As I entered my apartment, Pomponne came to meet me with his expression that denoted news.

"There's someone waiting for you, monsieur, who's been here quite a long while. But I didn't know that monsieur would be away so long; he did not tell me."

"Can it be that Rosette has come while I have been running after her?"

"No, monsieur; it ain't Mamzelle Rosette?"

"Is it Madame Dauberny, then?"

"No, monsieur; it's a person of our sex."

"Oh! how you annoy me, Pomponne! I ought to have gone to see who was there, instead of listening to you."

I went at once into my salon, and found Ballangier sitting in a corner with a book in his hand.

I was agreeably surprised to find that he was neatly dressed. He wore a gray blouse, but it was spotlessly clean; his trousers were well brushed, his shoes polished; he had a clean white collar and a black cravat. It was the costume of a well-behaved mechanic who was a credit to his trade.

He came to meet me, with a timid air, saying:

"I ask your pardon, Charles, for waiting for you; I did wrong, perhaps; but when I came, about two o'clock, your servant said you would soon be back; and so, as I was anxious to see you, I said to myself: 'As long as I'm here, I may as well stay.'"

"You did well, Ballangier, very well; I am very glad to see you, too. Let me look at you. From your dress, and the expression of self-content that I can read in your face, I am sure that you are behaving better now."

"That is true; at all events, I am trying to. I am working for a manufacturer in Faubourg Saint-Antoine—I had a letter of recommendation to him."

"From whom, pray?"

Ballangier twisted his cap about in his hands as he continued:

"From an excellent man I used to work for long ago, and who never despaired of me. They took me on trial, at first. The master had heard very bad accounts of me, but I worked so well that after a while he got to be less strict with me; then he increased my pay, without my asking, and now he says everywhere that he's satisfied with me."

"Ah! that is splendid, my friend. And you were glad to tell me all this, because you knew that it would give me great pleasure, weren't you?"

"Why, yes, I thought it would."

"Thanks, my friend, for thinking of that. Indeed, you cannot conceive how I rejoice to learn of the change that has taken place in you! But you will keep on, Ballangier; now that you have started on the right path, you won't leave it again, will you? Besides, you must surely be a happier man, now that you are earning your living, and can hold your head erect boldly, without fear of being arrested by a creditor, or assailed by a wife or mother whose husband or son you have led astray; without reading on the faces of honest folk the contempt that evil livers always inspire! Instead of that, you will be made welcome, made much of, courted by respectable families; a father will no longer dread to see his daughter, or a brother his sister, on your arm. You will be loved, esteemed, highly considered. Yes, highly considered; for there is no trade, no career, in which an honest man may not acquire that consideration which mere wealth, unaccompanied by probity, cannot acquire. Tell me if all this is not preferable to a life of debauchery, which makes you either a brute or a madman most of the time; to the false friendship of those wretches who know nothing but idleness, and sometimes something much worse, who extol all the vices, who try to cast ridicule on merit and hard work, because other men's merit gnaws at their envy-ridden hearts, and, being unable to attain it, they do their utmost to crush it?"

"Oh, yes! you are right, Charles: I am far happier! I reflect now; I feel that I am an entirely different man. I read a good deal; I am fond of reading, and it used to be impossible for me to read five minutes at a time."

"Read, you cannot do better; but select good books; bad writers are worse than false friends, for we have them under our hand every minute; their treacherous counsels lead feeble or excitable minds astray; there is no more dangerous companion for a tÊte-À-tÊte than an evil book."

"You must guide me; you must give me a list of authors whose works will be profitable reading for me."

"I will do better than that. Come with me."

I led Ballangier to my book shelves, from which I took Racine, MoliÈre, Montesquieu, FÉnelon, and La Fontaine.

"There, those are for you," I said; "take these books home with you, and read them carefully and with profit. Some will seem to you a little severe and serious; but the others, while they instruct you, will make you laugh. Learn by heart the great, the immortal MoliÈre. He castigated the vices and absurdities of his time; but as vices unluckily belong to all times, as men are no better to-day than they ever were, as we meet in the world every day tartufes, prÉcieuses ridicules, avares, and bourgeois gentilshommes, MoliÈre, like all authors who depict nature, is and will be of all epochs.

"'Rien n'est beau que le vrai; le vrai seul est aimable.'[A]

That maxim is earnestly denied by those poets who have never succeeded in being natural. They put a conventional jargon in the mouths of all their characters, and call that style! In their works, the peasant talks just like the noble; the man of the people uses as fine phrases as the advocate; the maid-servant indulges in metaphors like the grande dame; and they call that style! Posterity will do justice to all such stuff. Bathos sinks and is drowned, while the natural sails smoothly along and always rides out the storm."

"What! are all these fine books for me?"

"Yes; make a bundle of them and take them away."

"Oh! thanks, Charles!"

"When you have read them with profit, I will give you more."

"You are too kind! But I mean to make myself worthy of——. Well, you will see. Meanwhile, I've brought this back to you."

He took from his pocket a small paper-covered package.

"What is there inside?"

"Twenty-nine francs."

"Why do you want to give me that?"

"Because I saw Piaulard and tried to pay him; but he was already paid; a—person had settled with him. You probably know that person, and I would like the twenty-nine francs to be returned."

"Well done, my friend! This act of yours proves the return of worthy sentiments. But you need not worry; the person in question was paid long ago. So, keep the money, and if you need any more to buy anything come to me."

"Oh! I am not short of funds now. I have never been so rich. I don't know how it happens."

"You don't know? Why, it's very easy to understand; you spend vastly less, and earn vastly more; that's the whole secret of living in comfort."

Ballangier tied up his books, we shook hands affectionately, and he went away content, leaving me very happy. What a contrast to our previous interviews!

The next day, I was still resting from my peregrinations of the previous afternoon, and stoically making up my mind to wear mourning for Mademoiselle Rosette, when the pretty brunette suddenly burst into my room, vivacious, sprightly, and gay as always. She came to me and held out her hand.

"Bonjour, monsieur! Are you still angry with me?"

"Angry? Why, it wasn't I who was angry; it was yourself."

"Oh! that's all over; let's not say any more about that; I don't bear any malice, and I don't know how to sulk. I say, did you go and ask for me at Aunt Falourdin's?"

"At Aunt Falourdin's? You put it mildly. If you should say at all seven of your aunts', that would be nearer the truth!"

"Oh! that's impossible! You went to the whole seven? you saw the whole assortment? Ha! ha! ha! Well, you must have had a merry time!"

Rosette was seized with a paroxysm of frantic laughter, during which she could only repeat:

"He saw my seven aunts! Poor, dear boy! he saw my seven aunts!"

"Yes, I saw them all; and all in one day!"

"That was your Waterloo! I am sure that it will remain engraved on your memory! I say, I'll bet that you'd rather go up the Marly hill seven times in succession than go through that day's work again, eh?"

"I believe you. There is one Dame Piquette, in particular, who lives on Rue aux Ours. Sapristi! I didn't feel at all comfortable in my tÊte-À-tÊte with her!"

"Did she make eyes at you? I'll bet she made eyes at you! She's an old coquette, who declares that she can't go out without being besieged. Oh! my poor Charles!"

"But all that would have been nothing, mademoiselle, if I had succeeded in finding you. It would seem that you accept hospitality elsewhere than with your aunts?"

Rosette made a little grimace, which I interpreted as meaning that she did not quite know what course to adopt; at last she said:

"I was with one of my friends. My aunts are always at me to get married, and that tires me; I shall end by dropping all of 'em."

"I should say that you were doing that already."

"Come, let's not say any more about that. We're not cross any more, are we? and you'll take me out to dinner, and we'll have a nice little feed—what do you say? Yes, you will, it's all settled; and we'll go into the country—it's a fine day—and roll on the grass."

How can one resist a pretty minx who proposes rolling on the grass? I was on the point of signing the treaty of peace with Mademoiselle Rosette, when the bell rang.

"My dear girl," I said to my grisette, "if it should happen to be the lady who was here the other day, I trust that you won't make another scene?"

"No, no, don't be afraid; I saw that I was wrong; she left me in possession with such a good grace! I don't bear your friend any grudge now."

At that moment, we detected a strong odor of essence of rose, and Rosette exclaimed:

"Dame! that lady uses plenty of perfumery! what a sachet bag!"

But the door opened, and no lady appeared, but Balloquet, in his best clothes and with fresh gloves.

"Oh! I beg pardon, my dear Rochebrune! You are with a lady, and your servant didn't tell me! I will go, and come again another day."

"No, stay, Balloquet, stay; mademoiselle will not object.—Isn't that so, Rosette? you are willing that my friend should stay?"

"To be sure! I'm no savage; company don't scare me."

And Rosette put her mouth to my ear and whispered:

"Is he a perfumer?"

"No; a doctor."

"A doctor! Does he treat his patients with essences? He gives out such an odor—you'd think he was the Grand Turk!"

Balloquet meanwhile said to me in an undertone:

"Good! I don't frighten this one away! She isn't like the little blonde."

"Oh, no! she's not the same sort at all."

Balloquet had been with us but a moment, when the bell rang again, and this time FrÉdÉrique appeared.

"The servant told me that there were three of you," she said, dropping carelessly upon a chair; "and that's why I ventured to come in. Did I do wrong, Rochebrune?"

"No, madame; you are always welcome. And mademoiselle here will take advantage of the opportunity to express her regret for the unseemly words she used to you the other day."

"Yes, madame," said Rosette, walking up to Madame Dauberny. "I was wrong; I'm hot-headed; but turn your hand over, and I forget all about it. Are you still angry with me?"

"Not in the least, mademoiselle," replied FrÉdÉrique, trying to smile; "I assure you that I had forgotten it entirely. But I trust that I shall not arouse your jealousy again."

"Oh! no, madame! Charles has told me that he never loved you, and that's all I ask."

FrÉdÉrique bit her lips. I, for my part, was conscious of a sensation that I cannot describe. I would gladly have horsewhipped Rosette, I believe, if it had been possible. Women have a way of adjusting things that often produces the contrary effect.

"Madame is acquainted with my sentiments, mademoiselle," I stammered, awkwardly enough; "she appreciates them——"

"Enough, my friend!" interposed FrÉdÉrique; "sentiments are to be proved, not put in words. But, mon Dieu! how sweet your room smells! There's an odor of—of rose; yes, it's surely rose;—is it not, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, madame," said Rosette; "that smell has been here ever since monsieur le docteur came in.—Do you bathe in essence of rose, monsieur?"

Balloquet, who was walking about the room playing the dandy, passed his hand through his hair as he replied:

"Not exactly, mademoiselle; but, in truth, I am very fond of the odor of rose; I sometimes perfume my linen with an essence that I get from Constantinople."

"Well, frankly, monsieur, you use too much of it; you smell too strong! I wouldn't like to eat a truffled turkey with you."

"Why not, mademoiselle?"

"Because I should smell nothing but rose, instead of the odor of truffles; and a truffled turkey À la rose wouldn't be good, I know."

"I think that I have had the pleasure of meeting madame before," said Balloquet, saluting FrÉdÉrique.

"Yes, monsieur; on a certain day, or rather night, when my presence was useful to both of you gentlemen."

"Ah, yes! the two wedding parties, wasn't it, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur; I only looked in at yours, but it seemed to be very lively."

"It was, indeed, madame; that was the Bocal wedding; it was very hot there!"

"The Bocal wedding!" cried Rosette. "Why, I know Bocal; he's a distiller on Rue Montmartre, and his daughter married Monsieur Pamphile Girie, dealer in sponges."

"That's the man; do you know him?"

"Oh, yes! that is to say, I know Freluchon; it's through him that I know all that."

"Freluchon!" said I; "it seems to me that I've heard that name."

"Freluchon was Monsieur Bocal's head clerk, and he was courting Mademoiselle PÉtronille; and when she married that ass of a Pamphile Girie, she worked so well with her feet and hands, that Freluchon left Monsieur Bocal and went into the sponge trade; he became first clerk to PÉtronille—you can guess the sequel! But it seems that Monsieur Pamphile has a mother who sees everything and knows everything, just like the late Solitaire; so Mamma Girie put a flea in her son's ear on the subject of Freluchon. Monsieur Pamphile wanted to discharge the clerk, but Madame PÉtronille said he shouldn't. The husband and wife had a row; Monsieur Bocal tried to step in and take his daughter's part; MÈre Girie pummelled Monsieur Bocal; they sent for the magistrate, the police, the neighbors, and the concierge; there was such a row that the omnibuses couldn't get through the street. As a result of that row, PÉtronille left her husband and went back to her father; Pamphile neglected his shop to go on sprees; and Freluchon finally bought out his sponge business, and would like now to set me up in it with him; for I must tell you that my gentleman has forgotten his PÉtronille and fallen in love with me, and buries me in billets-doux and sponges; on my birthday, he sent me one as big as a pumpkin. 'Monsieur,' says I, 'what use do you expect me to make of this immense marine plant?'—'Mademoiselle, I would like to cover you with it.'—And there you are! With the seven suitors favored by my aunts, that makes eight humming-birds who aspire to enter into wedlock with me."