When I arrived at Caroline’s it was after five o’clock; my duel and its sequel had prolonged my absence, and she scolded me for going away without waking her, and said that she had been vexed at my delay. I would have preferred that she should have been bored, but I realized that she had had no leisure for that; there are so many thousand things to do in a new apartment, to say nothing of the indispensable purchases. She showed me a very modish bonnet that she had bought, and tried it on for me. It was a fascinating one; however, at twenty years, with a pretty face and a graceful figure, a woman might wear a sugar loaf on her head and she would still be good-looking. It seemed to me that I liked her better in her little cap than in a bonnet; but I concluded that I should get used to it.
The rest of the costume must necessarily correspond with the bonnet; that was in the regular order. I have always wondered at the importance which women attribute to all the gewgaws and trifles which are called dress! at the amount of thought and calculation they waste upon the best way of placing a flower or a ribbon! With what care they arrange a bit of trimming, a bouquet, a curl! All this is sometimes the result of several days’ meditation! But let us not charge it to them as a crime: it is to seduce us that they array themselves; we should be very ungrateful to criticise what they do to please us.
Caroline had changed already; she wore her new garb with much ease of manner; she was no longer the grisette of Rue des Rosiers, but the petite-maîtresse of the Chaussée d’Antin. Women form themselves in everything more rapidly than we do. Observe yonder villager: after three months in the city, he is still awkward, loutish, and embarrassed. But this little peasant girl left her home only a week ago, and already her parents would not recognize her; ere long she will not recognize her parents.
A fortnight had passed since Caroline’s installation on Rue Caumartin. I saw her every day; I dare not say that it was love that I felt for her; certainly it was not a very impassioned love; but she still pleased me as much as ever. I believed that she loved me more than at the beginning of our liaison; at all events, she told me so.
Things had not turned out precisely as I had arranged, for she had ceased to go to her shop, and she could hardly be said to work in her room; but, by way of compensation, she had acquired the manners of good society, the tone of a lady, and the general aspect of an élégante. It is true that I refused her nothing, although I frequently considered the project of reducing my expenses. But how can you refuse anything to a pretty woman who entreats you with a melting voice, and, while entreating you, looks at you in a certain way? As for myself, I confess that I have never had the strength to resist. It has been my misfortune, perhaps.
I began to discover that what I called gewgaws formed a very important item in the keeping of a woman. I ruined myself in trifles: every day it was a dress, a neckerchief, a hat, or a shawl! I do not know how Caroline went about it, but she invariably proved to me that it was the fashion, and, therefore, that it was necessary; I am too just to refuse a woman what is necessary. But my income was insufficient; I had borrowed; I was running in debt. What in heaven’s name would happen if she should take it into her head to want the superfluous!
Every other day I found a bouquet at my door when I went home. My little Nicette did not forget me, and I never went to see her; if I chanced to pass her stand, I never thought of her being there and never glanced in her direction! And yet, every time that I found a bouquet, I determined that I would go to thank her; but Caroline gave me so much occupation that I never had a free moment; every day there was some new pleasure party; I never had the courage to refuse her; she knew a way to make me approve all her plans. Her graceful ways charmed me, her wit fascinated me, her merriment amused me; the hussy was so adroit in making the most of all the gifts she had received from nature!
One morning I received a note written in an unfamiliar hand. It was from Madame de Marsan, who reproached me good-naturedly for not keeping the promise I had made to attend her musical evenings, and invited me to a small party she was giving at her country house. I had almost forgotten Madame de Marsan, for I often forget a person who has set me on fire the night before; a very lucky thing for one who takes fire so easily; it proves that the heart has no share in the nonsense we call love. I determined to go to the party in question, for I did not propose that Mademoiselle Caroline should make me lose sight of all my acquaintances; I ought not to abandon good society because she could not go thither with me. The girl had already led me into too much folly! And there was my sister, whose letter I had not answered, and who expected me from day to day! I was not at all content with myself. But the torrent bore me on; I closed my eyes and let myself go.
Someone entered my room: it was my neighbor, whom I had not seen since the day of our famous duel. He had a shrewd suspicion that I was not taken in by his false gallantry—I who had witnessed his abject terror on the day of the partie fine. I knew that he had made a great noise about his valor, prating of his duel to everybody he saw; but he had avoided meeting me in company; my presence would have embarrassed him in his narrative of our combat. I wondered what he wanted of me.
“Good-morning, my dear friend!” he began; “how goes the health this morning?”
“Why, I am inclined to think it goes too fast; I am going at a rapid pace.”
“You must be prudent, neighbor.”
“You’re a good one to talk about prudence, Monsieur Raymond! What are you doing with Agathe?”
“Oh! I don’t see her any more; that’s all over, we are parted forever! I don’t propose ever to be caught by one of those little hussies again; you spend an enormous amount of money, and sometimes you don’t make your expenses. And they don’t know how to appreciate a man; they don’t know the difference between a poet and a gudgeon! So long as you have money in your pocket, and can stuff them from morning till night with bonbons, sweetmeats, ices, and syrups, and tell them they’re adorable, take them to drive and to the theatre and to the country, and buy them all the fal-lals they happen to want, oh! bless my soul, then they’re satisfied. You may be as stupid as a goose, as coarse as a street porter, as conceited as an Italian virtuoso, yet you’re none the less delightful in the eyes of those girls.”
“There’s a great deal of truth in what you say, neighbor; but, as a general rule, it is adulation and flattery that spoil both men and women; if we didn’t kneel at their feet, they wouldn’t look down on us from such a height. Flatterers, courtiers, low-lived sycophants, creep in everywhere and sometimes corrupt the most happily endowed nature. Kings, unfortunately, are more encompassed than other men by this servile swarm, which constantly hums in their ears a concert of exaggerated and insipid praise; it is when men tremble that they stoop lower than at any other time. Louis XI had more courtiers than Louis XII, Charles IX more than Henri IV. Richelieu and Mazarin did not take a step without being surrounded by a multitude of courtiers; they were feared, people trembled before them, but humiliated themselves and scribbled verses in their honor. Sully and Colbert had their admirers, but they knew how to repel flattery; they were too great to surround themselves with people whom they despised. If too frequent adulation did not increase our vanity, if the familiar atmosphere of praise did not give us too great confidence in our own deserts, how many shortcomings would those heroes and great captains have escaped, who, under difficult circumstances, have rejected the counsels of wisdom because they were accustomed only to the language of flattery, and deemed themselves invincible because a thousand voices had declared that they were, and because the man who has been exalted to the rank of a demigod does not readily decide to take the advice of his creatures! The pernicious effects of adulation date from a very early period: the serpent seduced the first woman by flattery. Almost always by the same means have women since then been seduced. Flattery destroyed Antiochus and Nebuchadnezzar, Semiramis and Mary Stuart, Cinq-Mars, Monmouth, Cleopatra, and Marion Delorme; Samson allowed his hair to be cut off while listening to the compliments of Delilah; Holofernes lost his head while listening to Judith’s soft voice; Charles XII of Sweden, blinded by his victories, buried his army in the plains of Pultowa; the Maréchal de Villeroi, relying always on luck, insisted on joining battle at Ramillies. Excessive praise, by blinding us to our faults, causes us to remain in the path of mediocrity, when nature has given us faculties calculated to raise us above the vulgar; by tempting us to close our ears to the harsh counsels of truth, it leads us to mistake self-esteem for genius, vanity for merit, facility for talent. How many artists, even when they seek advice, refuse to receive anything but compliments! But they have been persuaded that all their works are masterpieces, that no defect can be found in them! And people who have attained that end no longer take the pains to study; everything that comes from their hands must necessarily be perfect. But civility demands that we must not always say what we think. Suppose a poet reads us some of his verses: if they are bad, you must not tell him so unless you are his friend; for you do not desire to be looked upon in society as an Alcestis, forever growling about the vagaries and absurdities of everyone else; that rôle would raise up too many enemies to be endured, except on the stage. In society, we choose to overlook one another’s failings rather than to set ourselves up as censors; mutual intercourse is pleasanter thus, and we find more pleasure in living for ourselves than in wasting our time trying to correct other people. But although courtesy may compel us to conceal what we think, it does not compel us to say what we do not think; when I listen to the reading of execrable poetry, I will hold my peace, but I won’t say that it is charming; nay, more, I will try to summon courage to make some suggestions to the author. I can never make up my mind to say that a portrait resembles its subject, when I think it a wretched failure; I cannot tell a person that he sings true, when he has just been torturing my ears. With nascent talents, above all, we should be sparing of praise, even while we encourage them; flattery is responsible for very many such coming to naught, because it arrests the flight of a genius, which, deeming itself perfect already, no longer cares to take the trouble to acquire what it lacks. Doubtless a father is excusable for considering his son a prodigy of beauty, wit, and talent; paternal love naturally misleads us; but let us at least keep our conviction to ourselves; let us not force strangers to go into ecstasies over the story of a mischievous trick, to listen in religious silence to a fable often directly at variance with common sense, and to gaze in admiration at a flat nose, turned-up chin, and inflamed eyes, which can never delight any glance but a father’s. If there were fewer flatterers, how many men, who are simply unendurable now because they have been spoiled, would be ornaments of society! Let us reserve our enthusiasm for those poets and artists whose talents exalt them above all praise. Doubtless the contemporaries of Molière and Voltaire rendered to those sublime geniuses the homage they deserved; but one does not display his admiration for such men by insipid compliments and empty praise: great talents are proud of the applause of people of taste; they despise the base fawning of which fools are so vain.
“When Voltaire lived at Ferney, those travellers who, by virtue of their rank or their merit, could hope to gain access to him, never failed, even though they were obliged to go far out of their way, to visit the philosopher’s retreat. Everyone was curious to see that extraordinary man, who astounded the whole universe by his genius. Men of intellect and of taste thought only of the pleasure that was in store for them; but the fools—and they too were anxious to converse with Voltaire—gave all their attention to the posture and expression they proposed to assume at sight of the philosopher, the better to manifest their admiration of him. Voltaire was affable with the former; but when a lady, on catching sight of the great poet, deemed it advisable to shriek and to swoon, the philosopher shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel.
“Great geniuses are rare; great talents are affable and modest; they who might have acquired great talents but have failed inhale with delight the incense people are good enough to lavish on them. How can a young man whose voice is rather pleasant and nothing more fail to consider himself a Laïs or a Martin when people seem to be so infatuated with him? They urge him, entreat him, implore him to sing; all the women are in a flutter of excitement before hearing him; they belaud him to their neighbors in anticipation. ‘Delicious!’ ‘Divine!’ ‘Charming!’ are the only words that reach the ears of the virtuoso, who condescends at last to comply with the wishes of the assemblage, and, after all the inevitable monkey tricks, sings just passably a ballad of which it is well understood that he will not pronounce the words intelligibly; and he has hardly finished before the concert of praise begins anew, while the impartial auditor, who had been led to expect something very different, asks himself if he can believe his ears. Look you, my dear neighbor, I confess that I have never been able to persuade myself to increase the crowd that hovers about these social prodigies, in whom I find nothing except inordinate self-esteem; or to swell the number of adorers of a woman of fashion, whose coquetry is carried to such a point that I blush for her and for those who surround her. Unquestionably, I am as fond of a pretty woman as any other man; I will be the first to do homage to her charms; but does that necessitate my exalting her to the skies at all times and seasons, and overwhelming her with compliments which, even if they are not extravagant, must none the less be tiresome to the person to whom they are addressed? Must it be that she cannot take a step without my praising her dress, her figure, her gait, her foot, her grace? Can she not smile without my going into ecstasies over her teeth, her mouth, and the expression of her eyes? Can she not utter a word without my extolling her wit, her shrewdness, her tact, her penetration, and the sweet tones of her voice? I may think it all, but I won’t say it; I should be afraid of bringing a blush to her cheek. I know that I am considered far from gallant; that may injure me with some ladies, but I have neither the power nor the desire to change. If everybody did as I do, perhaps we should see less self-conceit and arrogance in men, less coquetry and caprice in women; they would take more trouble to be affable and agreeable, and everybody would be the gainer.—What do you think about it, neighbor?”
I saw that Raymond was not listening; he was examining the bunches of orange blossoms that adorned my mantel, and seemed to be puzzled by the old bouquets which I had collected on my commode, after taking out the flowers that would not live.
“You seem to be very fond of orange blossoms?” he said at last.
“Very.”
“They have a very pleasant odor.—You must have twenty bunches of them here.”
“I haven’t counted them.—But will you do me the favor to tell me what brings you to my rooms this morning? for I presume that you came for some purpose.”
“True; I forgot it while looking at these bouquets. I have received an invitation from Madame de Marsan for a party she is giving at her country house the day after to-morrow; I suppose you are going, and I came to suggest that we go together.”
“With pleasure; you know the way and you can be my guide.”
“With the greatest pleasure. By the way, how shall we go?”
“We will hire a cabriolet, and keep it, so that we can return when we choose.”
“That’s the idea. I thought at first of going in the saddle—I am very fond of riding; I have a very fine seat.”
“I have no doubt of your grace as a horseman; but we can’t go to a party at Madame de Marsan’s in top-boots, so we won’t go in the saddle.”
“True; I will undertake to provide a nice cabriolet; I know a liveryman. At what time shall we start?”
“At seven o’clock; we shall arrive at eight, which is the proper hour in the country.”
“That’s settled, then. I fancy we shall have some fun; I know the whole party, so I can tell you who’s who.”
“I thought you had been only twice to Madame de Marsan’s.”
“Oh! that doesn’t make any difference! once is enough for me to know everybody; I have a certain amount of tact, of penetration—it’s all a matter of habit. In case they should want to give a theatrical performance, I have an opera that I have just finished; I’ll read it to you on the road.”
“That will give me great pleasure.”
“I must take a look over it. Until Thursday, neighbor!”
“Until Thursday!”
Raymond left me, and I went to see Caroline. I found her at the window. For several days past she had spent much time there, especially when she was alone. Doubtless it was so that she could watch for my coming. It seemed to me that she was gayer, more amiable, more fascinating, than usual; pleasure gleamed in her eyes.
“Ah! she loves me,” I thought; “she loves me truly; she is grateful, she has a feeling heart; she is coquettish only to please me. Before forming a lasting attachment, she wanted to find someone worthy of her love; her heart chose me, and I am sure that she will be true to me. I knew that, with a little patience, I should find such a woman.”
The day came when I was to go to Madame de Marsan’s. I had told Caroline that she would not see me that evening, and she had seemed greatly disappointed, although we had had a little dispute the night before concerning a certain cashmere shawl, which I saw that she ardently coveted, and which I did not propose to give her. I had given her to understand, in fact, that she did not need a cashmere shawl to be charming; that she was more attractive to me in a simple and refined costume; and we had parted on the most friendly terms.
The clock struck seven; my toilet was completed. The concierge came to inform me that the cabriolet had arrived and was waiting in the courtyard. When it suited Raymond’s convenience, we might start; but what in the deuce was he still doing in his room? I concluded to investigate.
I found my neighbor just putting on his breeches.
“What, Monsieur Raymond! haven’t you got any further than that?”
“Oh! I’ll be ready in a moment, I assure you.”
“I’ll bet that you won’t be ready in half an hour.”
“Pshaw! you’ll see how quick I am! While you are waiting, amuse yourself by looking over my little water colors—my sketches; there are some very good little things there, as you’ll see. If I had more time to myself, I’d go into oils and exhibit at the Salon, but I am never at liberty.”
“I advise you to stick to water colors; yours are quite remarkable.”
“Aren’t they? There’s true burlesque, originality for you; the Calot sort of thing. Do you notice that Suzanna at the Bath?”
“I thought it was a Temptation of Saint Anthony.”
“Oh! that’s because it isn’t finished. And that little Hop-o’-my-Thumb—what do you say to that?”
“I thought it was Bluebeard.”
“That’s because he has on his seven-league boots.”
“Come, come, neighbor! You haven’t got into your breeches yet!”
“Ah! they’re a delicate part of the costume, you know.”
“But nothing but long trousers are worn now, even at balls.”
“When a fellow has, as I have, a fine leg and a calf fit for a model, he isn’t sorry to show them.—Would you like to read my last verses, on the Marquise Désormeaux’s favorite dog?”
“No, thanks, much obliged!”
“They have made quite a sensation. All the ladies are saying, in a joking way, that they must have me to write their husbands’ epitaphs. The beginning is rather fine:
“I’ve heard of a man of nature; but I confess that this is the first time I ever knew the epithet to be applied to a beast. So you think, my dear Raymond, that animals may be moral perverts, do you?”
“What’s that! why, don’t you see it every day? Look at the poor creatures that have to dance and bow and caper and jump through rings to the notes of the flageolet! They have received an education. The marchioness’s dog did everything she wanted him to; he snapped at everybody who went near his mistress, and he jumped on the table during dinner to eat out of the plates and dishes. That’s the natural instinct, and I maintain that ‘dog of nature’ is a very happy expression.”
“Come, come, Monsieur Raymond; drop your dog and finish dressing. If you spend so much time over every part of your costume, we shall not arrive before midnight.”
“I am at your service. I have got on my boots and breeches; but it seems to me there’s a crease on the left-hand side behind.”
“When you have your coat on, nobody will see it.”
“True; but in walking or dancing, the coat tails spread.”
“Well! what does this crease amount to? do you think that the company is going to keep its eye on your rump?”
“I tell you, a crease may make a great difference in a man’s looks; women notice everything.”
“The woman who takes any notice of such things must have her hands full at a large party!”
“It sets better now. Ah! my cravat.”
“That will be a long job.”
“Oh, no! I have made a study of that article of dress, and it goes all alone now. There! that’s it. Ought I to turn the ends up or down?”
“Turn them either way you choose; but try to make up your mind.”
“Well, I’ll pull ’em out straight. What do you think of that knot?”
“Beautiful! you are stunning!”
“Stunning is too strong a word; but I think that I look rather well; I’ve just got three pins to put in.”
“Great God! we shan’t get started at eight o’clock!”
“The devil! this is terribly embarrassing; I ought to have thought about it sooner.”
“What’s the matter? have you another engagement?”
“I don’t know whether I ought to put this turquoise above or below my emerald.”
“Morbleu! Monsieur Raymond, my patience is exhausted; I am going to start without you.”
“Here I am! here I am, neighbor! Faith! I have put the turquoise above, no matter what happens.”
“That’s very fortunate.”
“Now, the coat—the hat—the gloves—and I’m all ready, you see.”
“Amazing! Let’s be off.”
“All right. Oh! I beg your pardon: I forgot a scented handkerchief.”
We left the room at last. When Raymond had closed his door, he discovered that he had not put his diamond ring on his little finger, so he went back to repair that omission. We went downstairs; but on the second landing, he failed to find his opera in his pocket, and went back for that. When we arrived in the courtyard, he remembered that he had not brought his favorite songs; and as he might be asked to sing, I must wait while he went to fetch them. I registered a vow never to travel again with Monsieur Raymond. At last, about a quarter past eight, we entered the cabriolet; then he discovered that he had not his eyeglass; but I was inexorable: I lashed the horse and we started. It was dark, so that Raymond could not read me his opera; but to make up to me for the deprivation, he proposed to tell me the plot. For more than an hour he prosed away about a Spanish princess and an Arabian prince, her lover, while I thought of Madame de Marsan, whom I was not at all sorry to see again, and whom I was surprised that I had neglected so long. When we reached Saint-Denis it was half-past nine; and I swore at Raymond, whose dilatoriness and absurd affectations would make us arrive at Madame de Marsan’s unconscionably late.
“Have we much farther to go?” I asked my neighbor, as we left Saint-Denis behind.
“Why, no; about three-fourths of a league only.—I was saying that my princess, having been rescued from the burning palace, swoons at the end of the second act.——”
“You know the way, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes; drive on, I’ll show you.—When the curtain rises for the third act, the princess is in her lover’s camp, lying on a cannon.——”
“Have you been to this country house before?”
“Once; but that’s enough for me; I have such an accurate memory!—The soldiers are resting on their pikes—or their muskets, for I am not quite sure whether pikes were in use under King Ferdinand; but it makes no difference. The prince, having no desire to sleep——”
“I should say that we were told to go to the left.”
“No, no! straight ahead!—The prince, I say, is on his knees before the princess, who is still unconscious; and he sings her a superb air, adagio in D minor, to restore her.—I wrote the music, too. Can’t you see the tableau in your mind’s eye?”
“I see that if you don’t drop your prince and princess soon, we shall be in Montmorency, and that certainly isn’t on our road. I’m too good-natured, to sit here and listen to your nonsense. Here—as you are so certain we’re on the right road, just take the reins and drive.”
“Oh! I ask nothing better; I’ll stake my head that we’re not two hundred yards from Madame de Marsan’s.”
“But I don’t see any light.”
“Because it’s too dark a night.—This infernal horse has a mouth like iron.”
“You worry him too much.”
“Ah! I see something.—Where are we, my man?”
“Montmorency, monsieur,” replied our groom.
“Well! Monsieur Raymond, you want to see everything; you’re a very clever man!”
“Don’t be angry, my dear Dorsan; we’ll take this road to the left; I remember now that it leads straight to Madame de Marsan’s.”
“I think we should do as well to return to Paris; it looks like a storm.”
“What’s the odds? then they’ll have the party in the house.”
“The party! Parbleu! we may be there by eleven o’clock!”
“We shall be there at ten; I must whip this infernal beast.”
“Oh! I am beginning to be resigned; I am going to make the best of it.”
“They are longing for us to come, I am sure!—Go on, you villain, go on!”
“Say rather that they have forgotten all about us.”
“Oh! men like us aren’t so easily forgotten.—Go on, you wretched nag!”
“Look out! you’re whipping him too hard; he’s running away now.”
“Mon Dieu! that’s so; he’s got the bit in his teeth!”
“Hold him in! jerk the reins!”
“I can’t hold him, my friend; I am pulling as hard as I can. Mon Dieu! he’s turning into the fields; we are lost!”
“Oh! don’t be frightened; he’ll stop.—Get down, boy, and see if you can stop him.”
Our groom had already alighted, but he did not follow us, which made me think that he was hurt. Our steed galloped on, across fields and plowed lands and lanes. I took the reins from my companion, who was no longer in a condition to see anything, but trembled in every limb and shouted for help at the top of his voice. To put the finishing touch to our misfortunes, the storm broke with great violence: the clouds burst, the rain fell in torrents, and the wind blew with hurricane force in our faces. Our horse did not stop; I began to apprehend some serious accident; we were on a very steep hillside, and I expected every moment to be overturned with the carriage. Luckily, our frantic animal’s path was blocked by a mass of vines; he stopped short, but in struggling to extricate himself from the labyrinth of branches in which he was entangled he plunged about with such violence that he finally threw us out and fell with us.
“I am dead!” cried Raymond, as he fell. Before making sure of that fact, I tried to cut my way out of my prison, for the front of the cabriolet was blocked by vine poles. I succeeded at last in getting out. I was not hurt, not even a bruise. I thought myself very lucky to escape with nothing worse than a fright. Since it was written that I should not attend Madame de Marsan’s entertainment, I made the best of it and decided to endure as philosophically as possible the further misadventures into which Raymond was sure to lead me. I went to inquire into my companion’s condition. He was groaning pitifully; was he really hurt? If so, that would make our plight decidedly serious. I walked up to Raymond, who had fallen half out of the cabriolet, with his face against the ground. I shook his arm, and succeeded, not without difficulty, in making him raise his head. The rain had already formed pools, and the plowed earth had stuck to Raymond’s face. He told me in a feeble voice that he could hardly see.
“That’s nothing; turn your face toward the sky, and I’ll answer for it that the rain will very soon wash off the mud that covers your eyes.”
“You are right, my dear friend; I am well washed now, and I begin to see more distinctly. Ah! I breathe again!”
“Are you really hurt?”
“Wait till I feel myself; I’m sore all over, but I believe that I haven’t any serious wound.”
“That’s very fortunate!”
“Ah! my friend! what a terrible accident!”
“Whose fault is it?”
“Look you—I lashed the horse, because you were in a hurry to get there.”
“I advise you to put your crazy performances on my back!”
“Here we are in a pretty plight! and the rain coming down in sheets! It seems as if everything was in a conspiracy against us. Look! I even smashed my hat when I fell.”
“Parbleu! what do I care for your hat!”
“Look you, perhaps you care for my head, which is entirely unprotected. I am wet through, covered with mud, battered and crushed. What a cold I shall have! And my clothes! It was well worth while to dress! Open-work stockings; and see, there’s my shirt frill on that pole. Mon Dieu! it wouldn’t take much to knock me over!”
“Come, come, Raymond! damnation! be a man! You’re worse than a baby. We must get out of this somehow.”
“Where’s our groom?”
“I’m afraid the poor devil hurt himself when he jumped down, and I should be very much at a loss to know where to look for him.”
“If we could raise the carriage!”
“But one wheel came off when it went over.”
“The devil himself took a hand in the job.”
“I’m afraid the horse has hurt himself on these poles.—This pleasure party is like to cost us dear, neighbor.”
“Oh! you’re very lucky to be able to take it so calmly! For my part, I am crushed and furious at the same time!”
“Come with me; let’s try to find a house, some place of shelter at least; but let us notice carefully what direction we take. Are you coming?”
“Wait a minute, till I make a cap of my handkerchief, to protect me a little.”
We left the vineyard. I was obliged to take Raymond by the arm to get him to move along; he was trembling so that he was afraid of falling at every step. We walked for some ten minutes, constantly floundering in holes filled with water, which it was too dark for us to see. I swore and Raymond whined, anticipating an attack of pneumonia. At last we discovered a little cottage, and the light that shone through the windows indicated that the occupants were not in bed; for peasants are not in the habit of keeping candles lighted while they are asleep.
“We are saved!” cried Raymond; and he recovered the use of his legs to run toward the house. But I held him back, fearing that he would announce our presence in such a way as to prevent our being admitted. I myself knocked at the door of the cottage.
Peasants are rarely distrustful; the occupants of the cottage, being very poor, had no fear of thieves. They opened the door, and I saw a peasant woman in a large living room, surrounded by half a dozen children. I explained our mishap, while Raymond, who had already entered the room, peered into a great kettle to see what the peasants had for supper, then came back to me and informed me that we shouldn’t find much of anything in that house.
“What can I do for you, messieurs?” said the peasant, as she watched Raymond prying into every corner.
“Are we far from Montmorency?”
“No; a fourth of a league at most.”
“We don’t know the roads about here; be good enough to let us have your biggest boy for a guide; we will pay you.”
As I spoke, I gave the woman three francs, which instantly disposed her to make herself useful to us.
“That’s easy enough,” she said; “Julien, go with these gentlemen.—If you’re tired, I can let you have some donkeys.”
“We shall be very glad of them, for, first of all, we must find our groom, who must be somewhere in the neighborhood; and then we will try to rescue our horse, for he ought not to pass the night in the fields.”
“Come, Julien, get the donkeys out of the stable.—I ought to tell you that there’s no saddles for ’em.”
“No matter; they will be very useful to us all the same.”
The donkeys were produced, and I paid on the spot for their hire; I took a third one, for our groom, whom I hoped to find. Raymond hesitated a long while before mounting his beast; he wanted saddle, stirrups, and pads; he claimed to be able to ride like Franconi, but he could not sit on a donkey. Tired to death by all his lamentations, I started off with the young peasant, who rode the third donkey, and set out to find the groom. Raymond, seeing that I had ceased to listen to him, decided to follow me, clinging with one hand to the tail and with the other to the mane of his steed. He urged the poor beast along in my wake, and we were in the fields once more.
I let my donkey take his own course. I called the groom at the top of my lungs, and my companions did the same. At last someone answered us; we rode in the direction of the voice and found our young man lying on the ground, under a tree. The poor devil had sprained his foot and could not walk. I put him on the peasant’s donkey. It only remained for us to unharness our horse, whom we found on the ground beside the cabriolet. The rain had allayed the poor beast’s ardor, and he finally allowed us to raise him to his feet. Our guide assured us that he was uninjured; he mounted him, took his place at our head, and the cavalcade set out for Montmorency.
All these details had taken time. It was after half-past eleven when we left our little carriage, which I commended to the young peasant’s care; he promised to fetch a blacksmith to mend it at daybreak. We could have gone much faster but for Raymond; he compelled us to stop every few yards; his donkey refused to go, or else insisted on turning into another road; and he uttered heartrending cries when we did not wait for him. Luckily, the rain had ceased and it was a little less dark, so that we could see where we were going.
At midnight we caught sight of the first houses in Montmorency. Raymond gave a joyful cry, whereat his donkey was frightened and jumped, throwing its rider off into a muddy path, where he lost his shoes. As we were a little ahead, Raymond was obliged to pick himself up unassisted; the fear of losing us lent him strength, but his steed did not wait for him, and he ended his journey running after the beast, which he caught on the square just as we were dismounting. All the people of the inn had gone to bed, but we knocked until they answered. They were surprised that travellers should arrive so late; they would be far more surprised, I thought, when they saw the condition we were in, especially Raymond, whose last fall had plastered him with mud from head to foot. They admitted us, however, but, as I had foreseen, they were taken aback by our appearance. But I soon succeeded in telling my story. The landlord, seeing that he had to do with people of standing, apologized to us and hastened to show us to our rooms. They gave a room to our groom; the horse was taken to the stable, and the peasant went home with his donkeys.
I ordered a brisk fire made, to dry our clothes, and requested the host to serve whatever he had ready, for our misadventures had not taken away our appetites. We were served with a chicken, ham, salad, and fruit. While I took my place at the table, Raymond went into his bedroom, where he ordered another fire lighted, and asked the girl who waited on us to come to rub his back, so that he might avoid an illness. She was a robust peasant of some twenty years, not of the type to be afraid of a man. Still, Raymond’s proposition struck her as rather peculiar; she looked at him with a smile and seemed to hesitate.
“Go with him,” I said to her, “and don’t be afraid; monsieur is thinking of nothing but his health, and I’ll answer for his behavior.”
While my companion was being rubbed, I did justice to the supper, and dried myself thoroughly in front of the fire. The bedroom door was not closed, and I could hear Raymond urging the servant on and complimenting her on her skill. The buxom damsel must have been tired, she had rubbed him so long, but Raymond seemed to enjoy it. Soon I concluded that the fire and the servant’s ministrations had entirely restored my friend’s animation, for he began to be enterprising, and I heard the girl exclaim that she would not stand it. And I had answered for his behavior! How can you trust anyone?
But the noise continued in the adjoining room; and at last the girl fled into the room where I was, roaring with laughter, and pursued by Monsieur Raymond in shirt and drawers and a pair of the innkeeper’s slippers.
“Won’t you keep quiet the rest of the night, Monsieur Raymond? Am I to have no peace with you?” said I.
“Oh! what eyes, my friend! Ah! the hussy, if she would!”
“Yes, but the trouble is I won’t, Monsieur Insolent!”
“Come, Raymond, let the girl go to bed; it’s late and this is no time to rouse the whole inn. I’ve no desire to get into any more trouble for your lovely eyes.—Leave us, my girl! we don’t want anything more.”
“I say, my dear, where’s your room; do tell me where it is?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Tell me, all the same, you sly minx, and you won’t be sorry.”
“Well, I sleep upstairs, at the end of the hall.”
“Good; I understand.”
The servant left us, and Raymond sat down at the table.
“I trust,” said I, “that you don’t propose to run after that girl? She’s fooling you.”
“No, no! I was joking, that’s all. She’s as solid as a rock!”
“She ought to know whether you are or not, for she rubbed you long enough.”
“Yes, indeed; the hussy knows!”
“It doesn’t seem to have disposed her in your favor.”
“Bah! didn’t she tell me where her room was?”
“Don’t you trust her.”
“Oh! I’ve no desire to go after her, as you can imagine; but, one thing is sure, and that is, that if I chose, I should have everything my own way.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Do you want to bet?”
“No; because you would indulge in some pleasant little performance which would make my night as agreeable as my evening has been; and I confess that I’ve had enough of that sort of thing for to-day. Good-night, Monsieur Raymond! I am going to bed, and I advise you to do the same.”
“Yes, neighbor, yes, I’ll do the same. Sleep well. Your servant!”
Raymond took his candle with an offended air and went to his room, locking the door behind him. I laughed at the crazy fellow’s pretensions and folly, and got into bed, where I soon fell asleep. A noise, the nature of which I could not determine, soon woke me. I listened, and called to Raymond, to find out if he were ill; he did not answer, and I heard nothing more, so I went to sleep again. I did not wake until eight o’clock; the sun was shining brightly into my room, indicating a lovely day. As I was at Montmorency, although against my will, I would at all events enjoy the delightful walks in the neighborhood and have a taste of the pleasures of the country before returning to Paris. Our cabriolet could not be repaired as yet, and we should have to wait for it.
While I was dressing, I called to Raymond and asked him if he wanted to take a walk before breakfast. He did not answer; apparently he was still asleep. But his door was ajar, and I seemed to remember that he had closed it the night before. I entered, and called him again:
“Come, come, lazybones! it’s late; wake up!”
No answer. I looked at his bed: he was not there. So he had risen earlier than I and gone out before me. I was turning away, when I saw Raymond’s coat, waistcoat, and breeches spread out on chairs, where he had put them to dry. What! he had gone out without coat or breeches? that was very strange! Thereupon, I remembered my neighbor’s schemes, his dallying with the servant, and the wager he proposed when he was eating his supper. My uncertainty was at an end: Monsieur Raymond had set out to prove to me that he was not to be resisted; he had gone to lie with the stout damsel who had wiped him and rubbed him so thoroughly. But inn servants do not stay in bed until eight o’clock; the girl must have been up long before. Why had Raymond not returned to his bed? Did he want the whole household to know where he had passed the night? I did not see the point of that very clearly; however, I determined to ascertain the fact. I called and rang; the same servant appeared; her aspect was unchanged; she had a smile on her lips, her big eyes were wide open, and her manner alert and determined. She had anything but a bashful air; I supposed that she was probably accustomed to nocturnal visits. I looked at her and laughed.
“Did you call, monsieur?”
“Yes, my child.”
“What can I do for you?”
“How is our groom?”
“Oh! he’s all right, monsieur; they’ve put a compress on his foot.”
“And the carriage?”
“That don’t amount to much—only a matter of a couple of hours. But the man who owns the vineyard where you upset followed after the blacksmith; he wants his pay for the damage you did on his land; he says you pulled up more’n a dozen vines.”
“Good! we have got to pay him because we nearly killed ourselves on his poles; let him have a hundred sous.—By the way, my lass, tell me now what you’ve done with my friend?”
“With your friend?”
“Yes; the gentleman who came with me.”
“Oh! the man that lost his shoes, and that I had to rub so long!”
“Exactly.”
“Pardi! I haven’t done anything with him, and I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, although he was after me like a thirsty dog! Mon Dieu! what a fellow!”
“It’s no use to pretend, my dear; he slept with you; I don’t see any harm in that, but where in the devil is he now?”
“What’s that you say? he slept with me? Bless my soul! that’s a good one! It’s a lie, d’ye hear! I don’t sleep with anybody that don’t suit me, and your big baby didn’t suit me at all. Has he got the face to say that? Ah! I’d tear his eyes out if I heard him!”
“It seems to me that when you tell him where your room is, you shouldn’t make so much noise because of what I’ve said to you.”
“My room! I told him where my room was! Good Lord! do you mean to tell me—— Ha! ha! ha!”
The servant, who had turned purple with wrath, suddenly began to roar with laughter. I waited a long while for that outburst of merriment to cease; the buxom creature held her sides, and was obliged to sit down before she could speak. She recovered herself at last.
“Let me tell you, monsieur, that the door I mentioned to your friend ain’t the door to my room at all, but it leads into a big room like a loft, where there’s a lot of sun and it’s always dry as a bone; that’s why the master picked it out to keep the fruits he’s going to preserve, such as pears and apples and grapes; and then provisions, such as bacon and ham and sausages!”
“Whatever you choose; but I suppose he keeps the room locked?”
“Yes, monsieur; but, for all that, he swore that things kept being stolen; and for the last few days, I don’t know whether it’s to catch the thieves or not, but I’ve noticed that the door was only latched.”
“And that is where you sent my companion?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I don’t see what he can have been doing there all night. But he must be somewhere. Come, my girl, take me to your storeroom.”
“I’ll go and get the master, because we ain’t allowed to go there.”
“I don’t care for the prohibition; I must find my companion, who can’t have gone to visit the Hermitage or to walk in the valley, in his shirt and drawers.”
“That’s so; it ain’t the custom.”
Paying no heed to the servant, who went to tell her master, I left my room, ascended the stairs, and walked through a long corridor, at the end of which I saw a door. It was at some distance from the inhabited portion of the house; and I could understand that Raymond might easily have called without making himself heard. But why had he remained there? That is what I was determined to know. I pushed the door, which was not locked, and saw Raymond with one leg in a trap, sitting upon a pile of hams, where he had fallen asleep.
My arrival made him open his eyes. He held out his arms with an expression which I cannot describe.
“Ah! my friend! my savior! set me free, I implore you!”
“What in the devil are you doing here?”
“I am caught like a rat in a trap, as you see; I can’t budge. I’ve been here since one o’clock this morning; I shouted and called, but no one came, and I had to make the best of it. When I found that no one heard me, I sat down on the first thing I could find, and at last I fell asleep; but I ache in every limb. I shan’t forget Montmorency!”
I was sorely tempted to laugh, but Raymond’s long face aroused my pity. I was trying to release him from the trap, but to no purpose, when our host arrived with the servant. At sight of the latter, my poor companion made a horrible face, while the girl laughed till she cried.
“Aha! morgué! so I have caught my thief!” said the landlord, as soon as he caught sight of Raymond; but when he came nearer, he was greatly surprised to recognize the guest to whom he had lent his slippers. Raymond told a not improbable story of a trifling indisposition which surprised him in the night and compelled him to seek a certain place which he thought was upstairs; and in that way he had fallen into the trap set in the storeroom.
Our host apologized profusely. He alone knew the secret of the trap, and he hastened to release my companion. Raymond went to his room to dress; but he was in a savage humor and did not care to inspect the outskirts of Montmorency. He was afraid that the night he had passed on the hams, in his shirt, would give him the rheumatism, and he longed for the moment when we might start for Paris. I might have joked my neighbor on the hard luck that pursued him in his bonnes fortunes, but I was considerate and held my peace. I left him to rub his own shoulders, legs, and posteriors; and, after breakfasting, sallied forth alone to visit those delightful spots which Grétry and Jean-Jacques still adorn; for men of genius never wholly die. I will not describe scenes with which the reader is as familiar as myself; I should teach him nothing, and if I should make any blunders they would be detected; but if some day I visit a distant and desert country, if I see some Gothic château or some chapel tumbling to decay, I promise you a glowing description of it; for then I shall be able to say whatever comes into my head, without fear of contradiction.
Let us return to Raymond. He waited impatiently for my return from my walk. The cabriolet was mended, the horse harnessed, and we were at liberty to start. I helped in my two invalids, for Raymond was little better off than the groom; he could hardly move. I took my seat between them, and, after paying the innkeeper’s account, which included the slippers in which my companion returned to Paris, we started for the capital, where we arrived without accident, because I did not allow Monsieur Raymond to take the reins. On reaching our abode, we dismissed the cabriolet and gave the groom something by way of compensation for his sprained foot, which would keep him in the house a few days. I paid everything and presented to my companion a statement of our expenses overnight, as follows:
| F. | C. | |
| For the cabriolet, which we kept one day longer than we intended | 30 | 00 |
| For the peasant woman and her son, who acted as our guide and helped us to pick up our horse | 6 | 00 |
| For the hire of three donkeys at midnight | 9 | 00 |
| For repairing the cabriolet | 12 | 00 |
| For injury to vines | 5 | 00 |
| For accommodation at the inn, lodging, supper, and breakfast | 28 | 00 |
| For slippers for Monsieur Raymond | 2 | 50 |
| For the servant who rubbed Monsieur Raymond | 3 | 00 |
| For fire on two hearths, a most unusual thing in inns | 2 | 00 |
| For the groom, who sprained his foot trying to stop our horse | 20 | 00 |
| Total | 117 | 50 |
On examining the items of expense of our pleasure party, to which he might have added his costume, which was almost completely ruined, from the hat to the shoes, Raymond heaved a profound sigh, and he was rather long about taking from his purse the fifty-eight francs seventy-five centimes that he owed me. Our account being adjusted at last, we betook ourselves to our respective apartments.
Thanks to my neighbor, I had not availed myself of Madame de Marsan’s courteous invitation; but I proposed to go soon to make my excuses to her, and I would be careful to go alone; it seemed to me that that would be preferable in every way.
Doubtless Caroline was awaiting me impatiently; I must make haste to put an end to her anxiety. I had promised to return during the night; but unforeseen events—— It was after two o’clock in the afternoon, when I hastened to Rue Caumartin.
This time she was not at her window; but could I expect her to give herself a twist in the neck in order to see me a moment sooner? No! I was too sensible to demand that. I went upstairs and rang—no answer. She had gone out! She had probably got tired of waiting for me, and had gone out for a walk, perhaps to make some new purchases. There was nothing for me to do but to go away and return; but I concluded to ring once more. I did so, to no purpose. I went downstairs in an ill humor, because I was annoyed; nothing annoys one more than a postponed pleasure. I had no right to be angry because she had gone out; still, it seemed to me that she might have waited for me. I walked away, scratching my ear; indeed, I believe that I scratched my head. Was it a presentiment? Alas! I had never yet found a faithful woman! But I had vowed not to distress myself beforehand; that never does any good. I determined to do my best not to distress myself afterward either! I should be more certain of being happy.
As I turned into the boulevard, I saw her. What a costume for a morning walk! She caught sight of me and seemed embarrassed. She came toward me, however. We both smiled, but I believe that neither of us felt any inclination that way; it is so easy to distinguish a forced smile!
“Ah! here you are at last!”
“Yes: does that surprise you?”
“I didn’t expect you so late.”
“I quite believe that you didn’t expect me.”
“Have you just come from my rooms?”
“Yes; and you?”
“I have been for a little walk.”
“What a dress!”
“I don’t see anything uncommon about it.”
“Not in comparison with the one you wore on Rue des Rosiers?”
“You always have something unkind to say!”
“I don’t see what there is unkind in what I said.”
“I suppose you’d have me go out in cap and apron!”
“They wouldn’t be unbecoming to you.”
“But I have no desire to wear them.”
“Oh! I believe you!”
“To hear you, anyone would think that before you knew me I was a stupid, awkward country girl!”
“I am well aware that you were not an innocent maid.”
“Are we going to stay here on the boulevard all night? I am going home; are you coming with me?”
I hesitated; but I went with her. When we were in her apartment, Caroline joked me about my severe air. In truth, what right had I to reproach her? I was far from amiable sometimes, I knew; and a man who scolds and grumbles is seldom loved. True; but a man who is loved never appears to scold; he is always right. I kissed Caroline, and peace was made. We dined together, and I took her to the theatre; but although I did my best to amuse her, she did not seem to enjoy herself very much. She appeared to be distraught, preoccupied; I was almost tempted to find fault with her, but I restrained myself, for she would have said that I was always complaining! But if she had been as she used to be, I should have had no cause to complain. Ah! I say again, when a man ceases to be lovable, it means that he is no longer loved.
It was near midnight when I went home. A secret hope led me to grasp the knob hurriedly. No bouquet! and yet it was the day! Could Nicette have forgotten me? That would have caused me a pang, a very sharp pang. But what childish nonsense! How could I expect her to bring me flowers all the year round, when I did not condescend to go to her to bid her good-morning? In the depths of my heart, however, I was not indifferent to those tokens of her remembrance of me; I was touched by them, much more, perhaps, than I supposed; I realized it from the grief that I felt at her neglect; I had become so accustomed to that homage! It seemed to me that it was my due. Why should I conceal it? I flattered myself that Nicette loved me; I believed her to be capable of constancy; and while I did not choose to abuse her love, I was not at all sorry to inspire it. I determined to investigate her conduct; I determined to see her, to speak to her. I would rise the next morning at six and prowl about the little flower girl’s booth. What strange mortals we are! For a whole month I had neglected Nicette; and because I thought that she had forgotten me, I was consumed by a longing to see her again, to know what she was doing and what her sentiments were! Was it love, self-esteem, jealousy, vanity, or simple curiosity on my part? Call it what you please, it was as I have described it.
As for Caroline, I determined not to torment myself any more about her; she was either faithful or unfaithful; in the first case, I was wrong to suspect her; in the second, she deserved neither my love nor my regrets. That is a very fine dilemma which I propose to all jealous lovers, present and future. But they will reply that when a man is able to talk sensibly he is not in love. To that I have nothing to say, for I am inclined to think that it is true.
I was up at six o’clock. At that hour I was quite certain not to meet any acquaintances before whom I should blush to be seen speaking to a street peddler. I soon reached the place where Nicette was accustomed to display her wares. But I saw nothing; could it be that I was too early? had she moved to another quarter? I accosted a messenger whose stand was a few feet away; those fellows know everything.
“My friend, wasn’t there a flower girl who used to stand in front of this house?”
“Yes, monsieur; she was here up to a week ago.”
“And she no longer stands here?”
“Oh! she isn’t very far off. Thirty yards or so farther along you’ll see a little shop; that’s where she is now.”
“A shop, do you say?”
“Yes, monsieur; it isn’t very big, but it’s well arranged, all the same.”
I turned to walk away—but perhaps that man could tell me something. Nicette had a shop; what was I to conclude from that? I trembled to think! Had some other man been more fortunate than I? had she listened to some other man? and did another possess that treasure which I might have obtained and which it had cost me such a struggle to respect?
I returned to the messenger, put some money in his hand, and began to question him.
“Do you know this flower girl?”
“Yes, monsieur, I know her—not very well, though, for she’s a bit proud; she don’t talk much to anybody but her customers; and even then you mustn’t say too much, or she’ll send you about your business. Oh! she’s a good girl, I tell you! She’s virtuous, and the virtuous ones are always noticed.”
The man’s praise of Nicette caused me the keenest delight; I should have been sorry to learn that I could no longer esteem her.
“You say that she’s virtuous, eh?”
“Yes, monsieur; we messengers know what’s what; and then, I see everything that goes on. It isn’t that Mamzelle Nicette lacks lovers. Oh! pardi! the whole quarter, if she chose! she’s so pretty! and she has a fine lot of customers. It’s hardly six weeks since she set up on this street; but the young men soon spied her, and there’s a whole mob of dandies that come to buy flowers, just to make love to her, you understand. But Mamzelle Nicette don’t sell anything but bouquets. I must do her that justice. She won’t listen to the swells any more than the footmen; and when some sly fellow orders flowers of her, to have her bring them to him, he gets caught, for she just sends them by the wigmaker’s little girl.”
I walked away, overjoyed by all that I had learned; in two bounds I was in front of Nicette’s shop. She was already arranging her jars of flowers on boards placed outside, in the street. When she saw me, she gave a cry of surprise, dropped the carnations she had in her hand, blushed scarlet, and could hardly stammer:
“What! is it you, monsieur?”
I smiled at her astonishment and entered her shop, where I seated myself on a stool and looked at her.—How pretty she was! Joy made her even prettier, and glistened in the look with which she met mine.
“Is it really you, Monsieur Dorsan, you, in my shop? Ah! I didn’t expect such a pleasure! I had stopped hoping for it!”
“Why so, Nicette?”
“Why—it is so long!”
“That is true. But I have things to do which make it impossible——”
“Oh! I believe you, monsieur. Besides, aren’t you your own master? and how can you give a thought to a girl who sells flowers?”
There was something so touching in the way she spoke, that I was deeply moved. How could I ever have forgotten such charm, such innocence, such susceptibility? I could not understand it.
She was still standing in front of me; I took her hand, and I believe that I was actually on the point of drawing her down on my knees. She made no resistance; she glanced anxiously about, but had not the strength to go away from me. What imprudence! what was I doing? We were in full sight of passers-by, and someone might come in at any minute. She had nothing but her reputation, and I was about to besmirch it! Poor child! she would sacrifice it to me, in her dread of displeasing me.
I dropped her hand and moved away from her, looking toward the street. She understood me, and thanked me with her eyes.
“So you were able to hire a shop, Nicette?”
“Yes, monsieur; I’ve made a lot since I’ve been in this quarter. I am economical and spend very little; I am sure that I can get along all right. I don’t think I did wrong, did I?”
“No; I know that you are behaving as well as possible.”
“You know it?”
“I have never doubted it. Your bouquets have shown me, moreover, what a grateful heart you have.”
“Oh! can I ever forget what you did for me?”
“Haven’t you made any acquaintances on this street?”
“No, monsieur; I don’t want to make any.”
“Aren’t you bored, being all alone?”
“How can I be bored? I always have something to think about?”
“What do you do in the evening?”
“I read, and I am learning to write.”
“Do you know how to write?”
“A little; before long I shall know how to write well, I hope. There’s an old gentleman who gives me lessons sometimes.”
“What need is there of your knowing any more than you do?”
“That’s true, monsieur; if you don’t want me to, I won’t learn any more.”
“Oh! I don’t say that. Study, Nicette, since you enjoy it; you weren’t born to sell flowers. But take my advice, and don’t try to rise above the condition in which fate has placed you; it rarely succeeds.”
“Oh! I’m not trying to do anything of the sort, monsieur; I’d just like to be not quite so stupid as I used to be.”
“My dear girl, you may be ignorant, but you can’t be stupid; you will always be charming; your natural wit does not need the resources of education to attract esteem, any more than your charms need the help of art to win admiration. Ah! Nicette, be always as you are now, as I first saw you! Do not change!”
She listened to me in silence; her sweet glance approved all that I said; we understood each other so well! But impatient customers were already beginning to look at her flowers; I felt that I must go. I said adieu, but I continued to stand in front of her. It was impossible to take a kiss, I realized that; she divined my thought, and we both sighed. To part so coldly! Ah! if we had been in my room! I was certain that I had but to say the word, and she would come; but I refrained from saying it, for she would have been lost. I pressed her hand and fled. I felt that I must fly from her, in order not to adore her.