A week had passed since the unique night I had spent at Madame Dauberny's. I had respected that lady's orders and had made no attempt to see her; I had simply left my card with her concierge.

When the image of my friend FrÉdÉrique presented itself to my mind, I exerted myself to banish it without pity; it seemed to me that my supper in her apartments was a dream, which it was not necessary that I should remember.

For several days, too, I had felt strongly inclined not to call again on Madame Sordeville. But, before renouncing my hopes in that direction altogether, I determined to go to her house once more. If she received me coldly a second time, I swore that I would not try to see her again.

One fine day, after making a careful toilet,—which always made my servant Pomponne smile, for he was bent on considering himself very sly,—I presented myself at the door of the pretty brunette, whose hair, by the way, was not so beautiful as her friend FrÉdÉrique's; but we cannot have everything.

"Madame is at home," said the concierge.

I went upstairs, gave my name, and was admitted to madame's boudoir, a charming sanctuary, the divinity of which was sure to attract many of the faithful.

I was greeted with the most gracious smile imaginable; she reproached me most kindly for having left her so long without a glimpse of me. Never had Armantine looked lovelier to me, and her amiability was delightful. I found once more my partner of the ball at Deffieux's.

I passed an hour at Madame Sordeville's, and at the end of the hour it seemed to me that I had just arrived. What did I say to her? I have no idea; but I think that I squeezed her hand more than once, and that it did not seem to offend her. I went so far as to put her hand to my lips; she withdrew it, and said in a tone in which there was no trace of severity:

"Well, well! what are you doing? what are you thinking about?"

"You, nothing but you."

"Oh! pardon me if I do not believe you! When one thinks so much of people, one doesn't go whole weeks without seeing them."

"When those people have received us with icy coldness, is it not natural that we should hesitate before venturing to present ourselves again?"

"Coldness! Ought I to have taken your hand, made you sit down beside me, and talked exclusively with you all the evening?"

"Oh! you are laughing at me, madame! You are well aware that, even in a crowd, before witnesses, there are a thousand ways of pouring balm on a suffering, anxious heart; a word, a glance, is enough."

"But, monsieur, such words and glances are almost signs of a mutual understanding, and are only exchanged by persons who know each other very well, who are sure of each other."

I kissed her hand. That time she made no objection and did not withdraw it; but she faltered:

"You are so impulsive! I begin to think that a tÊte-À-tÊte with you is very dangerous."

"And you will not receive me again?"

"I didn't say that."

"And you will permit me to love you?"

"If I should forbid you to, would you obey me?"

"Oh, no!"

"Then you see that I may as well permit it."

"And I may hope?"

"Ah! I didn't say that!"

"But you will not say anything!"

"I am not so quick as you.—By the way, I did have something to say to you. The other evening, you went away with Madame Dauberny, I believe. Did you escort her home? That would be very natural, as my friend was of such great assistance to you at the Guillardin ball that you should be polite to her."

I did not know what to say; I was uncertain whether FrÉdÉrique wanted it known that she had invited us to supper. In that uncertainty, it seemed to me more becoming to say nothing about that episode; one never repents having been discreet.

"I escorted Madame Dauberny to her door," I replied, after a moment, "and left her there."

"Ah! that is strange! It took you a long time to tell me that!"

"Because—I had forgotten."

"Indeed! FrÉdÉrique is so original—so disdainful of conventionalities sometimes, that I had thought——"

"What, pray?"

"But, no, that would have been contrary to all the proprieties! To be sure, she snaps her fingers at them."

"But what was it that you thought?"

"Nothing; or, rather, I don't choose to tell you."

"You must have seen your friend often since that evening?"

"Only once. I have no idea what she is doing now. She is hardly ever seen in society. She probably has something to keep her busy. Saint-Bergame must be replaced. For you know, I suppose, that they have quarrelled? FrÉdÉrique is not in the habit of remaining unengaged. Before Saint-Bergame there was another, and before him another, and another. She loves variety."

I admire the way women abuse their intimate friends! At that moment, I wondered what they would say when they spoke of their enemies; the difference could hardly be perceptible.—And so Madame Dauberny had had a large number of weaknesses! She had never had a serious attachment! That was a pity; and it surprised me; for it seemed to me that she was just the woman to inspire one.

I do not know what I should have said in reply to Madame Sordeville's remark, but a visitor arrived: a lady of uncertain age, almost lost in gauze and lace and veils, which were heaped upon her head and hung down about her body. I fancied that I had a cloud before me, or one of Isabey's pictures, minus the beautiful coloring. I surrendered my place to that atmospheric personage, and took my leave. Madame Sordeville made me promise to attend her next reception, and honored me with a glance that filled my soul with joy.

I left the house, as light as a feather. I did not walk, I fairly bounded. Pleasure transformed me into a goat; I longed to dance. You will consider, doubtless, that I was very childish, and that a man who had had so many amorous adventures should have been more blasÉ; you are entirely wrong, for I was blasÉ in no respect; my last bonne fortune made me as happy as the first of all. That was a dispensation of Providence in my favor, for blasÉ people have two drawbacks: they do not enjoy themselves, and they bore their friends.

Pomponne smiled again when I reached home; that fellow was not such a fool as I supposed: he read my face very well indeed.

I waited impatiently for the Thursday which was to give me an opportunity to see the charming Armantine once more. I had thought of nothing else since my call upon her; she was so affable and expansive that day, that I believed that the moment of my happiness could not be very distant. She had received the avowal of my love without indignation; nay, she had seemed to listen to it with pleasure; she had abandoned her hand to me and let me put it to my lips; and, but for that inopportune visitor, who could say that I should not have obtained more? No matter! it seemed that I was fairly justified in hoping.

Thursday arrived in due course. Pomponne was ordered to surpass himself in dressing my hair; I do not know whether he succeeded, but I do know that he pulled my hair for half an hour; so that he made my head extremely sore. But I did not scold him. I dressed with my eye on the clock. I longed to be there, but I said to myself that it was more adroit to make her wait a little—and I had no doubt that she was waiting for me.

The moment came at last. I set out with my heart full of Armantine's image. I arrived at her door. I remembered that in society one must wear a mask, so that one's secret thoughts may not be divined. But that mask embarrassed me; I could hardly endure it.

There were a good many people there before me. So much the better, I thought. The more numerous the company, the greater one's freedom of action. Monsieur Sordeville greeted me warmly, shook my hand, and reproached me for not coming to their little receptions for several weeks. His excessive amiability should have made me remorseful; but I had never had the slightest liking for the man; and, in any event, why did he neglect his wife?

I succeeded in approaching her for whose sake, and that alone, I had come. She greeted me most graciously; but when I tried to exchange with her one of those glances which are far more eloquent than empty words, I could not meet her eye. She had turned to a young man who had just been presented to her, and received his compliments with a profusion of little smirks and grimaces, which were very pretty, perhaps, but which I considered sadly out of place at that moment. I flattered myself, however, that my turn would come; that she had not forgotten that I was there, within a few feet. But lo! the fair-haired youth of the other evening, Monsieur Mondival, came up and entered into conversation with her; the fellow must have said something very amusing, to make her laugh so heartily! But Madame Dauberny had assured me that the man was stupid, and I relied upon her judgment. Next, a tall man, with black beard, whiskers, and moustaches, came to pay his respects to the mistress of the house. She greeted him with a smile, playing with her fan; their conversation seemed likely to be protracted, and I began to grow weary of waiting for my turn. I walked away, presumably with a very long face; and to cap the climax of my woes, I almost ran into the arms of the gentleman who kept his eyes almost closed, but who saw well enough to recognize me, and entered into conversation with me.

I have no idea what answer I made. I turned my back on him, for he bored me beyond words. I watched the whist players for a while, but soon returned to the salon where Armantine was, saying to myself:

"It can't go on like this; if she laughs with others, there is no reason why she shouldn't laugh with me; I am a fool not to stand my ground."

And I approached Madame Sordeville, who was talking with a lady. Suddenly she turned toward me and burst out laughing.

"Mon Dieu! what on earth is the matter with you to-night, Monsieur Rochebrune? What a horrible face you are making! Have you the toothache?"

When one is already in an ill temper, and is trying to conceal it, there is nothing more maddening than to have someone ask what the matter is; the result is that, instead of simply looking unhappy, you make a grimace; and that is probably what I did, for Armantine restrained with difficulty a longing to laugh again, while I muttered, biting my lips:

"The matter, madame? Why, nothing. What do you suppose is the matter? I have never had the toothache."

"Monsieur," said a tall, thin old woman, who was sitting beside Madame Sordeville, and had, I suppose, heard my last words, "put in some cotton soaked in eau de Cologne. Soak the cotton thoroughly and put it in the tooth. It's an excellent remedy, I assure you! It doesn't take away the pain at once, but, after a few days, you suffer much less."

"But, madame," I said to the old lady who insisted upon my having the toothache, "I have not complained, I am not in pain! I don't know why you insist that——"

"Then, monsieur," she continued, paying no heed to me, "you have another remedy, bay salt. Two or three grains of it produce saliva; you spit, and take more salt, and keep on till the pain is relieved."

I saw that Madame Sordeville was laughing heartily at the impatience with which I listened to the old lady, who continued:

"Above all things, monsieur, don't have them extracted! Oh! keep your teeth, monsieur! keep them, by all means! You no sooner have them taken out than you regret them. I myself, monsieur, have lost fourteen, and I am in despair to-day! I feel that something is lacking. Of course, I know that one can——"

I had had enough. Something more was to be lacking to that lady; to wit, myself as a listener for the entire evening. I had not come there to attend a course of lectures on dentistry. It seemed to me that Armantine was laughing at me while I was having that consultation about my teeth. She had gone to the piano, meanwhile, and the concert began. If it was to be as fine a performance as on the previous evening, the prospect was captivating. I felt inclined to find fault with everything. Now that the music was under way, it would be hard for me to talk to Armantine; she either accompanied, or turned the pages for singers and players. In short, she devoted herself to everybody, except myself. So I had encouraged myself with a false hope! She did not love me—and yet, how charming she was only three days before! Did she not let me squeeze her hand and kiss it? Did she not smile at my declaration of love? Suppose that she ostentatiously treated me coldly before the world, only to conceal more effectually the sentiments I inspired? I grasped at that idea, because it left me some hope. Moreover, if it were not so, Madame Sordeville was a downright coquette, who had been making sport of me and would do it again! I preferred to believe that she was dissembling her love; if so, she dissembled perfectly.

The Baron von Brunzbrack entered the salon and came up to me:

"Ponshour, mein gut frent Rocheprune!"

"Good-evening, monsieur le baron!"

"Do you know if Montame Dauberny vill come to tis barty?"

"I have no idea; I have not seen her since we three were together."

"Ach! you haf not seen her."

And the baron pressed my hand with new warmth.

"So id is mit me. I haf pin often to bay mein resbects, put te lady, she haf pin always oud. Haf you pin to see her?"

"No; I have left my card, nothing more."

"Ach! gut, gut! you pe not in loafe mit her shtill?"

"What, baron! are you still harping on that idea? How many times must I tell you that I have never made love to Madame Dauberny, that I have never thought of doing it?"

"Ach! ja! ja! You pe in loafe mit anoder. I haf forgot."

The baron could not understand how anybody could fail to make love to Madame Dauberny, and I could not understand how Madame Sordeville could allow everybody to make love to her; in love, each of us has his own way of looking at things.

Suddenly Brunzbrack seized my arm as if he meant to tear it from its socket. I thought that he had an attack of hysteria; but, as I saw Madame Dauberny enter the salon at that moment, I understood what had caused his convulsive movement.

FrÉdÉrique wore an original costume, as indeed she generally did. A black velvet gown, high in the neck, fitted closely to her figure, which seemed more than ordinarily slender; her hair was dressed with sprays of jet and black velvet bows, and that severe style gave to her face, which was unusually pale, a serious expression. I did not know whether I ought still to be angry with her; I remembered the decidedly brusque way in which she had dismissed me, but in the next moment I remembered all the confidence and friendship she had shown me. While I hesitated, trying to make up my mind, FrÉdÉrique passed us, and bowed coolly enough to us both.

Brunzbrack left me, to dog the steps of the woman he adored, and I continued to prowl about Armantine. We were both playing the same game. Should we have luck? Up to that time, I had seen no prospect of it.

Monsieur Mondival sang several ballads; he sang them precisely as a schoolboy repeats his lessons; but as the ballads themselves were amusing, the company laughed heartily, and the singer attributed it to his own performance, whereas his only merit was his skilful choice of songs.

After he had finished, the black-bearded man, who had talked a long while with Armantine, seated himself at the piano, and sang a grand aria with infinitely more assurance than voice. But assurance is a great thing in society. He was loudly applauded, and when he left the piano I was certain that Madame Sordeville complimented him. If I chose—one thing was certain, that I had a better voice than that man.

All this irritated me; I was intensely annoyed to find that she paid no attention to me, and I went to the piano and began to turn over the music. But she observed my movements sufficiently to see that I was there, for she came to me and said:

"It's a great pity that you sing only when you are alone; for I should have been delighted to hear you, monsieur."

"Mon Dieu! if it will give you any pleasure, madame——"

"You will sing? How good of you!"

"I will try to sing something. I don't know whether I can manage it."

"Oh! that is an amateur's modesty! I am sure that you sing beautifully."

She walked quickly to a seat, saying:

"Monsieur Rochebrune is going to sing. Silence, if you please!"

Everyone ceased talking, and the room became perfectly still. I began to be afraid that I had gone too fast. To be sure, I sing rather well, but it so rarely happens that I sing before strangers. However, I realized that I must do my best; it was impossible to back out.

I sat down at the piano. My fingers refused to move. What was I to sing? I must make up my mind, for everybody was waiting. I settled upon a romanza by Massini; as is usually the case when one is afraid, I selected the most difficult piece I knew and the one that I sang least well.

At the outset, I forgot the accompaniment and struck two or three discordant notes in the bass—something that had never happened to me before. That was calculated to give my hearers rather a sorry idea of my musical organization.

When I came to the second verse, I forgot the words. I stopped, and began again; but it was of no use, and I mumbled between my teeth:

"Tradera, deri, dera!"

The words of the third verse came to me all right, and I determined to be revenged for the mess I had made of the other two. I attacked it with confidence, and when I came to an ad libitum passage I risked a note which I had taken a hundred times without any trouble. But I had something in my throat that night. Was it fear? was it ill humor? This much is certain, that I made a vile fiasco, and that I ended my song coughing as if I had swallowed something the wrong way.

I left the piano, purple with chagrin, and still coughing. Somebody was malicious enough to applaud me; but I saw in the eyes of the guests that malignant joy which people always feel in society when they have a fair opportunity to laugh at somebody. What distressed me most of all was that I had made an ass of myself before Armantine, who was much given to raillery, and who could hardly restrain her laughter; while Herr von Brunzbrack said to me with the utmost good faith:

"Vat a bity tat you haf ein cold! Id vas going so vell!"

I made no reply; I would have liked to crawl under a sofa. I slunk away to a corner of the salon, where I heard a voice in my ear:

"That false note puts you back at least three months!"

FrÉdÉrique was behind me. I understood her meaning perfectly. In truth, in the eyes of a vain, coquettish woman like Madame Sordeville, to make one's self ridiculous before witnesses is a great crime! There are so few women who love us for ourselves! With the great majority we owe our success solely to all the previous successes we have had.

I took refuge in the card room. FrÉdÉrique followed me there and organized a game of baccarat, with herself as banker. The stakes were high, and she won from everybody, until she had a pile of gold in front of her. Herr von Brunzbrack had lost all the money that he had with him; but that did not disturb him: he tried to obtain a word, even a glance, from the superb banker; but to no purpose, she paid no attention to him. After a time, in my effort to distract my thoughts, I took my turn against Madame Dauberny, who played with perfect tranquillity, utterly indifferent to her good fortune, and did not deign to notice the laments or the ogling of those whom she had despoiled.

"Ah! so you are going to play," she said to me, in a bantering tone. "Indeed, you are very wise, for, if the proverb is to be depended on, you will be very lucky to-night. But proverbs take the liberty of lying sometimes—poor Baron von Brunzbrack is a living example. If anyone ought to win, he is the man! And yet, I have ruined him as well as all the others. Come, monsieur, let us play, let us play! I shall not be sorry to vanquish you also."

It seemed to me that there was an ironical tone in Madame Dauberny's voice, which was not usual with her. I remembered what her friend had told me as to the numerous lovers who had succeeded one another in her heart; if I chose to be sarcastic, there were many things I might say to her by way of retort. But, no—I was conscious of an indefinable feeling of sympathy with that woman. I loved her—not with love; it was rather friendship, confidence, which drew me toward her. Why, in heaven's name, did I steal that kiss while she was asleep? But, on the other hand, why did she keep changing her coiffure, and make herself so alluring, so seductive? A woman ought not to try such experiments, even on a man who is in love with her friend.

I placed some gold in front of me, and began to play. I won; I doubled my stake, and won again; I continued on the same line, and won incessantly. But after a few moments FrÉdÉrique seemed to be inattentive to her game; I noticed that she glanced frequently and with evident impatience toward her left: Monsieur Sordeville was there, talking confidentially with the Baron von Brunzbrack. Suddenly my banker interrupted the game and cried, turning to the two men:

"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Sordeville, do let that poor baron alone for a moment; he comes here to amuse himself, and you compel him to talk to you about the affairs of his government! Really, you abuse your position as host; it is not generous."

Monsieur Sordeville became dumb; his lips blanched, but he forced himself to smile, and replied, after a brief interval:

"In truth, madame, I was ill-advised to converse with one of my guests; it is robbing you of an adorer."

"Come and play, baron," said Madame Dauberny, making no reply to Monsieur Sordeville's compliment.

The baron came to the table with a blissful air, crying:

"I vould like noding petter, but I haf not ein sou."

"You may play on credit, monsieur; you are one of those men whose honor is evident to all, and of whom no one ventures to speak slightingly."

The baron bowed; he was radiant with joy. It seemed to me that there was a hidden meaning in Madame Dauberny's last words, and that they were accompanied with a glance at Monsieur Sordeville, who did not stir.

The baron seated himself by my side. I offered to lend him money; he accepted, and in a short time we broke the bank. Thereupon the fair FrÉdÉrique gravely rose and left the table, saying:

"Faith! the proverb did not lie; it was written that you should both win."

"Are you going, montame?"

"Yes, baron."

"Vill you not bermit me to escord you in my carriage?"

"No, not to-night."

"Monsir Rocheprune, he vill come mit us."

"Thanks; but I do not care for an escort to-night. Nights succeed one another, but do not resemble one another."

FrÉdÉrique took her departure, leaving the baron discomfited. I returned to Madame Sordeville, as I was determined to speak to her before I went away. I saw that she was alone, so I hastened to her side and told her how happy I should be if I could see her again soon and tell her of my love, without witnesses. She listened with a distraught, indifferent air; and when I thought that she was about to reply, she cried:

"Dear me! they haven't served the tea yet, and it's after twelve!"

And she left me. I stood for a moment as if rooted to the floor. I could not understand the caprice, the coquetry, the bewildering changes, in Armantine's treatment of me. I asked myself if a false note could have caused it all; and if so, what reliance was to be placed upon a lady's favor. I concluded that it would be well for me to go away. At that moment, the tall, thin woman who had previously spoken to me accosted me again:

"When your teeth ache too badly, monsieur, you can fill them yourself. I'll show you how. Come and sit here."

I had no desire to hear any more, and turned and fled while she was seating herself in a convenient position to show me how one can fill one's own teeth.