I was conscious of a secret feeling of satisfaction, which I attributed to my reconciliation with FrÉdÉrique. I was pleased to have her for a friend; there was something unique, something that appealed strongly to me, in that friendship between a man of thirty and a woman of twenty-seven; and I promised myself that I would not again so conduct myself as to break off the connection.

But I had not forgotten Saint-Bergame's words, as he passed our carriage: "So it's that fellow now! each in his turn!"—It was evident that he believed me to be Madame Dauberny's lover. I was not surprised that he should have that idea. People will never believe in the possibility of an innocent intimacy between a man and woman of our age. But FrÉdÉrique had been deeply wounded by Saint-Bergame's remark; indeed, by what right did the fellow presume to proclaim that from the housetops? Was it spite? was it jealousy? Whatever his motive, the man was an impertinent knave; and if I had not feared to compromise Madame Dauberny even more, I would have gone to him and demanded an explanation of his words. But, perhaps an opportunity would present itself; if so, I would not let it slip.

Several days had passed since my drive in the Bois, when, as I was strolling along the boulevards one morning, I halted, according to my custom, in front of one of those pillars upon which posters are displayed by permission. Being very fond of the theatre, I have always enjoyed reading the various theatrical announcements. I did not carry it so far as to read the printer's name; but, had I done so—that is a very harmless diversion!

But observe how harmless diversions may give birth to diversions that are not harmless. A young woman stopped close beside me, also to read the announcements; and I was not so absorbed by the titles of dramas and vaudevilles that the sight of a pretty face did not distract my thoughts from them.

I think that I have told you that certain faces, certain figures, possess an indefinable charm and fascination for me at first sight. The young girl who stood beside me—for she certainly was a young girl—wore a simple, modest costume, denoting a shopgirl on an errand: dark-colored dress, shawl,—no, I am mistaken, it was a little alpaca cloak,—and a small gray bonnet, without any ornament, placed on her head with no pretence of coquetry; it had evidently been put on in a hurry.

But, beneath that unassuming headgear, I saw a refined, attractive, piquant face. She was a brunette; her complexion was rather dark, but her fresh, brilliant coloring gave her a look of the Midi. Her brown hair was brushed smoothly over her temples; her eyes were black, or blue—or, more accurately, blue bordering on black. They were large, and said many things. The mouth was very pretty, and well supplied with teeth. I had thus far only caught a glimpse of the latter, but that was enough. The nose was straight and well shaped, slightly turned up at the end, which always gives a saucy look to the face. Add to all this a lovely figure, neither too tall nor too short; a pretty hand—of that I was sure, for she wore no gloves; and, lastly, a modest and graceful carriage; and you will not be surprised that I forgot the names of the plays and performers printed on the posters before me, and devoted my whole attention to that young woman.

For her part, she had glanced several times at me, as if unintentionally. She scrutinized the posters for a long while; and as I was in no hurry, I too remained in front of the pillar. I had assured myself at least twelve times that La GrÂce de Dieu was to be given at the GaÎtÉ, and it seemed to me that my neighbor also kept reading the same thing over and over again.

However, she walked away at last along the boulevard. We were then in front of the Gymnase. There was nothing to detain me there, for I was thoroughly posted concerning the programme at the GaÎtÉ. Furthermore, that grisette took my eye. I believed that I could safely classify her as a grisette, with liberty to do her justice later, if I had insulted her. Why should I not try to make her acquaintance? For some time, my behavior had been virtuous to a degree which accorded neither with my tastes nor with my habits. Being obliged to eschew sentiment with my former acquaintances, I was conscious of a void in my heart which I should be very glad to fill.

I walked after the young woman. One is sometimes sadly at a loss to begin a conversation in the street; but for some reason or other, I did not feel the slightest embarrassment with that girl. She walked so slowly that I easily overtook her. She did not precisely look at me; but I was fully persuaded that she saw me. Should I begin with the usual compliments: "You are adorable! With such pretty eyes, you cannot be cruel!" or other remarks of the same sort? No, they were too stupid and worn too threadbare; so I addressed her as if we were already acquainted, and said:

"Do you like the theatre, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, monsieur, very much!"

She answered without the slightest affectation, and with no indication that she was offended by my question. I took that as a good omen, and continued:

"Would you like to go to-night?"

"To-night? Oh, dear, no! But I was looking for the Palais-Royal advertisement; I wanted to know what they were playing there, and I can't ever find it."

"I am sorry I didn't know that sooner, for I would have shown it to you."

"After all, it don't make any difference."

"But if you like the theatre, won't you allow me to give you some tickets?"

"Tickets! Do you have theatre tickets? for what theatre?"

"It doesn't make any difference: I have some for them all. Perhaps you may think that I am lying, that I say this to trap you, when my only purpose is to make your acquaintance. But I assure you, mademoiselle, that I shall be only too happy to be useful to you. Allow me to send you some tickets; that doesn't bind you to anything."

The girl stopped. We were then near Porte Saint-Denis. She hesitated a moment, then replied:

"Well! send me some tickets; I'll accept them; but don't send them to my house; that'll never do, because I live with my aunts. I have a lot of aunts, and I am not free."

She smiled so comically as she said this, that I saw a double row of lovely teeth. I ventured to take her hand; that was going ahead rather fast, but, for some unknown reason, although I had not been talking with her five minutes, I felt as if I knew her well. She let me hold and press her hand, which was plump and soft; it did not seem to vex her in the least.

"Where shall I send the tickets?"

"To my employer's."

"What is your trade?"

"I mend shawls and fringes. I'm a very good hand at it, I promise you!"

"I don't doubt it, mademoiselle."

"Just now I'm doing an errand for my employer; she always sends me on errands, I don't know why; she says that the dealers aren't so strict with me! It's a bore sometimes to go out so often; but sometimes it's good fun, too."

"Will you tell me your name?"

"No."

"Will you come to a restaurant with me and breakfast?"

"No; in the first place, I haven't got time; they're waiting for me, and I must go back. In the second place, I wouldn't go, anyway, like that, with someone I don't know."

"That's the way to become acquainted."

"Suppose anyone should see me go into a restaurant with you—one of my aunts, for instance! I've got seven aunts!"

"Sapristi! that's worse than Abd-el-Kader! No matter! come and have breakfast with me at my rooms, and you will see at once who I am—that I am not a mere nobody, a man without means or position."

"Oh! I didn't say you were, monsieur."

"I live on Rue Bleue, No. 14; that isn't very far away. If you will trust me, I promise you that I won't even kiss the end of your finger."

"Perhaps not, monsieur; but I tell you, I haven't got time; I must go back; I am late already, and I shall be scolded."

"Very well! where shall I send you a ticket, then?"

"At Madame Ratapond's, No. 48, Rue Meslay; just give it to the concierge. Mark it: For Mademoiselle Rosette, at Madame Ratapond's."

"And you are Mademoiselle Rosette?"

"Perhaps. When will you send the ticket?"

"Whenever you choose."

"To-morrow, then."

"To-morrow, very good!"

"How many seats?"

"I will send you a box with four seats."

"Ah! splendid! That will be fun."

"But you will go?"

"To be sure!"

"And I may speak to you?"

"Dame! I don't know about that. If I am with my employer, you must be careful. But I'll go out in the entr'acte."

"Then I will make an opportunity to say a few words to you. And you won't come and breakfast with me? An hour passes so quickly!"

"Oh, no! no! Adieu, monsieur! You won't forget—Mademoiselle Rosette, at Madame Ratapond's, No. 48, Rue Meslay."

"No, mademoiselle, there's no danger of my forgetting."

She walked away, and I did the same. I was enchanted with my new acquaintance. Mademoiselle Rosette was altogether charming, and in her eyes, in her answers, I saw at once that she was no fool. Suppose that I had fallen upon a pearl, a treasure! It was impossible to say. The things we find without looking for them are often more valuable than those we take a vast amount of trouble to obtain.