Mignonne continued to come to my rooms. I found already that my living expenses had diminished materially. I asked her to have an eye to a thousand and one details of housekeeping, to which I never paid any attention; she did it with a zeal and an intelligence that astonished me. I was like Ballangier, I was becoming too rich; and yet, nothing was ever lacking; on the contrary, I was as comfortable as I could wish. I discovered that a woman is very useful in a house.

Mignonne's health was fully restored, and she had recovered her fresh color; she never laughed, but a sweet smile sometimes played about her lips. I was delighted with the change and congratulated her on it.

"It is your work," she said.

When we talked together, she always spoke of her daughter; she went to see her almost every day, and I often saw in her belt a flower which she constantly covered with kisses. I guessed where she had plucked that flower.

Ballangier came to see me, and did not find me; but he found Mignonne, and Monsieur Pomponne told me that he sat in front of her more than an hour, without opening his mouth.

"How do you know that?" I demanded, pulling Pomponne's ear; "did you listen at the door?"

"I couldn't listen, monsieur, as they didn't say anything."

Oh! these servants! Is there no way of finding one who is neither inquisitive, talkative, a liar, nor a gossip? When they are not all of these together, they are phoenixes!

"You received a visitor for me, did you?" I asked Mignonne.

"Yes, monsieur, that young mechanic; for he seems to be a mechanic."

"Yes; he's a cabinetmaker. What did he say to you?"

"He talks very little. But he told me enough for me to understand that you are his benefactor, too; that he owes you a great deal."

"No, I am in no sense his benefactor. What I did for him was a duty. But he behaved very badly at one time; for a long while he led a life of idleness and dissipation. He was deaf to my entreaties and remonstrances. In those days, his presence was as distasteful to me as it is agreeable now. He has turned over a new leaf, become a respectable man once more, and a good workman; I have given him all my friendship again, and some day I hope—I hope that he will make a good husband. Then, if Ballangier could fall in with a woman like you, Mignonne, gentle and virtuous and hard-working, and if he could win her love, he would be altogether happy."

Mignonne had become serious. She looked at the floor, murmuring:

"Oh! as for me, monsieur, you know very well that I can never think of marriage! You know that I have been a mother!"

"If you concealed nothing from the man who loved you, you would still be worthy of an honest man's love and esteem. Ought anyone to be so severe as that, Mignonne? Who has not sinned—more or less?"

"However, monsieur, I shall never have any occasion to tell my story, for I shall never marry."

"We cannot foresee the future."

"Oh! I can safely take my oath to that!"

I insisted no further, for it seemed to be a painful subject to the young woman. Probably, engrossed as she was by her daughter's memory, she did not choose to admit that anyone could divert her thoughts from her, even in the future.

Nothing from FrÉdÉrique. She did not come to see me, and I certainly should not go again to her. So it was all over; we had quarrelled—and for what? More than once, unconsciously perhaps, I had walked in the direction of her house and found myself in front of it; but at such times I made haste to retrace my steps. I would have been glad, however, to know if she were in Paris, or if she had gone away again. If chance should bring us together, surely we could not pass on the street without speaking. But I did not meet her.

By way of compensation, I did meet Ballangier near my own house. He was on his way to see me; but as he had met me, he said that he would not go upstairs. Something made me think that he would have preferred to go up. I noticed a certain constraint in his manner. He asked about Mignonne, but he did it with the air of one who dared not reveal all of the interest he took in that young woman. Poor Ballangier! it was not difficult to divine what was going on in his heart; he was not an expert dissembler.

Another day, I met him again near my abode, and he made haste to tell me that he had not come out without the permission of his employer, who was still content with him, because he always worked two hours later at night when he left his work in the morning. I looked him squarely in the eye, and said:

"You don't tell me everything, my friend. You are concealing something from me at this moment!"

He blushed, became confused, and stammered:

"Concealing something? I? Why, I don't think so!"

"You are not very sure, are you? But I'll tell you straight away what it is: you're in love!"

This time he turned pale.

"In love? with whom, pray?"

"With whom? Why, with that young woman whom you have seen several times at my rooms, and whom I call Madame Landernoy—or Mignonne."

"Oh! nonsense, Charles! you are mistaken. I consider her very good-looking, to be sure; and then, her manner is so sweet and so modest! But I certainly shouldn't presume to fall in love with her, especially as—as you might not like it! For, you see, you have a right to love her, you have done so much for her, and you give her work to do."

"My friend, if that is all that prevents you, you may fall in love with Mignonne at your pleasure; for, so far as I am concerned, I look upon her as a sister; I have never dreamed of loving her in any other way; and for the very reason that I have been of some service to her and that she has enough confidence in me to come to my rooms to work, I should feel bound in honor not to love her otherwise than as a sister."

Ballangier's face became radiant. He seized both my hands and squeezed them hard; he would have cut capers in the street, if I had not prevented him.

"Is it possible?" he cried. "You don't love her! you don't think of loving her! Oh! if you knew what a weight you have taken off my breast!—For I do love her, Charles; yes, I do love that young woman! love her, do I say? why, I idolize her, I am mad over her! It took me all of a sudden when I first saw her, it struck me here! Since then, it's impossible for me to think of anything else. But I wouldn't ever have told you; I wouldn't ever have told her, either. You'll forgive me; for I thought that, with her always in your rooms—I thought you couldn't help loving her—but nothing of the sort! You see, I've never been in love before; I've known a lot of street walkers—but as to love, not a bit of it! And now, what a difference! And how proud I am to be a decent, hard-working man again! Perhaps I might take her fancy. Do you think she'll ever love me, Charles? Oh! if she could love me!"

I strove to calm him; then I began by telling him Mignonne's whole story. He listened attentively, muttering from time to time:

"Poor girl! the villains!"

When he knew all, I asked him if he still deemed Mignonne worthy to be his wife.

"Do I think her worthy? Yes, indeed, poor girl! The least she's entitled to is to find a man who'll make up for all the injury others have done her. But suppose I should begin by killing this Fouvenard? by smashing this Rambertin?"

"No, no, Ballangier; we must forget those wretches. If an opportunity should offer, I don't say——"

"Ah! how quickly we'd seize it! how we'd trounce those fellows!"

"Now, all that you have to do is to try to please Mignonne; but even in that you must act with great circumspection, and, above all, with patience! That young woman, engrossed as she is with thoughts of her daughter, would take fright at a single word of love. You will need time to touch her heart. You must gain her confidence. In short, I cannot undertake to say that you will win her love; that is your affair; for you understand that I cannot intervene. I know enough of Mignonne's temperament to be sure that that would be no way to succeed with her."

"Oh! never fear, Charles; I am very reserved, very shy. I will wait, I will wait as long as it's necessary. The hope of winning her some day will give me courage. I am going to read a lot; to try to educate myself, and to be less awkward in my talk; for she talks mighty well, and she has a very distinguished air. You'll see, Charles, you'll see! You will be better satisfied than ever with me!"

Ballangier left me, drunk with joy. I prayed that he might be happy in his love, and determined that I would do all that lay in my power to help him.

I had just left him, and was walking along, musing upon what he had said to me, when someone halted in front of me. It was Dumouton, the debt-ridden man of letters. He had no umbrellas this time, but he carried under his left arm an oval box, of bronzed tin, which seemed to be carefully fastened.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! I recognized you at a distance. You didn't see me, for you were lost in thought. Are you pretty well?"

"Very well, thanks, Monsieur Dumouton."

"Were you thinking out the plot of a play? You seemed very much preoccupied."

"Oh, no! I don't write plays, myself."

"You are very wise! It's a wretched trade since so many people have begun to dabble in it."

I attempted to salute Monsieur Dumouton and leave him; but he detained me, saying with an embarrassed air:

"I beg pardon! I would like to say another word to you, as I have happened to meet you. It's like this. First of all, you must know that one of my children is sick; he's been—out of sorts for a week. And then, we were without a certain household utensil—mon Dieu! why not say it at once—a syringe! We needn't be more prudish than MoliÈre, need we?"

"Surely not; you are perfectly justified in saying a syringe."

"So I said to my wife: 'We must have a syringe!'—'Buy one,' said she. Very good! that's what I did this morning. I bought a clyso-pompe with a constant flow—a new invention. It's exceedingly convenient; it comes in a box; this is it that I have under my arm. Who'd ever suspect there was a syringe in it? It might be lace, or prunes."

"Or even a pie."

"You are right; there are pies of this shape. And it's so easy to use; no one has any idea what it is. Why, you can even use it at the theatre, in a box. I know a lady who made a bet that she'd do it at the opera, during a ballet; she won her bet."

"Did she have witnesses?"

"Probably."

"I must confess that I should have cried off."

"In a word, I bought this delightful clyso-pompe. Well! Monsieur Rochebrune, would you believe that our child, whom his grandmother had accustomed to the old method, positively refused to adopt the new? Impossible to make him try the clyso-pompe! Children are so obstinate! And as my wife spoils him, she bought him an old-fashioned syringe. The dealer who sold me this box refuses to take it back, and I am trying to dispose of it—at a loss, of course. If you happened to want such a thing——"

"No, Monsieur Dumouton, I am sorry that I cannot oblige you as I did in the matter of the umbrella, but I won't buy your clyso-pompe."

"You are making a mistake. It's always useful."

"It is of no use for you to insist. But go and see our mutual friend, Monsieur Rouffignard. Who knows? perhaps he will be very glad to relieve you of this instrument."

At the name Rouffignard, Dumouton's face lengthened, and, without another word, he bowed and disappeared. I was sure that he would not try to sell me anything more.