On the day following that night which I had so well employed, I did not wake until after noon. I went over in my mind the events of the preceding evening. When one has done so much and heard so many anecdotes, one may be pardoned for being a little confused.

Madame Sordeville's pretty face very soon presented itself to my memory. Now that I was no longer excited by the illusions of the ballroom and the strains of the music, I tried to determine what sort of woman she was, and whether I could reasonably hope for success if I should make love to her.

She was pretty, well formed, graceful, amiable—yes, and intelligent; at all events, she possessed that sort of wit that gives sparkle to a conversation; I could not say as yet whether it had any substantial foundation. In that respect, women are much more deceitful than men; they are much more skilful in throwing dust in one's eyes. Too often the flow of words and bright sallies is only a sort of froth that will not stand the test of time.

Madame Sordeville was undoubtedly a flirt. It is often said that all women are; but there are gradations. There are the amiable flirts who give a pungent flavor to love; there are others who do not give a lover one moment's peace or rest; and, frankly, a woman who takes pleasure in tormenting one is a sorry acquaintance. But I had not got to that point; perhaps the lady in question would never be anything to me, albeit her husband seemed to be not at all jealous.

The anecdotes that were told at our dinner the day before recurred to my mind; one of them especially had made a deep impression on me, and I was surprised that I had forgotten for so long a time that young girl of Sceaux—that unhappy Mignonne, toward whom Fouvenard had behaved so abominably. As if it were not enough to abandon her after having made her a mother, he must needs force her, against her will, into another man's arms! That was a perfect outrage! The law punishes men for less than Fouvenard had done—and all because she loved him! Unhappy girl! and to think that she was on the point of becoming a mother! I simply must see her, and try to alleviate her misery. Perhaps she was in utter destitution. He said Rue MÉnilmontant, No. 80. I determined to go there; but I hoped that he had lied to us; that his Mignonne did not exist. It would be too execrable, if it were true.

I rang for my servant, and he appeared. He was a simple-minded fellow, but trustworthy, I was confident; and as that is the rarest of qualities in all ranks of society, I kept Pomponne in my service, although he was very often guilty of the most stupid blunders, and was of such a prying, inquisitive turn that I often had to reprove him.

Pomponne gave me all that I required for my toilet; but, as he walked about the room, I noticed that his manner was unusually idiotic, a symptom which always indicated that he had something to say and did not know how to go about it. So that it was necessary for me to give him a lead.

"Have you been making a fool of yourself since yesterday, Pomponne?"

"Me, monsieur! what makes you ask me that? You didn't tell me to, did you?"

"Why, you don't usually wait for my instructions to do that. Are there any letters for me?"

"No, monsieur."

"Did anybody call while I was asleep?"

"Call?"

"Yes, call."

"I don't think so, monsieur."

"You don't think so? Aren't you sure?"

"Oh, yes! I am sure."

"What the devil's the matter with you this morning, that you seem so much more stupid than usual?"

"Why, it seems to me that I'm just the same as usual."

"Come, brush my hair, and be quick about it! It's late."

You must know that Monsieur Pomponne was an excellent hair dresser; that and his trustworthiness, you see, made him rather a notable personage. He had studied the trade of hair dressing for some time; he gave it up, so he told me, because, as he had a fine lot of hair, his head was constantly used for beginners to practice on, and that got to be rather tiresome.

"And the love affairs, Pomponne—how do they come on?"

My servant blushed; he was not an accomplished rake, you see.

"Oh, monsieur! I haven't any love affairs!"

"Ah! so you choose to play the close-mouthed lover with me?—What about the maid-servant of the old gentleman opposite? you haven't made love to her, you rascal, have you?"

"Oh, monsieur! I may have laughed a little with her; just in a joking way, that's all."

"We all know what it means to laugh with maid-servants."

"However, I think I'm going to lose her—poor Mademoiselle Rosalie!"

"Is she sick?"

"No, monsieur; I mean that she's probably going to leave the house. She has discharged her master."

"Discharged her master? You mean that her master has discharged her, of course?"

"No, monsieur; I give you my word that she told me: 'I don't want any more of my master; I've given him his papers.'—And she added: 'I said zut! to him.'"

"The deuce! Mademoiselle Rosalie's language is rather dÉcolletÉ, I should say! Why is she leaving her master? He's rich and a widower—an excellent place for a servant, especially for one who says zut."

"It seems, monsieur, that her master doesn't like to pay her."

"Nonsense! that can't be. My old neighbor is noted for paying promptly and not having any debts."

"I beg pardon, monsieur: they have had a dispute. You see, Mademoiselle Rosalie has a funny custom; she gets a commission for everything."

"I don't understand. Doesn't she get any wages?"

"Yes, monsieur; she has three hundred francs."

"Well?"

"Well, that don't make any difference; when she does an errand—for instance, when her master sends her with a letter to one of his friends, or anywhere else—well, that's fifteen sous; she charges a commission of fifteen sous. When she has to wash the windows, it's twenty sous. When she scrubs, it's twenty-five sous; do you see?"

"Perfectly. So it's just the same as if he hadn't any servant; that's very convenient!"

"She calls that putting the masters where they belong."

"Just try putting me where I belong! I'll discharge you on the instant."

"However, it seems that Rosalie's master never found any fault with all that; but the other night he told her to warm his bed; and when she charged him twelve sous for it the next day, that made him mad. I says to her: 'I must say, mamzelle, it seems to me, you might warm your master's bed for nothing!'—'Well, I guess not!' says she; 'he'd get into the habit of having it done every night!'"

"Peste! there's a servant who will make her way in the world."

"She's making it, monsieur; she tells me that she takes thirty-six francs to the savings bank every month."

"And her wages are only twenty-five! She has the saving instinct, sure!"

While I was talking with Pomponne, I noticed an odor that was not customary in my apartments.

"Pomponne," I said abruptly, "have you been smoking this morning?"

"Smoking, monsieur? You know I never smoke."

"But it smells of tobacco here; not of cigars, but of a pipe, and vile tobacco too."

My servant smiled with an expression which he tried to render cunning, and said in an undertone, leaning over me:

"I know who it is; it's the other one."

"What other one?"

"The man who's waiting out there, in the reception room."

"What! there's someone waiting for me, and you didn't tell me?"

"Oh! he—he said he wasn't in any hurry."

"And you told me that no one had called!"

"He's not a caller. I heard you say once: 'If that person comes here again, and I have company, call me at once; don't let him in.'"

I trembled as I began to realize who the visitor was.

"Can it be——" I faltered.

"Yes, monsieur; it's the party named Ballangier—the one who's so free and easy like, and makes himself so much at home here, just as if he was in his own house."

I felt as if a heavy weight had settled down on my chest. In an instant all my cheerful thoughts had vanished. A feeling of depression replaced them. The presence—the very name—of Ballangier always produced that effect on me.

"Has this—gentleman been here long?"

"About three-quarters of an hour, monsieur, when you rang."

"Didn't you tell him that I had been at a ball, and that I was likely to sleep very late?"

"Yes, monsieur, I said all that. But he just sat down and said: 'That's all the same to me; I've got plenty of time.' And then, he took out a pipe and lighted it. It was no use for me to say: 'You mustn't smoke here; my master don't like the smell.'—He sings out: 'I smoke everywhere! and you can open the windows and burn some castonnade.'"

"Show the gentleman in, and leave us. And if anybody should call while he is here, remember, Pomponne, that I am not at home to anyone."

"Yes, monsieur—as usual."

Pomponne went out, and in a moment the person who was waiting entered my bedroom.

Ballangier was thirty-four years old; he looked older, because he had led a riotous life for a long while. Dissipation and debauchery make a man old prematurely.

Imagine a man of more than ordinary height, who would have had a good figure if he had not acquired the habit of stooping. A refined, regular face, aquiline nose, small, heart-shaped mouth, and very black eyes surmounted by heavy eyebrows; an abundance of hair, once black, but now gray. All this would have formed an attractive whole, had it not been spoiled by a pronounced hangdog air. An expression that was impudent when not made stupid by drink, and manners that were often brutal; in addition, clothes that were always soiled and often in tatters, and the gait of a drummer; this rough sketch may serve to convey an impression of the person who stood before me.

On the present occasion he wore a brown frock-coat that was neither ripped nor torn. It lacked only two buttons in front, but it was covered with spots and stains. His black trousers were shockingly muddy, as were his boots. As for his linen, that was invisible. A frayed black stock encircled his neck, and he held in his hand a round black hat which seemed to have had many hard knocks.

When he entered my bedroom, Ballangier removed his pipe from his mouth. He walked forward, swaying his hips, nodded to me with a smile, and stretched himself out in an easy-chair, saying:

"Here I am! How goes it, Charles?"

"Very well, thanks."

"It seems that you had a bit of a spree last night, and you've had a good snooze this morning. You do right to enjoy yourself. It's such good fun to spree it! I'd like to do nothing else, myself."

"I should say that you had done little else thus far."

"Bah! bagatelles! To make things hum, a fellow must have the needful. Everything's so dear to-day! Those villains of wine merchants and restaurant keepers won't give credit any more!"

"They are wise."

"Why are they wise?"

"Because you have run up bills more than once that would never have been paid if I hadn't paid them."

"Who says I wouldn't have paid my debts? But a fellow must have time! Why are they in such a hurry?"

"You make me blush for you, Ballangier! Am I the person for you to make such speeches to?"

"Well, what's the matter now? Ain't I to be allowed to speak?"

"You might at least save yourself the trouble of lying to me, who know you too well! and who know what your conduct has always been! When a man who has no income desires to meet his obligations, he says to himself: 'I'll work and earn money.'—For, as I have told you a hundred times, there's no other way to obtain an honorable position in the world. You refuse to understand that everybody on this earth has to work, from the smallest to the greatest, from the humblest clerk to the highest functionary, from the artisan to the artist. The very rich men whose lot you envy—for the idle and lazy, the people who do nothing, naturally envy the lot of the rich—those who have great wealth have to busy themselves with investing it, managing their property, overlooking the conduct of the people they employ, regulating their expenses; and if they wish to retain their fortune, I assure you they don't pass their whole life enjoying themselves."

Ballangier lay back in his chair, shook the ashes out of his pipe, and looked at me with a bantering air, as he rejoined:

"What work have you, who preach so eloquently, ever done? What is your employment? I don't know what it is, but I don't think it's very wearisome."

I could not restrain an indignant gesture, for the man's ingratitude was revolting to me; he owed everything to me! But I soon grew calm again; there was one thought before which my anger vanished, and I replied quietly:

"In the first place, I was justified in not taking up any profession, as my father left me fifteen thousand francs a year."

"I don't say that you did wrong; I am not blaming you, my dear fellow, but, that being the case, I wasn't so far out of the way, was I?"

"I beg your pardon. Be good enough to listen to me. Although I had some fortune, I began at once to study law, in order to become an advocate. Some time after, having a passion for the arts, I studied music, painting, and sculpture, in turn; then I turned to poetry, I wrote a poem—a bad one, perhaps, but I devoted my best energies to it, none the less. So you see that I have done something; and if I should lose now what money I still have, I could make a living honestly, and without assistance, with the small talents I have acquired. Can you say as much, you who have nothing, no future prospects, but have never been willing to do anything or to learn anything? who, instead of remaining in the sphere in which you were born, have plunged into a vice-ridden circle, and acquired the tastes and habits and manners of people who are cast out from all respectable society?"

"What's that? what's that? I'm a cabinetmaker! Isn't that a respectable trade? Anyone would think, to hear you, that I worked nights—on the dust heaps!"

"Oh! I don't despise any trade, monsieur. I esteem every man whose behavior is honorable. The mechanic, the artisan, the day laborer, are all entitled to my esteem and consideration when they are honest and upright. I say again, there is no despicable trade; the vicious, lazy, idle people, the drunken debauchees, no matter to what rank in life they belong, are the ones whom we should look upon with contempt and shame. You claim to be a mechanic, but you lie. You are nothing, neither cabinetmaker nor anything else, because you will not do anything, because work is a burden and a bore to you, because you have acquired the habit of passing your time in wine shops and dance halls, or in vile dens of debauchery, where you have associated yourself with wretches who are the offscourings of society! And at thirty-four years of age, you continue this line of conduct! Ah! you are incorrigible; that is evident!"

Ballangier threw his pipe on the floor, exclaiming angrily:

"Damnation! I'm sick of this sort of thing! If I am incorrigible, I don't quite see why you preach this sermon at me!"

"I am entitled to do it; if you had followed my advice, listened to my entreaties, you would not be where I find you now. Furthermore, if my sermons displease you, why do you come here? I told you not to. Do I not send you regularly every three months the allowance that I have consented to make you, although, as you well know, I am under no obligation to do it? Only a fortnight ago, I went myself and handed your quarterly payment to your concierge."

"That's just what I don't want you to do! He kept half of it, the miserly old screw!"

"Kept it! You told me yourself that he was an honest man; and you say that he kept money belonging to you!"

"He claimed that I owed him for loans, and food, and carrying letters—mere trifles!"

"If you owed him, you should pay him."

"I'd have paid him later; he had no right to pay himself. Oh! I know the law, don't I? You ought to know about it, as you studied to be an advocate."

"What do you want to-day? Why did you come here?"

"I wanted to tell you that I am going to move! I can't stay in a house where the concierge has no sense of delicacy. By the way, you haven't a glass of anything to give me, have you? I came out without my breakfast this morning; I've done a good deal of running around, and it makes a man hollow. Come, Charlot, be a good fellow! Don't scowl at Fanfinet! You know that I'm a good friend."

I made no reply, but opened a cupboard containing several bottles of different liqueurs. I took out one of them and a small glass, and placed them in front of Ballangier; who instantly pounced on the bottle and filled the glass to the brim, saying:

"Won't you drink with me?"

"No; I never drink liqueur in the morning."

"As you please; there's no accounting for tastes. You are very delicate, you are; for my part, I'd drink a goblet of rum without winking. This is anisette—a lady's cordial! sweet as sugar! Never mind, it's not bad."

"What are you doing now, Ballangier? Are you working anywhere? Come, tell me frankly."

"I'm going to tell you just how it is. As if I could conceal anything from you! I always pour out my troubles on your breast."

"Why did you come here to-day?"

"I'll tell you all about it. But haven't you something a little stiffer to give me? Your anisette makes me sick at my stomach. Tell me where it is; don't disturb yourself."

"I have nothing else to give you; moreover, I don't choose to give you anything else. If I listened to you, you would drink yourself drunk here. It's quite enough that you should take the liberty to smoke; you know perfectly well that I don't like it."

"People smoke in the most select society."

"Enough of this, monsieur! Why did you come here in spite of my prohibition?"

"Oh! monsieur—what a tone! We seem to be in an infernal humor to-day, monseigneur! Luckily, I'm not easily frightened."

I strove to keep down my irritation; I stood in front of my mirror and arranged my cravat, then finished dressing myself. Ballangier, seeing that I paid no heed to him, poured out another glass of anisette; then, trying to assume a piteous tone, he mumbled:

"I know well enough that I don't amount to much, that I've often done foolish things. That's true; but, after all, youth must have its fling; mine seems to last a good while, but whose fault is it? And it's no time to treat me like a dog, just when I've made up my mind to turn over a new leaf, to straighten myself out and be sensible!"

He paused and glanced at me; but I did not say a word, and he continued:

"Yes, this time, I have reflected seriously. As you said just now, I am no longer young, I must think of my future; and an opportunity is offered me—an affair that would suit me to a T. I have spoken to you about Morillot—a good fellow, who's in the cabinetmaking line; he's no ne'er-do-well, but a worker; and I confess that if I'd listened to him, I'd be in better case than I am. Well, Morillot has gone back to BesanÇon, where he came from. He always said to me: 'When I have a place for you, I'll write and you can come.'—Well, he's just written to me, and he says that, if I choose to come, he's got just what I want; and that, if I behave myself, I'll soon be able to set up for myself at BesanÇon. I came here to tell you that."

I listened to Ballangier without interrupting him. I did not know whether I ought to believe him, he had deceived me so often! It was no easy matter to read his face; he could assume any expression he chose; he could even weep, when he thought that would advance his schemes.

"If this Morillot has really made you such a proposition, why don't you go?" I asked at last.

"Ah! you're a good one, you are! That's easy enough to say. But I don't want to go to BesanÇon dressed like this—all in rags; that would give people a bad opinion of me at the outset. If a man's hide isn't somewhere near decent—you know what fools folks are! And then the journey; and then, I shan't get paid as soon as I arrive. In fact, I haven't a sou, as that rascally concierge kept almost the whole of what you gave him for me. And, anyway, fifty francs a month ain't a fortune! A man can't go far with that!"

"A man can live with that; and if you chose to work, you could have everything you need. How many poor women who pass their days sewing, and sit up half the night to add a few sous to their day's pay, don't earn as much as this sum that seems to you too small! But do you forget all that I have done for you? I have tried every possible means of bringing you back to a respectable mode of life. The more money I give you, the more you spend in those dens of iniquity where you pass your life. I got tired at last of supporting your vices; and I still do too much for you."

"Come! come! let's not get excited! It's not worth while to talk about the past. What's gone by is wiped out. To-day, to replenish my wardrobe, to pay for my journey and incidental expenses, and to keep me till I get paid for my work, I need—dame! I need fully four hundred francs. Oh! I know it's like pulling out a tooth, and that I've cost you a lot of money already; but this will be the last time; and you wont hear of me again. I'll settle at BesanÇon; they say Franche-ComtÉ is a pleasant country; at all events, I can be happy anywhere."

I reflected, while Ballangier watched me with something very like anxiety. He had lied to me so often that I dared not put faith in what he said.

"What have you to prove the truth of what you tell me?"

"Oh! I suspected that you wouldn't believe me; but I have my proofs."

And Ballangier, feeling in his pocket, triumphantly produced a letter, which he handed to me. It came from BesanÇon, it was signed Morillot, and it did, in fact, contain what he had said. I had already given him money; but if I could finally rid myself of him and of the fear of meeting him in Paris—— That hope put an end to my hesitation.

I opened my secretary, took out four hundred francs in gold, and placed the money in Ballangier's hand.

"Take it," I said; "and may you at last make a good use of what I give you!"

Ballangier turned purple with pleasure when he held the gold pieces in his hand; he made as if he would throw himself on my neck; but I stepped back and he checked himself, crying:

"That is true, I am not worthy; but I will wait till another time. I propose to become a model of virtue. Sacrebleu! I propose that you shall be satisfied with me at last! I will make it a point of honor! Au revoir, Charlot!—no, I mean adieu! you prefer that, and you're quite right."

He said no more, but walked quickly from the room. And I breathed more freely when he was no longer there.