glad to offer her a pleasanter position at last. Thank heaven! my affairs are prosperous. I have been successful, my friend, and I have made money. I have not squandered it at the cafés or restaurants, because I have always remembered Marguerite, in her attic, poor and destitute of everything. You see that, whatever my parents may say, it is not always a bad thing to have a poor mistress, for it has made me orderly and economical in good season.”

“I see that you are not selfish, and that you are not like many young men of your age, who think that they have done enough for a woman when they have taken her to a theatre and to a restaurant,—pleasures which they share with her,—but who cease to think about her as soon as they have left her at home.”

“I have hired a pretty little apartment on Rue du Temple, nearly opposite the baths. That is where we are going to live; I say we, because I hope that before long Marguerite and I shall not be parted. It matters little to me what people say; I propose to be happy, and I shall let evil tongues say what they will.”

“I might marry Marguerite too; but we are so happy as we are! Why should we change? Besides, we have plenty of time, haven’t we? Adieu, my dear Blémont. You will come to see us, won’t you?”

“Yes, I promise you that I will.”

My mother went to see Madame Dumeillan, and they suited each other. It is a miracle when two women of mature years suit each other. My mother found Eugénie very attractive; she complimented me on my choice, and she was very hard to suit, too. I was overjoyed, in ecstasy. The provisions of the contract were very soon arranged by the two ladies, each of whom had but one child. For my part, I hurried forward the wedding day to the best of my ability. And yet, I was very happy. I passed three-quarters of my afternoons and all my evenings with Eugénie. If the ladies went out, I escorted them. Our approaching union was no secret, and many young men congratulated me on my good fortune. Some of them sighed as they glanced at Eugénie; perhaps they were in love with her. Poor fellows! I pitied them; but I could do nothing for them.

“No, my child, I shall not live with you. When a man marries, he wishes to take but one wife; why give him two? I know that Henri is fond of me; that he would be glad to have me live with him; but I know also, my children, that a young couple often have a thousand things to say to each other, and that a third person, no matter how dearly loved, is sometimes in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial disputes, the presence of a third person may be most harmful, and may prolong for a week what need have lasted but a moment; it checks the outpouring of love and intensifies the bitterness of reproach. But I will live near you, and I shall see you often, very often. And whenever you want me, you will always be able to find me.”

Eugénie was obliged to yield to her mother, and for my part, I considered that Madame Dumeillan was right.

So it was decided that we should have a wedding party: that is to say, a grand breakfast after the ceremony, and in the evening a supper and ball at Lointier’s. I determined to look to it that my Eugénie should have magnificent dresses for that great day; not that she could possibly be more beautiful in my eyes, but I wished that she should enjoy all those triumphs which mark an epoch in a woman’s life. I gave her leave to be a coquette on that day.

The moment of my happiness drew near. We turned our attention to the list of guests. For the breakfast there would be very few, enough however to make sure that they would not be bored, and that it should not have the aspect of a family party. For the evening, many people were invited; the salons were large, and it was necessary to fill them. We simply tried to make sure that in the throng none of those fine gentlemen should worm themselves in, who are known neither to the groom nor to the bride, nor to their relations, but who boldly present themselves at a large party, where, under cover of their decent exterior, they consume ices and often cheat at écarté.

We had already written a multitude of names; I had not forgotten Bélan, and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugénie and her mother with a smile, I said to them:

“I am sure that I know whom you mean!” cried Eugénie. “Henri is thinking of the Giraud family.”

“Exactly.”

“Why invite them?” asked Madame Dumeillan; “they are terrible bores, and their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying.”

“I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their house that I first met Eugénie. And then our invitation will please them so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so.”

“Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them.”

But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed reading them over; but suppose Eugénie should find them! I determined to burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?

I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them, I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time passes amid such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last farewell to bachelorhood.

I set them afire, not without a faint sigh. At last my bachelor amours were burned, and only a pinch of ashes remained; some day nothing more will remain of all the riches, of all the marvels of this earth.

Those were very serious thoughts for a wedding day, but they served to pass the time, and that was something. Moreover, extremes always meet: the happier one is, the more disposed is one’s mind to melancholy thoughts. A grocer weighing sugar, or a postman delivering letters, does not feel such impressions.

Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why destroy them? In the first place, Eugénie would never see them; and even if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk, whence I thought that they would never come forth.

Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was left which could possibly offend Eugénie’s eye. No, she could come there now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those rooms than such as she should choose to receive.

It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I were at my mother’s a little before the hour. If only the carriages did not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it in my buttonhole?

The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to speak, but his wife did not give him time.

“Monsieur,” she said, “this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your happiness, which will last forever.”

I was driven to my mother’s, and found that she had just begun to dress.

“It isn’t eleven o’clock yet,” she said; “we have plenty of time; go and read the newspaper.”

Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.

At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.

We arrived at Madame Dumeillan’s. Eugénie was ready; I was confident that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been possible.

At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor’s office. I was not allowed to escort Eugénie. On that day everything was subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his wedding than on his wedding day.

I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved and was weeping. Dear Eugénie! I thought of nothing but loving her forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do it.

It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was over!

I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said to them: “until this evening;” and they replied with a low bow.

Eugénie and I were at a distance from each other; we could not talk, but we glanced furtively at each other and our eyes mutually counselled patience.

The clock struck five, and the ladies left to change their dresses. I escorted my wife to the carriage which was to take her home with her mother. I would have been glad to go with her, but Madame Dumeillan and my mother persuaded me that it was my duty to remain with the guests who were still at table. Eugénie leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:

“Oh! we shall be much happier to-morrow, my dear! we shall not be separated then, I trust.”

Dear Eugénie, you were quite right. I had to return to the table, because it pleased some of our guests to eat and drink through four hours. If only I had been hungry!

We left the table at last, at six o’clock. Several of the gentlemen began to play cards. As courtesy did not require me to watch them lose their money, I left the restaurant and drove to my wife’s house.

Her hair was arranged at last; but they took her away, for she was not dressed. My wife was not yet mine; she was still in the grasp of the conventionalities of that day. I was fain to be patient, until I once had possession of her. But that night I would bolt all the doors, and no one should see her the next morning until I chose.

I saw that Eugénie would not be dressed for at least an hour, so I went out and tried to kill time. I jumped into one of the carriages which were waiting at the door, and was driven to the Tuileries. I alighted on Rue de Rivoli, and entered the garden. The day was drawing to a close; the weather was gloomy and uncertain. There were very few people under those superb chestnuts toward which I walked. I was delighted, for I do not care for a promenade where there is a crowd; the people who stare at you or jostle you every moment prevent you from dreaming, from thinking at your leisure.

I rarely went to the Tuileries; to my mind that great garden was melancholy and monotonous; but on that day it seemed pleasanter to me, for I could think freely of my wife. My wife! those words still had a strange sound to me. I was married, I who had so often laughed at husbands! Had I been wrong to laugh at them, or should I prove an exception to the rule?