Returning to the DablÉmar function, I drew a long breath of delight; a pleasant odor of patchouli and muslin replaced the fumes of mulled wine, which were intensified on the other side of the corridor by a multitude of other emanations. The temperature, too, was endurable, and the faces of the guests did not glisten with drunkenness and perspiration, which impart to the countenance a gloss that does not embellish it.

My first care was to look about for Madame Sordeville. I discovered her talking with her friend FrÉdÉrique, and with them was a young man whom I had not yet seen.

This new personage was twenty-eight to thirty years of age, and was dressed in the height of fashion. He was very dark, and his hair, artistically parted and curled, was beautifully glossy. A long, pale face, regular features, black eyes somewhat sunken, a small, tightly closed mouth, a slight, carefully trimmed moustache, made him a very good-looking fellow; but a self-sufficient, conceited air, which almost amounted to impertinence—that too I observed in my scrutiny of that young man, who, at the very outset, and for some reason which I could not explain, made a most unpleasant impression on me.

We often feel sympathies or antipathies for persons we do not know; and when we are in a position to become better acquainted with such persons, it rarely happens that the instinctive prevision of our hearts is not justified. So that we must have a sort of second-sight, of the heart, which warns us when we are in presence of a friend or an enemy.

This gentleman was talking with the two ladies, with a familiarity that seemed to denote a close intimacy. Was he probably the lover of one or the other? Suppose he were of both? Such things have been seen. One thing was certain, and that was that there was no trace of the discreet lover about him.

You will consider that I have a low opinion of women. It is not of women alone, but of the world in general that I have such an opinion. It is not my fault; why has it so often given me reason to think ill of it?

I did not approach them, for the presence of that handsome dandy annoyed me; but I watched them. I must have been very dull-witted not to discover with which of the two ladies he was on most intimate terms. There are many little nothings by which people always betray themselves, unless they are constantly on their guard; and even then!

Ah! my mind was made up! A hand placed a little too familiarly on the fellow's knee, a long glance, which said things that are not said in public, told me that he was intimately associated with Madame Dauberny. I was conscious of a joyful thrill, for I had feared for a moment that it was with my charming partner, and, frankly, that would have distressed me. Therefore, I was certainly in love with her.

I walked toward the group, and spoke to Madame Sordeville, who replied with her usual affability. But while I was talking with her I noticed that my fine gentleman with the moustache eyed me from head to foot with something very like impertinence! I wondered how long that would last.

There are such people in society; people whose impertinent glances force you to pay them back in their own coin in a way which is almost a challenge, and which signifies plainly:

"Have you anything to say to me? I am waiting, and I am all ready to reply."

As that superb lion did not cease to stare at me, I stared back at him in the manner I have described. He lowered his eyes and turned his head. That was very lucky! But you may be quite certain that from that moment my gentleman and I could not endure each other.

As it seemed to annoy him to see me talk and laugh with the charming Armantine, I put all the more fire into my conversation; and as she laughed very readily, I continued to incite her to laughter.

Madame Dauberny whispered in the young man's ear; I noticed that he frowned slightly and compressed his lips. Was she telling him what she had done to help me out of my predicament? What difference did it make to me whether her action pleased or displeased the fellow? Madame FrÉdÉrique no longer seemed to me so attractive as before; no, she certainly was not pretty. Moreover, what she had said to me in our last interview had cooled my feeling for her considerably.

Madame Sordeville was engaged for the next contra-dance, but she promised me the next but one. Her partner came to claim her. The superb FrÉdÉrique stood up with her dark-eyed swain. What was I to do during that quadrille? It is a terrible bore not to dance at a ball in polite society, where you know no one.

I concluded to find Monsieur Sordeville, remembering the advice Madame Dauberny had given me before her cicisbeo's arrival.

I discovered Armantine's husband in an adjoining salon, in a group of men, most of whom were decorated; he was not talking, but listening to the others. I walked toward him, and he came to meet me.

"Aren't you dancing, Monsieur Rochebrune?"

"I am resting."

"I'll wager that my wife isn't; she is indefatigable!"

"Madame Sordeville is dancing, it is true; and Madame Dauberny, too—with a young man whom I had not noticed before—a dark young man with a moustache."

"Ah, yes! Saint-Bergame. He came very late, as usual; one produces a greater effect by making people wait for one. Ha! ha! But you must know him, if you have been a friend of Madame Dauberny from childhood. You must have met him often at her house."

Again Monsieur Sordeville's smile was tinged with mockery. I answered, this time without embarrassment:

"I saw nothing of Madame Dauberny for a long time, until very recently."

"Then it must have been during that time that she made Saint-Bergame's acquaintance; their liaison is hardly six months old. But he is on a very intimate footing with her, none the less; however, that is easily seen."

The tone in which Monsieur Sordeville said this left me in no doubt that he had the same opinion that I myself had formed concerning the relations between these two. But if he believed it, it seemed strange to me that he should allow his wife to be so intimate with Madame Dauberny as she seemed to be. Was there not reason to fear that the evil example might be contagious? or was Monsieur Dauberny's conduct such as to excuse his wife's? or again, was Monsieur Sordeville one of those philosophical husbands who look upon all such things as mere trifles undeserving of their attention? I was tempted to believe that the last conjecture was nearest the truth.

"Who is this Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" I asked, after a moment.

"Hum! I have no very definite idea. However, he represents himself as a journalist. But nowadays, you know, a man is a journalist just as he is an advocate. Everybody writes for the newspapers, or at least tries to create that impression."

"I know that the profession of journalist is an honorable one, when it is carried on without prejudice or passion, when one writes with impartiality. I will not say, with spirit and good taste, for those qualities should be indispensable prerequisites of admission to the guild. Unluckily, it is not always so. Since newspapers have become so numerous, all the unappreciated poets, all the unsuccessful authors, have turned journalists. These gentry, having failed to induce anyone to produce their plays, fall furiously upon those authors who succeed. Luckily, the real public does substantial justice; often, indeed, the very extravagance of the insults heaped upon a man of talent simply intensifies the public interest in him. And, after all, it is a pitiable thing, it seems to me, to pass one's life tearing to tatters those who produce! It is the old story of the he-goat in the fold: he does nothing, and attacks whoever wants to work."

"You don't seem to be fond of journalists?"

"I think very highly of them when they are intelligent and their criticisms are decent. I once knew a very popular literary man, who laughed till he cried over the savage attacks that the journalists made upon his works. 'If I were not successful,' he would say, 'those fellows would not honor me with their hatred. They would not say anything about me unless it were to offer me some patronizing compliment. Ah! my dear fellow, congratulate me! Everybody cannot have enemies.'—But, to return to Monsieur Saint-Bergame: for what newspaper does he write?"

"Really, I can't tell you; for some new sheet—more than one, perhaps. He has the reputation of being very bitter, and prides himself on it."

"He has no reason to. Nothing is so easy as to say unkind things; the conversation of cooks and concierges is principally made up of them."

"I believe, too, that Saint-Bergame has had a long play in verse accepted at the OdÉon, or at the FranÇais, or perhaps at the ThÉÂtre-Historique. But he's been talking about it a long, long while, and nobody else ever mentions it."

"And are these monsieur's only titles to the admiration of his contemporaries?"

"I know of no others. However, he's a good-looking fellow, dresses well, and follows all the fashions. He's a beau cavalier; so you must not be surprised if all the ladies fight for the honor of capturing him."

"Oh! I am surprised at nothing."

"But do you not cultivate the arts, Monsieur Rochebrune? I should say that I had heard of songs and ballads of which you are doubly the author, having composed both words and music."

"Yes, monsieur, that is true. But one is no more a literary man because one can write a ballad, than one is a composer because one has composed an air and worked out a piano accompaniment for it."

"Mere modesty on your part, monsieur; you can't make me believe that a man can compose an air without being a musician."

"One may be like Jean-Jacques, who had not the slightest conception of counterpoint."

"I don't know whether Rousseau was a consummate musician, but I wish that somebody would give us something equal to his Devin du Village."

"I am with you there, monsieur, although it should have a new orchestration."

"My wife is a fine performer on the piano, and she has a good voice; we have music at our house on Thursdays; that is the day the music lovers assemble. If it would be agreeable to you to hear them and to join them——"

"You are too kind, monsieur; it will be a very great pleasure to me. I can listen to music twelve hours at a time, without tiring."

"We shall rely upon you, then, monsieur, on Thursdays especially. But you will be welcome at any time. Do you know our address?"

"No, I do not."

"Here is my card."

Having handed me his card, Monsieur Sordeville walked away. On my word! a charming husband! he anticipated my dearest wish. And yet, he did not act like a simpleton. Oh, no! he certainly was not one of those obliging husbands who see nothing of what goes on under their roofs. Madame FrÉdÉrique was right in her prediction that he would invite me. I was decidedly puzzled; but I could see nothing in it at all that augured ill for me. Madame Sordeville was very pretty, very captivating. I felt that I should love her passionately. I did not know whether she was inclined to follow her friend FrÉdÉrique's example, but I had permission to call at her house, and that was something.

As soon as the quadrille was at an end, I once more approached the spot where the two ladies had established themselves. Monsieur Saint-Bergame was still with them; but he did not frighten me—he bored me, that was all.

I cannot say whether the invitation I had just received had given me an air of triumph; but when she saw my face, Madame Sordeville smiled and exchanged a glance with her friend. I would have given—I cannot say how much, to know the meaning of that glance.

Monsieur Saint-Bergame said to Madame Dauberny, with a curl of the lip, and an affectation of familiarity:

"Do you expect to stay here long?"

"Why not? I am in no hurry; my mind is at rest; Monsieur Dauberny won't sit up for me."

"This party seems to me intolerably dull."

"You are exceedingly polite! For my part, I am enjoying myself immensely."

"Oh! you enjoy yourself everywhere, madame!"

"That is creditable to my temperament, at all events."

"There's a curious mixture of faces here—it's not homogeneous."

"Very good! try to write an amusing article about it; it will be a windfall to you."

"On my word, you are very sharp this evening!"

"I thought that you were used to it."

"The next contra-dance is mine, you know, madame?" I said to Madame Sordeville.

"Yes, monsieur, to be sure; I have not forgotten it."

Her manner as she made that reply was charming. Women have a way of saying the most trivial things which gives them enormous value in our eyes. That depends considerably, however, on one's frame of mind.

The orchestra began to play a polka. I looked disconsolately at my pretty partner.

"Do you polk?" I asked.

"No. I waltz, but I don't polk."

"But I do," said Madame Dauberny, holding out her hand. "And you know how well we danced together. Suppose we see if we can succeed as well here as at Monsieur Bocal's ball?"

What an extraordinary woman! she said that as if we had known each other ten years. She was very pretty in my eyes at that moment. I hastened to take her hand, and we began to dance. I enjoyed it all the more because I had observed Saint-Bergame's horrible scowl.

We danced for some time without speaking, and, vanity aside, I believe we performed very creditably. After we had twice made the circuit of the room, I could contain myself no longer.

"Doesn't that gentleman who was with you polk?" I murmured.

"I was sure that you would ask me that!"

And she began to laugh. In truth, my question was most idiotic. But I am very prone to say such things. I am always conscious of it afterward, which is a little late. For fear of making a fool of myself again, I did not say another word. Thereupon my partner asked me:

"Have you spoken with Monsieur Sordeville again?"

"Yes, madame."

"And he invited you to his house?"

"Yes, madame."

"What did I tell you? We guessed as much by your radiant expression just now."

I knew then the meaning of the glance they exchanged when I approached them. But I did not like that: "We guessed as much"; that identity of thoughts and sentiments was by no means pleasing to me. I have always noticed that the women who tell each other everything, their inmost thoughts and the most secret impulses of their hearts, never have anything left to confide to their lovers. With them they act, but do not lay bare their hearts. Friendship is almost always injurious to love. That is not my understanding of a profound sentiment, a genuine attachment.—But what am I moralizing about?

I took the indefatigable FrÉdÉrique back to her friend. The handsome dandy was no longer there. I heard Madame Sordeville whisper:

"He has gone. He said he was going away; he was furious."

"Really? That doesn't disturb me in the least!"

But my gentleman had not gone. I saw him not far away. If he was jealous of me, he was sadly astray: I was thinking exclusively of Madame Sordeville and waiting impatiently for the quadrille, so that I could talk with her more freely.

That moment arrived at last. I stood up beside my partner; each cavalier did the same. O blessed moment! What an excellent invention is dancing!

I felt that I must make the most of my opportunity; I told Madame Sordeville that her husband had invited me to come to their house. She smiled, but made no reply. I could not rest content with that.

"May I hope to be so fortunate, madame, as to obtain from your lips a confirmation of the invitation I have received?"

"Whatever my husband does is well done, monsieur, and I can only approve it."

That was a courteous reply, but nothing more. It seemed as if my fair partner were distraught. It is never very flattering to one's self-esteem to have the person to whom one is talking thinking of something else; and when that person is a woman with whom one is in love, it is much more mortifying. I was on the point of making a declaration of love, but it did not pass my lips. Could it be possible that she was nothing more or less than a coquette who had been amusing herself at my expense? Nonsense! Had I already forgotten all that she had done for me that evening? Wounded self-esteem often makes us very unjust. I determined to wait and not to go so fast, either in forming my judgments, or in my love.

When the dance came to an end, many of the guests prepared to go away. Madame Sordeville rejoined her friend, who also seemed disposed to retire. What was there to detain me there? I had permission to call upon the charming Armantine, and that was all that I could expect.

I left the restaurant. As I passed the rooms where the Bocal wedding party was still in full blast, I heard a good deal of noise. Was it merrymaking or quarrelling? Faith! Balloquet must take care of himself; and I went home and to bed.