THE slap in the face which had been so vigorously applied to the impertinent Chevalier Chaudoreille by Urbain in his character of a good-looking young woman, though richly deserved, had been so unexpected, had so thoroughly stunned the poor little specimen of humanity that he had remained for some moments supported by the stone post against which he had been flung by the force of the blow, entirely unconscious as to his whereabouts.

But as his wits returned to their normal capacity, and he fully realized the indignity to which he had been subjected in being overcome by a blow from a woman, at a moment, too, when he thought his success certain, the little fellow drew himself up with fierce determination, and, as he rubbed his still tingling and burning cheek, he exclaimed,—

"Oh, hang it all! Is it likely I will submit to such treatment. I shall know how to revenge myself, young Amazon, little as you may think so at the present moment. Never shall it be said that Venus withdrew from the transports of Mars; that slap in the face shall prove costly to her virtue."

Immediately he followed on the steps of his Venus, who was dashing along, jumping over the streams which came in her way. Chaudoreille's sharp little eyes recognized the person whom he was pursuing just at the moment when Urbain reached the barber's house and entered the alleyway, shutting the door immediately after him.

Chaudoreille knew Touquet's house so well that his distance from the pretended country woman could not prevent him from recognizing her place of retreat, and it was with extreme surprise that our poursuivant d'amour perceived that his beauty had taken refuge in the house of his friend, Touquet. He approached the alley, presuming that she might inadvertently have left the door open, but it was closed; besides, the person he had followed had not hesitated for an instant in the choice of a hiding-place, all of which seemed to indicate that the barber's house had been her destination. This incident gave rise to many conjectures on Chaudoreille's part, awakening his lively curiosity; he decided not to leave the house until the departure of the one whom he had seen enter, and walked up and down from the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles to the Rue Saint-HonorÉ.

Time passed and Chaudoreille vainly watched, with his eyes directed to the house, noticing that there was still a light in Blanche's room. Soon the rain began to fall and the wind blew violently; but the chevalier, though inadequately protected by a penthouse, under which he had taken refuge, did not dream of leaving the place, and wrapped himself as well as he could in his little cloak, saying,—

"She must come out sooner or later. What the deuce! can she be Touquet's mistress? Oh, hang it! I must seek the clue to this enigma. The light is still burning in my beautiful scholar's room. Hem! I have certain suspicions. That devil of a slap in the face was given to me with so much force that it makes me believe that my Venus may perhaps have a beard. Patience, she will either come out or I shall go in!"

Poor lovers! While you were enjoying so much the pleasure of being together, while you were beginning to understand each other and to exchange loving glances, in which Blanche no longer showed any timidity, you had no suspicion that at a short distance from you a cursed man had his eyes directed to your window and proposed to disturb your happiness; and all because the success of his shuffling, the white wine, and Urbain's fictitious charms had mounted to Chaudoreille's head.

Eleven o'clock had long since struck. We know what had taken place upstairs; now let us see what had taken place below.

Chaudoreille, unable longer to contain himself, decided to knock at the barber's door. The lovers had not heard him, because at that moment Urbain was kissing Blanche's soft little hand, and in so agreeable an occupation one is not liable to notice what takes place in the street. Marguerite was snoring in a manner which did not indicate fear; in truth, she had gone to sleep with the precious talisman at her side.

But the barber was not asleep; whether it was because of the storm or the wind, or from some other cause, Master Touquet, who rarely slept peacefully in his bed at night, had not yet gone up to his room, and was pacing slowly in his back shop, ever gloomy and preoccupied, and murmuring at intervals,—

"Cursed night! Why do these shadows incessantly disturb my rest? As soon as daylight disappears my torments recommence. I have gold—yes, I have gold, but I no longer enjoy my natural rest. I shall sell this house; I shall go far from here, very far. I shall return to my country, my father, if he is still living. He will be very much astonished at the change in my fortune. He cursed me when I left the country—but I will ask him to forgive me; yes, he will surely forgive my early faults when he sees that I am rich and respected. I shall not tell him all; no, I shall not tell him how I acquired this fortune."

A bitter smile flickered on the barber's pale lips and he returned to his reflections, from which he was drawn by the knocking at the door.

Touquet started with fright, but immediately appearing ashamed of himself, took his lamp and went quickly towards the door. He did not expect anyone so late, but supposed that the Marquis de Villebelle, finding himself in that neighborhood, was perhaps seeking him in regard to some new love intrigue.

As he drew near the door he recognized Chaudoreille's voice, calling,—

"Open the door, Touquet. Open the door. Don't be afraid, it's me, but it is absolutely necessary that I should speak to you."

The barber opened the door; and Chaudoreille, whose soaked garments were glued to his lean figure, which appeared even more attenuated than usual, being all shrivelled up under his cloak, came into the alley huddled together, as if he were afraid that his head would hit the little lattice-work over the door.

"What the devil has brought you here at this hour?" said the barber, shutting his door, while the Gascon looked towards the end of the alley as though he were trying to see someone. Finally, he put his finger on his mouth and said in a low voice,—

"Are you alone just now?"

"Yes, certainly."

"You have no visitors?"

"Why, no, nobody, I tell you."

"Then it is urgent that I should speak with you."

The barber returned into the lower room, and Chaudoreille followed him, walking on his tiptoes and turning to the right and left, as though he were looking for someone.

"Come, what have you got to say?" said Touquet. "What means this visit, so near midnight? Did you think that I should be inclined to sleep you? Go. There are still gambling dens open in Paris where you can find a bed, but my house shall not serve as a shelter for nighthawks."

Chaudoreille, without appearing in the least disconcerted, listened to Touquet, shaking his hat meanwhile, and wringing his mantle; he smiled with a mischievous air as he listened to the barber's last words, and answered,—

"Your house! By jingo, you make a good deal of fuss about your house. We shall see presently whether you receive any suspicious persons."

"What do you mean by that?" cried Touquet, angrily.

"Hush! Don't make so much noise, I beg of you. Don't wake the cat up, she is asleep."

"Chaudoreille, I'm losing patience. Say what you want, or I'll be the death of you."

"Well, what the deuce! I came to do you a service, and it seems to me that that shouldn't make you angry. Listen now, but I beg of you don't lose your temper, for that will make me break the thread of my discourse."

The barber restrained himself as well as he could, and Chaudoreille, after passing his cuff over the edge of his hat to give it a lustre, commenced his story in a low voice,—

"I was going this morning to Saint-Germain's fair and found myself without money, something which very often happens with me. I had eaten nothing since yesterday."

"You have eaten and drunk since, I'll answer for it."

"Yes, certainly, thanks to my genius. I was making some rather sad reflections on the instability of my luck at piquet, the treacherous chances of lansquenet and the lack of solidity in gambling—"

"I should like to make you reflect at this minute on the strength of a good stick."

"Hush, don't interrupt me. I perceived at the fair two young men, youths, you know; some of those faces which seem to say, 'Who will come and do me?' those faces without mischief which are a veritable good fortune for men of parts. The poor little fellows were playing at skittles."

"Come to the point. You are abusing my patience."

"This all leads up to the matter which regards you. I approached the innocents and showed them a new stroke which they did not know, I'll answer for it. In short, we dined together, and I only took a pistole from them for the lesson, which was very reasonable, but if they had refused me I would have spitted them both like sparrows. Don't stamp your foot, I'm nearing the end. I was returning gayly, according to my habit, when I met a country woman in the street who seemed to me agreeable, although I saw little of her. Her carriage was free and unconstrained, she was big and strong; I was very much taken by her. I caught up to her and I said some charming things to her. Would you believe it? not a word in response; I repeated them, still no answer; I approached her and pinched her, and, my dear fellow, I received a most vigorous slap in the face."

"Well, hang it! she did well. Finish your chatter if you don't wish to receive a second."

"Stunned for an instant, I soon recovered my wits. I pursued the traitress. I saw her enter—where do you suppose?—your house."

"She came into my house? It is impossible; you are deceived."

"No, by all the devils! I know your dwelling well enough. She came in by the alleyway and shut the door immediately."

"What time was it then?"

"About seven o'clock. And I can answer for it that she didn't come out, for I haven't stirred from the front of the house."

"What, wretch, that woman has been so long in my house, and you only now come to tell me?"

"What do you expect? I didn't know what to do; between you and I, I thought the dame came to see you, but seeing that there was still a light in my scholar's room, I thought—"

"A light in Blanche's room?"

"Why, yes, by jingo! There's one there at this moment, from which I concluded—"

The barber hastily arose, lit a second lamp, took his sword and directed his steps towards the staircase at the back, saying to Chaudoreille,—

"Remain here and wait for me."

"Why, don't you want me to come with you?"

"Remain, here, I tell you, but if you have deceived me, tremble; your chastisement shall be proportioned to my anger."

"May the devil fly away with him," said Chaudoreille, ensconcing himself in a corner of the room. "I came to render him a service and he's going to flog me if he doesn't find the guilty person. That slap in the face may be followed by something still more cruel."

Touquet ran rapidly up the stairs to Blanche's room; he knocked, and ordered the young girl to open the door; we have seen the effect which these unexpected words produced on the young couple within the chamber.

Urbain remained motionless, his arms still embracing the young girl, who was only half dressed. In a second all the suspicions which the situation would give rise to, in the mind of the person who had discovered them, flashed across him. Blanche, still innocent and pure, though her virtue had been endangered, Blanche would be adjudged guilty, and he was the cause of it. How could he prevent it? All these thoughts, rapid as lightning, transpired during the time which elapsed before the barber knocked for the second time, and loudly reiterated in a threatening voice the order which he had given. Urbain glanced at the chimney, seeing only that way of escaping from sight. He was about to run to it when Blanche stopped him. She had already recovered from her first fright, and said to him, with a calmness which astonished him,—

"Where are you going?"

"To hide myself."

"No, no, it is unnecessary for you to hide. Why not tell the whole truth?"

"O Blanche, if anyone finds me with you—at night?"

"Well, what of it? We have done nothing wrong. It is much better to confess everything at once than to lie about it," and the lovely child ran to the door, drew the bolt and opened to the barber. The latter darted into the room. His first looks were bent on Urbain, who was standing by the hearth. Touquet only looked at him for a moment, for he had instantly recognized the young bachelor, and drawing his sword he rushed upon him, crying,—

"Scoundrel! You shall pay with your life for your temerity."

Urbain remained motionless, appearing to brave Touquet's fury, but seeing the homicidal weapon flash, Blanche cried out, and, quick as the barber, ran and placed herself before Urbain, whom she covered with her body; then, lifting her hands towards Touquet, she cried with an accent which came from her heart,—

"O monsieur, he has done nothing wrong."

The barber's weapon nearly grazed Blanche's bosom, but the young girl's accents were so touching, her sweet features wore an expression so noble, that the barber himself could not resist her. His anger seemed vanquished. He dropped his sword, and said in a less gloomy voice,—

"This man has outraged you, and you don't wish me to avenge you? You ask me to pardon him? Very well, I shall not strike."

"What?" said Blanche, surprised. "What, monsieur, is it because of me that you were about to hurt Urbain? Oh, you would have been very wrong. You say he has outraged me; but, no, monsieur, I swear to you he has not. He has told me that he loves me very much, that he will love me all his life, but there is nothing outrageous in that, for when you knocked at the door I believe I was just going to tell him that I loved him also. You see that I am just as guilty as he is, and that it is necessary for you to punish both of us."

Blanche's words had an accent of truth which it was impossible to mistake. The barber glanced in astonishment at her and at Urbain, who saw that he then believed, despite appearances, that Blanche still retained her purity. However, the disorder which reigned in the apartment, the singular costume of the young girl and of Urbain, which was divided between that of the two sexes, all appeared to confuse Touquet's ideas.

"Listen to us," said Blanche to him, "you shall know the whole truth. Urbain, to be sure, is a little to blame, for he has come to see us every evening for nearly a fortnight, but he came as a young girl. At first I was angry with him also, but finally I have forgiven him. Urbain has such a sweet expression, and then, I already loved Ursule very much, and that made me love him also. He said that he wished to be my lover, my husband, that he could not live without me, and that it would depend upon you to make us happy forever. Ah, you will be good, will you not, my dear friend? You have already done much for me. Give me Urbain for my husband, and I promise you that I will never ask anything of you again."

The barber, while listening to Blanche, muttered to himself,—

"For nearly a fortnight he has been coming here every evening, it is by a great chance that I discovered him today, and yet I believed that I could easily guard a young girl and brave the enterprises of lovers."

"Monsieur," said Urbain, who up to that moment had kept silent, "I confess all the wrong I have done, and love alone must be my excuse; but I adored Blanche, whom I had seen through the panes of that window, and you would not permit any man to approach her. I tried once to begin an acquaintance with you, but the manner in which you received me left me no hope. I then consulted nothing but my love. Thanks to this disguise I deceived old Marguerite, who consented to introduce me here. I saw Blanche, and could I renounce the hope of possessing her? She was deceived as well as her nurse. Under the name of Ursule I had the good fortune to gain her confidence and, by some interesting stories, to amuse old Marguerite. I rejoiced in my happiness without daring to make myself known. Today, on account of the storm, the rain, which fell so violently, the advanced hour, she invited me to remain."

"Yes," said Blanche, with an angelic smile, "He was going to sleep with me. I myself begged him to do so."

The barber knit his brows and glanced angrily at the young man. Urbain instantly threw himself at his feet, crying,—

"I have respected her virtue, her innocence. O monsieur, can I not touch you with my love. Yes, I adore Blanche, give me her hand or deprive me of a life which without her would be insupportable."

"Hear us, my friend," said Blanche. "He will absolutely die if I am not his wife, and if he should die I feel that I should die of grief, too."

The barber appeared to listen to Urbain without being in the least moved by his prayers, when the young bachelor added,—

"I know, monsieur, all that you have done for Blanche. Her father was assassinated, she remained an orphan without any support. She owes everything to you."

"What?" said Touquet, who had paid more attention to Urbain's last words, "you know—"

"Yes, monsieur, I learned all that concerns her whom I adore. She did not know her parents and possessed no fortune, but it is she alone whom I ask of you. You have done well for her. Give me Blanche; she is sufficient for my happiness. I also am an orphan; my family was honest and respectable, but I have no relations left. My name is Urbain Dorgeville; I have an income of twelve hundred livres; that is very little, but I possess besides a little house in the country, on the borders of the Loire, there I shall go to live with Blanche. Far from the tumult of the city, which we shall not regret, nor its pleasures; and far from society, which we do not wish to know, we shall there pass our days in peace and love and happiness."

The barber appeared to reflect deeply. He rose, and strolled about the room with bowed head. Hope and fear were depicted in the looks of the two lovers, who waited with impatience his answer. Finally, he paused, and said to Urbain,—

"You are an orphan? Entirely master of your own actions?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"There is nobody to object to your marrying an orphan without means, and whose family is unknown?"

"Nobody, I repeat to you, can oppose my wishes."

"You will never seek, yourself, to obtain any information in regard to Blanche's family, which, besides, would prove entirely fruitless."

"Why, what does it matter to me who were her parents. She is a treasure in herself."

"And you will go to live with her far from Paris—far from everyone?"

"Yes, for I shall make it my care to be all-sufficient to her happiness."

"O heavens, Urbain," said Blanche, "You know very well that I never left this room, where I saw no one but Marguerite. If I were to live with you in the country do you suppose that I should wish for anything else?"

"Dear Blanche, unite with me then in obtaining the consent of your protector."

The two young people bent on the barber entreating looks. The latter did not notice them and appeared entirely wrapped in his reflections; at last, all of a sudden, he stopped before Urbain, and said, in a curt tone,—

"Blanche is yours."

"Can it be?" cried the young bachelor, in a delirium of happiness. "Blanche, do you hear? He consents to our union."

"Oh, my dear friend, how much I thank you."

And the two lovers fell on their knees before Touquet, their eyes bathed with tears of pleasure and gratitude.

"What are you doing?" said the barber, who seemed ashamed to see the young couple at his feet. "Get up, I beg of you."

"You have made us happy," said Urbain, "and you will not even receive our thanks."

"No, no, I wish for nothing but silence and discretion."

"Aren't you glad now that you didn't injure Urbain? He meant no harm in disguising himself as a girl. It was he who sang so beautifully under my window. Oh, how happy I am! He can sing with me all the time now. He will teach me that pretty ballad and some others, too. Will you not, Urbain, teach me many things? Oh, how happy we shall be."

The barber had some trouble in calming Urbain's transports and Blanche's naÏve joy. Finally he succeeded in making them listen.

"Until the time of your union," said he, "I repeat to you, I shall exact the greatest discretion. Urbain you must promise me not to speak of your marriage, and not to bring any of your acquaintances here."

"I swear to you, monsieur, that I will do as you wish; besides, I don't know anybody. I have no intimate friends."

"That is better still, you will have less to regret in leaving the city. Make all your preparations for departure, and procure all the necessary documents for your marriage. As to Blanche, I will give you the letter found on her father; that is all which concerns that matter. When you have made all the necessary arrangements, you can marry Blanche—but in the evening without any stir, with nothing that can draw people to the church to see the ceremony; I dislike idlers and curious people. Afterwards you will immediately start for the country; and you will not return to this city, where your modest means would not permit you to live happily."

"Yes, I agree to all, monsieur."

"Are you coming with us, my friend?"

"No, that is not necessary. Later on, perhaps."

"And Marguerite, can we take her with us?"

"Yes."

"How nice that will be!"

"Up to the day of your departure Urbain can come here, but in the evening only, and not in disguise."

"He will come as a boy. I am very curious to see him like that."

"You understand; it is very late. It is necessary for you to retire. Urbain, I repeat to you, maintain the greatest silence about all this. Hasten your preparations, and Blanche will soon be yours."

Urbain renewed his promises and his thanks to the barber, and took Blanche's hand and covered it with kisses. The young people could hardly believe in their happiness, and the future that was opening before them still seemed a dream of their imagination, but Touquet hurried them.

"I shall see you tomorrow," said Urbain.

"Tomorrow," repeated Blanche, "and not in woman's clothes. Do you hear? I wish to grow accustomed to seeing you as a man."

"Yes, dear Blanche, yes. No more pretence now."

The barber cut their adieux short and led away the young man, and Blanche closed her door, sighing and murmuring still,—

"Tomorrow."

Touquet guided Urbain, holding the lamp in his hand, and walking rapidly towards the staircase; but hardly had he taken ten steps in the passage when his foot caught in something. He lowered his lamp and perceived a little shapeless heap which moved and appeared to want to glide along the wall. The barber ran at this object and, quickly lifting the mantle which covered it, perceived Chaudoreille, with his body on all fours in such a way as not to take more room than a big cat.

"What are you doing there, clown?" cried Touquet, putting his lamp against Chaudoreille's face.

"Me? Nothing. I am picking up a pin."

"Go down to the room. I have told you before that I don't like curious people," and to prove this to him beyond a possibility of doubt the barber kicked the chevalier vigorously, and the latter, not having had time to straighten himself, received the kick in three parts of his body. Touquet did not stop to do more, but led the bachelor to the street door, and opening it for him said,—

"Go, and remember all that you have promised."

Urbain was about to renew his protestations of gratitude, but the barber put an end to them by telling him to go immediately to his dwelling, and closing the door upon him.

Touquet returned into the lower room where he found Chaudoreille, who had resumed his natural size and was promenading with the air of a conqueror, evidently awaiting the thanks of the barber.

"Well, now, by jingo!" cried he impatiently, seeing that the latter said nothing to him. "You have found the magpie in the nest. I haven't dim sight. And that slap in the face, zounds! I recognized a masculine hand. I am never deceived. Well, we have, according to what I see, shown the gallant to the door. As to the little one, hang it! With her sanctimonious air, who would have expected it?"

"Be silent!" cried the barber, advancing towards Chaudoreille with a threatening gesture. "Do not outrage Blanche. That the young girl is still pure is as true as that you are a liar and a coward."

"A coward! By jingo, if Rolande could only speak!"

"Yes, I confess that I found someone there, but that someone was not alone with Blanche."

"That is singular. I didn't hear old Marguerite's voice."

"You were listening, then, wretch."

"No, it was by chance that some sounds reached my ears; some one called out. I thought that somebody had need of help and, following my natural ardor, I went towards the neighborhood from whence the noise came."

"Well, what did you hear? Speak, I tell you!"

"Oh, nothing, some words. It seemed to me that you were promising to unite the two lovers. At least I believe that's what I caught. However, if I had not thought that you were keeping the little one for yourself I would have demanded her hand of you long ago. It seems to me that I deserve the preference over that little masker, who if it had not been for his petticoat would have paid dearly for the slap on the face he gave me."

"You become Blanche's husband!" said the barber, glancing scornfully at the little man. "Listen, Chaudoreille, it suits me to give Blanche to this young man; he will make her happy."

"As to that you are the master, but—"

"But, if you say a word about what you have seen and heard tonight I shall draw down upon you the most terrible vengeance. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I understand you. By jingo, marry the little one with whom you please. I don't care a fig for the pair of them. However, if there is to be a wedding, I hope—"

"No, there will be neither a wedding nor a repast—"

"That will be gay!"

"But, if you are discreet, I promise you two pieces of gold when everything is finished and Blanche has left this house."

"Agreed. That will suit me, it is as if I held them now; you might as well pay me in advance."

"I prefer, however, not to pay you until afterwards. But the night is drawing to a close; go home, Chaudoreille, and remember your promise."

"Yes, yes, that's settled. Is there any news of the seductive marquis and the young Italian?"

"I believe that fire is already extinguished. But that doesn't astonish me; a fortnight, three weeks, is the measure of the constancy of our great noblemen."

"And after that's ended it's probable that there will be one intrigue after another to conduct. If so remember me, my dear Touquet."

"Very good, go to your bed!"

"In fact, it's about time. I'll go back to the Rue Brise-Miche; fortunately my portress has a liking for me, or else I should run a great risk of sleeping in the street. However, if you wish, I could wait for day here, on a chair."

"No, no, it's necessary for you to go; I need some rest, also, and it seems to me that I shall get little of it this night."

Chaudoreille enveloped himself as well as he could in his mantle and went towards the door, making a grimace. The barber closed it on him and went to his room, saying,—

"I have done well; she will go away, no one will hear tell of her again, and everything regarding her will soon be forgotten."