The baron, who was beginning to be drowsy with the combined effects of the wine and tobacco, and whose eyes were not nearly so wide open as at the beginning of the supper, saw me, none the less, when I kissed Madame Dauberny's hand. He immediately snatched his pipe from his mouth and glared at me, crying:

"Mein gut frent, is id drue tat you pe not ein leedle pit in loafe mit montame? not ein leedle pit, I say?"

"What has stirred you up now, baron?" laughed FrÉdÉrique; "are you going to begin again?"

"Nein, but for vat do mein gut frent Rocheverte, he kiss your hand? I haf seen him kiss your hand."

"I did it without concealment, baron, and I ask nothing better than to do it again."

"So! in tat case, so vill ich do id again; but I haf not yet done id at all."

"Fill your pipe, baron, and let my hand alone. We were saying that Armantine's concert this evening was a bit mouche, to use a slang term—eh, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame."

"I haf not seen if tere vas mouches [flies] at Monsir Sordeville's; but he pe ein sehr bleazant man, sehr—how you say?—he make me much talk; he loafe ven I talk; he say tat I shpeak vell te language."

FrÉdÉrique's face suddenly changed; her brow grew dark, and her expression was no longer the same. She looked keenly at the baron, saying:

"What did you talk about with Monsieur Sordeville?"

"Ve talk of pizness. As I haf come to France mit der ambassador, he haf question me of bolitics, of te gufernment, of many serious subjects. He pe a brovound man, he haf alvays agree mit me."

FrÉdÉrique seemed to be lost in thought.

"And this was only the second time that you had been to Monsieur Sordeville's?" she asked, after a moment.

"Ja! id vas te second time. I haf met te monsir at te house of Montame de Granvallon, vere I haf had te bleazure to meet mit you."

"And you did not know Monsieur Sordeville before?"

"Not at all; but he make agwaindance so easy, he vas sehr amiable; his vife, as he tell me, she haf peen much frent mit you."

"Yes, Armantine and I were at the same boarding school; we were friends. I left the school long before she did; I refused to learn to do anything except fence and ride, and those things were just what they didn't teach there. I would have liked to go to the Polytechnic, and then to Saint-Cyr; to be a soldier, in fact. I held up to my parents the precedent of the Chevalier d'Éon, who, although a woman, was cunning enough to lead a man's life for years. But they declared that it would be too great a risk. Parents constantly thwart their children's inclinations like that.—When I met Armantine again, she was married, and we renewed our old friendship. She is good-humored, merry, a little inclined to be capricious, a great flirt, but good at heart. As for her husband—in my opinion, he pays too little attention to his wife; he gives her too much liberty. I don't say that she abuses it, but, you see, you gentlemen are sometimes very gallant, very adventurous! And when the husband is never on the spot, why, it's his own fault if anything happens to him."

"What is this Monsieur Sordeville's business?" I asked FrÉdÉrique. She did not answer for some time, but at last she said:

"I thought that you knew him?"

"From having met him two or three times at a house where they give balls and play cards. He talked with me, more or less; he doesn't lack intelligence, he talks well, and possesses the much rarer gift of making others talk. We see so many people in society whose conversational powers consist in interrupting one at every instant, and who do not understand that one may have something better to do than listen to them. I had some talk with Monsieur Sordeville, as I say; and then I met him again at that wedding party, where you were so kind to me, and where he invited me to his house. But I did not dream of asking him what his profession was. Indeed, if he is rich, he is justified in having none."

"It seems that he has some property; but I have an idea that he speculates on the Bourse. Were you better pleased with him this evening than with—did he make himself agreeable? He received you cordially, I have no doubt; but what did you talk about with him? not his wife, I presume?"

"No; he was discussing serious subjects with an old gentleman who kept blinking, or rather closed his eyes altogether, when he spoke. They got onto politics, and talked thereon a long while."

FrÉdÉrique was not at all the same woman as our hostess of a few moments earlier. After quite a long silence, during which our lovelorn Prussian continued to drown his heartache in champagne, I touched my neighbor's arm softly, saying:

"You seem to be a long way off. Are you tired? do you wish us to go?"

FrÉdÉrique raised her head, passed her hand across her forehead, and resumed her jovial air.

"Ah! you are right!" she exclaimed; "scold me, my friend. I have fits of musing, sometimes; I fall into a train of thought that is utterly void of sense! It is very wrong in me, for when you are with me is no time for me to have such thoughts. But I don't want you to leave me yet; we get along so well together! Are you inclined to sleep?"

"Oh! no, madame!"

"Madame again! You irritate me! Beware! if you go on in this way, I am no longer your comrade."

"Pray don't say that—FrÉdÉrique."

"He called me FrÉdÉrique! that's very lucky for him! What a lot of trouble I had, to bring him to that! Ah! I am very glad I succeeded."

She sprang to her feet and began to waltz about the table; then stopped in front of a mirror over the mantel, and changed the arrangement of her hair once more, this time twisting a red silk handkerchief about her head, À la Creole. Then she went to the baron, took him by the shoulders, and shook him, crying:

"Well! my friend Brunzbrack, you don't open your mouth! Have you gone to sleep?"

The baron raised his head, rubbed his eyes, and tried to open them, as he replied:

"Ach! zaperlotte! gone to shleep, me! ven ich bin mit ein so bretty voman! mit ein voman who turns mein head und mein heart!"

"I don't know whether I have turned your head, but it seemed to me that you were hardly following the conversation."

"Id vas te bibe vich haf make mein head heafy ein leedle pit. But I haf not seen! Mein Gott! how you pe bretty mit tis oder way to do your hair! I know not vy you like to blay all tese leedle dricks mit your head, als if id haf not peen bretty enough pevore!"

"Herr von Brunzbrack is right," said I, looking at FrÉdÉrique, to whom the red silk handkerchief gave a saucy, wanton look that changed her completely. "Do you know, my friend, that it is ungenerous to keep changing your coiffure, and to invent such alluring ones? Do you want the poor baron here to die of love?"

"Ha! ha! I'm not afraid of that. I have put on my nightcap; isn't a body at liberty to put on her nightcap? But I don't want you to go to sleep, baron! Come, let's sing and drink and laugh! Oh! I am in a laughing mood to-night!"

"Ja! ja! let's trink und sing!"

"Do you begin, baron; but no love songs, and, above all things, no languorous lamentations. What we want is something lively, a little dÉcolletÉ even. Do men stand on ceremony with one another?"

She filled our glasses, then threw herself back in her chair, laughing till the tears came, because the baron gazed at her with such a tender expression, that his eyes were invisible and his face resembled an egg-plant.

"Come, baron; we're waiting for you."

"Ach! I must sing te first; und so vill I. Vait, till I remember me some bretty song; I know many—vait. Trum, trum, trum, trideri, tram, tram, tram. Sapremann! So many I know! Vait! Troum, troum, troum, tradera, tradera. Id is sehr—how you say?—astonish! Ich kann nicht te peginning remember. Vait—trim, trim, turlulu, traderi——"

"I'm afraid you are stuck fast, my poor Brunzbrack. While we are waiting for your memory to come back, Rochebrune will sing us something."

"I?"

"To be sure. Well! has this one lost his memory, too? Why, what sort of men are these two, that a glass of champagne puts their wits to flight?"

"I am perfectly willing to sing; but I know nothing but nonsensical things."

"Sing us a nonsensical thing! I will allow anything that isn't downright bad. Moreover, I am sure that my friend will not sing me anything unseemly."

"On the contrary, I am very unseemly, sometimes."

"In that case, monsieur, keep quiet."

She assumed a pouting expression, and I hastened to hum a tune, saying:

"This is only a little free."

"Go on, then; I'll let it pass. VadÉ, Gallet, Favart. Clever things are never indecent, because if they were they would not be clever."

"I am trying to remember the tune."

"Mon Dieu! how insufferable they are with their tunes! Here, how is this: Tra la la la—tra la la; you can sing any song to that."

"You are right; it's from the Famille de l'Apothicaire."

"I don't know what family it's from, but if it's all right—— Begin, monsieur."

"Here I go! I am going to sing Le Vent. Have I your permission?"

"Le Vent it is!"

"I beg you to believe that it is not the Vent which is the key to the riddle in Le Mercure Galant."

"I trust not; it's the vent [wind] that blows through the mountains; the vent de Gastibelza."

"Just so. I am going to begin:

"'Quand on te propose——'

Ah! that won't go to the tune of the Famille de l'Apothicaire."

"That's strange; it ought to. Try some other tune."

"I think the Baiser au Porteur will do the business."

"Oh! how long it takes you to get started, my dear fellow!"

"I begin:

"'Quand on t'offre une promenade——'"

"Trum, trum, trum, traderi dera, troum, troum, troum."

"Oh! please be kind enough to hold your tongue, baron, with your troum troum!"

"I dry yet to find mein tune."

"You can find it later; listen now to Rochebrune, who is going to sing us a risquÉ little chansonnette."

"Ach! gut, gut! risquÉ! tat must pe sehr amusing! RisquÉ! Vat is a risquÉ chanson?"

"That means lively; but we may as well speak out, as we are all men: it means naughty."

"Ach! id vill pe sehr bretty so! I loafe tat kind! Ve vill much laugh. Let us hear te naughty song. Ha! ha! How id vill pe amusing! Ho! ho!"

The baron laughed so heartily in anticipation of the pleasure in store for him, that FrÉdÉrique had much difficulty in silencing him; he ceased at last, and contented himself with muttering between his teeth: "Naughty, risquÉ!—risquÉ, naughty!" while I sang to the tune of the Baiser au Porteur:

I paused after the first verse and glanced at FrÉdÉrique. She smiled; that was a good sign. As for the baron, he repeated each line after me, sometimes with variations, and with an accompaniment of loud guffaws. We heard him mumbling:

"Noding so slyer als der vind! Ho! ho! ho! Gut, gut! Naughty!"

"Go on," said FrÉdÉrique.

I cleared my throat, drank a glass of wine, and cried like Ravel in the Tourlourou:

"Second verse, same tune:

"My loafe! Ven she don't feel te vind plowing! Ho! ho! gut! gut! gut! Troum! troum! troum!"

FrÉdÉrique laughed outright.

"Oh! how insufferable he is with his repetitions! Next verse."

"Ho! ho! ho! gut! gut! Id is not te face. Ich nicht untershtand."

"So much the worse for you, baron; for I don't propose to have it explained to you. It seems to me that it's plain enough. It's a little free, but it's amusing. Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Only three verses! That's a pity!" And FrÉdÉrique put her glass to her lips, adding: "After all, where's the harm? In the old days, men sang more and they weren't so ill-tempered as they are to-day. Poor French gayety! what has become of thee? O merry meetings of the Caveau! In truth, it was only to sing that men sought admission to thy meetings."

"Troum, troum, traderi dera. Ach! I remember me mein song now."

"Let's have it, baron; we are listening."

The baron opened his enormous mouth, and we supposed that a stentorian voice would issue therefrom; but we were agreeably surprised. When he sang, Herr von Brunzbrack had a shrill voice resembling that of a child of two; it reminded me strongly of the voice of the Man with the Doll.

"Enough! enough!" cried FrÉdÉrique; interrupting him without ceremony; "we know that, my dear Brunzbrack. You needn't have taken so much pains to remember that song."

"Vat! you know id?"

"Who doesn't know the Judgment of Paris; to the air of mirliton, mirlitaine? I think CollÉ wrote it. Perhaps I ought not to have admitted that I know it; but as I have told you that I am a man, that shouldn't astonish you."

"Id is sehr bretty! Id ended alvays mit: Mirlidon, mirlidaine, mirlidon, don, don."

"Yes. I advise you to think of something else, baron."

FrÉdÉrique threw her red handkerchief on the table, then ran again to the mirror, took a little comb from the pocket of her gown, and in an instant entirely rearranged her coiffure. She selected a beautiful white rose, put it in her hair, made curls much longer than before, and gave herself the aspect of one of those charming English faces of Lawrence, which have been freely reproduced in engravings, and which one cannot look at without the reflection that one would be very fortunate to possess the model.

A most extraordinary woman, this Madame Dauberny! How far I had been from imagining her as she then was! What a captivating succession of moods! First, a very madcap, laughing uproariously; then, of a sudden, serious, almost melancholy, stern even; free in her actions, reserved in her speech; one moment assuming the tone and manners of a man; then abruptly recurring to the graces and dainty ways of a woman! I was still uncertain what opinion to form of her; but the one thing of which I could entertain no doubt was her perfect frankness; I was perfectly certain that she never had any hesitation about saying exactly what she thought.

"Mirlidon, don, don, mirlidaine!" hummed the baron, between his teeth.

FrÉdÉrique resumed her place at the table, looked me squarely in the eye, and said:

"Well, comrade, what do you think of this arrangement of the hair? But, first of all, my dear fellow, be assured that there isn't the slightest coquetry in all this! It amuses me to vary my headdress, to give myself a serious, saucy, romantic, harum-scarum look, turn and turn about. I would have liked to be an actress, so that I might have changed my rÔle constantly. Sometimes I am as much of a child as when I was twelve years old; but, I repeat, I don't do all this to make myself attractive; it is only to amuse myself."

"Suppose you were coquettish, where would be the harm? You are entitled to be."

"I know it, and that's just why I am not. Still, perhaps I am, unconsciously. They say one doesn't know one's self. Why don't you tell me how I look?"

"Because I am at a loss what to say. You were more alluring a moment ago. Now, your aspect inclines one more to reverie, which, I think, is more dangerous."

"And you, baron—what do you think of my new coiffure?"

By dint of humming Mirlidon, don, don, mirlidaine, Herr von Brunzbrack had fallen asleep; his only reply was a mumbled repetition of the refrain.

"He is in some imaginary country," said FrÉdÉrique, turning again to me. "Let's let him sleep. For a German, he's a very poor drinker; I mean, he drinks too much. But you are different; you don't show it. It's great fun to get merry, but it's stupid to get tipsy and go to sleep. For my part, I can drink all the champagne I choose, and it only makes me talkative, expansive, don't you know, my friend, don't you know? Ah! I have a strange fancy; if I don't yield to it, I shall stifle!"

"What is it, in heaven's name? Pray yield to it at once!"

"Well, I have a fancy to tutoyer[F] you; are you willing?"

I cannot describe the effect produced upon me by that: "Are you willing?"—A sort of shiver passed through my body. I was moved to the very depths of my being. For a man cannot, unmoved, hear a young and attractive woman address him thus familiarly. It was of no use for me to say to myself that with FrÉdÉrique that meant nothing, that it was simply one effect of her originality; I was perturbed, and I did not know what to reply.

She saved me the trouble by going on:

"It's agreed; we will tutoyer each other. I will be your confidant, and you shall be mine. Like the intimate friends we are, we will have no secrets from each other. Give me your hand. Your name is Charles, I believe? Well, I will call you Charles; it's less ceremonious than Rochebrune. Come, shake hands. Aren't you willing to address me as thou?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! I am delighted! I will gladly address you—address thee—thou."

"One would say that it came rather hard! For my part, I feel as if you were my brother, and I had thou'd thee all my life."

"Ah! you feel as if I were your brother, do you?"

I was not at all pleased to have her look upon me as her brother. Ah! what conceited fools men are! I fancied that I had turned FrÉdÉrique's head! Her last words dispelled my illusion. I was silent for a moment, but I soon recovered myself and shook her hand, saying:

"It's agreed, my dear friend: confidences and questions to the fore! Tell me why your brow darkened just now when we were talking of Monsieur Sordeville? Are you afraid that he doesn't make his wife happy?"

FrÉdÉrique resumed her grave—yes, sombre air; she lowered her eyes and was silent for some time before she replied:

"You have made an unfortunate choice for your first question. I can't answer it, my dear Charles; there are some things that one must keep concealed in the depths of one's soul, that one cannot reveal—even to a friend—especially when—— I did wrong to give way to thoughts that—— No, it's impossible! it cannot be! I say again: I ought not to have had those thoughts that banished my cheerfulness for a moment. It is altogether useless to mention that subject again."

"I see only one thing clearly, FrÉdÉrique; and that is that you have a secret that you won't trust to me. You may do as you please!"

"Now it's my turn to ask questions, monsieur. I have been told—by someone I have talked with about you since that wedding; for I have made some inquiries since then, otherwise you must not think, my dear friend, that I would have asked you to sup with me; a lady in whom I have perfect confidence, and whom you loved dearly once on a time—that ought not to surprise you, you have loved so many! Have you kept notes of your loves?"

"Go on, I beg! What did this lady say to you?"

"She said much that was flattering to you; that's a fine thing on the part of a mistress one has left; but she expected it, she had served her time. Moreover, it seems that you were very considerate in your treatment of her, and that you remained good friends."

"Her name?"

"It's not worth while to tell you. This lady, then, spoke to me about you; I led her on, for I was glad to be posted. You had pleased me at the first glance; I had divined at once that we should be good friends some day—good friends, do you understand? that's much better than lover and mistress: it lasts longer."

"But, you see, I have continued to be that lady's friend, although she was once my mistress."

"That's an exceptional case. Why do you say you?"

"I beg your pardon; I am not used to the other yet. You were saying?"

"I keep digressing, don't I? I prattle along, and say everything that comes into my head. Ah! but it's so nice to be able to lay bare one's thoughts! Don't be impatient; there's no hurry. You are comfortable, aren't you? No woman is expecting you, eh? Let my words flow on at the bidding of my imagination, which sometimes whisks me away from one subject to another. You must be indulgent to your friends!"

As she said this, she passed an arm about my waist and leaned against my shoulder; her head was close to my face; and when, as she talked, she raised her eyes and fixed them on mine, our glances mingled. We were so close together that I felt her breath on my cheek. "Ah!" I thought; "this woman must be very cold, very indifferent, to treat me as if I really were her father or her brother!"—But we were heated by the champagne, and it seemed to affect us differently. FrÉdÉrique saw in me only a friend, to whom she could show herself as she really was; whereas I saw in her a lovely woman. Certainly it did not occur to me to make love to her; but the more freely she abandoned herself to her natural unreserve, the more seductive she seemed to me; and I felt that she was putting my friendship to a severe test by almost taking my breast for a pillow.

"To return to this lady—your former friend—she told me that you were engaged to be married some time ago, and that your engagement was suddenly broken off for some reason unknown to her. She asked you the reason, and you refused to tell her; and she has an impression that that was the beginning of your rupture with her."

"That is possible."

"But some things that a man doesn't tell to his mistress, he may confide to an intimate friend. What was it that broke off your marriage? Tell me."

FrÉdÉrique's last words suddenly dispelled my gayety; a painful memory drove all before it. I sighed, and held my peace.

"Well! you don't answer?" cried FrÉdÉrique, after a long silence.

"The fact is—I am terribly sorry, my charming friend, but you have made an unfortunate choice for your first question, and I cannot tell you what you wish to know."

"Ha! ha! ha! that's a good joke!"

"What are you laughing at?"

"Why, don't you see? here are two intimate friends who have sworn to have no secrets from each other, and neither of us can—or chooses to—answer the first question the other asks! It's almost always so, my friend, with the plans we make. Let us never bind ourselves to anything—that's the safest way; and then, no matter what happens——"

"Mirlidon, don, don—don, don!"

"Ah! mon Dieu! How that frightened me! I thought that the baron was awake; and, frankly, I am quite willing that he should sleep."

"He is dreaming that he's singing, that's all."

"Look you, my little Charles, there's one thing I will tell you. You think my behavior very strange, no doubt—perhaps very blameworthy?"

"Why, I pray to know?"

"Let me speak. I know very well that I offend the proprieties, that I run counter to the prejudices of the common herd; that people indulge in numberless comments upon me, which are rarely favorable; but I—snap my fingers at them! Listen."