I felt the need of some distraction to enable me to forget the visit I had just received.

"Ah!" I thought; "I will go and hunt up the poor girl from Sceaux."

I had finished dressing. Pomponne, seeing that I was preparing to go out, planted himself in front of me, like a soldier awaiting the countersign, and said:

"Is monsieur going out?"

"As you see."

"Monsieur has no orders for me?"

"None."

"Will monsieur return to dinner?"

"Come, come, Pomponne! are you going crazy altogether?"

"I don't think so, monsieur."

"Then why do you ask me that question? You know perfectly well that I usually dine at a table d'hÔte, and never at home."

"True, monsieur; but you do sometimes dine at home, when you have company, you know.—Ha! ha!"

Monsieur Pomponne felt called upon to laugh slyly and assume a mischievous look; for you must know that I dine at home only when I am entertaining a lady who fears to compromise her reputation by going to a restaurant. There are ladies who decline to go to restaurants, but are perfectly willing to go to a gentleman's apartment. I am far from blaming them; everyone is free to act as she pleases. But it was a long time since I had entertained in my own quarters, my recent acquaintances having had no dislike for restaurants. So I simply informed Pomponne that he was a zany, and left the house.

From Rue Bleue, where I lived, to Rue MÉnilmontant is a long distance, but the fresh air and the exercise did me good. I thought of my charming partner, the seductive Armantine's image was constantly before my eyes; and when I spied a woman of her stature and figure, I quickened my pace, in order to overtake her and find out if it were she. I always had my trouble for my pains, which did not deter me from doing the same thing again a few moments later. I have noticed that love always gives as much occupation to the legs as to the mind.

My amorous thoughts cooled a little as I drew near Rue MÉnilmontant, a street, by the way, which might well pass for a faubourg. In that quarter I met no more women who reminded me of Armantine. I called her "Armantine" to myself, although that was perhaps a slightly familiar way of speaking of a woman I had known less than twenty-four hours, and who had given me no right to claim that privilege. But when a lover is speaking to himself, is he not at liberty to apply the fondest names to the object of his adoration, and to address her by the most familiar terms, in the ecstasy of his illusions? That injures nobody and affords him so much pleasure! It has often been said, and justly, that: "Men are overgrown children, who must always have some plaything to fondle. With some it is ambition, honors; with others, wealth; with others, peace and repose; but with the vast majority, love."—To these last, the image of the loved one is the persistent idea that guides all their actions.

The number mentioned by Fouvenard was a long way up the street. I was not very far from the barrier, and it was easy to imagine one's self in the country. I presumed that lodgings thereabout were not very dear. At last I found the number I sought. It was a house of great height. As I entered, I began to wonder what I should say to that young woman, whom I had never seen, and what pretext I should allege for my visit. The first step was to find if she really lived there. I found a concierge, almost entirely hidden by two cats and a dog that had established themselves upon her person and covered her face so that only the end of her nose was visible. I asked for Mademoiselle Mignonne.

The concierge managed to push her way through the cats, and responded:

"Mademoiselle Mignonne? Don't know her."

"You don't know her?"

"Faith, no! What does she do?"

"What does she do? Why, she works; sews or embroiders, I believe."

"No such person in the house, monsieur."

So Fouvenard had deceived us; his Mignonne was a creation of his fancy. I was sure of it! I much preferred to find out that he had lied to us, rather than that that poor girl really existed. I had already left the house; but a few steps away, I stopped; I remembered that the girl had a family name also; perhaps she had hired a lodging in Paris under that name. So I retraced my steps to where the concierge sat amid her animals, and said:

"The person I am looking for is named Landernoy; Mignonne is her Christian name."

"Oh! Landernoy—that's a different matter; if you had asked for that name first, you wouldn't have had the trouble of coming back."

"You know her, then?"

"Pardi! to be sure I do, as she lives in the house. Mamzelle Landernoy—Madame, I mean, for we call her madame now, you see; it's properer, considering her condition. I don't know whether you know what I mean?"

"Yes, yes, perfectly; of course, I ought to have said madame."

"Oh! as to that, we know well enough that the only marriage she ever had was at the mayor's office of the thirteenth arrondissement! But then, what can you expect? she's one more poor girl that's made a misstep; but that's no reason for heaving stones at her. The good Lord said we mustn't heave stones at anybody—especially at poor women who've been weak; eh, monsieur?"

The concierge's words led me to forgive her her cats, and I would gladly have shaken hands with her if I had not been afraid of being clawed.

"Madame," I said, "your sentiments do you honor."

"Dame! I say what I think, that's all. And then, the poor thing seems so unhappy! It ain't that she complains the least bit—oh, no! she's proud enough in her poverty! But, in the first place, she can't be happy, because her seducer's gone back on her altogether; that is, I suppose he has; for nobody ever comes to see her now, not even a cat—except mine; they sometimes go and bid her good-day. And then, when she came here, she had a modest little room on the fifth; and now she's left that and taken another one right up under the eaves, with a little round window and no fireplace. In fact, you can hardly call it a room; it's only a closet at best. But, dame! it only costs seventy francs a year, and the other room was almost twice that; and when you haven't got anything but your work to live on—and a woman earns so little—and on the point of being a mother, too!—Still, it don't make any difference; as I was just saying, she don't complain. She's making clothes for the baby; and when I go in to say good-day to her, she always shows me a little cap or a little shirt, and says:

"'Look—this is for him!'—And then she smiles. Poor soul! she never smiles, only when she speaks of her child."

"But what does the poor girl live on, in heaven's name?"

"Oh! she works, she makes linen garments; she sews mighty well; and then, she's got a pretty taste for trimming caps and headdresses; I'm sure she could have kept her first room, if she'd wanted to; but I suppose that she said to herself that, as she was going to be a mother, she must be saving and put a little something aside against the time when the child comes. And, as I tell you, she's making him a pretty little outfit; I'm sure that there's a dozen little caps already."

I was deeply moved by what I had heard. The concierge pointed out the staircase leading to Mignonne's lodging, but, as she did so, she said to me:

"Have you come to give the poor woman an order for some work?"

"Yes, that is my purpose."

"This is what I was going to say, monsieur: since her—lover stopped coming to see her—a fellow with a big beard that I didn't call very good-looking—Madame Landernoy—we call her madame, you know—has got to be sort of wild like; you would say she was afraid. She says to me: 'If any gentlemen come to speak to me, please to say always that I ain't in, that I've gone out; don't let 'em come up.'—As there hasn't been one come for a long while, I ain't had to say anything, but I just this minute thought of her orders. However, if you mean to give her work, that can't disturb her."

"Never fear, madame; my only desire is to try to be useful to your interesting tenant, not to distress her in any way."

"All right, then; go up—way up to the top, as long as you find stairs; then the door facing you. There's nobody but Madame Landernoy up there in the daytime, anyway; the other two rooms belong to servants, who never go up till bed time."

I understood why the poor girl did not wish to receive visits from men. After the plot of which she had been the victim, she must naturally have retained a feeling of aversion for them and must look upon them all with suspicion. In that case, I should not be warmly received, and what was I to say? I had no idea; but, no matter! I was determined to see Mignonne, and even to face her wrath.

I ascended the stairs, the first flights being broad and roomy, but the upper ones very narrow. On the fifth floor I paused to take breath; in front of me was a sort of ladder, the only means of access to the lofts which many landlords have the assurance to call rooms. I know that BÉranger said:

"How happy one is in a garret at twenty!"

True, when one is there to make love! but it must be a miserable sojourn when love abandons one there!

I climbed the ladder and found myself in a low, narrow, dark passageway; I distinguished a door in front of me; that was where she lived. My heart beat as if I were on the point of committing some evil deed. Why are we no less excited when about to do good than when about to do evil? I like to believe that the sensation is different.

I approached the door, and was on the point of knocking, when I heard a voice. I listened.

"Yes, you will be warmly wrapped in this, dear child! Another little nightgown; that makes six. Ah! you see, I don't want you to lack anything; you will be my companion, my little companion; you will never leave me, and I shan't be alone any more, then; I shall be very happy; I'll kiss you as much as I choose, all day long, for I shall be the one to nurse you! Some people look as if they pitied me because I am going to be a mother! Ah! they don't understand all the joys and hopes that go with that title! Why, if it wasn't for my child, I should be dead! Oh, yes! I should have preferred to die! If it's a girl, I shall call her Marie; that was my mother's name. If it's a boy, I shall call him—I—I don't know yet. Édouard's a nice name, or LÉon. But not Ernest, in any case! Ah! what a horrible name!"

These last words were uttered in a trembling voice, and I heard nothing more. I knocked gently on the door.

"Who's there? Is it you, Madame Potrelle? Wait a minute, and I'll let you in."

The door opened. It was, in truth, Mignonne, as Fouvenard had described her to us: a pale, fair-haired girl, with soft, blue eyes; but the lips were no longer red, or the complexion rosy; grief and lonely vigils, during an advanced stage of pregnancy, had seamed and emaciated that youthful face, whose habitual expression now was one of melancholy.

Mignonne stood as if struck dumb with amazement at sight of me. I removed my hat and bowed respectfully; I was desirous to inspire her with confidence; but as I did not know what to say, and as she seemed to be waiting for me to speak, we stood for several minutes, looking at each other, without a word.

"Monsieur—you have mistaken the room, I think," faltered Mignonne at last, in an uncertain voice. "You did not mean to come to my room; you came up too high."

"No, mademoi—no, madame; I think that I have not made a mistake. I am looking for Madame Landernoy; are not you she?"

"Yes, monsieur, that is my name. What do you want of me?"

Mignonne spoke in a short, sharp tone, which proved that my visit was not agreeable to her. I was still at the door, and she did not ask me to come in. Perhaps she did not wish me to see the wretched place she lived in, and, in truth, what I did see made my heart bleed, for, without entering, the whole room was visible. It was a tiny room, with no light except from a round hole in the sloping roof, the window being opened or closed by an iron bar, as it was so high as to be out of reach. So that she had no sight of anything but a little patch of sky when she raised her eyes to look out. There was no fireplace, but a small air-tight stove. A bed, a commode, a table, a small buffet, a water pail, and six chairs composed the poor girl's furniture. But everything was neatly arranged and spotlessly clean.

Evidently, in my inspection of the room, I forgot to answer the question she asked me, for it was repeated in a still more imperative tone:

"I asked you what you wanted, monsieur; for I don't know you."

"Oh! I beg pardon, madame! I came to ask you—I am told that you do very fine linen work, and I wanted—I had some work to give you to do, if you chose to undertake it."

"Who told you that I did linen work, monsieur?"

"Why—a lady—for whom you have worked."

"What is the lady's name?"

I was sadly embarrassed. I stammered and stuttered, and finally replied:

"Faith! I really don't remember. The lady told another lady, a friend of hers, who told me, because she knew I wanted some shirts made."

"I am not very skilful, monsieur; and the person I work for must not be very exacting."

"Oh! I am not at all exacting, madame; I want some shirts—to wear in the country. If you had the simplest kind of a pattern to show me."

I took several steps forward; Mignonne allowed me to enter her garret; she seemed to have laid aside her distrust. I was conscious of a secret joy, and, while she was looking in a drawer, I took a chair, saying:

"Excuse me, madame, if I sit down; but I came up rather rapidly, and the stairs are quite steep."

"Pray rest, monsieur; I should have offered you a seat; but my room is not very cheerful, and it never occurs to me to do the honors. Dear me! I can't find any pattern. I remember now that the day before yesterday I returned the last shirts I had to make. But you have brought me a pattern, no doubt?"

"No; I did not think of it."

"But it is absolutely necessary."

"I will bring you one, then."

"If you will kindly hand it to the lady who gave you my address, monsieur, with the linen for the shirts, I will go there and get them; for, of course, you would not bring the package here yourself."

She was determined to find out who had given me her address. In my earnest desire to obtain her confidence, I said:

"Oh! I thought that you would probably undertake to buy it yourself—the linen, or percale, or Scotch batiste, or what you will; for I don't know anything about it; ladies are better at buying such things than we are. I can bring you a pattern; I will roll it up and put it in my pocket, and you won't need to put yourself out. In view of your condition, madame, you should avoid fatigue as much as possible."

"But, monsieur, if I go out to buy linen, it won't be any extra trouble to call on the lady; and I can thank her at the same time for thinking about me."

"Oh! that is natural enough! She knew that you could—that you had more claim than most women to her interest. She said to me: 'Mademoiselle Mignonne—that is to say, Madame Landernoy—deserves your full confidence, and I commend her to you.'"

The moment that I mentioned the name of Mignonne, she sprang to her feet from the chair she had taken; her brow clouded, she fixed her eyes on the floor, trembling convulsively, and murmured:

"Who told you, monsieur, that my name was Mignonne? None of the people I have worked for have known me by any other name than that of Madame Landernoy."

"Mon Dieu! I can't remember now, madame. But someone must have told me. That lady probably learned it by accident."

Mignonne made a slight movement of her shoulders, which I could not interpret as flattering to me. To be sure, for the last minute I had been stumbling and splashing about, with no idea of what I was saying. I saw that I had made an egregious blunder by calling her Mignonne. Of course, her Christian name was not generally known; and, as I knew it, she thought, no doubt, that I was a friend of the man who had so shamelessly betrayed her; perhaps she imagined that Fouvenard had sent me to her. That idea drove me to despair. A fine thing I had done, parbleu! How was I to regain her confidence?

I took two hundred francs from my pocket and handed them to her, saying:

"Here is some money to buy linen with, madame, if you will kindly attend to it. If it is not enough, please let me know——"

Mignonne refused to take the money, saying in a severe tone:

"It's not worth while for you to give me this money, monsieur; I am not in the habit of buying materials myself. Besides, I cannot, at this moment, undertake the work you offer me. I haven't time to do it; I have other work that is more urgent."

I sadly put the money back in my pocket, mumbling:

"But I'm not in any hurry for the shirts, madame; you may make them when you choose."

"No, monsieur; I don't accept work unless I have time to do it.—Adieu, monsieur!"

She had thrown her door wide open, and she stood at one side, apparently inviting me to go. She dismissed me, she was anxious to see the last of me. Clearly, to remain any longer would simply have irritated her more. I rose and bowed low, but I paused in the doorway to say to her:

"I venture to hope, madame, that I shall be more fortunate another time, and that you will then consent to work for me."

"Yes, monsieur, another time."

And she closed her door almost in my face. I was incensed against myself. If I had not called her Mignonne, she would have undertaken the work I offered her. Now she looked upon me with suspicion, with horror perhaps, thinking that I was a friend of Fouvenard, and remembering why he sent his friends to her and how they treated her.

I was convinced that she would forbid her concierge to allow me to go up to her room. I had guessed that by her manner when she said:

"Yes, monsieur, another time."

So I was dismissed, turned out of doors, by that girl whom I had visited with none but the purest and most honorable purposes! To be useful to her, to relieve her distress, to avenge her if possible for the outrages of which she had been the victim—that was my object in going to see her; and although the girl was pretty enough, never, not even since I had been in a position to judge of her beauty, had any ulterior purpose suggested itself to my mind. It seemed to me that Mignonne could be to me nothing more than a friend, a sister; no other thought had come to my mind or my heart.

However, I determined to be of some use to her, no matter what she might do; and when I have determined on a thing, I am not to be deterred by obstacles.

I hastened down the stairs, and passed the concierge and her cats without stopping. I walked very fast until I found a cab, which I entered, and was driven to a shop where they sold linens, batistes—in a word, stuff for shirts. I chose the first thing they showed me—Scotch batiste, I believe—and took enough to make a dozen shirts. Then I returned to my cab and went home, for I remembered that I must have a pattern. I took one of my shirts that seemed to be made in the simplest way, and was about to start off again, when it occurred to me that if, as I feared, she should refuse to see me, I had best leave a letter; so I concluded to write a few lines, and sign my name, in order to regain her confidence; when a man is not afraid to give his name, it is usually a proof that he has no evil designs.

I sat down at my desk and wrote:

I closed the letter, took my cab once more, and returned to Mignonne's abode.

All this going and coming had taken some time. When I stopped in front of the house the second time, it was nearly two hours since I had left it. I went at once to the concierge, with my bundle of linen under my arm. Before I had mentioned the girl's name, the concierge cried:

"She ain't in, monsieur; that young lady's gone out; you can't go up. In fact, she don't want you to go up to her room any more; she scolded me for letting you go."

"I thought that you might have received that order, madame, and I do not insist on seeing Madame Landernoy; but here is a letter for her, and a package, which I beg you to be good enough to hand her."

"A package! I don't know if I ought to take it."

"You cannot refuse to receive it, madame. Besides, I assure you that my intentions are honorable, and that young woman does very wrong to distrust me. I hope that she will do me justice later. I will return in about a fortnight."

With that, I tossed letter and bundle on the concierge's knees, at the risk of crushing one of her cats, and turned away, paying no heed to her reply.