XVIII
FIRST APPEARANCE IN SOCIETY
In an elegant, brilliantly-lighted apartment on Rue Saint-Lazare, a fashionable company, already quite numerous, was engaged in conversation that was rarely of a private nature, but often piquant and satirical. At intervals, some witty person interjected a word or two, while the undaunted chatterers, who never had anything clever to say, persisted in holding the floor.
Madame CÉlival was just as MonfrÉville had described her: lovely, amiable, coquettish, glancing at a mirror from time to time, to be sure of the effect of her gown; paying due attention to all her guests, with the talent of a woman accustomed to society, but reserving softer and tenderer smiles for the men who were paying court to her.
Near the couch on which the mistress of the house had just taken her seat sat a young and pretty blonde, dressed in muslin and crÊpe, and entangled in veils and scarfs that almost concealed her charming features; it was all pink and white and formed so becoming a frame for this lady that at a distance she resembled one of those engravings of a woman’s face surrounded by clouds.
Madame CÉlival thanked the pretty blonde for consenting to come to her reception, despite the torture caused by her nerves. A few steps away was a tall gentleman wearing a decoration; he was very thin and very ugly; his chin was surrounded by a sparse necklace of jet-black beard; moustaches no less glossy, and carefully waxed and twisted at the ends, made his face resemble a cat’s in some measure. He was addressed as colonel.
A young man whose hair was parted and curled with as much care as a woman could possibly take, and whose regular, but somewhat harsh features recalled the faces which our historical painters love to give to the heroes of ancient Rome, was standing by the fireplace; he rarely removed his eyes from the ladies who were talking on the divan, but he seemed not to be observing either of them more particularly than the other.
Near the piano, for there was necessarily a piano in the salon, several young persons were assembled, turning over the leaves of albums, or looking at the music; they were not all good-looking, but they were all dressed with so much taste, there was so much reserved grace in their manners, that even those who were not pretty were not without charm.
In another part of the room the mammas were chatting together; some were dressed with a coquetry which seemed to indicate a purpose to outshine their daughters; others displayed a simple but tasteful elegance, suited to their age, which made them the more attractive when they were still young enough to attract.
Some young men were fluttering about the younger ladies, while others contented themselves with standing very straight and stiff in order to call attention to the finished elegance of their clothes and the good taste with which their hair was arranged. Some had assumed a smile which remained as if stereotyped on their faces throughout the evening. Then there were men of uncertain age standing and talking in the middle of the room; among them a gentleman, whose gray hair, very scanty over his forehead, curled luxuriantly about his temples. He possessed a distinguished and intellectual face, but there was an over-curious, over-inquisitive expression in his little eyes, which gleamed with the vivacity of youth, although his face indicated that he was in the neighborhood of sixty. This gentleman talked incessantly, with much energy, and while carrying on a conversation in one part of the salon, managed to hear what was said elsewhere, and thus took part in most of the other conversations, sustaining his share of the discussion on several different subjects at the same time, with the same facility with which Caesar dictated several letters at once in different languages.
Another salon, smaller than that where the ladies were sitting, and reached by passing through a lovely little room furnished with the most delicious luxury, was set aside for those of the guests who wished to play cards. Whist and bouillotte tables were prepared, but there were as yet no players.
Monsieur de MonfrÉville and the Marquis ChÉrubin de Grandvilain were announced. All eyes were turned toward the door. The names ChÉrubin and Grandvilain formed such a strange contrast that everybody was curious to see the person who bore them.
“Monsieur de Grandvilain!” said one; “Gad! how ugly he must be! He must be an elderly man.”
“But the footman said ChÉrubin too; that’s a very pretty name.”
“They can’t belong to the same man.”
“Probably there’s a father and a son.”
While the guests indulged in these reflections, Madame CÉlival said to those who were nearest her, but speaking loud enough to be overheard by everybody:
“Monsieur de MonfrÉville did ask my permission to introduce a young man who has never been out at all; and I granted it the more willingly because this young man, who is the last of a noble family, deserves, so it is said, all the interest that Monsieur de MonfrÉville takes in him.”
“Ah! very well done!” murmured the gray-haired gentleman; “a little announcement preceding the introduction.”
At that moment ChÉrubin entered the salon with MonfrÉville. Despite all that his mentor had said to him, he was far from self-possessed, and the deep flush that covered his cheeks sufficiently betrayed his embarrassment. But his eyes were so lovely and soft, his features so refined, his face so interesting, that a flattering murmur greeted his entrance into the salon, and everyone felt prepossessed in his favor at once. The young men who were standing stiffly erect to display their fine points were the only ones who did not seem to share the general feeling.
“He has a very awkward manner,” said one.
“He carries himself badly,” said another.
“He looks like a woman in man’s clothes,” murmured a young dandy, bristling with beard, moustache and side-whiskers.
And Monsieur Trichet, the gray-haired gentleman, smiled maliciously and said:
“ChÉrubin! a most appropriate name. He is Comte Almaviva’s little page to the life! He still lacks the gallantry and self-assurance of his namesake; but those will soon come. The ladies will ask nothing better than to train him.”
Madame CÉlival greeted the young man with a charming smile when MonfrÉville presented him. She made several of those complimentary remarks which captivate instantly the person to whom they are addressed. ChÉrubin tried to reply to her compliments, but he went astray and tangled himself up in a sentence which he was unable to finish. Luckily MonfrÉville was at hand and interposed to relieve his embarrassment, and Madame CÉlival was too well-bred not to do her best to put him at his ease. So that, after a few moments, ChÉrubin began to venture to look about him.
“What a lot of pretty women there are here!” he whispered to his sponsor. “I say, my friend, do you mean to say that one can love them all?”
“You are perfectly at liberty to love them all, but I cannot promise that they will all love you.”
“The mistress of the house is very beautiful; she has eyes that—I don’t dare to say it.”
“Say on.”
“That dazzle one, intoxicate one—excuse me, but I can’t think of the right word.”
“Intoxicate isn’t at all bad; in fact, you have unwittingly hit upon the most apt expression; for if wine deprives us of our reason, a pretty woman’s eyes produce precisely the same effect. I am tempted to tell Madame CÉlival what you just said about her eyes; she will be flattered by it, I’ll wager.”
“Oh! my dear fellow, don’t do that—I shouldn’t dare to look at her again. But the lady opposite is very pretty too! That blonde almost hidden by pink and white muslin.”
“That is Madame la Comtesse Emma de Valdieri; she is a fascinating creature, in very truth; she has something of the sylph about her, something of a daughter of the air. She is perfectly proportioned: small feet, small hands, small mouth, small ears; only her eyes are large. She is the perfect type of tiny women. But she is exceedingly nervous and flighty, and, above all, capricious; to-day she will greet you with a tender glance, to-morrow she will act as if she did not know you; adulation has spoiled her. Comtesse Emma is French, but her husband is a Corsican. He is that stout gentleman with whiskers, who is singing at the piano. He has a superb bass voice, so that he is always anxious to sing; and, although he’s a Corsican, he seems to be very little disturbed by the homage paid to his wife.”
Monsieur Trichet, who was at some distance from MonfrÉville, succeeded none the less in overhearing what he said to ChÉrubin; and he approached the two friends, saying in a sarcastic tone:
“True, true. Valdieri, the handsome singer, is not at all jealous; but it isn’t safe to trust him! With these Corsicans, there is always the vendetta to guard against. Is your health good, Monsieur de MonfrÉville?”
“Very good, monsieur, I thank you.”
“It is some time since you have shown yourself in society.”
“I have been obliged to pay a long visit to my estate near Fontainebleau.”
“Oh, yes!—So you are introducing monsieur in society? He could not find a better guide.”
ChÉrubin bowed and attempted to say a few words in reply; but after a vain effort, he deemed it more prudent to hold his peace. Monsieur Trichet was about to continue the conversation, when he saw, at the other end of the room, three gentlemen talking with great earnestness; he instantly ran toward them, crying:
“That isn’t so—you’re wrong! I know the story better than you do, and I’ll tell it to you.”
MonfrÉville smiled at ChÉrubin and said:
“I need not tell you that that gentleman, whose name is Trichet, is the most inquisitive and loquacious mortal whom it is possible to meet. He can’t see two people talking together without joining their conversation, which is not always agreeable. However, as Monsieur Trichet is a very wealthy old bachelor, who gives very handsome fÊtes, and as, aside from his curiosity, he doesn’t lack wit and tells a good story, he is made welcome everywhere, in salons and at the theatres.”
ChÉrubin was still engaged in looking about at the assembled company, when the door opened and the footman announced:
“Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle de Noirmont.”
A lady above middle height, but of dignified and refined bearing, entered first, with a girl of some fourteen or fifteen years. The lady, whose dress, although rich, was almost severe in its simplicity, seemed to be rather more than thirty years of age; her features were beautiful, but grave; her large dark eyes, surmounted by heavy eyebrows, wore a vague and thoughtful expression which might lead one to think that her thoughts were often busy with something different from what she was saying; her lips, somewhat too tightly closed, hardly ever parted in a smile. That cold and haughty face was framed by beautiful tresses of black hair, which fell very low.
The young lady had the winning charm of her age; although she was not very pretty, her features attracted one by their fascinating expression of playfulness and mischief, which was often moderated by her mother’s stern glances.
Monsieur de Noirmont, who came after them, was a man of fifty; he was very tall and stooped a little; his temples were shadowed by a few dark hairs, but the top of his head was entirely bald. His appearance was stern, supercilious and far from attractive; his regular features had probably been handsome, but his steely glance, his sharp voice and his shortness of speech inspired neither affection nor confidence.
The arrival of these three persons seemed to cause MonfrÉville profound emotion; his brow became wrinkled, his eyebrows drew together, and a veil of melancholy covered his eyes. But in a moment, surmounting his sensations, he succeeded in resuming the amiable and unruffled air which he wore on his arrival; indeed one would have said that he made it a point to seem more cheerful than before.
Monsieur Trichet, who had returned to ChÉrubin’s side, did not fail to comment on the new arrivals:
“That’s the Noirmont family; they have left their estate in Normandie, and they live in Paris now. They must have found it very dull in the country. They are not a very hilarious family. That De Noirmont is stiff and sour and overbearing! Just because he was once in the magistracy, you would think that he was always sitting in judgment on you. However, he’s a man of the strictest probity; he deserves his reputation, but he’s not an agreeable companion. As for his wife, she is a worthy mate to her husband—she talks very little and never smiles. I don’t know whether she has any wit, but at all events she never compromises it. As for her virtue—oh! that is intact, as far beyond reproach as her husband’s probity. And yet Madame de Noirmont, who is very handsome still, although she may be thirty-three or thirty-four years old—yes, she must be quite that—must have been an enchanting creature at eighteen, assuming that she deigned to smile occasionally then. Their daughter, young Ernestine, is a mere child still. She is a nice little thing, merry and playful—which proves that she takes after neither father nor mother. But that is often seen.—Stay, colonel, I knew the person you are talking about, and I will explain the matter under discussion.”
At that, Monsieur Trichet joined the tall gentleman with the waxed moustache, who was talking with two ladies; and ChÉrubin, turning his head, saw that MonfrÉville was no longer by his side.
Finding himself alone, in the midst of that numerous assemblage, the young man felt sorely perturbed and lost the assurance which he derived from his friend’s neighborhood. As he preferred not to stand there, awkward and embarrassed, by the fireplace, where he was exposed to every eye, he succeeded in extricating himself from the circle by slipping behind an easy-chair, and thence made his way to a window recess, where he was prevented from going farther by several persons who were seated there. He tried to retrace his steps, but Madame de Noirmont and her daughter had seated themselves in front of him and closed the way by which he had come; so that he was blockaded in a very confined space, which he could not leave except by compelling the ladies in front of him to rise. As he was incapable of such an audacious act, he decided to remain in the corner where he was, until it should please chance, or MonfrÉville, to release him from his prison.
The ladies who were seated in front of the recess in which ChÉrubin stood had no suspicion that there was anybody behind them. The conversation continued in the salon; the guests walked hither and thither, laughing and chatting. ChÉrubin alone could not stir, and he was at a loss what to do in his little corner. Several times Madame CÉlival passed the people who were blockading him, but she did not see him. He congratulated himself that she did not, for he would not have known what reply to make, if she had asked him what he was doing there. MonfrÉville too had reappeared in the salon, but he did not see the suppliant glances which his young friend cast at him, and, instead of approaching him, he seemed to avoid that part of the room in which Madame de Noirmont had seated herself.
Nearly an hour passed thus. Poor ChÉrubin was terribly fatigued by standing so long, and terribly bored in his little nook. He could hear what Madame de Noirmont said to her daughter; but that lady did not enter into any sustained conversation; she simply replied in few words to Ernestine’s questions.
“Mamma,” said the latter, after a young lady had sung a ballad, “don’t you want me to sing?”
“No, my child, you are too young to put yourself forward; besides, unless your father insists upon it, you will never sing in company.”
“Why not, mamma?”
“Because I prefer in a young lady the modesty which keeps itself concealed, to the vanity which makes itself conspicuous.”
“But in that case, mamma, why did you give me a music teacher?”
“Such accomplishments are more useful in solitude than in society.”
“Oh!—But, mamma——”
“That is enough, my child.”
A glance from Madame de Noirmont imposed silence on the girl; but, after a few moments, she returned to the charge.
“Don’t they dance here, mamma?”
“Of course not. Did I tell you that we were going to a ball?”
“Oh, no! but sometimes they dance at receptions; it’s much better fun then.”
“You think of nothing but pleasure and dancing!”
“Oh! I am so fond of it! Father told me that he would give a great ball next winter.”
“A great ball! Oh! I hope that he will change his mind.”
“Why don’t you want to give one, mamma?”
“No matter; hush!”
The girl held her peace, but indulged in a pretty little pout; whereupon her mother seized her hand and pressed it, and said in a gentler tone and with an expression of the deepest melancholy:
“I distress you, Ernestine; you don’t love your mother.”
The girl replied by putting her mother’s hand to her lips and murmuring:
“Oh! you know that I do!”
Suddenly, happening to turn her head, Mademoiselle de Noirmont caught sight of ChÉrubin, who did not know which leg to stand on. When she saw that young man standing behind her and cutting such an amusing figure, young Ernestine only half restrained her longing to laugh.
“What is the matter?” her mother asked her; “what has happened to you? You should not laugh so in company—it is not proper.”
The girl replied by nudging her mother gently and whispering:
“Look—behind us—there’s a young gentleman.”
Madame de Noirmont turned and saw ChÉrubin, who, having no idea which way to turn, bowed low to her. Amazed to see the young man in hiding in a window recess, Madame de Noirmont was about to move so that he might pass; but at that moment, MonfrÉville, having just discovered his young friend, for whom he had been searching the salons in vain, drew near to assist him in escaping from his prison.
When she saw MonfrÉville coming straight toward her, Madame de Noirmont seemed to experience a nervous convulsion; but her face changed very slightly.
“Pardon me, madame,” said MonfrÉville, “and permit me to release a young man who, I am sure, has stood here a long while, afraid to stir because he was unwilling to disturb you.”
Madame de Noirmont’s only reply was to motion to her daughter to rise, which she instantly did. ChÉrubin thereupon took advantage of the path thus opened, apologizing profusely to young Ernestine; then he walked quickly away with MonfrÉville, not remarking the extreme pallor that covered Madame de Noirmont’s face, and his friend’s forced gayety.
“I have been there for more than an hour,” whispered ChÉrubin to his mentor. “Oh! I was awfully uncomfortable! such torture!”
“Well, my dear fellow, why do you creep into little nooks like that? Did—did Madame de Noirmont speak to you?”
“That lady in front of me, who looked so stern? No, indeed; she had only just discovered me. Oh! I should never fall in love with her, although she is very handsome! I don’t think she looks at all agreeable. How different from Comtesse Valdieri, and Madame CÉlival, and that one, and that one.”
While ChÉrubin turned his amorous glances upon those ladies who attracted him, Monsieur de Noirmont, who was talking with Monsieur Trichet, left that gentleman and walked to meet the young marquis, to whom he made a solemn and ceremonious bow, saying:
“I have just been told that the son of the late Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain is here, and I wish to say to him that I am delighted to meet the son of a person whom I esteemed and honored in every respect. Yes, monsieur, I was well acquainted with monsieur your father; he was a most excellent man; I have no doubt that his son resembles him, and I trust that he will do me the honor to call at my house. Here is my card, monsieur; I look forward to the pleasure of a visit from you.”
ChÉrubin, bewildered by this unexpected invitation, bowed and muttered a few commonplace words; but Monsieur de Noirmont took his hand and led him away, saying:
“Allow me to present you to Madame de Noirmont.”
ChÉrubin made no resistance; he allowed himself to be led back, shuddering, to the little recess where he had stood so long; but that time he was not compelled to enter it. Monsieur de Noirmont introduced him to his wife, saying:
“Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, son of a man who honored me by calling me his friend.”
Madame de Noirmont, recognizing the young man who had been her prisoner, repressed a gesture of surprise, bowed coldly to ChÉrubin, and seemed to hesitate to look at him, as if she dreaded to see MonfrÉville with him again.
Little Ernestine bit her lips to keep from laughing, when she heard her father give the name of Grandvilain to the young man whom he presented.
At last ChÉrubin found himself at liberty once more, and returned to MonfrÉville, who said to him:
“You have been introduced to Madame de Noirmont?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Nothing; indeed her greeting was decidedly cold.”
“Shall you go to her house?”
“Faith, I have no inclination to do so; it seems to me that it must be a horribly dull place. That Monsieur de Noirmont has a stiff sort of courtesy that turns one cold. After all, I am not obliged to visit all my father’s friends; they are hardly of my age.”
“You must leave your card at his door, that will be enough; I think with you that it will be as well for you not to go to that house. But Madame CÉlival is looking for you, she was asking just now what had become of you; I think that you have made a conquest of her.”
“Really! Oh! if that were true!”
“Look, there she is yonder. Go and say something to her.”
“What shall I say?”
“Whatever you choose; she will help you to keep up the conversation. Don’t be bashful, my dear fellow; that isn’t the way to get ahead in the world.”
ChÉrubin made an effort to overcome his diffidence, and resolved to join Madame CÉlival; she, when she saw him coming toward her, bestowed a charming smile on him and at once motioned him to a seat by her side. Encouraged by this greeting, ChÉrubin took his place beside the lovely brunette, faltering some words which it was impossible to hear, but to which Madame CÉlival replied as if she had heard them. A clever woman always finds a way, when she chooses, to impart assurance to the most bashful man, by taking upon herself substantially the whole burden of the conversation. ChÉrubin gradually felt bolder, better pleased with himself; he had almost reached the point of being entirely at ease with his companion, when the inevitable Trichet planted himself in front of them and exclaimed:
“I don’t know what you are talking about, and yet, I’ll wager that I can guess.”
Madame CÉlival, who appeared to be not at all pleased that Monsieur Trichet had interposed in her conversation with ChÉrubin, answered the old bachelor:
“You always try to guess what people are saying, but in this case you are quite likely to be mistaken. Tell me, what was monsieur saying to me?”
“That you are bewitching, adorable; for no man can say anything else to you.”
Madame CÉlival smiled, with a less irritated air, while ChÉrubin, blushing to the whites of his eyes, exclaimed:
“Why no, I didn’t tell madame that!”
“At all events, you thought it,” rejoined Monsieur Trichet, “and that amounts to the same thing.”
ChÉrubin did not know what to say; he lowered his eyes and made such a comical face that Madame CÉlival, taking pity on his embarrassment, rose and said:
“Nonsense, my dear Trichet; you are an old idiot! That is why we all have to forgive you.”
The old bachelor did not hear these last words; he had run off to join a gentleman who was declaiming at the other end of the salon, and whom it gave him great pleasure to interrupt. Madame CÉlival left ChÉrubin, saying, with a glance at once amiable and affectionate:
“I trust, monsieur, that you find my house agreeable; you will prove that you do if you come to see me often.”
“Well,” said MonfrÉville, as he joined ChÉrubin once more, “your business seems to be progressing.”
“Ah! my dear fellow, that woman is delightful! In her company, it seemed to me that I actually had some wit. I have never been so well pleased with myself.”
“It is always so!
“‘A great man’s friendship is a boon of the gods;’ but an agreeable woman’s love is the greatest blessing on earth! Come; you don’t play, nor I; it is time to go.”
They left the salon, which the Noirmont family had quitted just before.
XIX
THE COMTESSE DE GLOBESKA
It was nine o’clock at night, and two men, who seemed to be waiting and watching for somebody, were walking back and forth on Rue GrenÉtat. One of them, whose beat was from the centre of the street almost to the fountain at the corner of Rue Saint-Denis, wore a long frockcoat which fitted his figure perfectly and was buttoned to the chin, together with straw-colored gloves and the general outfit of a dandy; but when he passed a lighted shop, one could see that his coat was worn and spotted in many places, and that his gloves were no longer perfectly fresh. This gentleman was smoking a cigar with all the grace of a regular customer at Tortoni’s.
The second individual, who was enveloped in an old nut-colored box-coat, with which we are already familiar, wore a round hat, with so broad a brim and so low a crown, that at a short distance he seemed to be arrayed in the headgear of a coal man. He walked only a few steps from a house with a dark passageway, the gate of which was open, to the second or third house on each side of it; but his eyes never lost sight of the passage.
In these two individuals the reader will already have recognized DarÉna and his worthy friend Monsieur Poterne.
Since his agent had been unable to do business with the young Marquis de Grandvilain, DarÉna had fallen off lamentably from his former magnificence; as his profits had been squandered in a very short time, he had fallen back into what is called noble indigence; “completely cleaned out,” was Monsieur Poterne’s way of stating it.
DarÉna still had recourse to his young friend’s purse from time to time; but he was afraid of ruining himself entirely in ChÉrubin’s estimation, if he abused that method; for, despite his ingenuous candor, the young man was possessed of some natural common sense which enabled him to divine what was not in accordance with propriety; and DarÉna did not wish the doors of the hÔtel de Grandvilain to be closed to him.
“By God! is that beast of a Poterne making a fool of me?” said DarÉna, stopping at the street corner to shake the ashes off his cigar. “The idea of doing sentry-go on Rue GrenÉtat, where it’s always muddy! It’s like the country! I ought to be in the foyer of the OpÉra now! But I forget that my costume is a little seedy! What a beastly cigar! Pah! there’s nothing decent in this region!”
DarÉna threw away the end of his cigar, retraced his steps, and, halting beside Poterne, who was leaning against a post, with his eyes fixed on the dark passageway facing him, nudged him with his elbow and said:
“Are we going to say here long, old tom-cat? Do you know that I am beginning to be deucedly bored?”
“When you want to carry an undertaking through to a good end, you must be patient,” rejoined Poterne, without turning his head.
“To a good end! I fancy that your end won’t be very good, you old rascal. But why does the damsel keep us waiting? Doesn’t she know that you are here? Come, Poterne, answer your friend.”
Poterne turned quickly and said in an undertone:
“Don’t call me by name, I beg you; there’s no need of the girl’s knowing my real name; she might repeat it by accident, or from stupidity, and my whole plan would be overboard.”
“You ought to be overboard yourself! But come, tell me what scheme you have thought up, and let me see if it has any sense; for I didn’t listen to you very carefully this morning.”
“It is very simple; we propose to try to make young ChÉrubin fall in love, in order to entangle him in an intrigue which may prove lucrative for us.”
“Alas, yes! for although ‘gold may be a mere chimera,’ all these rascally tailors refuse to make coats for me without some of that same chimera!”
“To make sure that our Adonis becomes deeply enamored, we must first of all find a pretty girl.”
“That is true; it’s the same way with jugged hare—first catch your hare.”
“Well, I have discovered what we need; here, in this house, on the third floor back, there is a rose, a genuine rose!”
“A rose in this vile hovel—and on the back! I am terribly afraid that your rose is only a hip!”
“You will be able to judge for yourself directly. This is the time when the work-girls leave their work; indeed, I am surprised that they haven’t come out yet.”
“And what does this blush rose do?”
“She makes Italian straw hats.”
“Very good; and she is virtuous?”
“Oh! I don’t hold her out as a prize-winner; but she makes a very modest appearance; she is very fond of a little pays[A] of hers, who was obliged to go into the army as a simple tourlourou,[B] and it would make her perfectly happy to be able to save up enough money to marry her little pays when he comes home. So she won’t listen to any of the young men who run after her every night, because she knows that they’re ne’er-do-wells, who won’t help her to set up housekeeping with her little pays.”
“Bravo! the young woman has excellent principles. How did you make her acquaintance? by treating her to chestnuts?”
“By defending her against a young wig-maker’s apprentice, who, when he pretended to take her arm, always took hold of something else.”
“Those wig-makers are sad villains. This is what the habit of making curls leads to!—What proposition have you made to this rose-bud?”
“In the first place, I represented myself as a Polish noble, the Comte de Globeski.”
“You sinner! to presume to take the title of count!—What next?”
“I told the girl that, if she chose, I would put her in the way of making a very neat little sum. As she thought at first that I was in love with her, she answered that I was too ugly.”
“That’s good, I like that outspokenness.”
“I reassured her by telling her that I wasn’t talking about myself, but about a very comely young man, whom, for family reasons, we desired to become amorous of her.”
“I adore family reasons! Go on.”
“My pretty working-girl did not seem to have a very alert imagination; however, she almost understood. She’s an Alsatian, and her name is Chichette Chichemann. She has a slight accent, but it is not at all disagreeable and will pass for a Polish accent, especially as Polish is very like German. I have an appointment with her for this evening; we will take her to a cafÉ, and there we will agree on our movements; you will see that she is extremely pretty, and that she has a little virginlike way about her that is most deceptive. When she is dressed as a Polish countess, the young marquis must inevitably fall madly in love with her.”
“We will hope so, and then we must act in all haste, for MonfrÉville is taking ChÉrubin into society now. Our real marchionesses and countesses will find the youngster very attractive; and he, in his turn, will fall in love with one of them; and if his heart is once fairly caught——”
“We should be our expenses out of pocket!”
“Bah! that won’t make any difference, if your damsel is really pretty; there’s always room for a new love in the human heart. At eighteen years and a half, I could have loved all four quarters of the globe.—Attention! I think the flock is coming out.”
As he spoke, several young women in little caps and modest aprons came from the dark passage; some of them were soon joined by young men who were waiting for them; others walked away alone. DarÉna and Poterne, stationed on the other side of the street, let them all pass. The last of all leaped the gutter with agility and walked up to Poterne, who tried to impart an amiable tone to his voice as he said:
“Did you recognize me, Mademoiselle Chichette?”
“I should say so; you look like a coal man with your big hat.”
DarÉna laughed aloud, and the girl stepped back, saying:
“Ah! there’s someone with you, MessiÉ Globeski?”
“Yes, an intimate friend of mine, who is employed to manage the affair I spoke to you about. We will go somewhere and talk it over.”
“Yes, my dear child,” said DarÉna, taking the girl’s arm and passing it through his, “we will go and have a chat and a glass of punch. Do you like punch?”
“Oh, yes! ever so much!” the Alsatian replied, looking at DarÉna.
“Very good; I see that we shall be able to come to an understanding! I am not quite so ugly as monsieur; take my arm, I shall frighten you less than he will. Is there a decent cafÉ hereabout? Let us go to Rue Saint-Denis. I haven’t looked at you yet, but I am told that you are enchanting; however, I must satisfy myself. Here’s a drug store.”
DarÉna led the little hat-maker in front of the drug store, and, placing her under one of those blue globes which cast a sickly light into the street, he scrutinized her, then exclaimed:
“Excellent! Very pretty, on my word! And if we are like this, seen through a colored bottle, what shall we be in a moment? Here’s a cafÉ, let’s go in.”
The gentlemen entered the cafÉ with Mademoiselle Chichette; they chose a table in the corner, so that they might talk with less constraint, and DarÉna said to the waiter:
“A bowl of rum punch—the very best that can be made.”
Poterne made a wry face and whispered to DarÉna:
“The little one would be perfectly satisfied with beer; it isn’t worth while to——”
“What’s that? We are growing stingy, are we? Poterne, my friend, you know that I don’t like that sort of thing.”
“Don’t call me Poterne, I tell you.”
“Then be quiet, and don’t annoy me with your foolish reflections.”
Mademoiselle Chichette had taken her place at the table, where she seemed to pay no heed at all to anything that was said by the gentlemen who were with her. The Alsatian seemed about twenty years of age; she was very small, but she had a very becoming measure of embonpoint; her face was round, with dark eyes, not very large, but well-shaped and surmounted by gracefully arched light eyebrows; a tiny mouth, pretty teeth, a plump little chin adorned by a faint dimple, chubby cheeks, and an extremely fresh complexion combined to form a charming village girl’s face; but there was no character to it, no expression in her eyes; always the same placidity and the same smile.
DarÉna scrutinized the Alsatian anew, then said to Poterne under his breath:
“She’s very pretty, and as fresh as a rose. She looks respectable; in fact, she has rather a stupid air; but that will pass for innocence. Do you know, you have made a genuine find; when she is handsomely dressed, ChÉrubin cannot possibly help falling in love with her.—Ah! here’s the punch—let’s have a drink! Drink, young Chichette. Alsatians generally have a well-developed gullet.”
Mademoiselle Chichette smiled and took a glass, saying:
“Oh, yes! I don’t object.”
“The accent is a little pronounced,” muttered DarÉna. “However, it doesn’t matter, it’s Polish—that’s understood.—Some macaroons, waiter! What! you see that we have a lady with us, and you forget the macaroons! Haven’t you any? If not, you should make some.”
“I have sent for some, monsieur.”
“That’s lucky for you. Meanwhile, give us some cakes, or gingersnaps—whatever you have.”
During this dialogue Poterne heaved a succession of stifled sighs. At last a dish was brought and placed by DarÉna in front of the young work-girl, and he himself stuffed himself with cakes as if he had not dined. Whereupon Monsieur Poterne also decided to attack the plate, and to devour all the gingersnaps.
“You see, Comte de Globeski,” said DarÉna, in a serio-comic tone, “that I did well to order these trifles. But now let us talk business, and come to the point.—Mademoiselle Chichette, you have one of the prettiest faces to be met with in Paris or the suburbs. We desire a young man to fall violently in love with you. That will be easy to bring about; but we wish his passion to encounter obstacles. Why? That does not concern you; the essential thing is that you should do exactly what you are told to do. In the first place, you are Monsieur le Comte de Globeski’s wife—consequently you are the Comtesse de Globeska. That is the usual custom in Poland: the man’s name ends in i and his wife’s in a.”
“Oh, no! I want to be my little pays’s wife! I’ve promised him.”
“Sacrebleu! this is only a joke; it’s part of the comedy we want you to play.”
“Oh, yes, yes! a joke! I’ll do it.”
“You are the Comtesse de Globeska, then, a Polish refugee; and your friend here—this gentleman who is so ugly—is horribly jealous; stuff all that in your head. We will give you a pretty costume; that can’t offend you; and you will live with monsieur for a few days, except at night; but with honorable intentions!”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“And when the young man is dead in love, you may love him too, if you please; in fact, he is well worth the trouble—he’s a charming fellow. You don’t dislike charming fellows, do you?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“And for all this you shall have twenty-five napoleons; in other words, five hundred francs.”
“That’s too much! it’s too much!” whispered Poterne, nudging DarÉna, “she would have helped us for two or three louis.”
“Yes, you shall have five hundred francs,” continued DarÉna, “six hundred, in fact, if the affair goes off well. I will guarantee you that amount, and monsieur here will pay it.—Isn’t that rather pleasant, eh?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“Sapristi!” said DarÉna, turning to his companion, “she strikes me as being stupider than a flock of geese! However, it makes no difference; Love is blind, and he is entitled to be deaf too.—Let’s have a drink! Another bowl, waiter.”
“But—but——”
“Be quiet, Comte de Globeski! you are at liberty not to drink any more, but you will still have the privilege of paying.”
The second bowl was brought; the young Alsatian’s color became more brilliant than ever; even her eyes began to show some life and DarÉna exclaimed:
“Fichtre! if only ChÉrubin could see her now! What a conflagration she would kindle! Comte de Globeski, see to it that Chichette has such eyes to-morrow evening; make her a little tipsy.”
“Yes, with brandy!” muttered Poterne, blowing his nose.
“Attention! as it is easier to become acquainted at the theatre than anywhere else, the Comte de Globeski will take his wife to the theatre to-morrow evening—to the Cirque; that is the favorite theatre of foreigners.”
“Very good,” said Poterne, “we will go to the Cirque; we will sit in the second amphitheatre.”
“And why not in paradise, at once? Hum! you make me blush for you, Globeski! You will take seats in the first balcony—in a box.”
“But——”
“No buts!—Madame must be dressed in perfect taste.”
“I will do my best.”
“And you, count, will look to it that you bear no resemblance to a certain hound named Poterne.”
“There’s no danger.”
“We will sit in your box, behind you; the Comtesse de Globeska will assassinate my young friend with her glances.—Do you understand, my girl?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“And above all things she must not seem to know me.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Comte de Globeski will go out during the entr’acte without his wife, who will answer the sweet speeches my young friend will make to her. She will not talk much, for fear of making a slip, but she will be loving and passionate.”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
“After the play the count will take his wife away, and we will follow them. He will take a cab, we will do the like. The rest will go of itself. It’s all agreed and understood. There’s no more punch; pay the bill, count, and let’s be off.”
Poterne paid with a groan; DarÉna even compelled him to give the waiter six sous; then they left the cafÉ. Mademoiselle Chichette lived on Rue Saint-Denis; they escorted her home and she promised not to go out on the following day, but to await Monsieur de Globeski’s coming. Then DarÉna went to stroll in the Palais-Royal, and Poterne went home to bed.
DarÉna had taken his measures in advance; he knew that MonfrÉville was to attend a large dinner on the following day, so that ChÉrubin would be free. He had seen him in the morning and had said to him:
“I want to pass the evening with you to-morrow; surely you will sacrifice your great ladies to me for one evening! You are always in the fashionable salons now—they monopolize you. MonfrÉville is never away from you; but my friendship demands its turn, and as I do not go into society—for the moment! I have such seasons—why, we will go to the theatre.”
ChÉrubin had agreed. But he was beginning to enjoy large parties; the pleasant welcome that he received everywhere gradually dispelled his shyness. Madame CÉlival was more amiable with him than with any other man; which fact seemed to annoy several gentlemen, among others, the colonel who resembled a cat, and the young dandy who had the look of a Roman.
Nor was this all: the fascinating Comtesse Valdieri, that fanciful, nervous, ethereal creature, who often received as if by special favor the homage that was addressed to her, had supposed at first that Marquis ChÉrubin would speedily help to swell the crowd of her adorers; but the young man had contented himself with admiring her at a distance, and in this case his shyness had served him well. The little countess was deeply offended by behavior which she attributed to indifference; for in these days it is not to be presumed that young men are bashful, and Madame Valdieri, seeing that ChÉrubin talked a great deal with Madame CÉlival, did her utmost to steal that new conquest from her. With women anger sometimes leads to love, and any other than ChÉrubin would already have taken advantage of the rivalry he had caused.
The pretty countess had invited the young marquis to come to her receptions. Monsieur Valdieri, like a complacent husband, had seconded his wife’s invitation; and ChÉrubin waited upon the flighty Emma, who was most affable to him and seemed to forget her nerves.
And then, in a street near the hÔtel de Grandvilain, there was a rather pretentious linen-draper’s shop, and in that shop, among a number of young women who were always at work at the counter, there was one fair-haired damsel, somewhat red about the eyes, with a little turned-up nose À la Roxelane, and an extremely wide-awake air. When ChÉrubin passed, she always found a way to be at the door and smile at him; or to go out into the street for a moment on the most trivial pretext; and several times, as she passed the young man, she had said:
“I come out at nine o’clock every night; if you would like to speak with me, wait at the end of the street; my name is CÉlanire.”
And lastly ChÉrubin had met Mademoiselle Malvina several times, no longer dressed as a Swiss, but very alluring with her little pink tucker, her short skirt, and the black silk scarf, which was wound so lightly about her waist that it caused her hips to stand out in a very pronounced fashion. And Malvina had halted in front of the young man, shot a burning glance at him, and said:
“So you don’t mean to come to see me, Monsieur ChÉrubin? Do you know that that is very bad of you, and that you are an ungrateful wretch not to cultivate my acquaintance? You know my address—come and breakfast with me. I get up late, but I give you leave to come very early.”
Thus ChÉrubin was exposed to a rattling fire from a number of fair ones, when DarÉna, who had found a way to freshen up his costume, called for him and took him to the Cirque, on Boulevard du Temple.
On the road the young man did not fail to tell DarÉna all that had happened to him; and he, having listened attentively, said:
“It seems to me, my dear fellow, that you are a regular Faublas—all women adore you! And how is it with yourself?”
“Oh! I adore them too!”
“So you love Madame CÉlival, eh?”
“Why, yes, I think so; I find her very fascinating.”
“And the languishing Comtesse Valdieri?”
“Oh! I like her very much too.”
“And the grisette—otherwise called the linen-draper’s apprentice?”
“I think that she’s very nice.”
“And Malvina, who dances so well?”
“She is very much to my taste.”
“Well! if that is so, how do you stand with all these women? Men don’t make any secret of such things among themselves, parbleu!”
“How do I stand? Why, no farther ahead than I was.”
DarÉna roared with laughter, to the great annoyance of ChÉrubin, and rejoined at last:
“Then, my dear fellow, it’s because the will was lacking! and, according to that, I am bound to think that all these ladies have made very little impression on your heart. However, I understand that: salon conquests—grisettes—lorettes—there’s nothing interesting in any of them! Sometimes chance brings us into contact with something better. But here we are at the Cirque.”
ChÉrubin purchased the tickets—DarÉna always left that duty to him—and they entered the theatre.
“This is a very good place,” said ChÉrubin, stopping at the entrance to the balcony.
But DarÉna, who had caught sight of the persons he was looking for in a box, answered:
“We shall be more comfortable in a box; besides, it’s better form. Come—let us go in here, for instance.”
And DarÉna bade the box-opener admit them to the box in which he had recognized Poterne and Mademoiselle Chichette Chichemann.
One must have had DarÉna’s keen sight to recognize those two individuals, and must have been certain that they were there, for they were perfectly disguised, especially Poterne, who was absolutely unrecognizable.
DarÉna’s intimate friend had sacrificed the bristly hair that covered his head; he had been shaved, and so closely that he resembled a poodle returning from Pont Neuf. He wore on his nose green goggles, the sides of which were screened by silk of the same color; and he had stuffed something in his mouth, which transformed his hollow cheeks into chubby ones. The change was complete. The false Comte de Globeski was suitably attired in a blue frockcoat with frogs, buttoned to the chin, so that it almost made a cravat unnecessary.
Mademoiselle Chichette wore a silk dress of faded pink, a long cloak trimmed with fur, and a sort of little toque of green velvet, with silk tassels and bows of the same color, which fell over her left ear. Her costume was not new, but her plump face was prettier than ever under the velvet toque, and her astonishment at finding herself in such fine array gave an almost piquant expression to her eyes.
DarÉna grasped all this at a glance.
“That miserable Poterne bought everything at the Temple!” he muttered. “However, the little one is very pretty, luckily, and if my young Cupid doesn’t take fire, I shall begin to believe that there’s something wrong in his make-up.”
Poterne nudged Mademoiselle Chichette with his knee, calling her attention with his eyes to the young man who had seated himself behind her. The supposititious Pole turned, and after eying ChÉrubin, she murmured:
“He’s very pretty—almost as pretty as my little pays!”
ChÉrubin, on his side, glanced at the lady in front of him, and whispered to DarÉna:
“Pray look at that pretty creature, my dear fellow!”
DarÉna put his head forward, pretended to be moved to admiration, and replied:
“Upon my word, I never saw anything so perfect! The freshness of the rose and the splendor of the lily! She’s a pearl! At your age I would have stormed the moon to possess that woman.”
ChÉrubin made no reply, but he paid much more attention to the young lady in the green cap than to the play that was being performed. For her part, Mademoiselle Chichette, faithful to her instructions, turned constantly to look at ChÉrubin. Her glances lasted so long sometimes that Poterne was compelled to pull her dress, and whisper:
“That’s enough, you’re going too far! Anyone would think that you did nothing else on the boulevards.”
After some time DarÉna said to his young friend:
“It seems to me that you are making progress, and that your business with this rose-bud is in a fair way to end in a bargain.”
“Why, it is true, she does look at me rather often. I don’t know whether I ought to hope.”
“You don’t know! What in the devil more do you expect a woman to do at first sight than to return your glances—yes, and with big interest! You have made a conquest of her, that is evident.—Gad! what a lucky fellow you are! I have an idea that she’s a foreigner; that man isn’t a Frenchman; he must be her husband.”
“Do you think so?”
“However, he has a very respectable look.”
“Do you think so?”
“It seems to me that nobody can help seeing it.”
During the entr’acte Monsieur Poterne did not fail to leave the box, alone; DarÉna followed him at once, saying to ChÉrubin:
“Here’s an excellent opportunity to start a conversation. Go at it boldly.”
“Do you think that I might?”
“I promise you that the lady wishes it too. You see it is hard to be more hideous than that man who was with her, and she would not be his wife if she did not deceive him.”
ChÉrubin, when he was left alone with the charming person with whom he felt that he was very much in love, wondered how he should begin the conversation. Meanwhile she was making eyes at him in a fashion which invited him to speak, with an accompaniment of the most melting smiles. The young man ventured at last.
“Is madame fond of the theatre?”
“Yes, messiÉ.”
“Does madame come often?”
“No, messiÉ. But I used to go ever so much with my cuisine.”[C]
[C] Cuisine means ‘kitchen’ or ‘cooking’. She intended to say cousine.
ChÉrubin opened his ears, trying to understand.
“My cuisine liked the theatre ever so much.”
“Ah! you are speaking of a cousine, no doubt?”
“Yes, yes, my cuisine.”
“And this gentleman with you—is he your husband?”
“Yes; Comte Glo—Globe—Oh dear! I have forgot his name! I am stupid!”
“You are not French, madame?”
“Oh, no! I am from Alsa—No, no, I’m from some other place! I have forgot again; I am awful stupid!”
Mademoiselle Chichette said all this so comically, and rested her eyes on ChÉrubin so often, that the young man paid no heed to the incoherency of her speech, but became more and more enamored of the lovely stranger.
“Do you enjoy Paris, madame?”
“Oh yes! I enjoy it; but I am always thinking of my little pays!”
“Ah! you regret it?”
“Yes! I would like to see my little pays again!”
“You love your country—pays—that is perfectly natural.”
“Ah, yes! he’s a tourlourou now.”
Here ChÉrubin again failed to understand, but Poterne returned, luckily for Mademoiselle Chichette, who was beginning to forget her part and to talk at random.
DarÉna soon returned also; he asked ChÉrubin whether he had carried forward his affair with his pretty neighbor.
“Yes, we talked; she seemed to ask nothing better. You were not mistaken; the gentleman is her husband; she’s a foreigner, she has a very strong accent.”
“They’re Poles; I found that out in the foyer.”
“She seems to be very much attached to her country—pays,—for she sighs for it and talks about it all the time!”
“Her country! oh, yes! Poland.—Did you make an appointment with her?”
“An appointment? Oh! we didn’t get so far as that!”
“How did you amuse yourselves then? A woman who is mad over you, who fairly eats you with her eyes!”
“Do you think so? What good fortune! She is so pretty, and her accent is so fascinating!”
“Yes, the Polish accent has much charm.”
“I am quite mad over her, my dear fellow.”
“And you are right. It would be downright murder not to carry that rose-bud away from that old caterpillar!”
“Carry her away! What! do you think that it will be necessary——”
“Hush! let me act; I will arrange the whole business.”
The play came to an end. Monsieur Poterne donned his umbrella-like hat, and gave the fair Chichette his arm. She, although sorely embarrassed in her costume, succeeded in holding her hand out straight behind her.
DarÉna and his companion walked on the heels of the Poles, who took care not to turn around. DarÉna almost compelled ChÉrubin to seize the hand which the lady obligingly held behind her back, and the young man turned crimson as he whispered in his friend’s ear:
“Ah! she squeezed my hand! she is squeezing it again! she keeps squeezing it!”
“Parbleu! what did I tell you?” rejoined DarÉna. “Sympathy—I believe that you were made for each other.”
As he spoke, DarÉna kicked Poterne’s legs viciously, to make him walk faster and force Mademoiselle Chichette to drop ChÉrubin’s hand, which she seemed to have resolved never to release.
The so-called foreigners entered a cab. ChÉrubin and DarÉna took another and told the driver to follow the first, which stopped in front of a modest, furnished lodging house on Rue Vieille-du-Temple.
“Good,” said DarÉna; “we know where they live, and that is enough for to-night. To-morrow you must write an impassioned letter to that Pole; I will undertake to see that she gets it without the knowledge of her husband, and I promise you that she will reply to it.”
Everything being agreed between them, ChÉrubin went home, where DarÉna left him, congratulating himself on the success of his stratagem.
XX
LOUISE IN PARIS
Although fairly launched in fashionable society, although he had become the object of the allurements of several women whose conquest was desired of all; despite the ogling of grisettes and the assignation proffered him by lorettes, ChÉrubin had not wholly forgotten the village of Gagny, and little Louise, with whom he had passed his earliest years.
He often spoke of going to Gagny to see and embrace his dear Nicole; he had several times despatched Monsieur GÉrondif to bring him news of her, accompanying the commission with little gifts for the people of the village, and bidding him inquire concerning Louise’s position and prospects. The tutor always half performed his errand: he went to Gagny, delivered the presents, devoured with his eyes young Louise, who improved every day, then returned and told his pupil that his former playmate was still in Bretagne, where she was so happy that she did not intend ever to return to Nicole.
But on the day preceding his visit to the Cirque with DarÉna, ChÉrubin had once more spoken about going to Gagny, and he had stated positively, in Monsieur GÉrondif’s presence, that he should not allow the week to pass without going to see and embrace his old nurse.
At that the tutor was greatly disturbed.
“If monsieur le marquis goes to Gagny,” he said to himself, “he will find young Louise there, and consequently he will see that I have lied to him. He is quite capable of discharging me; for, notwithstanding his usual mildness of manner, there are times when he is extremely quick to take fire. I am not at all anxious to lose a place worth fifteen hundred francs, in a fine house where I am boarded, lodged and coddled; where my duties are confined to sleeping, eating and reciting poetry to the mammoth Turlurette. Moreover, if my pupil sees young Louise again, it is probable that his love for her will revive; and that would interfere with my plans, for that girl has kindled a conflagration in my insides. My designs are honorable, I propose to make her my wife, to raise her to the honor of my name. But, in order to marry, I must obtain some advance in my pay. If I stay with the marquis two years longer, I can save money, for I can put aside almost all that I earn; the only thing is to put little Louise in a safe place, so that she can’t be whisked away from me.”
Monsieur GÉrondif mused upon this subject all day, and in the evening he went to pursue his meditations in the company of the kindhearted Turlurette, who fed him on brandied fruits which she prepared to perfection; and while the professor was smacking his lips over his third plum, old Jasmin, who became less active every day, but was sorely aggrieved because his master had hired a young groom, entered the housekeeper’s room and said to her:
“Do you happen to know a lady’s maid who is out of a place?”
“Why do you ask, Monsieur Jasmin?” queried Mademoiselle Turlurette.
“Because not long ago I was waiting for my master at some reception.—He always forbids me to do it, but that day his little groom was sick, and I seized the opportunity to drive his cabriolet in the evening. In fact, I ran into two booths; some people won’t get out of the way.”
“Well, Monsieur Jasmin?”
“Well, I was talking in the antechamber with the servants who happened to be there—and we had time enough to talk; people stay so late at these parties nowadays! To cut it short, one of them says to me: ‘We’re looking for a lady’s maid for mademoiselle. Her mother’s gone to the country for a while; monsieur insisted on keeping his daughter at home with him; and just at that moment they had to dismiss the lady’s maid, because she talked too much with a floor-washer. As monsieur is very strict, it didn’t take long; but we are looking for another maid.’—At that I proposed a person I know, who’s as intelligent as can be; but when I told them that she was sixty years old, they informed me that it wasn’t worth while to send her. It’s surprising the way people act nowadays; they want children to wait on them.”
“I don’t know anybody who wants a place,” Mademoiselle Turlurette replied.
Monsieur GÉrondif, who had not lost a word of what Jasmin said, interposed at this point, with an affectation of indifference.
“Who were the people who wanted a lady’s maid? I might be able to oblige some acquaintance of mine in Paris by offering her the place; but before I do anything about it, you will understand that I want to be sure that it’s with respectable people.”
“Oh! as to that, you needn’t be at all afraid, Monsieur GÉrondif,” replied Jasmin. “It’s in the most honorable family you can imagine. Monsieur de Noirmont, an ex-magistrate, a man who never laughs, and who wouldn’t wrong a bird. He was a friend of the late Monsieur de Grandvilain, our marquis’s father.”
“What does the family consist of?”
“Monsieur de Noirmont, his wife, their daughter, who is fifteen years old, a cook, monsieur’s servant, and the maid they are looking for.”
“Is the man-servant young?”
“Yes, he’s the one I talked with. He’s only fifty-six, but he seems to be a very sensible fellow.”
Monsieur GÉrondif smiled as he inquired:
“Do they receive much company, give balls? Are they the sort of people who pass their life in varietate voluptas?”
“Never a ball, and no volupÉtas, as you call them. The lady doesn’t care for society, and Monsieur de Noirmont passes his life in his library. So our young marquis doesn’t care to go to the house, although he has been invited.”
“Ah! he has been invited there, has he?”
“Yes; but I’ve often heard him say when he’s dressing in the morning: ‘I’ve no desire to go to that house; it must be horribly dull there.’”
“Are you sure that Monsieur ChÉrubin said that?”
“Yes; and I’ve heard Monsieur de MonfrÉville answer: ‘You are very wise; it’s a house which has little to offer that is attractive to a man of your age.’”
Monsieur GÉrondif rubbed his hands and asked no more questions. The next day, after procuring Monsieur de Noirmont’s address, he went to his house, asked to speak to his servant, introduced himself as coming from old Jasmin and as having to suggest a lady’s maid for Mademoiselle de Noirmont.
Jasmin was the Nestor of servants; his recommendation was most influential, and that of so serious-minded a man as Monsieur GÉrondif seemed to be could only confirm the favorable opinion which was sure to be entertained of Jasmin’s protÉgÉe.
The young servant of fifty-six informed the tutor that madame was absent, and that, as monsieur never interfered in any domestic details, the choice of another lady’s maid was left to him; that he was perfectly content to accept the one whom the venerable Monsieur Jasmin was kind enough to send, and that his only wish was that she should arrive as soon as possible.
Sure of success in that direction, Monsieur GÉrondif thanked the servant, promised to bring the girl soon, and set out at once for Gagny and Nicole’s house.
The tutor’s presence always brought joy to the humble abode of the villagers; for he brought news of Paris, and with him they talked constantly of ChÉrubin.
After answering the questions of Nicole and Louise, who inquired first of all for the health of the object of their affections, Monsieur GÉrondif turned to the girl and said:
“My child, it is principally on your account that I have come to Gagny, for I am thinking about your future, your lot in life. You are seventeen years of age, you are tall, and well-developed physically as well as mentally; I mean by that that you have intelligence beyond your years; and you have profited by being present at the lessons which I gave to my pupil; you read and write very fairly and speak quite correctly. Moreover, you handle the needle with facility, and you seem to be apt at all the tasks suited to your sex; isn’t that so, MÈre Nicole?”
“Why, yes, it’s all true,” replied the good woman, staring at the visitor. “What scheme have you got in your head for our Louise; do you mean to make a duchess of her too?”
“No, not exactly; but I tell you again, I mean to assure her future. What would it be if she remained in this village? She has no relations, no fortune; so she must think herself very lucky if some uneducated country clown should want to marry her.”
“Oh! never! never!” cried Louise; “I won’t marry!”
“Bless my soul, my dear child,” said Nicole, “you know very well that nobody’ll force you to, and that I’ll never turn you out of our house.”
“That is all very well,” rejoined GÉrondif. “But if Louise should find a good place in Paris, in a respectable family, where she could lay by a little money, and then find a good match, it seems to me that that would be worth thinking about.”
“In Paris!” cried Louise, with a joyful exclamation; “go to Paris! Oh! what bliss! how glad I should be! Oh! yes, yes! you’ll let me go, won’t you, mother?”
“What, my child, do you want to leave me too?” said Nicole sadly.
But Louise kissed her again and again, crying:
“Why, just think that he is in Paris! If I live in the same city with him, it seems to me that I may see him, meet him sometimes; and that thought is the only thing that makes me want to go to Paris. Isn’t it true, Monsieur GÉrondif, that people are sure to meet when they live in the same place, and that I should see him sometimes if I was in Paris?”
“See him? whom?”
“Why ChÉrubin—monsieur le marquis. Whom do you suppose I am talking about, if not him?”
The tutor realized that the hope of seeing ChÉrubin was the sole reason that led the girl to welcome his suggestion so joyously, and he was careful not to undeceive her.
“Certainly,” he replied, “when two people live in the same place, there is much more probability of their meeting than when one is at the north and the other at the south—or, if you prefer, when one is per fas and the other nefas.—Well, my interesting young friend Louise, I have found what I wanted to find for you; the place of lady’s maid is offered you in a first-rate family; and when I say ‘lady’s maid,’ it’s as if I said ‘companion;’ and when I say ‘companion,’ it’s as if I said ‘friend,’ to a young lady of fifteen who is said to be as amiable as she is kindhearted. You will assist her to dress, and she will not assist you; but we see that every day between friends: there’s one who does everything, while the other one strolls about. Lastly, you will be well dressed; the friend who strolls generally gives the gowns and fichus that she doesn’t want to the friend who dresses her. And then you will earn money, which is never a bad thing to have; for with money—silver—you get gold, which is the purest of metals, when there’s no alloy in it.—Well! what do you think of my proposition? tell me.”
“Oh! I ask nothing better—if my adopted mother consents!”
“Dear me! my child,” said Nicole, “if it will make you so happy to go to Paris, I won’t stand in your way; besides, I don’t think that Monsieur GÉrondif, who’s been the village schoolmaster, could propose anything that wasn’t for your good.”
“You are as wise as Æsop, Dame Nicole, although you are not hunchbacked! My only desire is to assure a happy lot for this puella formosa,—and the future will prove it.”
“And—Monsieur ChÉrubin?” ventured Louise, who no longer dared to say “ChÉrubin” simply, when she spoke of the young man she loved; “does he know of this plan that you propose to me? does he want me to go to Paris?”
Monsieur GÉrondif scratched his nose a moment, then replied with assurance:
“Does he know it? why, of course he does; and he is very anxious that my offer should please you.”
“Oh! in that case, there must be no hesitation; must there, dear mother?—I accept, monsieur; I will start whenever you choose; I am ready.”
“Then we will start at once.”
“What!” cried Nicole, “do you mean to say you’re going to take the dear child right away like this?”
“I must, Dame Frimousset; the place I have secured for her is wanted by a great many people; if we delay, it may be given to somebody else. We are not flooded with good places in Paris, so that I must introduce her and have her engaged to-day.”
“Oh, yes! let me go, mother! I know that it will make you unhappy not to have me with you, and it makes me unhappy too to leave you. But, on the other hand, I am so glad to be near—Monsieur ChÉrubin. Besides, he wants me to come to Paris, and we mustn’t vex him. But I will come to see you; oh! I won’t do as he did, I shall never forget the village and those who have taken the place of my parents.”
Nicole embraced the girl lovingly, and said at last:
“Go, my child; I am not your mother; I haven’t any rights over you, and even if I had, I wouldn’t stand in the way of your future good. But do at least come to see me sometimes. She’ll be allowed to, won’t she, Monsieur GÉrondif?”
“Oh! certainly. She will enjoy a reasonable liberty, on condition that she doesn’t abuse it.—Come, sweet Louise, make a bundle of your belongings—only those that are most necessary. You needn’t carry your wooden shoes—you won’t wear that kind where you are going. Make haste; I will wait for you.”
Louise hastily made a bundle of her clothes; she was so surprised, so bewildered by what had happened to her, that it seemed to her that it must be a dream. Her heart leaped for joy at the thought of going to Paris. But the pleasures of the great city were not what she was thinking about, nor beautiful dresses, nor a less laborious life than she had led; in that journey she saw but one thing—that she was going to live in the same city with ChÉrubin.
While Louise was making her preparations for departure, Monsieur GÉrondif took the nurse aside and said to her in a grave and imposing tone:
“Now, virtuous Nicole, I must disclose a secret to you. My main purpose in taking Louise to Paris is to remove her from the seductions which it is proposed to employ in order to triumph over her virtue and pluck the flower of her innocence. In two words, here are the facts: your foster-child ChÉrubin has become a great libertine in Paris; he will not endure resistance. Not long ago he remembered Louise, the playmate of his boyhood, and he exclaimed: ‘She must be a charming girl by now! I am going to make her my mistress.’”
“Great God! is it possible?” cried Nicole, opening her eyes to their fullest extent. “My little ChÉrubin has got to be such a rake as that?”
“It’s as I have the honor to tell you. In Paris, with lots of money, a man soon learns to be what they call a lion, and lion means seducer.”
“ChÉrubin, a lion! And he used to be a perfect lamb!”
“I tell you there are no lambs in Paris now. To make a long story short, I thought that you wouldn’t lend a hand to the ruin of your adopted daughter, and that you would approve my putting the child beyond the reach of any attempt at seduction.”
“Oh! you did just right, monsieur le professor, and I approve of it.”
“Now, when ChÉrubin comes to see Louise, you must tell him that she’s been in Bretagne a long while, with a relation of yours, and that she’s very happy there.”
“All right, I’ll tell him that! Great God! ChÉrubin a rake! so that’s why he’s forgotten the village altogether!”
Louise soon had her parcel ready. She put on the little hat of coarse straw, which she sometimes wore to walk about the neighborhood, and beneath which, although it was not of fashionable shape, her face was as lovely as possible.
She threw herself into Nicole’s arms and whispered in her ear:
“When I see him, I’ll tell him that it’s very wicked of him not to come to see you!”
Nicole covered Louise with kisses.
“If by any chance you should get sick of it, my child,” she said, “if you ain’t happy there, you know that there’s always a place for you here, and that we’ll be very happy if you conclude to come back.”
Monsieur GÉrondif speedily put an end to these farewells by taking the girl’s arm. Jacquinot was at the wine-shop as usual. Louise cast a last glance at her adopted mother and went away with Monsieur GÉrondif, who had incurred the expense of a cab by the hour, in order to take the girl to Paris more quickly.
On the way he said to her:
“I must give you some preliminary instructions, my lovely child, as to your behavior in the place you are to fill. In the first place, if they ask you what you know how to do, answer boldly: ‘everything!’”
“Everything! But that would not be true, monsieur, for I know how to do very few things.”
“You can learn the others; you are saturated with intelligence, therefore you will learn very rapidly; so that it’s the same as if you already knew. Do what I tell you—it is essential, to inspire confidence; in the world you must never act as if you were uncertain of yourself. Secondly, you must understand that you must not speak of the young Marquis ChÉrubin and say that you were brought up with him. The world is very unkind! people might think things; and you mustn’t trifle with your reputation.”
“What, monsieur? What could people think, pray? Is it wrong to love one’s foster-brother, then?”
“Foster-brother! foster-brother! as much as you please! I must make you understand me better: my noble pupil does not want it to be known now that he remained out at nurse until he was sixteen; that annoys him terribly. And then you must see that a marquis can’t be the friend of a—a—a lady’s maid; if you should talk about him, it might make him blush.”
“Blush!” cried Louise, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “What! monsieur le—ChÉrubin blush because of my friendship, my acquaintance? Oh! never fear, monsieur; I shall never speak of him, I shall never mention his name.”
“That is very well, O flavia!—No, you are not a blonde.—Come, come! don’t weep any more about that; what I say doesn’t prevent the marquis from still being interested in you, and myself as well. I will say no more now, young Louise, but be virtuous and prudent; do not joke with the young men; if anyone should presume to take any equivocal liberty with you, scratch the insolent knave’s face; for you must keep yourself free from stain, like the Paschal Lamb, until—But, mum’s the word! I will go no farther now.”
Louise had ceased to listen; she was thinking of ChÉrubin, who was ashamed of knowing her; and that idea destroyed all the pleasure she had enjoyed in the fact of going to Paris.
Meanwhile, the cab had entered the city; Monsieur GÉrondif told the driver to take them to Faubourg Saint-HonorÉ, whereupon Louise exclaimed:
“Is it near Monsieur ChÉrubin’s house?”
“Not very far, my child; in fact there are no distances in Paris now; the six-sou carriages take you to all quarters of the city, and you don’t even need to know the way, which is very convenient for strangers.”
The carriage stopped in front of a handsome house which Monsieur GÉrondif pointed out to the driver, very near Rue de la Concorde. The tutor helped Louise to alight and carried his gallantry so far as to offer to carry her bundle.
“Follow me,” he said; “it’s in this house, on the second floor; a magnificent apartment; they’re very swell people. See how this staircase is polished! It doesn’t look much like our village hovels, which are floored with mud.”
As he spoke, the professor slipped down two stairs and nearly broke his neck on the waxed staircase; perhaps it was a punishment from on high for his ingratitude to the village. But he clung to the rail, muttering: “Ne quid nimis! They put on too much wax.”
Louise followed Monsieur GÉrondif; she was slightly tremulous and covered with confusion at the thought that she was about to appear before people whom she did not know, and that she must remain alone amid those surroundings which were so strange to her. She heaved a profound sigh and invoked the memory of ChÉrubin to sustain her courage.
It was Comtois—that was the name of Monsieur de Noirmont’s servant—who received Monsieur GÉrondif when he introduced his protÉgÉe. Louise’s aspect could not fail to prepossess everybody in her favor, and the valet smiled with satisfaction as he said:
“Ah! mademoiselle seems to have every quality likely to give pleasure here: a gentle, unaffected manner. I am sure that she will please our young Mademoiselle Ernestine, who has said to me several times: ‘Above all things, Comtois, I want a young lady’s maid, because if I have an old one, I shall not dare to give her any orders, or to laugh in her presence!’—Mademoiselle is a very merry young person; a little quick-tempered, a little whimsical; but that is perfectly natural at her age, and she isn’t the least bit unkind with it all. When she loses her temper, she asks our pardon; that isn’t common with masters, I tell you!”
“This servant is very talkative!” thought Monsieur GÉrondif, as he blew his nose.
Comtois, after looking at Louise again with a satisfied air, continued:
“I will present mademoiselle at once.—By the way, what is your name?”
“Louise, monsieur,” replied the girl timidly.
“Louise—very good; that is your Christian name. And your family name? sometimes one is very glad to know that.”
The girl blushed and lowered her eyes, without replying; but Monsieur GÉrondif made haste to say:
“Louise Frimousset; Frimousset is the name of this young woman’s parents.”
Louise glanced at the tutor; but he had assumed a solemn air, which seemed to indicate that it would not be proper to contradict him, and that it was only after mature reflection that he had replied; so the girl said nothing.
“Frimou—Frimousse—Friquet,” said Comtois. “That’s a queer name; however, I only asked so that I might know it; for you understand of course that mademoiselle will always be called by her baptismal name here. As I was saying, I am going to present you now. If madame was here, I should naturally take you to her first; but madame has been absent a fortnight; she has gone to see an aunt of hers, who’s sick. She wanted to take her daughter, but monsieur insisted on keeping Mademoiselle Ernestine with him; for, although he looks very stern, monsieur is very fond of her—he never refuses her anything; and sometimes I’ve even known him to be angry with madame, because he claimed that she spoke to mademoiselle too sharply, and that she didn’t love her. But, to be just, I must say that monsieur is mistaken; I am sure that madame’s very fond of her daughter. However, it’s true that sometimes she hardly speaks to her, she responds coldly to her caresses; but we all have days when we’re in ill humor, more or less.”
Monsieur GÉrondif blew his nose at great length, saying to himself:
“Is this never going to finish?—My worthy man,” he said to Comtois, “excuse me if I interrupt you; but it seems to me that it is not necessary for me to be present at the introduction of our young Louise, as you tell me that the business is settled. So I will take my leave, urging you to watch over this child, as if she were your niece.”
“Never fear, monsieur; mademoiselle is in a good family; I am quite sure that she won’t be unhappy here.”
“Adieu then, Louise, adieu! I shall come to inquire for you, to learn how you are getting on; in short, I shan’t lose sight of you; you will always be my guiding star, my object, my—my polygon!”
The girl offered her hand to Monsieur GÉrondif, who seemed inclined to kiss her, and said in an undertone:
“You will tell him that I am in Paris; won’t you, monsieur? that I didn’t hesitate to come, as he wished it, but that it makes me very depressed not to see him, and that my only desire——”
“I shall say all that it is my duty to say,” replied the tutor, showing his teeth, although he had no desire to smile. Then, turning quickly on his heel, he saluted Comtois and went out.
The valet escorted him to the door, and Monsieur GÉrondif said in his ear:
“This girl is very pretty, and the men in Paris are terribly licentious. I need not urge you to watch over her innocence and not allow her to converse with floor-washers.”
“Monsieur,” Comtois replied rather stiffly, “none but respectable people are received in this house, and no young girl will ever be ruined here. If the last lady’s maid was a giddy creature, it wasn’t our fault; and at all events she was discharged at once, as well as the floor-washer.”
“Your reply scatters all the clouds which might have obscured my firmament. Adieu, excellent Comtois, I repeat my assurances of esteem.”
Monsieur GÉrondif took his leave, and Comtois returned to Louise, who was standing, lost in thought, in the hall; he motioned to her to follow him, led her through a salon, then opened the door of another room, and said, standing in the doorway:
“Mademoiselle, this is the lady’s maid I was expecting; she has just arrived.”
A voice replied at once from within the room:
“Oh! let her come in, show her in at once! I am waiting so impatiently for her!”
Comtois let Louise pass him; she stepped forward, trembling and afraid to raise her eyes; but she soon felt reassured when young Ernestine exclaimed:
“Oh! how pretty she is! I like her very much!—Come, mademoiselle; don’t be afraid of me; I am not a bit terrible, am I, Comtois? I am not stern, like mamma! But, for all that, mamma’s very kind, and papa too.—What is your name?”
“Louise, mademoiselle.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, mademoiselle.”
“Seventeen! Why, how tall you are! and so strong! I am fifteen—I am rather small for fifteen, am I not?”
Louise could not help smiling; and as she looked at her who was to be her mistress, she felt a thrill of joy at the aspect of that dainty creature, so like a child, whose sparkling blue eyes were fixed on hers with a kindly expression that instantly dissipated the terror that she had felt on entering.
“Am I not very small for fifteen?” repeated Ernestine, after Louise had looked at her.
“You still have plenty of time to grow, mademoiselle.”
“Oh, yes! that is my only consolation. Have you been in service in Paris before?”
“No, mademoiselle, I am just from my village; I have never been in service anywhere, and I have no doubt that I shall be very awkward at first; but I promise to pay close attention to whatever you tell me, so that I may learn quickly and be able to satisfy you sooner.”
Young Ernestine began to leap and dance about the room; she seized Louise’s hand and pressed it, crying:
“Oh! I like to hear you talk like that! I feel that I shall love you dearly; indeed I love you already. I either like a person instantly, or never! You will like me too, won’t you?”
“That cannot be very difficult, mademoiselle, you seem so kind and sweet!”
“Ah! I am very happy, Comtois. But has Louise brought her bundle, all her clothes? Can she stay here now?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Louise, “I have brought all my clothes and I can stay with you now, if you care to keep me.”
“Certainly; I don’t mean to let you go.—Comtois, see that her chamber is prepared—the little one behind mine, you know. Be sure that she has everything that she wants or needs.”
“Never fear, mademoiselle.”
“At all events, I will go myself to see if everything is all right.—You see,” continued Ernestine with comical gravity, “during mamma’s absence I have to look out for everything and take her place here.—Go, Comtois, and take Louise’s things to her room; meanwhile I will take her to my father. Is he in his study?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Come, Louise, don’t be afraid; he has rather a stern manner, but he isn’t unkind.”
“Suppose that monsieur your father should not like me?” murmured Louise timidly; “suppose he should think me too young to be in your service, mademoiselle?”
“Oh! don’t worry about that; as soon as I tell him that you suit me, father won’t think of sending you away.”
Ernestine led the way through her mother’s bedroom, then through another smaller room, and knocked at a door, saying:
“It’s I, papa.”
And Monsieur de Noirmont’s sharp voice replied:
“Well! what is it now?”
The pretty minx opened the door of her father’s study, passed her head only through the opening, and said:
“Are you busy? I have come to introduce someone.”
“Who is it?”
“A new lady’s maid who has been engaged for me, and who has just arrived.”
“The idea of disturbing me for a lady’s maid! What have I to do with such matters? Really, Ernestine, you wear out my patience.”
“Oh! don’t be cross with me, papa! But as mamma is away, you must see my new maid; I can’t manage the house all alone!”
“Well! bring her in,” rejoined Monsieur de Noirmont in a gentler tone; “where is she? let us have it over.”
Ernestine led Louise into the room; the girl cast down her eyes, and felt that she was trembling, for Monsieur de Noirmont’s voice was far from being as sweet as his daughter’s.
After scrutinizing for some time the village maid who stood before him, Monsieur de Noirmont asked her:
“How old are you?”
Before Louise could reply, little Ernestine exclaimed:
“She is seventeen; isn’t she very tall for her age, papa? and isn’t she lovely? I like her so much! Her name is Louise; she has never been in service, but I am glad of that, because I can train her according to my ideas.”
Monsieur de Noirmont with difficulty restrained a smile, provoked by his daughter’s speech.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that this girl is too much of a child to be in your service.”
“Why so, papa? On the contrary, see how sensible she is! Besides, I tell you that I will train her, and Comtois has had only the best reports of her.”
“All right, if she suits you.—What part of the country do you come from?”
“From Gagny, monsieur,” replied Louise tremulously.
“Gagny? Why, that is very near Paris. Your parents are laboring people, no doubt?”
“Yes—yes, monsieur,” faltered Louise, in an almost unintelligible voice.
“And instead of keeping their daughter at home, they send her out to service in Paris!—However, it seems to be the custom in the country! and still people extol the morals of the rural districts! But you seem modest and respectable, my girl, and I am glad to believe that your conduct will not belie the promise of your face. Besides, I know Comtois, and I rely upon his prudence. Go, go!”
Monsieur de Noirmont motioned to them to leave him; but his daughter ran to him and kissed him; then she hastened from the room with Louise, and closed the door, saying:
“That’s over; I was sure that it would come out all right.”
Young Ernestine next took Louise to a pretty little room which was to be her own. The sweet child made sure that her new maid was provided with everything that she needed, and displayed so much interest in her that Louise, who was deeply touched, thanked heaven for bringing her to that house.
The first day was employed by Ernestine in giving instructions to Louise, and she, not knowing how to lie, frankly confessed to her young mistress that she was entirely ignorant of the duties of her position, and that she must beg her to be as indulgent as possible. Ernestine repeated emphatically that she would have no difficulty in training her and that she need not worry.
In Monsieur de Noirmont’s family, the valet ordinarily waited at table, unless there were many guests at dinner; so that the duties of the lady’s maid were limited to waiting on the two ladies, assisting them to dress, and working almost all the time for them, or at some household work.
Louise could sew very well; she was active and clever, and she very soon learned what was expected of her; moreover, Ernestine taught her to embroider, to make tapestry, and to do innumerable little things that women do; things which are unknown in villages, but which it is essential to know in Paris.
Louise made rapid progress, and Ernestine said to her father:
“Oh! if you knew how much I like my maid!”
“Is she so very clever?” inquired Monsieur de Noirmont.
“Clever—yes; but she knew nothing at all; I have shown her everything.”
“What do you say? that girl knew nothing?”
“What difference does it make? When I show her anything, in two days she does it better than I do. Oh! I am sure that mamma will congratulate me for engaging her.”
Louise’s modest and serious manner eventually won Monsieur de Noirmont’s good-will as well as his daughter’s, and he spoke to her less coldly. Comtois was delighted with his new fellow-servant, and the cook was never tired of extolling her extreme sweetness of temper. As for Ernestine, although she sometimes lost her patience and cried out, when her maid was awkward about dressing her, the next moment she would run to her and kiss her, and beg her not to be offended by her quick temper. In fact, each day that passed increased her affection for Louise, and the latter would have been happy in her new position, had not the thought of ChÉrubin constantly filled her mind. But she was beginning to lose all hope of seeing him in Paris, for she very rarely left the house, and only to do errands for her young mistress in the shops nearby.
Louise had been in Ernestine’s service three weeks, when her mistress said to her one morning:
“Mamma is coming home at last! Papa has just told me that she will be here in three days. I am awfully glad, for she has been away nearly six weeks, and I long to see her. Oh! what joy! Then I shall have everything I want. And mamma will like you too; I am sure that she will be as pleased with you as I am.”
Louise made no reply, but she felt deeply moved; she could not understand her own perturbation when she learned that she was to see Madame de Noirmont.
XXI
THE FIRST RENDEZVOUS.—THE PERFUMERY
ChÉrubin followed DarÉna’s advice; he wrote a very amorous, but very timid, note for the young woman he had seen at the play. On the following day DarÉna called upon his friend in good season and found him finishing his lovelorn espistle.
“Are you writing to the lovely foreigner?” asked DarÉna, dropping into an easy-chair.
“Yes, my dear fellow, I have just finished my letter, which you have promised to forward to its destination.”
“Parbleu! cannot one do anything with money? Do not all obstacles vanish before it? Valets, maid-servants can be bribed, duennas and concierges corrupted. I will spend money in profusion.”
As he spoke, the count slapped his pockets, then exclaimed:
“But in order to spend it, I must have it, and I find that my pockets are empty.”
ChÉrubin went to his desk and took out several rouleaux of gold pieces, which he handed to DarÉna, saying:
“Take this, my dear fellow, take this; don’t spare it. Reward generously all who help to forward my love.”
“You do not need to give me that injunction; I will play the magnificent, the Buckingham! After all, you are rich, and if you did not use your fortune to gratify your wishes, really it wouldn’t be worth while to have it. Is your note very ardent?”
“Why, I think that it is very honorable——”
“Honorable! that’s not what we want, my dear friend.—Come, read me what you have written, and let me see if it’s all right.”
ChÉrubin took up the letter and read:
“‘I ask your pardon, madame, for the liberty that I take in writing you, but——’”
DarÉna’s roar of laughter interrupted ChÉrubin, who inquired:
“What are you laughing at? Isn’t it all right?”
“Ha! ha! ha! Your innocence is enchanting; one would think that it was a letter from a boy to his aunt on her birthday. Let’s hear the rest.”
ChÉrubin continued:
“‘But I should deem myself most fortunate if I might have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. My family is well known, I am received in the best society, and——’”
“Enough! enough!” cried DarÉna, rising. “That won’t do, my dear fellow; you are on the wrong track!”
“Do you think that my letter is too bold?”
“On the contrary, it isn’t bold enough! She would laugh at you when she read it.”
“Remember that this is the first time I ever wrote a billet-doux, and I don’t know how they are usually expressed.”
“Take your pen again and write what I dictate.”
“All right, I prefer that.”
ChÉrubin seated himself at his desk again and DarÉna dictated:
“O woman more than adored! I burn, I wither, I languish! Your eyes are the flame, your smile the brazier, my heart the conflagration! You have set fire to my whole being. A word of love, of hope, or I will not answer for the consequences—I will kill myself at your feet, before your eyes, in your arms! Derision! damnation! if you do not answer!”
ChÉrubin ceased to write.
“Great heaven, my dear count!” he exclaimed; “why, that is horrible!”
“It is what you need.”
“And then, I must admit that I don’t clearly understand the letter.”
“If you understood it, the charm would be destroyed.”
“Why not write simply, as one speaks?”
“Because three-fourths of the women, who are impervious to seduction by what is simple and natural, are delighted when a man seems to have lost his head for love of them. Trust me; this note will deliver the heart of the lovely Pole into your keeping. Sign that and give it to me.”
ChÉrubin did as he was told.
“By the way,” said DarÉna, as he took the letter, “don’t mention this intrigue to your Monsieur de MonfrÉville.”
“Why not?”
“In the first place, because an intrigue with such distinguished persons as these Poles requires to be conducted with the utmost secrecy. MonfrÉville is very inquisitive and very talkative; he would want to see the lovely foreigner and that would spoil everything.”
“But you are very much mistaken; Monsieur de MonfrÉville is neither inquisitive nor talkative; on the contrary, he is a most sensible man, and he gives me excellent advice.”
DarÉna bit his lips, seeing that it was useless for him to try to destroy ChÉrubin’s good opinion of MonfrÉville.
“MonfrÉville, sensible, virtuous!” he retorted in a sarcastic tone. “At all events, he hasn’t always been; I remember a time when he was the greatest ne’er-do-well; nothing was talked about but his conquests. To be sure, it was fifteen or eighteen years ago. When the devil grows old, he turns hermit. For my part, I am not changed, at all events; as I always have been, so I propose to remain; I prefer that. However, my dear fellow, I tell you again that, if I consent to act for you in your love-affair with the young Pole, I do it solely on account of my friendship for you; but you understand that the slightest indiscretion would compromise me. I demand secrecy, or I will have nothing to do with it.”
ChÉrubin swore that he would not mention his new conquest to a soul, and DarÉna left him, promising to return as soon as he should have anything to tell him.
DarÉna had hardly left his young friend, when Jasmin entered his master’s presence. The old servant’s manner was important and mysterious, and at the same time showed much satisfaction with the errand he had to perform. He tried to walk on tiptoe, as if he was afraid of being overheard; he went close to his master, nearly falling upon him because he lost his balance trying to lean over him, and said, with an expression at once serious and comical:
“There’s a woman here, monsieur, who wishes to speak to us—that is to say, to you—if you are alone.”
ChÉrubin could not help laughing at his old servant’s expression and at the malicious meaning which he tried to impart to his message.
“Who is the woman, Jasmin? Do you know her?”
“Yes, monsieur, I recognized her from having seen her in her mistress’s antechamber; you go to the house sometimes.”
“What do you say?”
“Why, yes, she’s a lady’s maid. Oh! she doesn’t come on her own account, it’s her mistress who sends her—I know all about it. Many of them used to come to see monsieur le marquis, your father, before he was married. There was sometimes a line waiting in our little salon. Ha! ha! I used to toy with all the maids.”
“Well, from whom does this one come?”
“Didn’t I tell monsieur? From Madame de Valdieri.”
“The pretty countess! Show her in at once, Jasmin.”
ChÉrubin was very curious to know what Madame de Valdieri could possibly want of him. Jasmin went to call the maid, a tall, stoutly-built girl of some twenty years, with red cheeks and rather an attractive face, who seemed not at all abashed at calling at a gentleman’s apartments. After ushering her into his master’s room, the old servant, imagining doubtless that he had gone back to the time when they used to stand in line at ChÉrubin’s father’s door, essayed, as he left the room, to put his arms about the waist of the pretty lady’s maid; but his foot slipped, and, to avoid falling, he was obliged to cling tightly to her, whom he had intended simply to caress; luckily the girl was firm on her legs, and able to sustain the weight of the old fellow, and she merely laughed in his face as he slunk from the room in dire confusion.
As soon as Jasmin had gone, the maid took from the pocket of her apron a tiny scented note, which she handed to the young marquis, saying:
“Madame told me to hand this to monsieur, and to request an immediate answer.”
ChÉrubin quivered with pleasure as he took the note, and while the maid discreetly stepped back, he eagerly read the pretty countess’s missive, which contained these words:
“You are not agreeable; I have not seen you for several days. To make your peace with me, will you give me a moment this morning, and tell me your opinion of some verses which have been sent to me? I shall expect you at one o’clock.”
ChÉrubin was beside himself with joy; he read that pleasant epistle once more, then said to the maid:
“I accept your mistress’s invitation with great pleasure, mademoiselle; I will be with her at one o’clock; I shall not fail.”
“Then monsieur will not write his answer?” asked the maid.
ChÉrubin hesitated; he walked toward his desk, realizing that it would be better policy perhaps to seize the opportunity to write something agreeable to his charming friend; but he remembered that DarÉna had just told him that he did not know how to write a love letter. Fearing that he might make some blunder, he tossed his pen aside, crying:
“No, I think not; I haven’t time to write. Besides, I have too many things to say to your mistress; I should not know where to begin; simply assure her that I will not keep her waiting.”
The maid smiled, made a pretty little curtsy, and seemed to be waiting for the young man to slip something into her pocket and take on her cheek an earnest of what he was to take from her mistress. But, finding that he did nothing of the sort, she shrugged her shoulders imperceptibly and left the room, taking pains, as she passed through the reception room, not to approach the old servant, who seemed inclined to try again to pull her over.
“The servant is terribly old,” she said to herself, “but the master is very young!”
ChÉrubin was in an ecstasy of delight. Madame de Valdieri’s note had caused him to forget the Polish lady altogether. At nineteen years it is common enough to think of present happiness only; the new love expels the old; it is not always necessary to be nineteen years old in order to experience that phenomenon; but can all these sentiments which are constantly replacing one another properly be called love?
ChÉrubin glanced at his clock; it was half after eleven; he was not to be at Madame de Valdieri’s until one, but he proposed to make an extremely careful toilet. He rang for Jasmin, he rang for his other servant, he ordered several suits to be brought, and could not determine which one to wear. He had his hair dressed, crimped and curled, rising constantly to look in a mirror. He told his old servant to perfume his handkerchief, upon which Jasmin emptied several phials, smiling cunningly, and murmuring: “What did I say? Our bonnes fortunes are about to begin. We are going to have some sport now! We are quite good-looking enough for that.”
As he dressed, ChÉrubin thought of the pretty woman with whom he was soon to be alone for the first time; he was not very composed in mind, for he was wondering what he should say to her. He was well pleased to have the assignation, but he regretted that MonfrÉville was not there to tell him how one should behave with a lady of the most fashionable set, who invites one to read poetry to her.
It was too late for him to consult MonfrÉville; the appointed hour was drawing nigh. ChÉrubin completed his toilet, but did not notice that Jasmin had saturated him with perfumery: his coat was scented with essence of rose, his waistcoat with patchouli, his handkerchief with Portugal water; and, in addition, all his other garments smelt of musk. He looked himself over, concluded that he was becomingly arrayed, stepped into his tilbury, and soon reached the countess’s abode.
He was admitted by the same maid, and instead of taking him to the salon, she led him through several secret passages to a delicious boudoir, where the light was so soft and mysterious that one could scarcely see. However, after a few seconds, ChÉrubin’s eyes became accustomed to that doubtful light, and he spied the pretty countess half-reclining on a couch at the back of a little curtained recess, which seemed intended to perform the functions of an alcove.
ChÉrubin made a low bow and said:
“I beg pardon, madame, but I did not see you at first, it is so dark here.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined the fair Emma affectedly. “I don’t like broad daylight, it tires my eyes.—It is very kind of you, Monsieur ChÉrubin, to consent to sacrifice a few moments to me—you are in such great demand everywhere!”
“It is a great pleasure to me, madame, and I—I—really I cannot promise to read poetry very well. I am not much used to it.”
The countess smiled and motioned him to a seat beside her. ChÉrubin was exceedingly perturbed in spirit as he entered the delicious little recess and seated himself on the couch, which was not very broad, so that he was necessarily very close to the other person upon it.
There was a moment’s silence. Emma, flattered by ChÉrubin’s evident emotion and embarrassment in her presence, decided to begin the conversation, which she was not accustomed to do.
“How do you like my boudoir?”
“Exceedingly pretty, madame; but it seems to me to be a little dark for reading poetry.”
The little lady arched her eyebrows slightly and rejoined:
“Do you like Madame CÉlival’s boudoir better?”
“Madame CÉlival’s boudoir? Why, I have never been in it, madame; I don’t know what it is like.”
“Oh! what a fib!”
“I assure you, madame——”
“You are lying!—However, I cannot blame you; discretion is the first condition one should exact in love.”
“Discretion——”
“Oh! you play the innocent to perfection; but I am not taken in by that ingenuous air. Mon Dieu! there is such a strong smell of perfumery here—a mixture of scents. Have you essence of rose about you?”
“Rose? I don’t know; it is possible. Does it affect you unpleasantly?”
“My nerves are so sensitive! but it will pass away.”
The pretty countess lay back a moment, put her handkerchief to her face, and drew a long breath.
ChÉrubin looked at her, and dared not stir. There was another long pause; the young man would have liked to say a multitude of things, but, as he did not know how to express himself, he inquired at last:
“Is your husband well, madame?”
The pretty creature burst into laughter which seemed a little forced, and replied:
“Yes, monsieur, my husband is singing! So long as he is making music, that is all that he wants.—Mon Dieu! there’s a smell of patchouli here, too, and musk. Ah! it gives me a sort of vertigo!”
And whether as a result of the vertigo, or for some other reason, the young woman half-reclined against ChÉrubin, so that her face almost touched his, and he would have had to move very little nearer to kiss her; but, deeply moved to find that lovely mouth so near to him that he could almost feel her breath, he dared not move a muscle, and finally he faltered:
“Madame, I believe that I was to read poetry to you.”
The little countess abruptly raised her head and rested it on the back of the couch, as she replied with a touch of spite in her voice:
“Mon Dieu! what a memory you have, monsieur!—Well, take that album in front of you and read.”
ChÉrubin took up an album that lay on a chair, opened it and saw a medley of drawings, poems, portraits—everything, in short, that one finds in a woman’s album; and, after turning the leaves a moment, he glanced at the countess and asked timidly:
“What do you want me to read to you, madame?”
“Mon Dieu! whatever you choose, it makes no difference to me!”
ChÉrubin opened the album again, at random, and read:
“Fair countess, on this page,
You bid me pen some verse:
Quick your commands engage;
For you the universe
Would rhyme.—But clear to see
My lines good sense ignore.
How could it other be?
You’ve reft me of its store.”
“Oh! that is that absurd Monsieur Dalbonne!” murmured Madame de Valdieri, twisting about impatiently on the couch. “He is forever writing such nonsense; he adores all women.—Are you like that, Monsieur ChÉrubin?”
“I, madame!” ChÉrubin replied in confusion; “oh, no! I—I—But I continue:
“‘STORY OF A MOUSE.’”
“Ah! this is much longer.”
The fair Emma, who evidently did not care to hear the story of a mouse read at length, and who thought that ChÉrubin was making sport of her, determined to resort to violent measures; she fell back on the couch, murmuring:
“Oh! I can’t stand it any longer! these different scents set my nerves on edge; I am fainting!”
ChÉrubin uttered a cry of alarm, dropped the album, and gazed at the lovely blonde, who had chosen the most bewitching attitude that a coquette could devise in which to faint, and whose half-closed eyes wore an expression which did not indicate any very serious danger. But instead of admiring it all, ChÉrubin rose and ran about the room, looking for smelling-bottles and crying:
“Great God! you are losing consciousness, and I am the cause of it! I am so distressed. I will call for help.”
“No, no, monsieur, just unlace me!” murmured the countess, with a sigh.
“Unlace you! Why, I don’t know how; still, if you think——”
And ChÉrubin returned to the pretty creature, to do what she suggested; and she, seeing him lean over her, closed her eyes altogether, presuming that that would give him more courage and that he would succeed at last in behaving himself more becomingly; but, when he saw that the countess had closed her eyes entirely, ChÉrubin jumped back, ran to a bell cord and jerked it violently, and cried:
“She has fainted completely! what a bungler I am! As it’s this perfumery that I have about me that has caused Madame de Valdieri’s illness, of course she won’t recover consciousness so long as I am here.”
The maid appeared, vastly surprised to be summoned so suddenly. ChÉrubin pointed to her mistress stretched out on the couch, and said:
“Come quickly and attend to madame la comtesse. I am going away; the perfumery I have about me is what made her feel faint, so of course I must not stay with her. Pray tell her that I am terribly distressed at what has happened.”
And ChÉrubin took his hat and hastened from the boudoir, leaving the lady’s maid in utter amazement and the pretty little countess with her eyes wide open.
ChÉrubin returned home, cursing Jasmin for turning him into a perfumery booth. He found MonfrÉville waiting for him, and told him what had happened.
When the young marquis had concluded, MonfrÉville looked at him with a curious expression, and said:
“My dear fellow, I have always been perfectly frank with you, and I must tell you therefore that in this whole business you acted like an idiot.”
“An idiot!” cried ChÉrubin.
“Yes, like the most idiotic of idiots! When a young and pretty woman deigns to receive you alone in her boudoir, it is with the purpose of having you make love to her, not to read. The poetry was only a pretext.”
“Do you think so? Mon Dieu! I had that idea, too, but I dared not venture to think—But if she had not fainted——”
“Why, that was the time above all others when victory was in your grasp. What! a lovely woman tells you to unlace her, and you ring for her maid! Ah! my poor ChÉrubin, if this adventure becomes known, it will do you a deal of harm in society.”
“Great heaven! you distress me! But I didn’t know—However, I will repair my blunder; in the first place, the next time that I go to see the lovely Emma in her boudoir, I will have no perfumery at all; and then—oh! I will be very enterprising.”
“I trust that you may be able to set yourself right with the countess, but I doubt it.”
“Why so?”
“Because with women, especially coquettes, a lost opportunity never recurs. So I will bet that Madame de Valdieri won’t speak to you again and won’t make any more appointments with you.”
“Do you think so? But what if I ask her for one?”
“She will refuse it.”
“Oh! I can’t believe that! What! just because I was afraid of making her ill by staying with her?”
“Poor ChÉrubin! what a child you are still!—But I’ll tell you—let us go to Madame CÉlival’s to-night; the little countess is usually there, and if she is, you will find out at once whether I am right.”
ChÉrubin accepted this suggestion; he waited impatiently for the evening, for he was burning to see Madame de Valdieri again. He was convinced that MonfrÉville was mistaken, and he could not believe that he would be ill received because he had hurriedly left her when he discovered that perfumery was unpleasant to her.
The hour to go to the reception arrived. MonfrÉville called for his young friend, and they went together to Madame CÉlival’s. The salons were already filled with people, but the young countess was not there, and ChÉrubin, who was on the watch for her and hoped to see her whenever the door of the salon opened, was restless and preoccupied to a degree that did not escape Madame CÉlival. The sprightly widow declared war on him and tried to keep him by her side; but at last Madame de Valdieri appeared with her husband.
Never had the little countess been dressed with better taste, with more grace and coquetry; never had she worn a costume which set off her charms to greater advantage; one would have said that the fascinating Emma had sworn to make more conquests than ever that evening, in order to be revenged for her discomfiture during the day.
All the men vied with one another in extolling the charms of the new arrival. ChÉrubin did not say a word; but he could not tire of gazing at Emma, and he said to himself:
“And I was sitting beside her this morning—and we were alone in her boudoir—and her head was almost on my shoulder—and—Gad! I believe that MonfrÉville is right; I was a great fool.”
ChÉrubin waited until the countess had received the homage which men hasten to lay at a pretty woman’s feet. When Madame de Valdieri was no longer surrounded, he seized an opportunity to go to her, and said in an almost familiar tone:
“Well, madame, are you better this evening? Your indisposition had no serious results?”
The little countess bestowed a contemptuous glance on ChÉrubin, and answered in an ironical tone:
“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur!”
“You don’t know what I mean? Why, this morning——”
The countess rose, as if she did not choose to listen to ChÉrubin, and seated herself beside a lady with whom she speedily began a very lively conversation, judging from the frequent bursts of laughter with which it was interspersed.
The young man was speechless with amazement.
“What a tone! what an expression!” he said to himself as he took a seat in a corner. “One would think that she did not know me.”
MonfrÉville, who had taken his place at a card table, was not at hand to console his friend, and ChÉrubin had been sitting by himself for quite a long time, when a hand was laid gently on his shoulder, and a penetrating voice said, almost in his ear:
“What are you doing here? sulking? Madame de Valdieri doesn’t seem to treat you very well this evening.”
“Ah! is it you, madame?”
“Haven’t I guessed right, that you are at odds with the countess?”
“Oh! I assure you that you are mistaken; I am not sufficiently intimate with that lady to——”
“You are discreet—that is right, and it will be a recommendation with the ladies.”
“Well, well!” thought ChÉrubin, “they all seem to be agreed on that point; Madame CÉlival says almost the same thing that the countess said.”
The lovely widow seated herself for a moment by ChÉrubin’s side, and said in a very low tone:
“You must have done something very bad, to be treated so—to be looked at like that?”
“I, madame? Why, I give you my word that I have done nothing at all.”
“Bless me! how innocently he answers! One would take him for a little saint.”
“Well, she asked me if your boudoir was prettier than—than hers. I told her that I knew nothing about it, and she told me that I lied; but you know that I told the truth.”
“Ah! so she asked you if my boudoir was prettier, did she?” said Madame CÉlival in an irritated tone. “You admit then that you go to her boudoir? Ah! that little countess! But, on my word, I consider it very inquisitive of her to ask you if you had seen mine!—And you said no?”
“Why, I don’t see how I could have said yes, madame; that would have been a lie.”
“Great heaven! what an astonishing creature you are with your scruples! As if people never lied in society! Why, you must know that one is driven to it sometimes, that it is absolutely necessary. However, I propose that you shall make the acquaintance of my boudoir, so that you can answer that lady when she questions you again.—Come to breakfast with me to-morrow.”
“Oh! how kind you are, madame!”
“Will you come? will you be allowed?”
“Will I be allowed! Am I not my own master, pray?”
“Perhaps.—I shall expect you then to-morrow, at twelve o’clock; and we will breakfast in my boudoir; so that you may have plenty of time to make its acquaintance, and to tell madame la comtesse what you think of it.”
“Oh! I am willing to bet in advance that it is prettier than hers, and not so dark.”
Madame CÉlival smiled, placed her hand softly in ChÉrubin’s, and walked away, murmuring almost inaudibly:
“Until to-morrow!”
ChÉrubin, enchanted with his new assignation, incontinently forgot Madame de Valdieri’s disdain; he recovered his spirits and his assurance, sought out MonfrÉville, who was at the card-table, and whispered:
“I have another, my friend.”
“Another what?”
“Why, another appointment, in a boudoir, for to-morrow.”
“With the same person?”
“No, with Madame CÉlival.”
“You are a lucky dog! Pray try to carry it off better than before.”
“Oh! make your mind easy! I shan’t put on any perfumery at all this time.—Are you going to play much longer?”
“Yes, we are just beginning a game of whist; I shall play two rubbers at least.”
“I will leave you then; I am going home to bed.”
“I don’t see why you should be tired.”
“Madame de Valdieri keeps looking at me with that contemptuous expression; I prefer to go.”
So ChÉrubin disappeared from the salons and went home, thinking exclusively of Madame CÉlival, and engrossed by the appointment she had made with him for the next day.
XXII
THE PLUMS
One wakes early when one is in love and has an assignation with the object of one’s love. It is not absolutely certain that ChÉrubin loved Madame CÉlival; indeed, it is probable that he felt for all his conquests only those fleeting desires which all young men feel in the presence of a pretty woman; a form of disease with which we often continue to be afflicted when we have attained the age of maturity, and of which it is very pleasant to be unable to cure oneself as one grows old. But ChÉrubin was still too inexperienced to be able to draw distinctions in his sensations; he believed himself to be passionately in love with Madame CÉlival.
He was no sooner awake than he rang. Jasmin, despite his years, was always one of the first to answer his master’s bell; but ChÉrubin did not desire his services again to assist him to dress.
“You made a fine mess of it yesterday, Jasmin,” he said.
“What did I do, monsieur?” asked the old servant, dismayed by ChÉrubin’s irritated manner.
“Why, you drenched me with perfumery, Jasmin; you put it on all my clothes; I was a regular walking scent-bag.”
“Did not monsieur smell good?”
“Why, yes! I smelt too good—that is to say, too strong! In fact, I went to people’s heads. Nervous ladies can’t endure that sort of thing, and you are responsible for a lady’s fainting away. It was exceedingly unpleasant.”
Jasmin was in despair. To repair his blunder of the previous day, he suggested putting camphor in all his master’s pockets, because he had been told that that was very good for the nerves, and he supposed that it would cure the illnesses caused by perfumery. But ChÉrubin would not have it; he expressly forbade Jasmin to perfume him in any way, and he was obliged to lose his temper in order to deter his old servant from slipping lumps of camphor into his pockets.
When his toilet was completed, ChÉrubin assured himself that he did not smell of anything at all; and, while waiting for the hour at which he was to go to Madame CÉlival’s, he thought about the lovely widow and went over in his mind what he could say to her. The thing that worried him most was the breakfasting with her.
“When you breakfast with a lady you’re in love with,” he said to himself, “I wonder if you should eat, if you should satisfy your appetite? Mon Dieu! I forgot to ask MonfrÉville for instructions on that point. I’m afraid I shall make more stupid blunders.—But after all, what is it that I am always blamed for? For being too timid. If I don’t eat, I shall look like a fool; on the other hand, if I eat and drink freely, it will give me assurance and presumption. Yes, I certainly must eat.”
The breakfast hour arrived at last. ChÉrubin betook himself to Madame CÉlival’s; his heart throbbed violently as he followed the maid to the boudoir, but he said to himself:
“Well, I won’t be timid to-day, at all events, and I’ll eat a lot.”
The fair widow’s boudoir was a charming retreat, hung on all sides with violet velvet. A soft, thick carpet covered the floor, and the threefold curtains allowed very little light to enter.
“Evidently these ladies are very fond of the darkness,” thought ChÉrubin, as he entered the room; “but I am not to read poetry to-day, and I can see well enough to eat breakfast. And then, I understand—the darkness should make one bolder—that is the reason, no doubt, why these ladies expel the daylight from their rooms.”
Madame CÉlival was awaiting ChÉrubin; her dress was simple, but well adapted to display her good points to advantage: her lovely black hair fell in long curls on each side of her face, and the amaranthine bows that adorned the dainty little cap she wore gave even more animation to her eyes, which were full of fire.
The fascinating widow gave ChÉrubin such a pleasant welcome that any other than he would at once have felt at his ease. He did what he could to overcome his embarrassment, and the most judicious thing that he did was to stand in rapt contemplation of the charms of his hostess.
“Well, Monsieur ChÉrubin,” said Madame CÉlival, after a moment, “what do you think of my boudoir? not so pretty as the countess’s, I suppose?”
“Why, yes, madame, yes, I assure you, I like yours quite as well—in fact, I think it even prettier.”
“Oh! you say that to flatter me!”
“But they are equally dark.”
“A bright light makes my eyes ache; I detest it.”
“But, madame, you should not dread being seen; when one is so lovely——”
ChÉrubin dared not go on; he was tremendously surprised that he had said so much; but Madame CÉlival, to whom the compliment seemed quite natural, replied with a smile:
“Really! do you think me lovely? Oh! but it costs you men so little to say things that you don’t mean!”
And, as she spoke, Madame CÉlival leaned carelessly on the cushion of the violet velvet couch on which she was half-reclining, and her bosom rose and fell rapidly as she gazed at ChÉrubin, who was sitting on a chair by her side; he lowered his eyes, dared not look at her, and held his peace.
After a long pause, Madame CÉlival, finding that ChÉrubin did not speak, exclaimed:
“But I am forgetting our breakfast! Perhaps you are hungry?”
“Why yes, madame, I am very hungry,” ChÉrubin at once replied.
“And it seems that your appetite deprives you of the power of speech,” said Madame CÉlival with a smile. “Mon Dieu! why didn’t you remind me? I don’t want to see you fall dead from starvation. Please ring that bell.”
ChÉrubin pulled a cord and a maid appeared.
“Serve breakfast,” said Madame CÉlival.—”We will breakfast here,” she added, turning to ChÉrubin, “because then we shall not be disturbed by anybody; if any unwelcome visitor calls, they will say that I’m not at home. Do you think that I have done well?”
“Oh, yes, madame, it will be much pleasanter!”
Madame CÉlival smiled again; perhaps she thought that their tÊte-À-tÊte would become pleasanter; but this is mere conjecture.
The maid quickly laid the table with two covers. ChÉrubin noticed that she placed the dessert on a small table beside the large one, which was covered with dishes.
Then Madame CÉlival dismissed her, saying:
“If I want you, I will ring.—And now,” said the fascinating brunette, offering her hand to the young man, who continued to gaze at her admiringly, “take your seat, monsieur le marquis, and excuse me for treating you so unceremoniously; but this is not a formal breakfast.”
Madame CÉlival’s informal breakfast consisted of a terrine de NÉrac, a stuffed partridge, small birds aux pistaches, and a superb dish of crabs; and on the small table were pastry, preserves, and a compote of plums, for dessert; lastly, several decanters of choice wines indicated that the hostess did not propose that her young guest should retain his self-possession unimpaired.
ChÉrubin was seated beside Madame CÉlival, who helped him to everything, but ate very little; by way of compensation, the young man ate for two. After he was at the table, he felt much less embarrassed, more inclined to talk; he concluded that he had guessed aright, and that to eat and drink freely would give him assurance; so he did honor to everything that was set before him and drank whatever was poured into his glass.
Madame CÉlival was very lively; she knew the art of keeping the conversation from flagging; and she seemed delighted by the way in which her companion did honor to the breakfast.
“Really,” she said laughingly, “I am not surprised that you didn’t say anything just now, that you seemed so taciturn! It was because you were dying of hunger.”
“It is true, madame, that I have an excellent appetite; and then, with you, it seems to me that one must needs always be hungry.”
“Oh! I don’t feel sure whether I ought to take that for a compliment or not! There is a proverb which would rather work against me.”
“What is the proverb, madame?”
“As you don’t know it, I won’t tell you.—Now, we will proceed to the dessert; I had it put within our reach, so that we need not ring; all we have to do is to change tables. Don’t you think that that is pleasanter?”
These last words were accompanied with such a tender glance that ChÉrubin was greatly confused; to recover his self-possession, he hastily pushed away the table on which they had breakfasted and replaced it by the smaller one on which the dessert was all set out.
Madame CÉlival, who was desirous that the breakfast should come to an end, made haste to serve her guest, and offered him everything. ChÉrubin scrutinized the compote of plums and asked:
“What is that?”
“Plums. Do you mean to say that you don’t know this dish?”
“Mon Dieu! no, I never saw it before. At my nurse’s we never ate it.”
Madame CÉlival laughed heartily.
“At your nurse’s!” she repeated; “that is lovely! an excellent joke! One would think, to hear you, that you had remained out at nurse to this day.”
ChÉrubin bit his lips; he thought that he had made a foolish speech, and was overjoyed to find that she took it for a good joke. He accepted the plums which Madame CÉlival offered him.
“Well!” said the lovely widow, after a moment, “how do you like what you never had at your nurse’s?”
“Very well! delicious!”
“Will you have some more?”
“With pleasure.”
Madame CÉlival served him again to plums, and he said, as he ate them:
“But you are eating nothing, madame.”
“Oh! I am not hungry.”
“Why not?”
“Why not! what a strange question! Because women aren’t like men, and when they have anything on their mind, they live on their thoughts and their feelings, and those are all they need.”
These last words were uttered in a tone of annoyance, for Madame CÉlival was beginning to think that ChÉrubin passed an unduly long time at the table; however, she continued to offer him the different dishes, like a woman of breeding, who knows how to do the honors of her house.
“Thanks,” said ChÉrubin, “but I like the plums better than anything.”
“Very well, take some more.”
“Really—if I dared——”
“You are not going to stand on ceremony, are you? I shall be offended.”
ChÉrubin remembered that he must not be timid, that it was that which had been so harmful to him. So he helped himself to plums; in a moment he took some more; and as Madame CÉlival laughed heartily over his passion for plums, and he was delighted to entertain her, he did not stop until the dish contained no more.
The lovely widow seemed very well pleased when the plums were exhausted, and the words: “That is very lucky!” escaped from her lips; but they were almost inaudible, and ChÉrubin did not hear them.
Meanwhile the pretty hostess had softly moved her chair away from the table; she drank a few spoonfuls of coffee, placed her cup on the mantel, then resumed her seat on her couch, saying to the young man, in a voice that went to his heart:
“Well! aren’t you coming to sit by me?”
ChÉrubin began to understand that the time had come when he must turn his attention to something besides plums; he left the table and walked about the salon, admiring divers lovely engravings, the subjects of which, while not too free, were well adapted to appeal to the passions. He went into ecstasies before Cupid and Psyche, the river Scamander, and an Odalisk lying on her couch; and finally he seated himself beside Madame CÉlival, who said to him:
“Do you like my engravings?”
“Yes, all those women are so lovely—especially the Odalisk!”
“The painter has hardly clothed her; but to enable us to admire her beauty, it was necessary to show her to us unclothed. That is allowed in painting; artists have privileges; we pardon everything in talent—or in love.”
These last words were accompanied by a sigh. ChÉrubin looked at the lovely widow, and she had never seemed to him more alluring; for her eyes shone with a fire that was at once intense and soft, and her half-closed lips seemed inclined to reply to many questions. The young man ventured to take a hand which was relinquished to him without reserve; he gazed fondly at that soft, plump, white hand, with its tapering fingers; he dared not put it to his lips as yet, but he pressed it tenderly, and not only was it not withdrawn, but a very warm pressure responded to his. Encouraged by that symptom, ChÉrubin was about to cover that hand with kisses, when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in the intestinal region.
ChÉrubin was thunderstruck.
“What’s the matter?” queried Madame CÉlival, amazed to find him holding her hand in the air, without kissing it.
“Nothing, oh! nothing, madame!”
And the young man tried to dissemble a wry face caused by a second pang, less sharp, it is true, but followed by internal rumblings which portended a violent tempest.
Meanwhile, being completely engrossed by his sensations, and disturbed by the thought of the possible sequel, ChÉrubin ceased to take any part in the conversation and dropped Madame CÉlival’s hand on the couch.
“In heaven’s name, what is the matter, monsieur?” murmured the pretty widow, in a half-reproachful, half-melting tone. “You seem distraught, absent-minded; you say nothing to me. Do you know that that is not agreeable on your part?”
“Mon Dieu, madame, I assure you that nothing is the matter; you are mistaken.”
And ChÉrubin did what he could to mask another contortion; he was attacked by gripes which fairly tortured him; he realized that he had the colic, and not for anything on earth would he have had Madame CÉlival guess what had happened to him.
However, it is not a crime to feel indisposed! But we weak mortals, who seek sometimes to exalt ourselves to the rank of gods, we blush because we are subject to all the infirmities of the simplest of God’s creatures; there are times when we are sorely embarrassed to be at once the man of the world and the natural man. Poor ChÉrubin found himself in that predicament; the plums were playing him a very treacherous trick.
Madame CÉlival could not misunderstand the young marquis’s tone. Piqued, too, because she could no longer read in his eyes either affection or desire, she exclaimed after a moment:
“Evidently, monsieur, you find it dull with me.”
“Why, madame, I swear to you that that is not true—far from it; but——”
“But you would prefer to be with Madame de Valdieri, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, no! that is not where I would like to be at this moment!”
“Indeed! where would you like to be at this moment, monsieur?”
ChÉrubin did not know what to reply; he endured with difficulty another sharp pain, and felt the cold perspiration standing on his forehead. He cut a very sad figure at that moment, and did not in the least resemble a lover.
Madame CÉlival looked at him; she compressed her lips angrily, and cried:
“Oh! what an extraordinary face you are making! Such a thing was never seen before—by me, at all events. Come, monsieur, speak, explain yourself; something is the matter, certainly.”
And the fair widow, still impelled by the tender sentiment which spoke in ChÉrubin’s favor, walked toward him and would have taken his hand; but he hastily drew back, faltering in a stifled voice:
“Oh! don’t touch me, madame, I implore you!”
“What does that mean, monsieur? I beg you to believe that I have not the slightest desire to touch you,” retorted Madame CÉlival, offended by the alarm depicted on the young man’s face. “But, monsieur, I am justified in being surprised by the ill humor that has suddenly taken possession of you; I did not expect that I should—er—frighten you by showing you what pleasure it gave me to entertain you.—Ha! ha! it is most amusing, on my word!”
Instead of replying to what she said, ChÉrubin abruptly sprang to his feet, muttering:
“Excuse me, madame, excuse me—but an appointment I had forgotten—I absolutely must go.”
“What, monsieur! you made an appointment when you knew that you were to breakfast with me! That is extremely courteous of you! You cannot make me believe that it is so urgent that you must go at once.”
“Oh! yes, madame, yes! it is horribly urgent; I cannot postpone it any longer. Adieu, madame, adieu!”
And ChÉrubin, after running madly about the boudoir three times, in search of his hat, spied it at last, seized it, rushed at the door, threw it open with such force that he nearly broke it, and fled through all the rooms of the suite, as if he were afraid of being pursued, leaving Madame CÉlival aghast at his manner of taking leave of her.
ChÉrubin reached home at last cursing the plums and the ill-fortune which seemed to pursue him in his love-affairs.
Toward evening MonfrÉville called upon his friend; he was curious to know if he acquitted himself more creditably at his last assignation than at the first. When he saw the young marquis, still pale and exhausted, he smiled and said:
“I see that your good fortune was complete this time, and that you won a grand victory.”
ChÉrubin looked at his friend with such a piteous expression that he did not know what to think. After carefully closing the door of his apartment, ChÉrubin told MonfrÉville what had happened in his second amorous tÊte-À-tÊte. MonfrÉville could not keep a sober face as he listened to the story; and although ChÉrubin did not share his merriment, it was a long time before he could restrain it.
“So you consider it very amusing, do you?” said ChÉrubin, with a sigh.
“Faith, my dear fellow, it is very hard not to laugh at the plight in which you found yourself.”
“Agree that I am very unlucky.”
“It is your own fault. When you breakfast tÊte-À-tÊte with a lady, you should not stuff yourself with plums, especially after you have already eaten heartily, as you seem to have done.”
“I did it to give myself courage, nerve!”
“What you did give yourself was very agreeable.”
“Well, no such accident will happen in my next tÊte-À-tÊte with Madame CÉlival; I shall have better luck next time.”
“Oh! don’t flatter yourself that you will obtain a second assignation from the fair widow. You are ruined in her esteem, as well as in the little countess’s. That makes another conquest that you must abandon.”
“Do you think so? How unfair! Does a woman cease to love us because we are suddenly taken ill?”
“Not for that reason, but because you behaved so clumsily.”
“What would you have done in my place?”
“I would have said frankly that my breakfast was disturbing me, that I was feeling very sick; then she would have understood and excused my departure.”
“Oh! I would have died of shame rather than say that!”
“That is very poor reasoning, my dear fellow; remember that a woman will forgive everything except contempt or indifference to her charms.”
ChÉrubin was very much cast down during the rest of the day; it seemed to him that there was a sort of fatality about his love-affairs, and he was afraid that it would continue to pursue him. But that same evening DarÉna came to his house, to apprise him of the results of his negotiations with the charming woman he had seen at the Cirque.
“Victory!” cried DarÉna, bringing his hand down on the young marquis’s shoulder; “it’s going on finely, my friend; your business is in good shape.”
“Well, have you obtained an appointment for me?” inquired ChÉrubin, with an almost frightened expression.
“Deuce take it! not yet; such things don’t go so fast as you think; the young Polish countess is closely watched, surrounded by duennas and Cerberuses.”
“Is she a Polish countess?”
“Yes, the Comtesse de Globeska, wife of the Comte de Globeski, a man of high social position who had to flee from his country because he was accused of high treason. He’s as jealous as a tiger! he’s the kind of fellow that talks of nothing but stabbing his wife if she should give so much as one hair to a man!”
“This is terrible!”
“It’s of no consequence at all! Women haven’t the slightest fear of daggers; on the contrary, they love to defy danger. I succeeded in getting your letter to the fair Globeska. It was a hard task; I had to scatter gold lavishly, and I did so; in fact, I borrowed some, as I had not enough. I know that you will make it up to me, and I thought that you would not blame me for being zealous in the service of your love.”
“Oh! far from it, my dear DarÉna; I thank you. But did the pretty Pole write me a word in reply?”
“No, she didn’t write you; perhaps she doesn’t write French very well—that is excusable in a foreigner; but women abound in self-esteem; they are afraid of being laughed at if they make a mistake in grammar; in fact, the enchanting Globeska replied by word of mouth, and what she said is worth all the billets-doux that ever were written.”
“What did she say?”
“She said to her maid, whom I had seduced—I mean that I bribed her with money: ‘Say to this young Frenchman who has written me, that I share his passion. Since I saw him, I dream of him all the time, even when I am not asleep.’”
“Did she say that? Oh! what joy!”
“Let us finish: ‘I am bound to a tyrant whom I detest. Let this Frenchman devise some way to carry me off, and I am ready to go with him—I will throw myself into his arms.’—Well, what do you say to that, my lucky Lovelace? I should say that you had turned her head!”
“Yes, my friend, I am very glad; for I feel that I like that young woman better than all the rest. With her it seems to me that I shall be more at my ease than with the women in fashionable society, who always intimidate me.”
“You will be very much at your ease, I promise you; the Poles are very unceremonious.”
“But she talks about my carrying her off. Can that be done? Is it allowable to carry off a man’s wife?”
“Oh! what a child! In the first place, you don’t ask leave; and secondly, you see that she herself wants it done. Never fear, I will look after the abduction; I make that my business.”
“My dear DarÉna, how much I am indebted to you!”
“But the main point is to know where I shall take your charmer. You will understand that it would be neither proper nor prudent to bring her to this house, where your servants will see her, and——”
“Oh! certainly not. But where can we take her then?”
“Nothing can be simpler. All that we have to do is to hire a little house near Paris, in the suburbs, in some lonely and quiet spot. Do you wish me to attend to that too?”
“Oh, yes! I beg that you will.”
“Very good, I will hire a house. If it isn’t furnished, I will send some furniture. Give me some money; I shall want quite a great deal.”
ChÉrubin ran to his desk, took out some bank-notes, and handed them to DarÉna, saying:
“Here, here are two thousand, three thousand francs—is that enough?”
“Yes; but you may as well give me four thousand at once; I must not fall short. Now, let me manage the affair. I will make sure of a house, first of all, and have it arranged to receive your inamorata; then I will watch for a favorable opportunity; as soon as it comes, I will abduct the lady, then I will come here and tell you. All that you will have to do will be to pluck the fruit of the victory, and that will not be an unpleasant task.”
“It is delightful!”
“But, above all, not a word of this to MonfrÉville, or I will have nothing more to do with it.”
“Never fear, that is understood.”
“When your charmer has escaped from her tyrant’s hands, I will take care to order a dainty repast sent to your little retreat. It is always essential that a lady should find something to eat when she arrives.”
“Yes, my friend, order a supper. But no plums, I beg! No plums! I have a horror of them!”
DarÉna stared at ChÉrubin in amazement as he replied:
“Never fear. I was not aware of your aversion for plums; they are said to be very healthful.”
“If I see any on the table, I shall run off at once.”
“All right—don’t get excited. I will see that none are served.”
And the count left his young friend, after pocketing the bank-notes.
“Well,” said ChÉrubin, “this conquest shall not escape me, and it will make up to me for all that I have lost.”
XXIII
A FAMILY INTERIOR
As Ernestine had announced to Louise, Madame de Noirmont returned home on the day that she was expected. Her arrival was a festal occasion for Ernestine, who flew to meet her mother the instant that she caught sight of her, and threw herself into her arms. Madame de Noirmont responded lovingly to her daughter’s caresses; it was easy to see that she was touched by them, and that she was genuinely happy to be at home once more.
Monsieur de Noirmont did not rush to meet his wife; such tokens of affection were not in accordance with his nature; he feared that, by indulging in them, he should compromise his dignity. However, when he learned that she had returned, he went to her room and greeted her pleasantly, but did not kiss her.
“Did you have a pleasant journey, madame?”
“Yes, thanks, monsieur.”
“And how is your aunt, Madame DufrÉnil?”
“She is much better, monsieur; her health is entirely restored. But it was time for me to return, or I should have been really ill with ennui, from being away from my daughter so long. I was very sorry that you did not allow me to take her with me, monsieur.”
“The result of that, madame, is that you have the greater pleasure in seeing her again, and I trust that it will make you love her dearly.”
With that, Monsieur de Noirmont saluted his wife and returned to his study.
When her husband had gone, Madame de Noirmont drew her daughter to her and pressed her to her heart again and again:
“Your father thinks that I do not love you,” she murmured. “Do you think so too, my love?”
“Oh, no! indeed I don’t, mamma,” cried Ernestine. “But papa doesn’t think so, either; I am sure of it. I know that you love me; and why shouldn’t you? am I not your daughter?”
Madame de Noirmont’s features contracted nervously; her brow darkened, and she hastily extricated herself from Ernestine’s arms. But the cloud soon vanished and she drew the girl to her again, saying in a melancholy tone:
“Oh, yes, yes! I love you dearly!”
“I have never doubted it, mamma, and if you have sometimes—as you had just now, for instance—moments when my caresses seem tiresome to you, I am sure that it’s just because you have a headache, or because you’re thinking about something else; but you don’t love me any less, do you?”
“No, of course I never love you any less. Did the time seem long to you while I was away?”
“Oh! yes, mamma! But luckily I have had a new maid for three weeks. Father must have written you that he discharged the other one, didn’t he?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh! I like the new one ever so much better! If you knew how nice she is! and not a bit stupid, nor vulgar! She speaks very correctly, and yet she came right from her village; she has never lived out, but she learned her duties instantly.”
“Who brought her here?”
“Comtois. He had excellent recommendations.”
Madame de Noirmont smiled at the serious tone in which her daughter spoke.
“My dear girl,” she replied, “I know that we may rely on Comtois.—What is your new maid’s name?”
“Louise—Louise FrÉ—FrÉnet—I never can remember her other name. But no matter, she’s a very nice girl, I tell you, mamma; I am sure that you will like her too. I am going to call her, to show her to you. She’s very shy, that is why she hasn’t come to pay her respects to you.”
“Mon Dieu! my dear love, I have plenty of time to see your maid; there is no hurry about it.”
“Oh, yes! I want you to see her right away, mamma.”
Ernestine rang a bell; in a moment the door opened and Louise appeared in the doorway, timid and with downcast eyes.
“Did madame ring for me?” she murmured.
Madame de Noirmont scrutinized the girl, whom she then saw for the first time; she was struck by her beauty, by the dignified expression of her features, by her modest and reserved demeanor, by her whole aspect, which was not what one ordinarily sees in a lady’s maid. She could not tire of looking at her.
Ernestine leaned toward her mother and whispered:
“Well! what do you think of her?”
“Lovely, my child, lovely; she has an air of distinction too; no one would think that she was a servant.”
“I didn’t flatter her, did I?—Mamma thinks that you are lovely, Louise,” continued the girl; “she likes you too. I told you that she would like you.”
Louise made a curtsy and murmured:
“Madame is very kind; I will do my best to satisfy her, and mademoiselle too.”
“I don’t doubt it, my child,” replied Madame de Noirmont; “everything prepossesses me in your favor, and I am convinced that my daughter is not mistaken in all the good that she has told me of you.”
While Ernestine’s mother was speaking, Louise raised her eyes and looked at her. At sight of that beautiful, noble and stern face, of that pale and haughty brow, of those great black eyes wherein one could always detect a melancholy expression, the girl felt deeply moved and impressed; her heart beat violently, whether with pleasure or fear she did not know; she could not define her feelings, but she did not speak or move. For some moments after Madame de Noirmont ceased speaking, she continued to listen; they motioned to her that she might retire, and she remained. At last Ernestine had to touch her arm and say: “You may leave us, Louise,” before she came to herself and left the room, casting a last furtive glance at Madame de Noirmont.
After a few more words concerning the new lady’s maid, Madame de Noirmont turned all her attention to taking up the threads of her usual domestic occupations, and to superintending her daughter’s education and her studies with the different teachers who came to the house to give her lessons.
Madame de Noirmont’s life was very regular; she rarely went out and received few visits; she devoted herself to her daughter, overlooked her studies and read a great deal: that was her greatest pleasure, her most agreeable means of distraction.
Monsieur de Noirmont passed the whole day in his study; his wife and daughter saw little of him before dinner. At that repast they met, and not infrequently some old friend of Monsieur de Noirmont dined with them, but they very rarely had more than one guest. During dinner Madame de Noirmont talked very little, while her husband discussed politics or economic matters with his guest. Ernestine alone did anything to enliven the party. She succeeded very well; her childish sallies and observations often made her mother smile; and even Monsieur de Noirmont, despite his gravity, could not always keep a sober face. In the evening, the ladies worked, made tapestry, or sang, and the men played chess or backgammon. When there were no guests at dinner, Monsieur de Noirmont often went out in the evening to some party or reception; sometimes his wife and daughter accompanied him, but rarely. Madame de Noirmont preferred to remain at home with Ernestine; and when her husband was not there, she seemed less serious, less pensive, and she manifested her affection for Ernestine more freely.
Louise’s duties were very pleasant in that family, where the ladies did not go to balls and received very little company. Comtois alone waited at table. The young lady’s maid assisted the ladies to dress; then, during almost all the remainder of the day, she worked in her room, making dresses for mademoiselle or keeping the linen of the household in order. In the evening, she served at tea, then looked to it that her mistresses had everything in their room that they required. This was not very wearisome, and Louise sometimes told Ernestine that they did not give her enough work to do; but the girl would reply, with a smile:
“What makes you work so fast? We no sooner give you a piece of sewing to do than it is done. Mamma says that your activity and skill are most unusual. Other lady’s maids don’t work so fast, I promise you!”
Louise felt a thrill of pleasure whenever she was told that Madame de Noirmont was pleased with her. And although that lady always preserved a grave and serious manner with her servants, which made the slightest approach to familiarity impossible, she felt drawn to love her, and it seemed to her that it would be a source of deep grief to her if she should now be compelled to leave her.
Meanwhile three months had passed since she came to Paris, and she had not once seen ChÉrubin. But since Madame de Noirmont’s return, Louise, engrossed by the desire to please her, had felt her love-pangs less sharply; although she still loved her old playmate as dearly as ever, another sentiment had glided into her heart, to distract her thoughts from her troubles.
Monsieur GÉrondif had called several times to inquire of Comtois what Louise’s employers thought of her, and each time the old servant put forth all his eloquence in praise of the young lady’s maid and begged the professor to thank old Jasmin for the present he had sent them. Monsieur GÉrondif went away overjoyed that he had brought Louise to Paris, although ChÉrubin, entirely absorbed by his bonnes fortunes, had forgotten about going to see Nicole.
One morning, when Monsieur GÉrondif called at Monsieur de Noirmont’s to ask Comtois if they were still content with Louise, the valet replied:
“Yes, indeed; Mademoiselle Louise is a model of virtue and industry. If you would like to see her, monsieur, she is alone at this moment; the ladies have gone out to do some shopping. She is working in her room, and there is no reason why you should not go up and bid her good-morning.”
Monsieur GÉrondif joyfully accepted the proposition; he followed Comtois, who led him to Louise’s chamber and left him with her.
Louise manifested the keenest delight at sight of the tutor, for she would have an opportunity to talk with him about all those who were dear to her. Monsieur GÉrondif, who was, like most pedants, a conceited fool, took to himself a pleasure of which he was the pretext simply; he believed that he had kindled a tender sentiment in the breast of the pretty lady’s maid, and he smiled as if he would dislocate his jaw as he took his seat beside her.
Louise began by inquiring for her adopted mother.
“She is perfectly well, and she is overjoyed that you are in such a fine position in Paris,” replied the tutor, lying with imperturbable coolness; for he had not been to the village since Louise left it.
“And Monsieur ChÉrubin?” continued Louise, “is he pleased to know that I am in Paris as he wished? Hasn’t he any desire to see me? Doesn’t he ever speak to you about me? Did he send you here to-day?”
The tutor scratched his nose, coughed, spat, wiped his forehead, all of which operations required much time with him, during which he considered what he should say. Having made up his mind at last, he said to Louise:
“My dear child, it rarely happens that childish loves come to a good end. I might cite Paul and Virginie and a thousand other examples ad hoc; I prefer to tell you ex abrupto—which means, without preamble—that you are making a mistake to give any further thought to Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, because that young man never gives a thought to you. In the first place, when you came to see him at his house—when you came to Paris with Nicole——”
“Well, monsieur?”
“Well, the young marquis was at home; but as he didn’t want to see you, he gave his concierge orders to tell you that he was away.”
“O mon Dieu! is it possible?”
“Amid the debauchery in which he is plunged, how do you expect him to remember a young country girl with whom he used to play puss-in-the-corner, and other more or less innocent games? He has become a great rake, has my pupil; he has a lot of mistresses. It isn’t my fault. He receives so many billets-doux that it’s perfectly scandalous, and I should have left his house before this if my financial interests did not oblige me to close my eyes,—which however, does not prevent my seeing whatever happens.”
Louise put her handkerchief to her eyes and faltered:
“So it’s all over—he doesn’t love me at all! Who would have believed it of ChÉrubin?”
“One must believe everything, expect everything from a beardless youth,” replied the tutor.
Then, drawing his chair close to the girl’s, and laying his hand on her knee, Monsieur GÉrondif tried to assume a mellifluous voice and began, weighing his words:
“I have made the wound, and it is for me to apply the balsam, otherwise called the remedy.—Lovely Louise, although young ChÉrubin has not been true to your charms, there are others who will be too happy to offer incense to them, to cultivate them. I go straight to the point: I love you, divine maiden! and I am not fickle, because, thank heaven, I am a grown man. I have not come to make any base propositions to you—retro, Satanas! which means: I have only honorable views. I offer you my hand, my heart, my name, my rank and my title; but we will wait two years before we marry. I will try to restrain my passions for that length of time, which I require in order to amass a tidy sum of money. You will contribute your wages, your savings; they are much pleased with you here, and it is probable that you will receive a handsome present at New Year’s. We will put it all together and buy a little house in the outskirts of Paris; I will take a few pupils to keep my hand in; we will have a dog, a cat, chickens, all the pleasant things of life, and our days will be blended of honey and hippocras.”
During this harangue, Louise had pushed away the hand that Monsieur GÉrondif had laid on her knee, and had moved her chair away; and as soon as he had finished speaking, she rose and said to him in a courteous but determined tone:
“I thank you, monsieur, for condescending to offer me, a poor village girl, without name or family, the title of your wife; but I cannot accept it. Monsieur ChÉrubin no longer loves me; I can understand that, monsieur, and indeed I was mad to imagine that, in Paris, in the midst of pleasures, living in the whirl of society, he would remember me. But it is altogether different with me! I have not become a great lady, and the image of the man I love can never be effaced from my heart. I love ChÉrubin; I feel that I shall never love anybody else! So, monsieur, it would be very wicked of me to marry another man, as I could not give that other my love.”
Monsieur GÉrondif was greatly surprised by this speech; he recovered himself, however, and replied:
“My sweet Louise, varium et mutabile semper femina; or, if you prefer: 'souvent femme varie, bien fol est qui s’y fie.’—Woman changes ever; he is a great fool who trusts her.—The latter lines are by FranÇois I; I prefer Beranger’s.—Tiresias declares that men have only three ounces of love, while women have nine, which enables them to change oftener than we do; and yet, with only three ounces, we do pretty well.”
“What does all this mean, monsieur?”
“It means, my dear love, that you will do like the others: you will change; your love will pass away.”
“Never, monsieur.”
“Never is a word that means nothing at all in love. However, you will have plenty of time to think about it, as I give you two years for reflection. Until then, allow me to hope.”
“Oh! it is useless, monsieur.”
“I beg pardon; by hoping one lives content, and I cling to my hope. Adieu, fair Louise; continue to behave becomingly; your remuneration will be increased doubtless, and I shall continue to put mine aside; and, as a very trivial but very shrewd popular proverb says: ‘Let’s let the mutton boil!’—I lay my homage at your feet.”
Monsieur GÉrondif took his leave, and Louise was at liberty to weep without restraint. She did not bestow a thought on the tutor’s offers, she thought only of ChÉrubin, who no longer loved her, who had ceased to think of her, and who had mistresses. She had been afraid for a long time that he had forgotten her; but now she was certain of it, and it is a far cry from fear to certainty, in love.
The return of Madame de Noirmont and her daughter forced Louise to conceal her tears. She hastily wiped her eyes and tried to dissemble her depression, for she felt that she must not betray the secret of her heart.
On that day Monsieur de Noirmont went out after dinner. Ernestine remained with her mother, to whom, as they worked, she said whatever came into her head, especially as she saw that it was one of her moments of good humor. When Madame de Noirmont smiled at her daughter’s speeches, the latter was so delighted that she often laid her work aside to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, who sometimes held her lovingly to her heart for some moments.
Louise, for whom they rang to order tea, entered the salon at one of the times when Madame de Noirmont’s arms were about her daughter; and the sweet child, in her joy at being so fondled, cried out:
“See how happy I am, Louise! see what a dear, good mother I have!”
Louise stood still in the middle of the salon; she was glad for Ernestine’s happiness, and yet, in the touching picture before her eyes, there was something that hurt her, she did not understand why. Two great tears escaped from her eyes; but she turned quickly, so that they might not see her weeping.
Meanwhile Madame de Noirmont had resumed her grave demeanor, and Ernestine had had to return to her seat. Louise served the tea as quickly as possible, then left the room, fearing that her sadness would be noticed.
Despite all her efforts to be calm, Louise was still crying when Ernestine entered her room to ask her some question, before going to bed. Seeing that Louise’s face was wet with tears, her young mistress ran to her, and said with the most touching interest:
“Mon Dieu! crying, Louise! What’s the matter?”
“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle. I know that I should not weep here, where everyone is so kind to me; but I could not help it!”
“Have you some reason for being unhappy? You would not cry like this for nothing. Louise, I insist on knowing why you were crying.”
“Well, mademoiselle, it is because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, the picture of the happiness you enjoy made me feel more keenly than ever the misery of my position. Oh! mademoiselle, it isn’t envy that makes me say it! I bless Heaven for making you so happy; but I could not help crying when I remembered that my mother never kissed me, that I shall never be able to throw my arms about her!”
“What’s that you say, my poor Louise? Doesn’t your mother love you?”
“It isn’t that, mademoiselle. But listen, I am going to tell you the truth, for I don’t know how to lie. And then, I don’t understand why I should make a mystery of it; you won’t be any less kind to me when you know that I am a poor girl, abandoned by her parents.”
“Is it possible? you haven’t any parents?”
“At all events, mademoiselle, I don’t know them.”
Thereupon Louise proceeded to tell Ernestine the story of how Nicole had been employed to take care of her, and of the kindness of the village people, who had kept her and treated her like their daughter, when they found that she was abandoned by her mother.
Ernestine listened to the story with the deepest interest. When Louise had ceased to speak, she kissed her affectionately, saying:
“Poor Louise! Oh! how glad I am you have told me that! It seems to me that I love you even more since I know that your parents have abandoned you. And that dear, good Nicole! those kind peasants! Ah! what splendid people they are! I will tell mamma all about it to-morrow! I am sure that it will interest her too.”
“Oh! that isn’t worth while, mademoiselle; Madame de Noirmont may not like it because I have told you about my troubles.”
“I assure you, on the contrary, that, for all her serious manner, mamma is kind and good; and, besides, she likes you very much. She has said to me several times that your manners were just what they should be, and that is great praise from her, I tell you!—Well, good-night, Louise, sleep soundly, and don’t cry any more. If you haven’t any parents, you have some people here who love you dearly and who will take good care of you.”
Ernestine left Louise, to go to bed, and the latter felt less unhappy when she saw her young mistress’s affection for her—an affection which she shared with all the sincerity of her soul.
The next morning the Noirmont family met at the breakfast table. Ernestine had not seen her mother since the preceding night, because a headache had kept Madame de Noirmont in bed later than usual; but her father, who rarely appeared at breakfast, had just taken his seat, when Ernestine, after kissing her mother, said in a mysterious tone:
“I have something very interesting to tell you this morning, and I am glad papa came to breakfast, to hear what I am going to say.”
“Really?” said Monsieur de Noirmont, smiling, and in a tone of mild raillery. “From the way in which you say that, I imagine that it must really be something most serious.”
“Why, yes, papa, it’s very serious! Oh! you look as if you were laughing at me, but when you know what it is, I’ll bet that you will be as touched as I was last night when I found poor Louise crying!”
“What! is it something about Louise?” asked Madame de Noirmont, with an air of deep interest; “can it be that anything has gone wrong with her? I should be extremely sorry, for the girl is a very good girl indeed, and seems to deserve our kindness.”
“This is what it is; listen. Louise didn’t want me to tell you; but I am very sure that you won’t blame her for it; it isn’t her fault.”
Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said impatiently:
“Come, my child, go on, explain yourself.”
“Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the tea, she found me in mamma’s arms, and we were kissing each other.”
“That is well, my daughter; what next?”
“At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn’t find a fichu that I wanted, I went to Louise’s room to ask her where she had put it. I found her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied, sobbing: ‘Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.’”
“An abandoned child!” murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly became deathly pale.
“But,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, “if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us that the girl’s parents lived in the outskirts of Paris—I don’t remember in what village.”
“Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here; but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise thought it was better to tell the truth.”
“She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you, madame—are not you curious to hear this girl’s story?”
Madame de Noirmont replied with a few almost unintelligible words; it was as if she were oppressed by some secret suffering, which she was doing her utmost to conceal.
Meanwhile, Ernestine had not waited for her father to repeat his request; she had run off to call Louise, who soon appeared before the assembled family.
Monsieur de Noirmont looked at her with more interest than he had previously displayed; Ernestine smiled at her affectionately; Madame de Noirmont lowered her eyes and became paler than ever. From the disquietude that had taken possession of her, from the anxiety that could be read upon her features, one would have taken her for a criminal awaiting judgment.
“Come, Louise, come nearer,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, motioning to her; “my daughter has told us of what you told her last evening. Do not tremble, my child; we shall not reproach you for telling us what was not true when you entered our service.”
“Oh! it was not I, monsieur!” murmured Louise.
“I know it, it was the person who obtained the situation for you, who thought it his duty to tell that falsehood.—So you do not know your parents, my poor girl?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Where were you brought up?”
“At Gagny, monsieur.”
“At Gagny. Ah! that’s it; I had forgotten the name of the village that you told me when you came here.—And the people who brought you up?”
“A kindhearted peasant woman, Nicole Frimousset. She was nursing Monsieur ChÉrubin de Grandvilain at the time.”
“Indeed! so this woman was the young Marquis de Grandvilain’s nurse?”
“Yes, monsieur, he is my foster-brother, and in my childhood we played together all the time.”
“Very good! But that doesn’t tell us how you went to Gagny.”
“Mon Dieu! monsieur, it was a lady—my mother, I suppose—who carried me to dear Nicole’s, and begged her to take me to nurse. I was then a year old; she left some money with Nicole and went away, saying that she would come again. The next year she sent a little more money by a messenger from Paris; but she didn’t come to see me, and no one ever after came to inquire for me.”
“But what was the lady’s name; where did she live?”
“Nicole didn’t think to ask her any of those questions; for she could not dream that she would abandon me, that she would never come again. The messenger from Paris did not know who the lady was who hired him on the street, he could not tell my good nurse anything.”
“But was no paper, no mark found on you or on your clothing?”
“Nothing, monsieur, absolutely nothing.”
“That is very strange.—Don’t you agree with me, madame?”
As he asked this question Monsieur de Noirmont turned to his wife, whom he had not looked at while questioning Louise; Ernestine, whose eyes followed her father’s, uttered a piercing shriek.
“Oh dear!” she cried, “mamma has fainted!”
Madame de Noirmont’s head had fallen against the back of her chair; she had in fact lost consciousness, and the livid pallor of her face made her condition seem most alarming.
They hastened to her assistance; Ernestine wept and lamented as she kissed her mother again and again. Louise shared her distress; she lost her head, did not know what to do, and did not hear what was said to her. But Monsieur de Noirmont, who retained all his presence of mind, called Comtois, and, with his assistance, carried his wife to her room and laid her on her bed.
After some time, Madame de Noirmont came to herself; but there was a look of gloom and anxiety in her eyes, which indicated that the cause of her trouble still existed. She turned her eyes slowly on her husband and her daughter; then, as she caught sight of Louise, who was a little farther away and who seemed to share the general anxiety, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow.
“Mamma, dear mamma, how do you feel now?” cried Ernestine, squeezing her mother’s hand.
“Better, my dear, I feel better.”
“What was the cause of your sudden illness, madame?” asked Monsieur de Noirmont with interest. “You gave us a terrible fright.”
“Why, I have no idea, monsieur. I had a sudden feeling of suffocation; then a cold perspiration broke out all over me, and I lost the use of my senses.”
“You didn’t feel well this morning, you had a headache,” said Ernestine.
“Yes, that is true,” replied Madame de Noirmont hastily. “I felt poorly this morning, and that is the cause, no doubt——”
“And then Louise’s story must have grieved you, made your heart ache. That probably made you worse.”
“Do you wish me to send for the doctor, madame?”
“No, monsieur, it is not necessary; I need nothing but rest and quiet—and a little sleep, perhaps.”
“We will leave you, then.”
“But I shall be close by,” said Ernestine, “and I will come at the slightest sound.”
Madame de Noirmont seemed most desirous to be left alone. All the others went away, Ernestine still deeply moved because she had seen her mother in a swoon, and Louise very much cast down because she feared that the story of her misfortunes had touched her mistress too deeply.
Madame de Noirmont passed the rest of the day in her room; she kept her bed and expressed a wish to be alone. The next day passed in the same way; and for several days she did not leave her bed.
She refused to see a doctor, however, and declared that her trouble required no other remedy than rest.
But from the first moment of her illness, it was evident that Madame de Noirmont’s humor had changed: she hardly spoke; sometimes her daughter’s presence seemed irksome to her; she answered her curtly and received her caresses without warmth. As for Louise, while her mistress kept her room, she persistently declined her services on the pretext that she did not require them.
Poor Louise was greatly distressed.
“Madame your mother,” she said to Ernestine, “will not let me wait on her, or even go into her room. I am afraid that I have displeased her, mademoiselle; perhaps she does not like to have in her house a girl whose parents are not known.”
Ernestine tried to comfort her, saying:
“You are wrong. Why should you think that mamma has anything against you? No, it is this trouble of hers, it’s her nerves that make her depressed and irritable. Why, she even pushes me away now when I kiss her, and she doesn’t kiss me; that makes me unhappy too, but I am sure that mamma still loves me.”
As she spoke, the sweet child shed tears, and Louise mingled hers with them, for she could think of no other consolation to give her.
Madame de Noirmont made up her mind at last to leave her room, and she went down to the salon. The first time that Louise saw her, she longed to ask about her health, but she dared not; her mistress’s eyes seemed to avoid hers, and she did not display her former kindliness to her. For the merest trifle, Madame de Noirmont lost patience, scolded and became angry; sometimes she gave Louise ten contradictory orders in the same minute. The poor girl lost her head, was bewildered, did not know what to do, while Ernestine gazed at her mother with a surprised and grieved expression, when she saw her treat her protÉgÉe so harshly.
Sometimes, however, a violent change seemed to take place in that strange creature; after speaking sharply and severely to Louise, Madame de Noirmont, remarking the poor girl’s heartbroken expression, would suddenly change her tone; her eyes would fill with tears and follow Louise’s every movement; then she would call her in a gentle, affectionate, even tender voice, and the girl would return instantly, joyous and eager; but her mistress’s face would already have resumed its stern expression, and she would motion her away, muttering curtly:
“What do you want? I didn’t call you.”
Several weeks passed in this way. One morning, Madame de Noirmont, who seemed even more thoughtful than usual, said to her daughter when she came to kiss her:
“Really, I don’t propose to keep your maid; the girl is good for nothing; we must dismiss her. We will pay her two or three months’ wages more than is due her. Tell her, and advise her to return to her village; I think that she made a great mistake in coming to Paris to seek employment. Do not try to change my decision, it would do no good.”
Ernestine was in despair; she was very fond of Louise, and it would be a real sorrow to her to part with her; but her mother had spoken in such a stern and decided tone that the poor child dared not reply. She said nothing, but lowered her eyes with a sigh, and left the room to perform the distressing duty with which her mother had entrusted her. As she left her mother’s apartment, Ernestine met Monsieur de Noirmont, who came up to her and kissed her, and said, observing her sorrowful air:
“What is it, my child? You look as if you had been crying!”
“It’s nothing, papa.”
“You know, Ernestine, that I do not like evasions or mysteries; I insist upon knowing at once what makes you unhappy this morning.”
“Well, papa, it’s because mamma is going to send Louise away, poor Louise, our maid, who is so sweet, and whom I love so dearly. But mamma doesn’t like her any more; she says that Louise isn’t good for anything; but Louise works just as much as she ever did, and she sews like an angel. But as mamma insists, I am going to tell Louise, so that she——”
“Don’t go to her, my child, it is not necessary; Louise will stay in this house.”
“But, papa, when mamma told me——”
“I tell you the opposite, my child, and I am the only master here.”
Ernestine said no more, for her father had assumed a severe expression which in him denoted that he had formed a resolution which no one could change. Monsieur de Noirmont then went to his wife and said to her in a cold and impressive tone:
“Your humor is very capricious, madame, as anyone may see by the way in which you treat your daughter sometimes; but you extend it to defenceless servants also, and that is what I cannot endure. This young Louise, who came here to wait upon Ernestine, is honest and virtuous; her appearance is as becoming as her manners; I think that it would be difficult to find another so satisfactory; and yet you propose to dismiss her, madame—you expect me to turn a good girl out of my house, because, for some unknown reason, she has ceased to please you; because your fanciful humor makes you more difficult than ever to serve!—No, madame, that shall not be; I propose to be just before everything, and this girl shall remain in my house, because it would be unjust to send her away.”
Madame de Noirmont had not a word to say in reply; she hung her head and seemed completely crushed.
