XXIV
THE POLISH INTRIGUE

ChÉrubin did not see DarÉna for a week; he fretted and fumed with impatience, fearing that his intrigue with the pretty Pole had fallen through altogether; and, as is always the case, he became immeasurably more enamored of the object of his passion as his fear of not possessing her increased. It was for the purpose of giving him time to reach that climax of passion, that DarÉna, who was thoroughly acquainted with the human heart, had allowed several days to elapse without going to see him.

At last DarÉna appeared at the hÔtel de Grandvilain one morning, hurried and breathless, like a man who had galloped twelve leagues without a halt. He pushed old Jasmin aside and almost knocked him down, when that worthy retainer attempted to tell him that he did not know whether he could see his master, who had not yet risen.

“I don’t care whether he’s up or in bed, he is always visible to me,” replied DarÉna imperiously. “Learn, you old donkey of a valet, to know the persons whom your master is always delighted to receive.”

As he spoke, DarÉna rushed into the young marquis’s bedroom, leaving Jasmin propped against the wall, muttering in a voice that trembled with wrath:

“Old donkey! he called me an old donkey! He’s an impertinent knave. The Grandvilains, father or son, never called me that. He’s not a donkey, but I have an idea that he’s a much more dangerous animal!”

DarÉna reached ChÉrubin’s bedside and pulled the curtains aside, crying:

“Up, Joconde! up, Lovelace, Richelieu, Rochester! The moment of triumph has arrived at last!—Sapristi! I can fairly say, my dear fellow, that I have made myself ill for you! Ouf! I can do no more!”

And DarÉna threw himself on a couch, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.

“But what has become of you during these eight long days that I have not once seen you, and have not known what to think of your silence?” asked ChÉrubin, looking closely at his friend. “I thought that you had forgotten me.”

“Ah! that is just like a man—a young man! Because things are not done on the instant, you think that you are forgotten. Do I ever forget my friends? Am I not absolutely devoted to you? If you have not heard from me for a week, it is because I had nothing to tell you; but I have been on the lookout, watching and waiting for the moment to act. It has come at last; I have acted, and the fair Globeska is in our power.”

“Is it possible? Oh! do tell me how you did it, my dear DarÉna?”

“Parbleu! by my ordinary method: I scattered money about. I know no other way, especially as it always succeeds. Dress, and meanwhile I will tell you how it all came about; but don’t call your valet; you will understand that I can’t talk about it before a witness. I have already compromised myself enough—but damn the odds!”

ChÉrubin rose and began to dress, saying:

“Go on, I am listening; I shall not lose a word.”

“You know that the pretty Pole lived with her husband in furnished lodgings in the Marais; I succeeded in effecting the delivery of your billet-doux by bribing a lady’s maid and two concierges. The Comtesse de Globeska replied that she was mad over you and asked nothing better than to leave her tyrant. That was all very well, but how were we to abduct the young woman from a man who left her no more than her shadow? It was very difficult. Seven days passed thus; Monsieur de Globeski did not leave his wife for an instant. At last, yesterday, I learned from a concierge, by a further use of money, that the Polish count had decided to leave Paris, and that he was going to take his wife to Norway; of course, if we had had to pursue our conquest to Norway, it would have taken us too far. I instantly formed my resolution, saying to myself: ‘He shall not take her!’

“I learned—still by the lavish use of money—that the post-chaise was to call for our Poles at eight in the evening. I arrived just before the hour; the carriage came and stopped in front of the house, and I went boldly up to the postilion and led him aside.

“‘I adore the woman who is going with you,’ I said. ‘I am going to follow with two friends to a lonely place on the road, one or two leagues from Paris; we shall pretend to attack you, and fire a few shots with pistols loaded with powder only. You will stop; we will open the carriage door and seize the young woman; then you will start off at full speed with the old gentleman, and if he shouts to you to stop, you will pay no attention until you have galloped at least two solid hours.’

“You will understand, my dear ChÉrubin, that I should not dare to make such a proposition as that to a postilion, without supporting it by convincing arguments. I handed him a thousand-franc note, and he turned his back, saying:

“‘What do you take me for?’

“I added five hundred francs. He remarked that it was a very ticklish business! I added another five hundred. He agreed to everything. That’s the way things are done in Paris. I went off to choose two rascals on whom I could rely, in consideration of five hundred francs, which I gave to each. I also hired a post-chaise. When the Comte de Globeski started off with his wife, we followed; and, about two leagues from here, between SÈvres and Chaville, in a place where nothing grows but melons, we discharged our pistols. The bribed postilion stopped. It was dark, and everything went off as I had arranged. We kidnapped the young woman. The old Pole defended her like a genuine demon; indeed, he inflicted a slight dagger wound on one of our men in the scuffle, which forced me to disburse three hundred francs more. However, we captured the divine Globeska, and I took her to the house I have hired, where she passed the night and is now awaiting you.”

“Oh! what a series of events, my dear DarÉna! But great heaven! this stealing a woman from her husband, and by force! Suppose it should be known? Isn’t it a crime?”

“Bah! are you going to have scruples now?—At all events, there was no other way, and then, if worse comes to worst, I am the only one compromised; but my friendship is of the sort that defies danger.”

“And the pretty Pole—where have you taken her?”

“To a little house that stands all by itself near BarriÈre de la Chopinette; I could find nothing better. And then I considered that to go into the country, at a distance from Paris, would incommode you too much. The house I have hired is in a spot where very few people pass; the outlook is not very cheerful, but what do you care for that? You aren’t going to shut yourself up with a woman, to look out of the windows at people passing, are you? Isn’t one always happy when with the person one loves?”

“Oh, yes! of course; but in what quarter is this BarriÈre de la Chopinette?”

“In the quarter of La Poudrette, and of lonely promenades, in the direction of MÉnilmontant. However, we can go there in a cab. Remember, my dear fellow, that your charmer is waiting for you; I told the concierge of the house to order as toothsome a breakfast as he can procure in that quarter, and some superfine wines. Make haste and finish dressing—put on your best clothes, perfume yourself——”

“Perfume myself? Indeed, I shall not; perfumery makes me sick.”

“As you please, but put on your armor. Lucky ChÉrubin! you are about to possess one of the loveliest women I have ever seen; and her Polish accent, too, is most fascinating.”

“And she loves me, you say? she has admitted it?”

“Parbleu! how many times must I tell you? In fact, I should say that her conduct was quite sufficient proof of it.”

“She didn’t weep when she was kidnapped?”

“Weep! She danced—she adores dancing, it seems. By the way, I need not tell you that I have nothing left of the funds you advanced me. The postilion and my men to pay—the hire of the post-chaise and the house—and all the people I bribed. In fact, you owe me fifteen hundred francs.”

“Fifteen hundred francs!” exclaimed ChÉrubin, as he walked to his desk; “it costs a lot to abduct a woman!”

“To whom are you telling that? to me, who have abducted a hundred perhaps, in the course of my life? Indeed it was in that way that I spent a large part of my fortune; but it is a princely pleasure all the same, in which everybody cannot indulge.”

ChÉrubin handed DarÉna the sum that he required, and said:

“I am ready.”

“Very good; send out for a cab; you will understand that we can’t go to your petite maison with your tilbury and your groom. You should never take your servants into the secret of a mysterious intrigue like this; such people are too fond of talking.”

“You are right.—HolÀ! Jasmin!”

The old servant appeared, still with a long face, and cast an angry glance at DarÉna. ChÉrubin ordered him to send for a cab.

“Will not monsieur take his cabriolet?” queried Jasmin, with an expression of surprise.

“Evidently not!” cried DarÉna, laughing at Jasmin’s face; “as your master orders a cab, he doesn’t propose to take his cabriolet. Off with you, old ruin, and make haste, if you possibly can.”

“Old ruin!” muttered Jasmin, as he left the room. “Still another insult—and I must swallow it all! I am very much afraid that this ne’er-do-well will ruin my young master. I should like to know why he makes him take a cab, when he has his own tilbury and cabriolet.”

However, Jasmin did his errand; the cab was summoned. ChÉrubin went downstairs with DarÉna, and they both entered the vehicle, which Jasmin looked after, with a far from pleased expression, as it drove away.

DarÉna told the driver where to take them. After quite a long drive they stopped in front of a shabby house outside BarriÈre de la Chopinette, on the outer boulevards.

“Here we are!” said DarÉna, jumping out of the cab.

ChÉrubin looked at the house, which had but one floor above the ground floor, with two windows on the front.

“This isn’t a very handsome house!” he exclaimed.

“It is very fine inside,” replied DarÉna. “The principal thing is that it’s isolated; the devil himself would be in it if the husband should unearth you here! My dear fellow, when you run off with a woman, you must take the greatest precautions. And after all, what do you care about the house? It’s the woman that you come here to see. For my part, I should have been perfectly happy in a shepherd’s hut, with the object of my love.—Send the cab away; I am going to ring.”

ChÉrubin made haste to pay the cab-driver, who returned to his box and drove away.

DarÉna pulled a wire beside the low door that gave admission to the house. A little fellow of some thirteen years, with an impudent expression, whose knavish and insolent bearing harmonized well with a very dirty costume, answered the bell, his cap over his ear, his blouse flapping in the wind, and his hands black with dirt. He bestowed a glance of intelligence on DarÉna, who recognized little Bruno, the same urchin of whom Poterne had tried to make a monkey, and who, on his side, had conceived the idea of appropriating the skin which he had used in studying his character. Later Poterne had found Bruno, who had squandered his disguise; the business agent took the liberty of thrashing the boy, then forgave him, and charmed by the happy talents which young Bruno manifested, determined to employ him again when the opportunity should present itself. In the scheme which had been devised to dupe ChÉrubin, it was necessary to station some intelligent person, who could be trusted, in the house which had been hired. Poterne instantly thought of the urchin, to whom he did not pay much, and who had all the qualities essential to forward their designs.

“Ah! this is the concierge’s son,” said DarÉna, glancing at Bruno as they entered the house, and leading ChÉrubin through a sort of vestibule, toward the staircase. “Where’s your father, my boy? is he away?”

“Yes, monsieur, he had to go to a place ten leagues from here, to see my aunt, who is very sick.”

“And you are keeping the house?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Has the lady who slept here had everything that she wanted?”

“Oh, yes! monsieur; don’t you be afraid; that lady hasn’t wanted for anything. She’s upstairs. By the way, she says that she’s beginning to get tired of being all alone.”

“Patience! monsieur here has come to keep her company.—How about the breakfast; is it ordered?”

“Yes, monsieur; and it will be fine, I tell you. I was the one that went to the restaurant——”

“This little rascal is overflowing with intelligence,” said DarÉna, turning to ChÉrubin, “and I recommend him to you in case you need anything.—Well, my dear friend, here you are with your charmer now, and I will leave you.”

“What! you are going to leave me?” cried ChÉrubin, almost in an offended tone.

“Why, I don’t see that there is anything more for me to do here; the rest is your business. You are going to breakfast tÊte-À-tÊte with a little foreigner, who is mad over you. Would not a third person be in the way?”

“Oh, yes! of course. Well, then, au revoir.”

“Au revoir, my dear marquis, and may love crown you with its sweetest favors!”

DarÉna smiled, almost ironically, as he shook hands with ChÉrubin; then he flashed a glance at Bruno and left the house, closing the door behind him.

ChÉrubin felt intensely excited when he found himself in that strange house, in a quarter which was entirely unfamiliar to him, with no other company than a boy who stared at him with a sly expression, as he cracked nut after nut which he took from under his blouse.

The vestibule had two doors, both of which were open, disclosing the interior of two rooms, in one of which the only furniture was several rickety tables, and in the other, one table and a wretched cot bed; the windows on the boulevard were supplied with iron bars, but entirely unprovided with curtains.

ChÉrubin, who had seen this at a glance, reflected that DarÉna had not spent much money in furnishing the house. Then he turned to Bruno, who was still breaking nuts, sometimes with his teeth and sometimes with his feet, and humming at intervals a tune of which nothing could be heard save: tu tu tu tu tu tu r’lu tu.

“Where is madame la comtesse’s apartment?”

“Whose?” queried the ex-bootblack, looking up with an insolent expression.

“I ask you where the young lady is, who has been in this house since last night?”

The boy thrust his tongue into his cheek,—a street Arab’s trick when he proposes to lie—and answered:

“Oh, yes; the young foreign lady, who was kidnapped, and who slept here—tu tu tu r’lu tu—she’s upstairs, on the first floor, in the finest apartment in the house, where she’s sighing and having a stupid time—tu tu tu r’lu tu!”

ChÉrubin asked no further questions; he went upstairs—there was but one flight—and stopped at a door, the key of which was on the outside. His heart beat very fast at the thought that he was about to stand in the presence of the young Pole who had consented so readily to leave her husband and go with him; but he remembered how pretty she was, and he decided to knock.

“Come in,” cried a voice, “the key’s in the door.”

ChÉrubin recognized Madame de Globeska’s accent; he opened the door and found himself face to face with the young woman.

Chichette Chichemann wore a very simple costume, into which a few odds and ends of lace, flowers and fur had been introduced, in an attempt to set it off; but they produced the contrary effect in the eyes of a good judge. But ChÉrubin was not as yet an expert in such matters; moreover, a man in love pays no heed to such details. What impressed him at once was Chichette’s pretty face, over which was perched the same velvet toque that she wore at the Cirque; and as he entered the room she greeted him with a pleasant smile, crying:

“Ah! here you are; that’s very lucky! for I was beginning to be awfully bored, all alone here!”

Encouraged by this greeting, ChÉrubin seated himself beside the young woman, and said to her in a very tender tone:

“Ah! madame, then you will pardon what my excessive love has led me to undertake? You have consented to trust my honor, to fly from him who—from him who—that is, from that gentleman who looked so ugly and who assuredly is not worthy to—to——”

ChÉrubin had never said so much at one time; he stopped, for he did not know how to finish his sentence. But Chichette gave him no time; she instantly replied:

“Yes, yes! I’ve fled from my tyrant. But let’s talk about something else.”

“She doesn’t want me to talk about her husband!” said ChÉrubin to himself; “she wants me to talk about something else—my love, no doubt. She is charming.—And so,” he continued aloud, “you do not regret having entrusted to me the care of your happiness, and being here at this moment, far from your native country [pays]?”

“My pays? oh, yes, I always regret my little pays! but I hope to see him again some day. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Ah! how kind you are, madame! how lovely you are! If you knew how—I—I—I love you!”

It required a great effort on ChÉrubin’s part to say that, and he dared not look at the young woman, fearing that she would consider his declaration rather abrupt. But Mademoiselle Chichette, far from seeming offended, began to laugh idiotically, and replied:

“Yes, yes! I know. Ha! ha! It’s nice to love, and you have very fine eyes. Ha! ha! I’d like right well to laugh with you.”

And the so-called Polish countess, who seemed, in truth, much inclined to laugh, and who showed some very pretty teeth, looked at the young man in a meaning fashion, and did not tell him to talk about something else. For a moment ChÉrubin was tempted to kiss his enslaver, who almost offered him her fresh, pink cheeks; he confined himself to taking a hand, which he laid upon his heart and pressed it hard.

Chichette, tired perhaps of having her hand pressed to ChÉrubin’s heart, said to him, still laughing:

“How your thingumbob goes tick-tack! It’s like a big clock.”

“Oh! it is emotion, madame; it is pleasure; it is——”

“Aren’t we going to breakfast?” cried Chichette suddenly; “I’m hungry, I can hear my belly crying; it goes flouc-flouc!”

These words brought ChÉrubin back to less romantic thoughts; he ran to the door, opened it, and shouted:

“I say, young one—what about that breakfast?”

“Here it is, monsieur, here it is! Right away, smoking hot!” replied Bruno; “the restaurant man’s just this minute come.”

And a moment later a wine-shop waiter came up the stairs with the young concierge. They laid a table with two covers; they produced a basket filled with bottles, with seals of all colors; they covered the table with freshly opened oysters, and placed several covered dishes on another table. At sight of the oysters the so-called Pole indulged in the most plebeian demonstrations of delight, and began to dance about the room, crying:

“Ah! oysters! I like oysters so much! I’d let myself be hamstrung for some oysters.”

ChÉrubin was amazed to hear Madame de Globeska express herself in such terms, but he attributed it to her ignorance of the language.

The waiter was too much accustomed to such expressions to be surprised. As for young Bruno, he contented himself with thrusting his tongue into his cheek again and muttering:

“Thanks! that’s a fine sort of talk! This game will get spoiled!”

The breakfast was served. The waiter left the room with the urchin, and they took care to close the door behind them. Mademoiselle Chichette did not wait for ChÉrubin to escort her to the table; forgetting all the lessons she had had in behaving like a comme il faut person, she ran and took her seat in front of one of the covers, crying:

“Let’s eat! let’s eat! Oysters! ah! that’s good!”

“She seems to be very hungry!” thought ChÉrubin, as he took his seat at the table. And he made haste to supply the young woman with oysters; but she did not wait for him to select them for her; she put them out of sight with wonderful rapidity, then held out her glass, saying:

“White wine, please; I’m very fond of white wine too.”

ChÉrubin filled her glass with a white wine from a bottle which had been supplied with a long cork, to give it the appearance of sauterne; but it looked as if it were not drinkable with anything but oysters.

The young man considered that they were very badly served, generally speaking: the plates were the commonest china, the covers had not the ring of silverware, and the linen was very far from being fine. The wine, too, despite its yellow seal, seemed to him decidedly poor; but his conquest thought it delicious; she swallowed oysters, emptied her glass, called for more oysters and held out her glass to be filled, without any perceptible interval. ChÉrubin could not keep up with her; not until there were no more oysters on the table did Mademoiselle Chichette conclude to make a little pause.

“I will call the little concierge and tell him to take these things away,” said ChÉrubin.

“No, no, I’ll take ‘em away myself!” replied Chichette; she rose, and with a turn of the hand cleared the table of plates and shells, and brought two of the covered dishes. The young man tried in vain to prevent the lady from performing that task; she would not listen to him, and did not resume her seat until it was all done.

“Mon Dieu! how it distresses me to see you take all this trouble, madame la comtesse!” said ChÉrubin; “but you seem to have been brought up to household duties. In Poland, young ladies receive a less frivolous education, I see, than in France; and your noble parents did not disdain to teach you these little domestic details. They are dead, doubtless—your noble parents?”

“Yes, yes! Let’s talk about something else! Let’s see what’s in this dish. Ah! how good it smells! It’s rabbit! Oh! I’m so fond of rabbit!”

ChÉrubin did not fully agree with his inamorata; he did not like rabbit himself, and he found that the breakfast which had been ordered for him did not at all resemble what he ordinarily ate at restaurants in Paris. But his companion was much less particular than he; she helped herself to the rabbit and seemed to enjoy it hugely; she even exclaimed from time to time:

“It’s mighty well fricasseed!”

ChÉrubin offered her some wine with a different seal. Chichette drank red as well as white, then uncovered another dish, and shouted, leaping up and down in her chair:

“Ah! chowder! Oh! I’m glad of that! I’m so fond of chowder!”

“It seems to me that she’s fond of everything!” thought ChÉrubin; “she certainly has been very well brought up; she doesn’t play the prude!”

Chichette voted the chowder delicious; she helped herself several times without waiting for ChÉrubin to offer it; she was particularly enthusiastic over the sauce; finally she began to lick her plate, unwilling apparently to leave the least particle of the sauce which she liked so much.

The young man was thunderstruck when he saw the Comtesse de Globeska put her plate to her mouth and run her tongue over it; but he concluded that custom in Poland permitted such behavior. When Chichette noticed that her companion was watching her, she realized that she had made a blunder, and instantly replaced her plate on the table, saying:

“Oh! that was just a joke! I won’t ever do it again! But let’s see what’s under that other cover.”

Chichette uncovered the last dish, which contained fried fish. She uttered a joyful exclamation:

“Ah! gudgeons! fried gudgeons! Oh! I’m so fond of fried fish!”

“I am delighted, madame, that you find all these things to your taste,” said ChÉrubin, serving his charmer to gudgeons; “but really you are not hard to suit; to me it seems that our breakfast is not worthy of you. Evidently there are no good restaurants in this quarter.”

“Oh, yes, yes! at La Courtille.”

“At La Courtille! I don’t know that place; did your husband take you there to dinner sometimes?”

“My husband! Oh! let’s talk about something else. I’d like something to drink; gudgeons make you thirsty in a minute.”

ChÉrubin hastened to supply his guest with a wine decorated with a different seal, which she drank and declared excellent. The young man would have liked to lead the conversation back to his love, but his conquest was so busily engaged in eating and drinking that he dared not divert her from an occupation in which she seemed to take so much pleasure; and then he recalled his breakfast with Madame CÉlival and said to himself:

“I ate heartily to drive away my bashfulness. Perhaps this pretty Pole is doing the same; but God grant that she doesn’t end as I did!”

When there was no more fish, they passed to the dessert, which was very modest, consisting only of biscuit, cheese and dried fruit. Again ChÉrubin anathematized the restaurant keeper; but Chichette continued to declare everything excellent; she stuffed herself with figs, raisins, and biscuit; she drank several glasses in succession to wash it all down; and at last she stopped eating and leaned against the back of her chair.

“It’s strange,” she said, “but I’m not a bit hungry now.”

“It would be much stranger if she were!” thought the young man, as he moved away from the table in order to approach his companion.

Having placed his chair close beside Chichette’s, he ventured to take her hand.

“How fortunate I am,” he said in a hesitating tone, “to be—to be with you! What a lucky chance it was that led me to the theatre where you were; for, but for that, I should never have met you; and yet, my friend, the gentleman who was with me that evening says that we were born for each other.—Do you think that, madame?”

Chichette rose hurriedly, saying:

“I am rather full; it’s funny, for I didn’t eat very much.”

She walked several times around the room. ChÉrubin went to her and said:

“Do you feel ill?”

“Oh, no! it will pass off.”

Chichette sat down again, not on her chair, but on an old couch, covered with spots, the cushions of which looked as if they were stuffed with chips. The girl stretched herself out on it, however.

“I say, this is mighty comfortable,” she said.

ChÉrubin gazed amorously at her and cried:

“Oh, yes! there certainly was sympathetic attraction in our meeting. My tutor, Monsieur GÉrondif, explained it to me once. He took a little piece of agate, rubbed it hard on his coat sleeve, then held it toward a straw, and the straw instantly jumped at the stone and clung to it.—‘Thus the magnet attracts iron,’ said my tutor; ‘thus sympathy draws together two hearts that were made to love and understand each other.’—Ah! madame, I am not a Pole, but I love you as dearly—more dearly, perhaps; for my inexperienced heart feels a craving for love, and if—and if——”

ChÉrubin paused, because it seemed to him that his words were accompanied by a dull, rumbling sound. That sound came from the couch. He had noticed that his pretty companion closed her eyes while he was speaking, but he supposed that it was from modesty. However, desirous to learn the cause of the noise he heard, he approached the young woman and saw with surprise that she was not only asleep, but was snoring heavily.

The unfortunate lover gazed for some time at his sleeping enslaver; but the snoring became louder with every instant; ere long it was like the breath of a forge bellows, and ChÉrubin gradually drew away; he felt that his amorous desires were vanishing; for a woman who is snoring like a Swiss inspires infinitely less passion than one whose breathing is soft and light.

ChÉrubin seated himself on a chair.

“She is asleep,” he said to himself; “she is even snoring. Evidently my remarks did not interest her much, as she went right off to sleep while she was listening to me! It’s very strange! This young woman has such manners and uses such language—If DarÉna hadn’t assured me that she was a Polish countess, I should have thought her something very different. The idea of going to sleep while I was talking to her about my love! If that’s the way she is mad over me!—Great heaven! what snoring! Jacquinot used to snore, but not so loud as that. Perhaps I ought to wake her—and kiss her; but she is sleeping so soundly, it would be too bad. And then, I believe that listening to that monotonous noise is putting me to sleep too.”

ChÉrubin dropped his head on the back of his chair; he closed his eyes, and in a moment, he was in the same condition as Mademoiselle Chichette, except that he did not snore.

Let us leave the young couple asleep, and see what the engineers of this whole intrigue were doing.

On leaving ChÉrubin, DarÉna had gone in search of his friend Poterne, who, still dressed as a Polish count, was waiting for him at a restaurant in MÉnilmontant. The two gentlemen sat down to breakfast and discussed their plot.

“It goes as if it were on wheels,” said DarÉna. “ChÉrubin is now with the girl, whom he thinks that I kidnapped for him! I trust that Chichette won’t make any slips of the tongue. But no matter! with that accent of hers, anything will go; and besides, a lover never pays any attention to idioms!”

“Was my little Bruno at his post?”

“Yes; he is supposed to be the concierge’s son. That boy has the look of a famous scamp.”

“He has a lot of intelligence; he’ll go a long way!”

“So I believe.”

“Besides, for the last act of our comedy, it will be better to have nobody there but a boy, who won’t interfere with us at all. And then, too, it will be much more probable that I was able to force my way into the house, if there’s nobody but a boy to guard it; for we must strike the great blow now. A few thousand-franc notes, by the way, are all right; but they’re gone too soon. We have an opportunity to obtain a good round sum and we mustn’t let it slip; it won’t come again.”

“You are perfectly right, Poterne. What we are going to do to-day is not strictly honorable; but, after all, the little fellow is rich; sixty thousand francs won’t ruin him.”

“You don’t want me to ask for more?”

“Oh, no! we mustn’t flay him. It’s understood then—in two hours you will go to the house.”

“Why not earlier?”

“My dear Poterne, how impatient you are! we must give the lovers time to breakfast and to abandon themselves to the joys of love. Deuce take it! everybody must amuse himself, after all; and consider, Poterne, that by leaving them together longer, you will inevitably take them in flagrante delicto! That is much the shrewder way. You are supposed to be the husband; your wife has been spirited away, and you find her in her ravisher’s arms; you bellow and roar and swear that you will kill them both—your wife especially! ChÉrubin pleads for mercy for her, and you refuse to accord it unless he signs notes of hand for sixty thousand francs.—You have some stamped paper, haven’t you?”

“Oh! I have all that I need. But suppose the young marquis defends himself, suppose he refuses to sign?”

“Nonsense! a mere boy! You must threaten him with prosecution for abducting your wife; you will have your dagger, and you can still insist on killing her; ChÉrubin is too generous not to try to save her.”

“I agree with you there.”

“In all this, Monsieur Poterne, take good care not to hurt anybody! Your dagger isn’t sharp, I trust?”

“Oh, no! there’s no danger.”

“And when you speak, assume some kind of an accent, so that he won’t recognize you.”

“I will be careful, and I will do a great deal in pantomime.”

Everything being arranged, the gentlemen breakfasted and conversed at great length; ordered a pipe and cigars, and smoked to pass the time away.

More than two hours passed. Poterne replaced his green spectacles on his nose, saying:

“Now I can go and finish up our business.”

He rose; DarÉna did the same.

“Yes, it is time; let us go.”

“But I don’t need you,” said Poterne; “besides, you mustn’t go into the house with me, it would be imprudent. If ChÉrubin should see you, he would call on you to help him.”

“I know all that, you old sharper; but you don’t imagine, I presume, that I am going to let you go off all alone with notes for sixty thousand francs in your pocket? No, my dear fellow, I love you too dearly to lose sight of you. I propose to watch you into the house; I know that it has but one door; I shall keep my eye on that door, and if it should occur to you to run away too fast, I promise you that you will soon be overtaken.”

“Oh! monsieur le comte! you have suspicions that hurt me terribly!”

“Why, no, it’s simply savoir-vivre, it’s the way of the world, that’s all! Off we go.”

The two worthies passed the city wall to the outer boulevards, and walked toward BarriÈre de la Chopinette. When they were within three hundred feet of the house where he had left ChÉrubin, DarÉna stopped and said to his companion:

“Now, go on alone, illustrious Poterne, and manage the business gracefully; remember that the whole thing must be carried through with the courtesy and formality which betray men of breeding.”

Poterne went on to the house and knocked softly at the door, which Bruno opened.

“Are they upstairs?” queried Poterne in a low voice.

“Yes.”

“Have they had their breakfast?”

“It went up more’n two hours ago.”

“And they haven’t called since?”

“Not a call; and they don’t even make any noise—you can’t hear ‘em move.”

“All right.”

Poterne pulled his enormous hat over his eyes, made sure that his spectacles were secure, stuffed bunches of flax into his mouth to fill out his cheeks, and walked toward the stairs. He stole cautiously up, reached the door, saw the key outside, and said to himself:

“How imprudent lovers are! what a childish trick!”

He turned the knob softly, then rushed into the room, shouting:

“Ah! traitor! guilty wife! I have caught you! You must die!”

Poterne expected shrieks of despair, as he had arranged with Chichette; but, hearing nothing at all, he walked farther into the room and was thunderstruck to see the lovers sound asleep at an extremely respectful distance from each other.

“Sapristi!” said Poterne to himself; “and I hoped to catch ‘em in flagrante—as monsieur le comte said. They are amusing themselves by sleeping! If that’s the way the young man makes love! Chichette must have made some stupid blunder. But no matter! I must act; besides, I surprise them together, that’s the main thing; and if they’re asleep, it’s because it suits them to sleep.”

Thereupon Poterne began to rush about the room with shrieks and imprecations. He pulled Chichette’s ear and she awoke; he pinched her arm and she shrieked with him. ChÉrubin opened his eyes and saw that man, whom he recognized as the Comte de Globeski, storming and blaspheming and drawing from his breast a sort of dagger with which he threatened the young woman. ChÉrubin realized at once that his charmer’s husband had run them to earth. He trembled and turned pale, and faltered:

“O mon Dieu! we are lost!—Don’t kill her, monsieur, I entreat you! Kill me rather—although I have respected your wife’s honor.”

“Yes, yes, I will have my revenge, per Diou! Bigre! Ah! you think, villain, to steal my wife from me!” screamed Poterne, stamping on the floor. “Tarteiff sacre mein Herr! On the high road—stop my cab—no, my carriage.—Ah! madame, you shall die by my hand—on the honor of a Polish count!”

Chichette did not seem greatly alarmed; she continued to yawn and rub her eyes; Poterne passed her and pinched her with more force; whereupon she gave a loud yell and exclaimed:

“Oh! how stupid that is! I don’t want you to do such things to me!”

Poterne began to roar so that ChÉrubin might not hear what Chichette said. He brandished his dagger with one hand, while with the other he stuffed the flax back into his mouth, whence it had almost escaped. But ChÉrubin had lost his head; the presence of that man, whose wife he believed that he had abducted, his outcries, his oaths, and the dagger he was brandishing, terrified the young man beyond words. Poterne, seeing that he was in a condition to submit to whatever terms he might impose, took the notes from his pocket, placed them on the table, found a pen and inkstand and presented them to ChÉrubin.

“If you wish to save this guilty woman, god dem!” he said, “there is only one way to appease my wrath.”

“Oh! speak, monsieur, command—All you choose.”

“Fill out these notes of hand—here are four of them—make them twenty-five thousand francs each. Per Diou! that is too poco!”

“Notes of hand—for a hundred thousand francs?”

“Yes, signor.”

“Oh! you want me to——”

“If you hesitate, sapermann! I will kill this guilty wife of mine, I will kill you, I will kill everyone in the house—fichtre!—and then myself.”

“Oh! no, no, I do not hesitate, monsieur. I will make them for whatever sums you say.”

“Good! then you will make them for thirty thousand francs each.—Come! write and sign—per Dio!”

ChÉrubin seated himself at the table; he took the pen in his trembling hand and cast a sorrowful glance at his conquest, who had thrown herself on the couch, where he believed that she had swooned, whereas she was simply trying to go to sleep again. But Poterne returned to his side, ground his teeth and swore blood-curdling oaths. The young lover at once began to write; he had already filled out the body of one note, and was about to sign it, when they heard a loud noise below; then steps rapidly ascended the stairs, the door was thrown open, and MonfrÉville appeared, followed by old Jasmin, who uttered a cry of joy at sight of his master.

“Ah! here he is!” he cried; “God be praised! they have not destroyed him!”

ChÉrubin felt as if he were born again when he saw his friend; he threw himself into his arms, while MonfrÉville, observing his confusion and bewilderment and pallor, asked him:

“Great God! my dear fellow, what are you doing here, in this house—this den of thieves, to which a little rascal refused to admit me?”

“Ah! my friend, the fact is that—that I have been very guilty!” ChÉrubin replied in a voice broken by sobs. “I abducted madame—this gentleman’s wife; that is to say, it wasn’t I who did it—DarÉna abducted her for me. Monsieur is a Polish count, and he insisted that I should give him my notes for a hundred and twenty thousand francs, or else he would kill his wife! Ah! how glad I am to see you!”

While ChÉrubin was speaking, Poterne, who was very ill at ease, tried to sidle toward the door; but Jasmin had stationed himself in front of it, after taking pains to lock it.

As he listened to his young friend, MonfrÉville looked about the room in keen scrutiny. He examined Mademoiselle Chichette and the supposititious outraged husband, who acted as if he wished to crawl under the table. ChÉrubin had no sooner finished speaking than MonfrÉville ran up to Poterne, snatched off his hat and spectacles, and raised his cane threateningly.

“This creature a Polish count!” he exclaimed; “why, it’s that vile Poterne, the agent of that contemptible knave DarÉna! They plotted together this infamous scheme to extort money from you!—Ah! I am strongly tempted to break my cane over this cur’s shoulders!”

“Poterne!” cried ChÉrubin; “is it possible? Poterne!”

“Why, yes,” said Jasmin, “it’s the dealer in preserves and dogs and turtles. Ah! my dear master, I suspected that they meant to take you in again; and that that man who called me an old donkey was fixing up some treacherous scheme to catch you.”

When he saw MonfrÉville’s cane in the air, Poterne fell on his knees.

“Mercy, monsieur,” he faltered, “all this was only a joke—nothing else; it was a comedy!”

“A jest, you villain! But your notes of hand were properly stamped! Oh! we know now what you are capable of, you and your worthy friend, Comte DarÉna, who has fallen low enough now to blush at nothing, and in whose eyes all methods of procuring money are all right. We agree not to treat you as you deserve. Go and join your confederate, and tell him that this young man is able now to judge him as he is, and that if he should ever presume to show his face at the hÔtel de Grandvilain, the servants will be instructed to turn him out.”

“Yes, indeed, I will undertake to do it!” said Jasmin. “He called me an old ruin too! but an honest ruin is worth more than a sharper in perfect repair.”

Monsieur Poterne did not wait to hear any more; he picked up his hat and spectacles, hastily opened the door, and fled; but he was not so quick that he did not receive the toe of Jasmin’s boot in his posterior; and the old servant said to him at the same time: “There, you thief; take that for your preserves!”

MonfrÉville walked toward Chichette, who had remained on the couch, without speaking or moving; he could not help smiling at her expression.

“And you, madame la comtesse,” he said, “in what shop do you usually work?”

“I make Italian straw hats on Rue de GrenÉtat. It wasn’t my fault; they promised me a lot of money if I’d make believe I was monsieur’s wife; and I consented so I could put it by and marry my little pays.”

Mademoiselle Chichette drew her handkerchief and looked as if she were going to weep; but MonfrÉville reassured her by saying:

“I have nothing against you, my girl; don’t cry, and go back to your Italian straw hats. But believe me, it is much better for one in your trade to dance the cancan than to play the great lady.”

Mademoiselle Chichette blew her nose, made several curtsies, then left the room with a shamefaced air, not venturing to glance at ChÉrubin.

“And now, my friend,” said MonfrÉville to the young marquis, “I think that we too may quit this wretched barrack. I believe that there is nothing to detain us here longer.”

“Oh, no! and I am so happy, my dear MonfrÉville, after having such a terrible fright! I will tell you the whole story; but first tell me how you succeeded in learning that I was here, and how you happened to arrive so opportunely.”

“That’s easily done; do you see that cab at the door?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the same one that brought you here. I called at your house after you left; I found Jasmin very uneasy; he told me that you had gone away in a cab with DarÉna, whose frequent visits of late, together with his air of mystery, had aroused my suspicions! I asked Jasmin if he had called the carriage himself, and when he said yes, I asked him to take me to the cabstand. There we waited more than two hours for your cab to return. It appeared at last. I gave the driver twenty francs and told him to take us to the place to which he had taken you; he asked nothing better, and he brought us to this house. Knaves are very shrewd, my dear boy, but luckily there is a concealed power shrewder than they, who defeats the most cunningly devised schemes at the moment when their authors deem themselves most certain of impunity. Some call that power Providence, others chance, fatality, destiny, luck. I don’t know what name to give it, but I bow before it and am only too glad to believe that, if there are people here on earth inclined to do evil, there is a power on high, ever on the watch to prevent or repair it.”

ChÉrubin pressed MonfrÉville’s hand affectionately; then they left the house on the outer boulevard, which even little Bruno had abandoned, for they saw no sign of anybody. They entered the cab with Jasmin, upon whom they were almost obliged to use force, because the old fellow insisted on riding behind.

When they reached home, ChÉrubin told MonfrÉville how DarÉna had managed the affair, and how he had urged him above all things to preserve the most absolute secrecy about it.

“I am not surprised,” said MonfrÉville, “that he urged you not to mention it to me; he knew that I would not be taken in by the story of a Polish countess who was anxious to be abducted by a young man whom she had seen just once, at the theatre.”

“He said that you set yourself up now as a man of strict virtue, to make people forget your former conduct; he declared that you used to be famous for your love-affairs, your conquests, and that your principles then were much less severe than they are to-day.—Forgive me—I am only repeating what he said.”

MonfrÉville’s brow had grown dark; his face wore an expression of deep sorrow, and he was silent for some time. At last, fixing his eyes upon ChÉrubin’s, he said in a melancholy tone:

“It is true, my friend, that in my youth I did many foolish things, and I have some serious faults with which to reproach myself. But I was so cruelly punished that I was cured in good season. That does not prevent me from being indulgent to others, because I am well aware that it is a part of our nature to be subject to passions and weakness, and to be led astray by them sometimes. Some day, ChÉrubin, I will tell you a story of my young days, which has had an influence on my whole life. You will see that these love-affairs, which we treat so cavalierly at twenty, sometimes have very bitter results.”

“Thus far,” said ChÉrubin, with a sigh, “I haven’t been lucky in my love-affairs, and my amorous adventures have not afforded me much enjoyment!”

XXV
A GRAND DINNER

After Monsieur de Noirmont expressed in such decided terms his resolution with respect to Louise, Ernestine’s mother said not a word to indicate that she still thought of dismissing the young woman; on the contrary it seemed that, having made up her mind to submit to her husband’s desire, Madame de Noirmont had recovered from her apparent prejudice against Louise. She still treated her with a coldness which sometimes approached severity; but the tone of her voice, sharp and curt at first, often softened so far as to seem almost affectionate. One would have said that she was vanquished by the charm with which the girl’s whole personality was instinct, by her timid obedience, by the eagerness with which she waited on her mistress, so that the latter was sometimes, in spite of herself, drawn on to love her.

Louise did not know that Madame de Noirmont had thought of sending her away. Ernestine and her father alone were aware of the circumstance, and the former, when she learned that her mother’s determination would not be carried out, had concluded that it would be useless to mention it to Louise, that it would grieve her to learn that she was so far from having succeeded in winning her mistress’s favor by her zeal, that that mistress had intended to dismiss her. As for Monsieur de Noirmont, after making his wishes known, he was not the man to mention such domestic matters to anybody on earth.

But a thing that was easily noticed, and that Louise saw, together with all the rest of the household, was that Madame de Noirmont became more depressed and gloomy every day. A smile never appeared on her lips; she avoided society; visits annoyed her and were a burden to her; spending almost all the time in her apartment, she ordered the servants to say that she was out, or not feeling well, so that she might not be disturbed in her solitude; even her daughter’s presence seemed sometimes to oppress and irritate her. The sweet-tempered Ernestine, who had done nothing to forfeit her mother’s affection, was sometimes very much distressed at being treated so coldly by her; when she went to Madame de Noirmont, to kiss her, she would push her away impatiently, or receive with listless indifference the marks of her affection; thereupon the girl would turn away, forcing back the tears which rose to her eyes, but which she would not allow to appear, for fear of angering her mother.

Louise, seeing her young mistress furtively wipe her eyes, would say to her:

“You are unhappy, mademoiselle, and I am very sure that it’s because your mamma hasn’t kissed you for some time past.”

Whereupon Ernestine would reply, with a deep sigh:

“That is true; I don’t know what mamma can have against me; it’s of no use for me to try to think what I can have done to displease her; I can’t remember anything. But for some time she hasn’t called me her dear child or taken me in her arms. It isn’t possible, though, that she doesn’t love me, is it, Louise? It’s her health that makes her like this; her nerves are out of order; she doesn’t complain, but I am perfectly sure that she is sick; besides, anyone can see that she has changed a great deal lately.”

“That is true, mademoiselle, I have noticed it too. Yes, you are right, it’s because madame isn’t well that she is more melancholy and doesn’t caress you so much. But why don’t you send for the doctor?”

“Several times I have said to mamma: ‘You are pale, you must be suffering; you ought to send for Monsieur Derbaut, our doctor;’ but mamma always answers in a provoked tone: ‘Nothing’s the matter with me; it’s useless to have the doctor, I don’t need him.’”

The two girls exchanged their ideas thus, seeking a way to make themselves useful, one to her mother, the other to her mistress; for they both loved Madame de Noirmont, despite the harshness and capriciousness of her temper, which so often made her unjust; Ernestine loved her with all the clinging affection of a child who refuses to see her mother’s faults; Louise with a respectful devotion which would have led her joyfully to undertake the most painful task, if it would have earned her a smile from her mistress.

But Madame de Noirmont seemed carefully to avoid giving Louise any opportunity to wait upon her; only in her husband’s presence, and when it was impossible for her to do otherwise, would she give her an order or two, or take something from her hand. The young lady’s maid, who would gladly have anticipated her mistress’s slightest wish, sometimes followed her with her eyes, in the hope of making herself useful to her; but if Madame de Noirmont caught Louise’s glance fastened upon her, her own expression would become sterner, and she would instantly motion to her to leave the room.

One day, madame was in her room, as usual, holding a book of which she read very little, because her thoughts absorbed her so completely that she could give no attention to anything else. Ernestine was seated at a little distance, embroidering, and from time to time glancing furtively at her mother, in the hope of meeting her eyes and of obtaining from her a smile, which had become a very infrequent favor. Madame de Noirmont turned to her and said, holding out the book:

“Ernestine, bring me the second volume of this; you will find it in the library, on the second shelf at the left.”

The girl rose quickly, took the book and left the room, eager to obey her mother. Having found the volume for which Madame de Noirmont had asked her, she was about to take it to her, when she found her drawing-master, who had just arrived, waiting for her in the salon. Ernestine gave Louise the book and told her to take it to her mother; then she sat down by her teacher to take her lesson.

Louise took the book and went to her mistress’s room. When she was about to turn the knob, she felt that she was trembling; she was so afraid of offending Madame de Noirmont, who had not sent her on that errand. However, she went in.

Madame de Noirmont was seated, her head fallen forward on her breast. She did not raise her eyes when she heard the door open, for she had no doubt that it was Ernestine; and Louise reached her side and handed her the book without daring to utter a word.

But at that moment, impelled by an outburst of maternal affection, she took the hand that offered the book and squeezed it in her own, murmuring:

“My poor love, you must have thought me most unjust to you of late, and you think perhaps that I no longer love you! Do not think that, my child; I still love you as dearly as I ever did; but you cannot understand what is taking place in my heart, and what I suffer. No, you will never know——”

At that moment she raised her head and drew the girl toward her, meaning to kiss her. Not until then did she recognize Louise. She was speechless and motionless with surprise; a terrified expression appeared on her face, from which all the blood receded, and she raised her eyes to heaven, faltering:

“O mon Dieu! and I called her my child!”

“Forgive me, madame, forgive me,” murmured Louise, terribly alarmed at her mistress’s condition. “It was not my fault, it was mademoiselle who sent——”

Madame de Noirmont struggled to master her emotion, and rejoined in a sharp, stern tone:

“Why did you come into my room? Did I call you? Why are you here? To try to surprise my thoughts, my secrets?”

“O madame—mon Dieu! can you believe it?”

“Have I not constantly found your eyes fastened on me of late, mademoiselle—following, watching my slightest movements? What makes you act so? Have you some hidden motive? Come, speak, mademoiselle.”

“If I have offended you, madame, it was entirely without intention; if my eyes have sometimes rested on you, it is because I would have been happy to anticipate some wish of yours, to do something that would please you, to earn a word or a kind look from you; that was my motive, when I ventured to look at you. And then too it was a joy to me, madame; but I will do without it, since you forbid it.”

Louise bent her head before her mistress; she was almost on her knees, and her voice trembled so that she could hardly finish what she was saying.

Madame de Noirmont seemed deeply moved; one would have said that a conflict was raging in the depths of her heart; she rose, paced the floor, walked away from Louise, then toward her. She gazed at her for a long, very long time, but not with a stern expression; her eyes were filled with tears. Suddenly she ran to the girl, who had remained on the same spot, with downcast eyes and afraid to take a step; she took her hand and drew her toward her—but almost instantly pushed her away again, saying sharply:

“Go, mademoiselle, go; I have no further need of you.”

Louise obeyed. She left the room, saying to herself:

“Mon Dieu! what is the matter with her, and what have I done to her?”

A week after this incident, Monsieur de Noirmont informed his wife that he proposed to give a great dinner. He named the persons whom he had invited, fifteen in number, and added:

“I had an idea of inviting young Marquis ChÉrubin de Grandvilain too; but I asked him to come to see me, and he has never come; and so, as he has not shown the slightest desire to associate with an old friend of his father, we will not have him.”

Madame de Noirmont could not conceal the annoyance which the announcement of that function caused her. But Monsieur de Noirmont continued in a very curt tone:

“Really, madame, if I should leave you to follow your own desires, we should have no company, we should live like owls. I am not a fool—a devotee of pleasure; but still, I don’t propose to live like a hermit. Besides, madame, we have a daughter, and it is our duty to think about her welfare; before long it will be time to think of marrying her, of finding a suitable match for her; meanwhile we must not keep her sequestered from society, of which she is destined to be an ornament some day. Poor Ernestine! you refuse every opportunity that offers to take her to balls or receptions or concerts. You are ill, you say. I cannot compel you to go out, madame; but, as your health confines you constantly to the house, we will entertain; such is my present determination, madame.”

Madame de Noirmont made no observation, for she was well aware that as soon as her husband had made up his mind to do a thing, nothing could divert him from his resolution; and Monsieur de Noirmont left her, having requested her to give the necessary orders so that everything might be ready for the dinner, which was appointed for the Thursday following.

Madame de Noirmont resigned herself to the inevitable; when the day drew near, she gave her orders and superintended the preparations for the banquet. Ernestine, when she learned that they were to entertain many guests and give a grand dinner, rejoiced greatly and looked forward to it with the keenest pleasure. Pleasures and amusements had become so rare in her life, that every departure from the customary monotony seemed a blessing. Louise hoped that the dinner would afford her an opportunity to make herself useful, to display her zeal, and she shared her young mistress’s childlike joy.

At last the day came when the interior of that house, ordinarily so placid, was to echo with the voices of a numerous company. From early morning there was a great commotion in the Noirmont mansion; the master of the house alone spent the day as usual, working tranquilly in his study, awaiting the hour when the guests were to arrive; but Madame de Noirmont issued orders, overlooked the preparations, made sure that everything that she had ordered was at hand. Ernestine followed her mother about, dancing and laughing, anticipating great pleasure for that day.

“You must make yourself very lovely for the dinner,” she said to Louise, “because you are to wait at table with Comtois; that is the custom when we have company.”

“Never fear, mademoiselle,” replied Louise; “I don’t know whether I shall be lovely, but I promise to do my best to wait at table well, so that madame your mother will be content with me.”

But, a few moments before it was time for the guests to arrive, Madame de Noirmont said to her daughter:

“Ernestine, I don’t want your maid to wait at table; tell her that she may remain in her room; we shall not need her.”

Ernestine could not understand her mother’s whim; she looked up at her and said hesitatingly:

“But, mamma, usually, when we have company—you know——”

“I do not ask for your comments, my child; do what I tell you.”

Ernestine obeyed her mother; she went sadly to Louise’s room, where she found her finishing her toilet.

“Do you like me in this dress, mademoiselle?” inquired Louise; “is it suited to my position?”

“Oh! yes, yes, my poor Louise, you look very pretty!” replied Ernestine, heaving a deep sigh; “but it was not worth while to take so much pains with your toilet, for mamma doesn’t want you to wait at table; she says that you can stay in your room.”

Louise’s face expressed the disappointment caused by that command; however, she did not indulge in a single murmur.

“I will obey, mademoiselle,” she replied; “doubtless madame your mother has good reasons for wishing me not to do it. Ala! I am afraid that I can guess them: she doesn’t like to see me; my presence annoys her; I will obey, she shall not see me.”

Ernestine did not feel equal to contradicting her; for, knowing that her mother had once intended to dismiss Louise, she believed that the girl had guessed aright. She simply pressed her hand, then left her, because the time had come when the guests would probably begin to arrive.

Monsieur de Noirmont had invited more men than ladies; however, the wife of a certain advocate arrived with her husband; she was a tall, large woman, of much pretension, very fond of listening to herself talk, but, to balance matters, little inclined to listen to others.

Another lady, young and rosy and affable, formed a striking contrast to the first; she was the wife of a solicitor, who had just married in order to pay for his office. The advocate had married the tall lady so that he could afford to wait for clients. In society nowadays a marriage is a matter of business, seldom of sympathetic sentiments.

A few serious men, two young exquisites, and Monsieur Trichet, whom we have met before at Madame CÉlival’s, completed the party. Monsieur de Noirmont received his guests with his customary phlegmatic manner. Madame de Noirmont, who had made the best of it and had resigned herself to receive all that company, tried not to allow her ennui to appear; she did the honors of her salon with much grace; she forced herself to smile; she was able, when she chose, to address a pleasant word to each guest; and they were all the more pleased because they were not used to it.

Ernestine recovered her spirits when she saw that her mother seemed to have recovered hers; at her age small vexations are soon forgotten; she loved company, and of late she had had so few opportunities to enjoy herself, that she joyfully seized every one that presented itself. As the young lady of the house, she listened to those complimentary remarks which it is not safe to believe, but which are always pleasant to the ear. They said that she had grown and improved; they did not say it to her, but they said it to her parents loud enough for her to hear. Madame de Noirmont listened indifferently to the compliments paid to her daughter, but Monsieur de Noirmont was enchanted by them.

Monsieur Trichet was the same as always: talking all the time, determined to know everything, taking part in every conversation, and with his ear always on the alert to hear what was being said in all the corners of the salon; that man was kept very busy in company.

Comtois announced that dinner was served, and the whole company adjourned to the dining-room. They took their seats and began to eat, with the silence of good breeding, which is sometimes maintained until the dessert.

The first course was still in progress when Monsieur de Noirmont, not being served quickly enough, looked about the room and said to Comtois:

“Where is the maid? why is she not assisting you? I am not surprised that the service is so slow! What is she doing, pray? Didn’t you tell her that she was to wait at table?”

Comtois was sadly embarrassed; when he called Louise, she told him what orders she had received from her mistress. He twisted his tongue about, and answered half audibly:

“Monsieur—I—madame said that—that it was unnecessary for——”

Monsieur de Noirmont did not allow Comtois to finish his sentence; he rejoined shortly:

“Tell Louise to come at once; she must help you serve.”

Comtois did not wait for the order to be repeated, especially as he was very glad, in the bottom of his heart, to have the girl assist him.

Madame de Noirmont looked at her plate and turned ghastly pale; Ernestine gazed anxiously from her father to her mother; and Monsieur Trichet, who had comments to make on everything, exclaimed:

“Ah! so you have a lady’s maid who doesn’t want to serve at table? You are perfectly right to compel her to do it. Servants are amazing nowadays! If we listened to them they would do nothing at all, and we should pay them high wages! I am curious to see your lady’s maid.”

Louise’s arrival put an end to these remarks. The girl was much embarrassed when she received the order sent through Comtois; she hesitated to follow him at first, but Comtois said:

“You must come, mademoiselle; monsieur says so, and when he gives an order, you must obey.”

So Louise decided to go with the valet. The thought that she was going to vex her mistress by obeying her master’s commands caused her very great distress; so that she entered the room with downcast eyes and with her cheeks flushing hotly. But she was all the prettier so, and most of the guests seemed impressed by her beauty.

“Upon my word,” said Monsieur Trichet, “this girl would have done very wrong not to show herself! I have seen few servants so pretty.—What is that you are saying, Monsieur Dernange? Oh! I hear you: you said: ‘A Greek profile.’—True, very like it. But Greek or not, it is very distinguished for the profile of a lady’s maid.”

The two young men did not make their reflections aloud, like Monsieur Trichet, but they seemed not to weary of gazing at Louise, and they were delighted to have their plates changed by her.

The tall, pretentious lady cast a disdainful glance at Louise and muttered:

“I cannot understand how anyone can call a servant pretty!”

“That girl is fascinating!” cried the other lady; “and she has such a modest air! Everything about her speaks in her favor.”

“Oho!” said Monsieur Trichet, “it isn’t safe to trust to such airs; they’re often very deceptive. I know what I am talking about; I have had two hundred maids, and they have all stolen from me.”

Madame de Noirmont made no reply to all these reflections inspired by the sight of her pretty lady’s maid. But it was plain that she was suffering, that she was holding herself back, that she was doing her utmost to appear calm and amiable as before.

Ernestine was no longer in a merry mood, for she saw that something was wrong with her mother.

As for Monsieur de Noirmont, content to be obeyed, he turned his attention to his guests and did not observe his wife’s pallor.

The subject of conversation soon changed however, and Madame de Noirmont was able to breathe a little more freely.

Louise performed her duty as well as she could, lowering her eyes when she passed her mistress, not daring to look at her, and taking care never to stand opposite her.

But suddenly ChÉrubin’s name fell on the girl’s ear. Monsieur Trichet, speaking of a reception at the Comtesse de Valdieri’s, observed:

“The young Marquis de Grandvilain was not there. I have noticed too that he doesn’t go to Madame CÉlival’s any more. That seems strange to me, for everybody knows that the little marquis was making love to those ladies; he is still too new at the game to conceal his feelings; he used to stare at them too much—it was absurd.”

At that moment Louise had in her hands a plate of chicken with olives, which she had been told to carry to the advocate’s tall wife. But when she heard ChÉrubin’s name, Louise forgot what she was doing; she dropped the plate on the pretentious lady’s shoulder, and a large portion of chicken with olives fell on that lady’s dress.

“What a stupid idiot you are!” cried the tall lady, with a savage glance at Louise. “If you don’t know how to pass a plate, you should stay in your kitchen.”

Louise stood like a statue, confused and distressed. The men, thinking her prettier than ever, tried to excuse her; Ernestine rose hastily and wiped the lady’s dress, which it did not even occur to Louise to do. As for Madame de Noirmont, when she heard Louise called stupid and an idiot, her eyebrows contracted and her eyes shot fire for an instant; she half rose, then fell back in her chair, as if she were dead. Monsieur Trichet, who was beside her, exclaimed:

“Madame de Noirmont is certainly ill.—Do you feel ill, madame?”

“It is nothing, I hope,” said Madame de Noirmont, rising; “just an ill turn; I will go and take a breath of air.”

Ernestine was already beside her mother; she supported her, gave her her arm, and they left the dining-room together.

This episode caused Louise’s awkwardness to be forgotten, although the tall lady continued to grumble about her dress; but nobody seemed to listen to her. After ten minutes Madame de Noirmont returned to the table. She was still very pale, but she insisted that she no longer suffered. The dinner came to an end dismally enough; the accident that had happened to the mistress of the house had dispelled all merriment.

They returned to the salon. The men conversed among themselves, and the tall lady thought of nothing but her damaged gown. Madame de Noirmont forced herself to smile as she listened to Monsieur Trichet; Ernestine kept her eyes on her mother, and the young men looked frequently toward the door, disappointed that the pretty lady’s maid did not appear again. A game of whist was organized, but it was not kept up very long, and the guests took their leave well before midnight, because Madame de Noirmont was ill and must need rest.

It was two hours after midnight. All the members of Monsieur de Noirmont’s household had long since withdrawn to their apartments, and should have been buried in slumber. Louise, still excited by the emotions of the day, had just closed her eyes, thinking of ChÉrubin, who was said to have been in love with two women.

Suddenly someone opened the door of her room, and entered cautiously, holding a light. Louise opened her eyes and recognized Madame de Noirmont, in her night dress, as pale as she had been at dinner; she walked to the bed after pausing to listen and make sure that no one was following her.

“Mon Dieu! is it you, madame?” cried Louise; “can it be that you are ill? that you need my services?—I will get up at once.”

“Stay where you are, and listen to me.”

As she spoke, Madame de Noirmont went to the door and closed it, then returned to the bed, sat down beside it, took Louise’s hand and pressed it in both of hers, saying in a broken voice:

“Louise, you must leave this house, unless you want me to die—to die of grief. Oh! my suffering has been horrible! and I feel that I shall not have the strength to endure it any longer.”

“What! can it be that I am the cause of your suffering, madame? Indeed I will go; yes, be sure of it. Mon Dieu! if I had known it sooner, I would have gone long ago and spared you much annoyance. Forgive me; for, far from seeking to make you unhappy, I would give my life to prove my zealous attachment to you. But no matter—I will go.”

“Poor Louise! then you do not hate me—me who have treated you so harshly, who have never said a kind or gentle word to you?”

“Hate you, madame? Oh! that doesn’t seem possible to me; it seems to me that it is my duty to love you.—Oh! pardon—I forget that I am only a poor servant.”

“A servant—you! Ah! that is what is killing me, that is what I cannot endure! You, a servant in my house! O my God! I was very guilty, I know, since Thou hast inflicted this punishment on me; but to-day it was too heavy.—Great heaven! what am I saying? I am losing my wits.—Louise, my poor child, you have believed that I detested you, that that was the reason why I was constantly trying to keep you away from me, have you not?—Ah! if you could have read in the depths of my heart!”

“Is it possible, madame, that you do not dislike me? Oh! I am so glad!”

“Listen to me, Louise. You ought not to be a servant; you ought to be rich and happy, poor girl! You have suffered enough for faults committed by others; your lot will soon be changed. Here, take this letter which I have just written, and hand it to the person whose name is on the envelope, to whom you will go at once on leaving here. I do not know where the—the person to whom I am sending you lives now, but you can learn by going to Monsieur ChÉrubin de Grandvilain’s house; he is his friend, and he will tell you at once where he lives. You know Monsieur ChÉrubin’s house, do you not?”

“Oh, yes! I have been there twice, madame.—And the person to whom I am to give this letter?”

“That person will—at least, I think so—restore you to your father.”

“To my father! O my God! What, madame! I shall find my parents? Do you know them, madame?”

“Ask me nothing more, Louise; what I am doing now is a great deal. I swore that I would never write to this person; but since I have seen you, I have felt that it was wicked, very wicked, to deprive you of your father’s caresses; for he will be happy to recover you! Oh, yes! I am sure that he will surround you with love and care.”

“And my mother, madame—you say nothing of her? Shall I not see her too? Oh! it would be so sweet to me to hold her in my arms!”

“Your mother? Oh, no! that is impossible; your father will conceal her name from you—he must. If, however, he should disclose it, remember that a heedless word would kill her!—But I have said enough. To-morrow, at daybreak, before anyone in the house is up, you will go away; you promise me that, Louise?”

“Yes, madame, I promise.”

“That is well; and now, kiss me.”

“May I?”

Madame de Noirmont’s only reply was to put her arms about Louise’s waist, strain her to her heart, and hold her so a long time, covering her with kisses. The poor girl was so happy that she thought that she was dreaming, and she prayed heaven not to wake her.

But Madame de Noirmont, whose eyes were filled with tears, made a superhuman effort, and extricating herself from the arms that enlaced her, deposited one more kiss on the girl’s forehead and hurriedly left the room, saying in a voice overflowing with affection:

“Do not forget anything of all that I have said to you!”

Louise lay in a sort of trance; the kisses she had received had made her know such unalloyed happiness that she tried to prolong it; she dared not reflect, or seek to solve the mystery of Madame de Noirmont’s conduct; but she repeated again and again:

“She loves me! oh, yes! she loves me, for she held me to her heart a long while, and she said: ‘Don’t forget anything that I said to you!’—Ah! I shall never forget those words; I shall remember them all my life.”

Louise did not close her eyes during the rest of the night. As soon as the day began to break, she rose, dressed hastily, made a bundle of her clothes, placed in her bosom the letter that Madame de Noirmont had given her, and, softly opening the door, left her room, stole noiselessly through several rooms to the staircase, and so down to the courtyard; she knocked on the concierge’s window, he opened the gate, and at daybreak she stood in the street.

XXVI
FEAR

Since his adventure with Chichette Chichemann, ChÉrubin had been less quick to take fire; or, rather, he had begun to understand that what he had taken for love was simply those desires which the sight of a pretty woman arouses in a man’s heart; desires which are certain to be renewed often in a wholly inexperienced heart, whose sensations have the charm of novelty.

But the checks he had met with in his amorous essays had made ChÉrubin even more shy and timid; instead of taking advantage of the lessons that he had received to bear himself more gallantly in a tÊte-À-tÊte, poor ChÉrubin was so afraid of being unfortunate or awkward again, that the bare idea of an assignation almost made him tremble. On the other hand, as love, at his age, is the first joy of life, the young marquis, not knowing how he could procure that joy, became sad and melancholy. At twenty years of age, with a noble name, a handsome fortune, with good looks and a fine figure; in a word, possessed of everything that is supposed to make a man happy, ChÉrubin was not happy; he lost his good spirits and even his fresh coloring. He no longer had that bright, ruddy complexion which people used to admire in him; for it is useless to try to conceal the fact that, while excessive dissipation sometimes destroys the health, excessive virtue may produce the same result; excess in anything is to be deplored.

The young marquis no longer visited the Comtesse de Valdieri, or Madame CÉlival, because the frigid greeting he received from those ladies was equivalent to a dismissal; but he sometimes met them in society. When he did, it seemed to him that all the ladies looked at him in a strange fashion, that they whispered together and even went so far as to laugh when he appeared. All this tormented and disturbed him; he told his troubles to his friend MonfrÉville.

“Do you suppose that that little countess and Madame CÉlival have been saying unkind things about me?” he said. “I don’t know what I have done to them.”

“That is just the reason!” replied MonfrÉville, with a smile. “I beg you, my young friend, do not persist in this apathy, which is ill-suited to your years. You have everything that a man needs, to be agreeable to the ladies; form other connections. Have three or four mistresses at once, deceive them all openly, and your reputation will soon be reËstablished.”

“That is very easy for you to say, my dear MonfrÉville, but, since my misadventures, I am so afraid of being—er—awkward again with a woman, that it makes me shudder beforehand. It is enough to kill one with shame and despair! I prefer not to take the risk. And yet I feel that I am terribly bored.”

“I can well believe it—to live without love, at your age! when one has not even the memory of his follies! that is perfectly absurd. But if you are afraid that you are not yet sufficiently enterprising with a great lady, why, my friend, make a beginning with grisettes and actresses. I assure you they will train you quite as well.”

“Yes, I thought of that at first; and last week, happening to meet Malvina—you know, that lively little ballet girl?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I spoke to her. At first she called me Monsieur Jack Frost; but when I told her that I wasn’t as cold as she thought, she said: ‘To make me believe that, you must prove it.’ And she invited me again to breakfast with her—at six o’clock in the morning—and we appointed a day.”

“Good! that is excellent!”

“Oh, yes! but the day came long ago, and I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I reflected that I had no more love for Malvina than for the others, and that I should no doubt make as big a fool of myself with her as I had done at my previous tÊte-À-tÊtes.”

“You were altogether wrong! your reasoning is ridiculous! The idea of reflecting about an amourette, a passing fancy! But stay—didn’t you tell me once of a grisette, a girl who worked in a linen-draper’s shop near by, and who used to ogle you? she even told you her name, I believe.”

“Yes, my friend, that was little CÉlanire, with the fair hair and the nose À la Roxelane.”

“Well, there’s your chance; ask Mademoiselle CÉlanire for a rendezvous. Judging from what you have told me, she won’t refuse you.”

“That is what I did, my friend. The day before yesterday I saw the young grisette in the street; when she found that I was walking behind her, she pretended to make a misstep; then she stopped and clung to me to keep from falling.”

“That was very clever.”

“So I thought; after that, we talked, and finally she agreed to meet me that evening on Boulevard du ChÂteau d’Eau, a long way from her quarter, for the express purpose of not meeting people who might recognize her.”

“That was very prudent; grisettes think of everything. Well, how did matters go at that meeting?”

“Mon Dieu! my friend, I didn’t go there either. As I was about to start, I made the same reflections that I had made concerning the little dancer. Then I was afraid and I stayed at home.”

“Oh! this is too much, my poor ChÉrubin! If you give way to such terrors, there is no reason why you should not be bewildered by them all your life! In old times, the old women would have said that someone had cast a spell on you, and they would have sent you to see some famous exorcist. For, in the good old days, spells were cast and destroyed frequently; indeed, it was not uncommon to see prosecutions based upon such affairs, and to see the judges order an inspection, in order to make the man prove his innocence, who attempted to make so many honest people forfeit theirs. But those barbarous days have passed—for they really deserve to be so called. Now, we know no better sorcerer than a pretty woman to discover whether a man is in love or not. So that I persist in referring you to such a one.”

MonfrÉville’s words did not console ChÉrubin in the least; he continued in his state of depression and self torment; but one morning there came to his mind a thought that roused and revivified him: he thought of Gagny, of young Louise, of his kindhearted nurse, who loved him so dearly; it occurred to him to revisit his childhood home. In his melancholy and his ennui he remembered those who loved him; in the whirl of dissipation he had forgotten them! Such cases are too common; they do not speak well for our hearts, but why did Nature make us like that?

ChÉrubin said nothing to any of his household; he took neither Jasmin nor GÉrondif, but ordered his cabriolet, bade his little groom climb up behind, and started, after obtaining minute directions as to the shortest way to Gagny.

With a good horse it is not a long drive. ChÉrubin arrived at Villemonble in a short time. His heart beat fast as he drove through the village, for he recognized the country where his childhood had been passed, and a large part of his adolescence. His heart was very full when he spied the first houses of Gagny; he felt such a thrill of pleasure, of happiness, as he had not known since he went to Paris, and he was amazed that he could have allowed so long a time to elapse without returning to the village.

He recognized the square, the guard house, and the steep street leading to his nurse’s house; he urged his horse and drew rein at last in front of Nicole’s door. It was only three years since he had left it, but it seemed to him a century, and he scrutinized everything about him to see if anything had changed.

He alighted from his carriage, crossed the yard where he had played so often, and hastily entered the room on the ground floor, where the family usually sat. Nicole was there, working, and Jacquinot asleep in a chair; nothing was changed; one person only was missing.

Nicole raised her eyes, then gave a shout. She gazed earnestly at the fashionably dressed young man who had entered the room; she was afraid that she was mistaken, she dared not believe that it was ChÉrubin. But he did not leave her long in uncertainty; he flew into her arms, crying:

“My nurse! my dear Nicole! Ah! how glad I am to see you again!”

“It’s him! it’s really him!” cried the peasant woman, who could hardly speak, she was so overcome by joy. “He has come to see us, so he still loves me, the dear boy! Forgive me for calling you that, monsieur le marquis, but habit is stronger than I am.”

“Call me what you used to call me, dear Nicole. Do you suppose that that offends me? On the contrary, I insist upon it, I demand it.”

“Oh! what joy!—Wake up, Jacquinot, my man, here’s our fieu ChÉrubin come back, and in our house again.”

Jacquinot rubbed his eyes and recognized the young marquis, but dared not offer him his hand. But ChÉrubin warmly grasped the peasant’s rough and calloused hand. He, in his delight, ran off, as his custom was, to bring wine and glasses.

ChÉrubin seated himself beside Nicole; he kissed her again and again, then glanced about the room and said:

“What a pity that someone is missing! If Louise were here, my happiness would be complete. Is she still in Bretagne—a long way off? Doesn’t she mean to return?”

“Oh, yes, my boy,” murmured the peasant woman with evident embarrassment. “But you do still care for us a little bit, my dear child, although you have got used to finer folks than we are?”

“Do I care for you! Indeed I do! I understand why you ask me that, dear Nicole; I have been an ungrateful wretch, I have acted very badly. To think of not coming once to embrace you in three years! Oh! that was very wicked of me. I planned to do it very often, but one has so many things to do in Paris! Society, and all the amusements that were so new to me—it all bewildered me. You must try to forgive me.”

“Forgive him! How handsome he is! how handsome he is!”

“And then, it seems to me that if you had wanted to see me, there was nothing to prevent your coming to Paris, to my house.—You know well enough where it is.”

“Why, we did go there, my dear child, we went there twice, Louise and I. We asked to see you, and the first time they told us that you were travelling; the second, that you were at some chÂteau and would be away a long while.”

“That is very strange! In the first place, it isn’t true; I have not left Paris since I first went there, I have not travelled at all; and then, I was never told that you came.”

“The idea! I told the concierge to tell you.”

“Ah! I will look into this, and I will find out why they presumed to conceal your visits from me.”

“Bless me! that made Louise and me feel very bad, and we said: ‘As long as he knows we’ve been to see him but couldn’t find him, and he don’t come to see us, why, we mustn’t go again, because perhaps he don’t like to have us come to his house in Paris.’”

“Not like it, my dear Nicole! The idea of thinking that of me! And poor Louise too! But why did you send her to Bretagne, instead of keeping her with you?”

“Louise in Bretagne!” exclaimed Jacquinot, who returned to the room just then with a jug of wine and glasses. “What’s the sense of making up stories like that to deceive my friend monsieur le marquis?”

“What! Louise is not in Bretagne!” cried ChÉrubin. “Why, Monsieur GÉrondif has been telling me that for two years. What is the meaning of that lie?”

“Oh! dear me, my boy!” said Nicole, “I’ll tell you the whole story, for I don’t like to lie! And then, the more I look at you, you look so good and gentle, I can’t believe that you’ve got to be a rake, a seducer, as Monsieur GÉrondif told us!”

“I, a rake, a seducer! Why, that is not true, nurse, it is horribly false! On the contrary, people laugh at me in Paris because they say I am too bashful with the ladies. And to say that I am a rake! That is abominable! And my tutor dared to say such things?”

“My dear child, I am going to tell you the whole truth. Monsieur GÉrondif, who came to see us often and seemed to admire Louise’s beauty, came one day about nine or ten months ago, and offered the child a fine place in Paris, which he said that you wanted her to take.”

“Ah! the liar!”

“Louise liked the idea of going to Paris, because she said that that would bring her nearer to you, and she hoped to see you once in a while.”

“Dear Louise!”

“So she accepted; but while she was packing her clothes, monsieur le professeur whispered to me: ‘I am taking Louise away to remove her from the designs of my pupil, who means to make her his mistress.’”

“What an outrage!”

“‘And if he comes here, make him believe that she’s been with a relation of yours in Bretagne a long time.’”

ChÉrubin rose and paced the floor; he was so suffocated by wrath that he could hardly speak.

“What a shameful thing! to say that of me! to invent such lies! But what could his object have been? Do you know where he took Louise?”

“Oh! to some very fine folks, so he told us.”

“But who are they?”

“Bless me! I didn’t ask that, my dear child, because I had so much confidence in the schoolmaster.”

“So you don’t know where Louise is? Oh! I will find out! I will make him tell me!—I am dying with impatience; I wish I were in Paris now.—Adieu! my dear Nicole! adieu, Jacquinot!”

“What, going already, my fieu? You have hardly got here!”

“And he hasn’t drunk a single glass!”

“I will come again, my friends, I will come again—but with Louise, whom I am wild to find!—Ah! Monsieur GÉrondif! you say that I am a rake! We will see! They have all looked upon me as a child hitherto, but I’ll show them that I am their master!”

ChÉrubin embraced Nicole, shook hands with Jacquinot, and, turning a deaf ear to all that those good people said to pacify him, he returned to his cabriolet, lashed his horse and drove rapidly back to Paris.

On reaching home, he at once summoned Monsieur GÉrondif, Jasmin and the concierge. From the tone in which he issued the order, and from the expression of his face, the servants did not recognize their master, ordinarily so mild and gentle. The groom went to call the tutor, who had just finished dressing, although it was midday. He went down to his pupil, thinking:

“Monsieur le marquis undoubtedly wishes me to teach him something. Perhaps he wants to learn to write poetry. Mademoiselle Turlurette tells everybody in the house that my verses are so fine! I will have him begin with free verses; they are certainly easier to write, most assuredly.”

But on entering the apartment of the young marquis, whom he found pacing the floor with an impatient and angry expression, the tutor became anxious, and began to think that he had not been summoned to give lessons in poetry. Jasmin, who did not know where he was, his master was scowling so at him, stood motionless in a corner, whence he dared not stir, and the concierge, who was fully as terrified as the others, remained in the doorway, afraid to go in.

ChÉrubin addressed the latter first; he bade him come nearer, and said to him:

“A short time after I first came to this house, a worthy countrywoman, my nurse, came to see me, with a young girl. They came twice; they were most anxious to see me; and you told them, the first time, that I was travelling, and the second time, that I was at the chÂteau of one of my friends. Why did you tell that falsehood? Who gave you leave to turn away people who are dear to me and whom I should have been glad to see? Answer me.”

The concierge hung his head and answered:

“Faith, monsieur, all I did was to follow the instructions Monsieur Jasmin gave me; and I thought he was only carrying out monsieur’s orders.”

“Ah! it was Jasmin who told you to say that, was it? Very well; you may go; but henceforth take your orders from me alone.”

The concierge bowed and left the room, delighted that he had come off so cheap.

Old Jasmin turned purple; he twisted his mouth, like a child about to cry. ChÉrubin walked up to him and said in a tone in which there was more reproach than anger:

“And so, Jasmin, it was you who ordered my dear Nicole and Louise to be turned away? It was you who arranged matters so that the people who brought me up must inevitably think me proud and unfeeling and ungrateful!—Ah! that was very ill done of you—and I don’t recognize your kind heart in that business.”

Jasmin drew his handkerchief and wept.

“You are right, monsieur!” he cried; “it was a shame, it was downright folly, but it wasn’t my idea; I should never have thought of it. It was your tutor who told me that we must prevent your seeing Nicole and little Louise, because it would be very dangerous for you. As Monsieur GÉrondif is a scholar, I thought that he must be right, and I did what he told me.”

While the old valet was speaking, Monsieur GÉrondif scratched his nose with all his might, as if to prepare for the attack that he was about to undergo; and in fact it was to him that ChÉrubin turned after listening to Jasmin, and there was the ring of righteous anger in his voice as he cried:

“So all this comes from you, monsieur? I should have suspected as much.—So it was dangerous for me to see the people from the village, who love me like their own child!”

Monsieur GÉrondif threw one of his legs back, puffed out his chest, raised his head, and began with abundant assurance:

“Well, yes, my illustrious pupil! and I consider that I was right. Non est discipulus super magistrum.—Listen to my reasons: You left the village and the fields with great regret; you might have been tempted to return thither, and it was necessary to remove that temptation—always in your interest. The Sadder, abridged from the Zend, which contains all the tenets of the religion founded by Zoroaster, ordains that every man must make a strict examination of his conscience at the end of each day; and mine——”

“Oh! I am not talking about Zoroaster, monsieur! Was it in my interest too, that, at the time of your last visit to the village, you told Nicole that I had become a rake and a seducer in Paris; that I intended to make Louise my mistress; and that it was absolutely necessary to find a place for her in Paris, and to make me believe that she was in Bretagne?”

Monsieur GÉrondif was petrified; he could think of no quotations to make; he hung his head and did not know which leg to stand on; while Jasmin, when he heard what the tutor had said of his young master, ran to the fireplace, seized the tongs, and prepared to strike Monsieur GÉrondif:

“You dare to tell such infamous lies about my master!” he exclaimed; “to slander him like that! Let me thrash him, monsieur! I believe that I can do that with as much force as I had at twenty years.”

But ChÉrubin stopped Jasmin, and said to the tutor:

“What were your reasons for lying so, monsieur?”

“To tell the truth, my noble pupil, I do not know;—a temporary aberration, a——”

“Well, I shall find out later. But, first of all, where is Louise?”

“The young and interesting foundling?”

“Come, come, monsieur, answer me, and no more lies; where is Louise?”

“In an honorable family, I venture to flatter myself; I obtained her a situation as lady’s maid with Madame de Noirmont.”

“A lady’s maid! my foster-sister! You have made my old playmate a lady’s maid!—Ah! that’s an outrage!”

“The wages are good, and I thought that, as she has no fortune——”

“Hold your peace! Poor Louise! so this is the reward of your sworn attachment to me!—But she shall not remain another day in that position. Jasmin, call a cab at once, and you, monsieur, come with me.”

Monsieur GÉrondif did not wait for the order to be repeated; he followed ChÉrubin, who took his hat and hastened downstairs. Jasmin called a cab, the young marquis stepped in, ordered Monsieur GÉrondif to take his place beside him and to give the driver Madame de Noirmont’s address. The tutor obeyed and they drove away.

ChÉrubin did not open his mouth during the drive, and GÉrondif did not dare even to blow his nose. When the cab stopped in front of the Noirmont mansion, ChÉrubin said to his tutor:

“It was you who brought Louise to this house; go now and find her. Say to the persons in whose service she is that she is not to work any more, that she has found a friend and protector; say whatever you choose, but remember that you must bring me my friend and sister. As for her, simply say to her that I am here, waiting for her, and I am perfectly sure that she will instantly make her preparations to come to me. Go, monsieur; I will stay here and wait.”

Monsieur GÉrondif jumped out of the cab, blew his nose when he was on the sidewalk, and entered the house at last, saying to himself:

“Let us do it, as there is no way to avoid it! The little one will not be mine—unless, perhaps, later—no one knows. Perhaps he will endow her, and I will imagine that she’s a widow.”

ChÉrubin counted the minutes after the tutor entered the house; he leaned out of the cab door and did not take his eyes from the porte cochÈre; for he momentarily expected Louise to appear, and that hope was constantly disappointed. At last two persons left the house and came toward him; they were Monsieur GÉrondif and Comtois. The professor’s face wore a most woebegone expression; he rolled his eyes wildly about as he approached ChÉrubin: but the latter did not wait for him to speak.

“Louise!” he cried, “Louise! why hasn’t she come with you? Didn’t you tell her that I was here?”

“No, my noble pupil,” replied GÉrondif, with an air of desperation, “I did not tell her, for I could not. If you knew!”

“I don’t want to know; I want Louise—I came here to get her. Why doesn’t she come down? Do they refuse to let her go? In that case I will go up myself——”

“Oh, no! nobody refuses anything; but she has gone already, and that is why she doesn’t come down with us.”

“What do you say? Louise——”

“Has not been at Monsieur de Noirmont’s for four days; she went off one morning, very early, before anyone in the house was up.”

“Ah! you are deceiving me!”

“No, my noble pupil; but as I thought that perhaps you would not believe me, I requested Comtois, Monsieur de Noirmont’s confidential valet, to come with me and confirm my story.—Speak, incorruptible Comtois; tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Comtois stepped toward ChÉrubin, and said, saluting him respectfully:

“Since Mademoiselle Louise has been in our family, we had never had anything but praise for her behavior. Her modest manner, her sweetness of disposition, won all our hearts. Mademoiselle Ernestine de Noirmont treated her more as her friend than as her maid; madame was the only one who, for some unknown reason, was a trifle harsh with Mademoiselle Louise.—Well, last Friday, the day after a large dinner-party that we gave here, the girl went away. She took nothing with her but a little bundle containing her clothes—not another thing. Mademoiselle Ernestine was terribly unhappy over her going; but we supposed that Louise had decided to return to her province because she was disappointed that she had not been able to win madame’s favor. That is the exact truth, monsieur. However, if you will take the trouble to go upstairs, you can see Mademoiselle Ernestine, or my master and mistress, who will tell you just what I have told you.”

ChÉrubin did not deem it necessary to question Monsieur or Madame de Noirmont; Comtois had no motive for lying to him, and in his eyes could be read his personal regret for Louise’s departure.

“She must have returned to Gagny, beyond any question,” cried GÉrondif, scratching his nose.

“To Gagny!” exclaimed ChÉrubin, in despair; “why, I have just come from there! You forget that I have been there this morning, that I am just from Nicole’s house, and that Louise has not been seen there.”

“Perhaps you may have passed each other on the road.”

“Why, he says that it was four days ago that she left the house!—four days, do you understand? What has become of her during all that time? Does it take four days to travel four leagues?”

“Not usually—but, if she stopped often on the way.”

“Ah! it was you who induced Louise to leave the village, where she was safe from all harm. It was you, monsieur, who brought her to Paris. But remember that you must find Louise, that I must know where she is, what has happened to her in the four days since she left this house; and if she has met with any misfortune—then all my wrath will fall on you!”

ChÉrubin leaped into the cab, gave the driver MonfrÉville’s address, and hastened to his friend. He longed to confide his troubles to him, for he knew that his friendship would not fail him when he went to him to claim his aid and support.

MonfrÉville was at home; when his young friend appeared, deeply moved and intensely excited, he instantly questioned him concerning the cause of his agitation. ChÉrubin told him all that he had done since morning: his visit to the village, his conversation with Nicole and her disclosures of Monsieur GÉrondif’s conduct regarding Louise, and finally the girl’s disappearance from the house in which she had taken service. When he had finished his narrative, he cried:

“I must find Louise, my friend, I must find her, for I know now how dearly I love her. Poor Louise, it was to be near me, it was in the hope of seeing me, that she accepted that place in Paris. Nicole told me all, for Louise still thought of me, she never let a day pass without speaking of me, and I, like an ingrate, let three years pass without a sign that I remembered her!”

“That is true,” said MonfrÉville, “and to-day you are in the depths of despair because you don’t know what has become of her! But from all that you tell me, it seems to me that this girl is worthy of your love, and that it would be a great pity that she should fall into some trap, that she should be victimized by some miserable villain. Is she pretty, did you say?”

“She was lovely at fifteen, and Nicole told me that she had improved every day.”

“The deuce! poor child! If she is very pretty and has lost her way in Paris, it’s very dangerous. As for your tutor, there is a very natural explanation of his conduct: he was in love with Louise, no doubt, and deemed it prudent to keep you from seeing her, which was sure to happen sooner or later. For a pedagogue, that was rather clever.”

“In love with Louise! the insolent old idiot!—But where shall I look for poor Louise—where can I hope to find her now?”

“That will be rather difficult, perhaps; but rely upon me to help you, to guide you in your search. You must set your servants at work; we will not spare money, and that is a powerful auxiliary in all the emergencies of life.”

ChÉrubin thanked his friend warmly for lending him his assistance, and they began their search the same day.

While these things were taking place at MonfrÉville’s apartment, Monsieur GÉrondif stood in the street, as if turned to stone by his pupil’s anger and threats. Comtois had long since returned to his duties and the tutor was still in front of the porte cochÈre. He decided at last to go his way, saying to himself:

“The Scripture says: ‘Seek and ye shall find.’ I am going to seek you, Louise, but I probably shall not find you.”

XXVII
THE LITTLE DOG FANCIER

We left Louise at the moment when, in compliance with Madame de Noirmont’s wishes, she left the house before anybody had risen.

Thus Louise found herself in the street at a very early hour. She had her bundle of clothes under her arm, and in her breast that letter, of such inestimable value, which would perhaps enable her to find her father.

When she was at a sufficient distance from the house that she had left, her first thought was to learn the name of the person to whom Madame de Noirmont had sent her. She took out the letter and read this address:

“For Monsieur Edouard de MonfrÉville. To be delivered to him in person.”

“Monsieur de MonfrÉville,” said Louise; “I have never heard of that gentleman. But Madame de Noirmont said that he was a great friend of ChÉrubin, and that they would give me his address at ChÉrubin’s house. So I will go there. Oh! I shall not ask to see him! I know that he no longer cares for me, that he doesn’t choose to know me any more; and besides, as he has three or four mistresses at once, why, I haven’t any desire to see him either.”

The girl heaved a sigh as she spoke, for her heart was by no means in accord with her words; but she started toward Faubourg Saint-Germain, saying to herself:

“I must not think any more about my old playfellow; I will think only of what Madame de Noirmont said to me last night.”

Louise at last reached the street on which the hÔtel de Grandvilain stood. When she realized that she was so near ChÉrubin’s abode, she stopped and began to tremble:

“As ChÉrubin wouldn’t admit us,” she thought, “when I came with his dear old nurse, perhaps they’ll shut the door in my face. They will think that it is he whom I wish to see, and that will make him even more angry with me. Oh dear! what am I to do?”

And instead of going toward the house, Louise retraced her steps, walking very slowly. But in a moment she stopped again and said to herself:

“But I must ascertain this Monsieur de MonfrÉville’s address! Suppose I should wait until someone comes out of the house? Yes, I think that that will be the better way. I shall not be so afraid to speak to someone in the street. But it is still very early; people don’t get up at this time in these fine houses. I will walk back and forth, and wait; there’s no law against that, and, besides, not many people are passing yet. If I should see him come out, I would hide so that he might not see me. But I could look at him, at all events—and it is so long since I saw him!”

Louise had been walking the street for some time, looking in vain for somebody to leave the house, when two persons came toward her from a street near by. They were not arm in arm; indeed, one of them allowed his companion to keep always a few steps in advance, as if a certain residuum of respect kept him from putting himself on a level with the other. The first wore a long coat lined with fur, very stylish and sadly soiled, and a hat which was almost new, but which seemed to have received a number of blows; he had a cigar in his mouth; the second wore his huge umbrella hat and nut-colored box-coat, a pair of shockingly dirty trousers, and boots which were not made for him and in which his feet and legs seemed fairly to dance. In addition, he had a black eye and a bruised nose.

DarÉna and Poterne had passed the night at a party where they had played cards until daylight, and had indulged in a fight before separating. DarÉna had chosen to pass through ChÉrubin’s street on his way home; he always took that road by preference, a fancy which did not please Poterne, who muttered as he followed him:

“If your former friend the young marquis should meet us, he might pay me a few more compliments behind, and I can do without them.”

“Bah!” retorted DarÉna, “you always look at the dark side. For my part, I would like to meet ChÉrubin. I would go up to him with a laugh, and I would say: ‘Who ever heard of friends falling out for a jest? I obtained your introduction to a charming girl; instead of being a Pole, she was an Alsatian, but what’s the difference? And, faith, it isn’t my fault that you went to sleep in her company!’—I’ll bet that he would shake hands with me, and all would be forgotten.”

“Hum! I don’t think it! If you knew how his friend MonfrÉville gave it to you!”

“Ta! ta! mere empty words! nonsense! I am above all that!”

The two worthies were walking on when Poterne, spying Louise standing a few steps from the hÔtel de Grandvilain, upon which her eyes seemed to be fixed, put his hand on DarÉna’s arm, saying:

“Look—yonder, at the right.”

“Bigre! what a pretty girl! What in the devil is she doing there, in rapt contemplation, before the door of ChÉrubin’s house? Do you know, Poterne, that girl is perfectly bewitching! The more one looks at her, the more charms one discovers.”

“Yes, and it’s not Parisian style; however, she’s something more than a peasant. She has a bundle under her arm—do you suppose she has just arrived from the provinces?”

“She is still staring at the house. I certainly must find out what she is doing here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, but I am a Frenchman, and a lady’s man before everything; and I am bound to aid and protect the fair sex. Forward, and you will see. Walk beside me, idiot!”

DarÉna and Poterne crossed the street and walked toward Louise; when they were near her, DarÉna stopped and said in a loud tone:

“Monsieur Poterne, as we are passing through this street, suppose we stop and bid our good friend, Marquis ChÉrubin de Grandvilain good-morning? this is his house. You know that he is constantly asking us to breakfast with him.”

Poterne enveloped himself closely in his box-coat and replied:

“It’s too early as yet; no one is up in the marquis’s house.”

These words were not lost on Louise, who started at the name of ChÉrubin. She approached DarÉna and said to him timidly:

“Excuse me, monsieur, but as you are a friend of Monsieur de Grandvilain, who lives in this house, perhaps you know Monsieur de MonfrÉville also?”

At that name Poterne made a wry face; but DarÉna replied as amiably as possible:

“Yes, my lovely maiden, I know MonfrÉville; indeed, I am intimately acquainted with him. Have you business with him?”

“I have a letter for him, but I do not know his address, and I was told that I could learn it at Monsieur ChÉrubin’s; but, although I know Monsieur ChÉrubin, I dared not go into his house.”

“Ah! so you know my friend ChÉrubin, mademoiselle? In that case he must have spoken to me about you, for I was his most intimate confidant.”

“Oh, no, monsieur!” replied Louise sadly, “he would never have spoken to you about me, for he has forgotten me; he doesn’t want to see us again. I am Louise, Monsieur ChÉrubin’s friend in childhood.”

“Young Louise!” cried DarÉna; “who was with ChÉrubin, at his nurse Nicole’s, at Gagny?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“You see that I am well informed, mademoiselle, that I did not deceive you when I said that I was the marquis’s friend.”

“Oh, yes! I see that, monsieur.”

During this dialogue, Poterne sauntered up to DarÉna and whispered:

“There’s a chance to make a turn here.”

DarÉna retorted with a blow of his elbow in the ribs, muttering:

“So I see, you fool!”

Then, turning to Louise, he continued:

“Mademoiselle, if you do not wish to call at my friend ChÉrubin’s, it does not seem to me fitting that you should remain in the street. In Paris, you see, there are certain proprieties that one must always observe. Young and pretty as you are, you must not expose yourself to the risk of being insulted by some scoundrel. Take my arm; you are my friend’s foster-sister, his playmate, and I naturally declare myself your protector. Pray take my arm.”

“Oh! how kind you are, monsieur!” replied Louise, timidly putting her arm through DarÉna’s. “Are you really going to take the trouble to take me to Monsieur de MonfrÉville’s?”

“I will take you wherever you choose—to the king if you have anything to say to him.—Poterne, why don’t you take mademoiselle’s bundle?”

“You are too kind, monsieur, but it does not trouble me.”

“No matter; I will not allow my friend ChÉrubin’s foster-sister to carry a bundle when she has my arm.”

Poterne had already taken the bundle from Louise’s hands; and she, confused by so much courtesy, walked on with her arm through DarÉna’s, while Poterne followed, feeling the bundle to find out what there was in it.

As they walked along, the girl told DarÉna how she had left Gagny to enter Madame de Noirmont’s service, and her grief because ChÉrubin had forgotten her; in fact, she omitted nothing save the visit Madame de Noirmont had paid to her during the night.

“And what do you propose to do at MonfrÉville’s?” asked DarÉna, fixing his eyes on Louise’s lovely ones.

“I am going to give him a letter which was given to me for him.”

“To induce him to reconcile you and your dear friend ChÉrubin, no doubt?”

“Oh! no, monsieur! it’s about something that he alone knows about.”

Louise said no more, deeming it improper to admit a third person to the secret of what Madame de Noirmont had said to her. DarÉna paid little heed to that matter; he was thinking what he should do with Louise. Suddenly he remembered the little house on the outer boulevard, which he had hired for the Polish intrigue, and which was still in his possession, as he had been obliged to take it for six months. Turning to Poterne, he said with a wink:

“Monsieur de Poterne, my friend MonfrÉville is still living in his petite maison on the boulevards, outside the wall, is he not?”

“He is, monsieur le comte,” replied Poterne innocently. “But Monsieur de MonfrÉville often goes away on short journeys about the neighborhood; I can’t vouch for it that he is at home now.”

“At all events, we will take mademoiselle there. If he is absent, we will consider what Mademoiselle Louise, my friend ChÉrubin’s foster-sister, can do until his return. Ah! there’s a cab; let us take it, for it’s a long way from here to MonfrÉville’s.”

Poterne summoned a cab, and Louise entered it with her two chance acquaintances; the girl was entirely unsuspicious; she was convinced that the gentleman who had offered her his arm was a friend of ChÉrubin, and in her eyes that title was enough to banish suspicion.

The cab stopped in front of the house near BarriÈre de la Chopinette, which had been occupied since the abortive Chichemann affair by little Bruno alone, whom they left in charge. DarÉna whispered a word in Poterne’s ear, and that gentleman took pains to enter first. Louise remained with DarÉna, who wasted a long time paying the cab-driver. At last he ushered the girl into the house, the boy having received his instructions.

“We wish to speak with Monsieur de MonfrÉville,” DarÉna said to Bruno. “Here is a young lady, my intimate friend Marquis ChÉrubin’s foster-sister, who is most anxious to see him.”

Bruno eyed Louise impertinently as he replied:

“Monsieur de MonfrÉville’s away; he’ll probably come back to-morrow or next day; if anybody wants to wait for him, he told me to offer his room to any of his friends who might come to see him.”

Louise was in despair; she looked at DarÉna and murmured:

“The gentleman is away; what shall I do?”

“In the first place, my child, you must go upstairs and rest,” said DarÉna; “then we will see, we will consider. Come, follow me without fear; in MonfrÉville’s house, I act as if I were at home.”

Louise went upstairs with DarÉna, who, to dispel every shadow of fear from her mind, made a show of treating her with the greatest respect, and kept always at a considerable distance from her. She was rather surprised that the person to whom Madame de Noirmont had sent her should occupy a house of such humble appearance, and so modestly furnished; but she had not told her that he was rich, she had simply said that he could tell her who her father was, and that was why she was so eager to see him.

“My lovely maid,” said DarÉna, after a moment, “you know no one in Paris—except ChÉrubin; and you do not wish to go to him to ask for shelter, I presume?”

“Oh! no, monsieur!”

“To return to Gagny and then come here again would be a waste of time; besides, if you travel alone, you expose yourself to a thousand encounters that are most annoying to a young lady. It seems to me, therefore, that the best thing for you to do, in view of your position, is to wait here until MonfrÉville returns.”

“Here, monsieur! alone in this house, with nobody but the little boy I saw downstairs,” replied Louise, with a shudder of dismay; “oh! I should not dare.”

“Alone, my child? no, indeed. If that were the case I would not make the suggestion; but there is a concierge here, MonfrÉville’s confidential servant, a most respectable person. That little fellow is her nephew; she probably is not far away, and he is watching the house during her absence.”

“Oh! that is a very different matter! If there is a respectable woman here, and she is willing to look after me until Monsieur de MonfrÉville returns——”

“Wait; I will go down and see what has become of her.”

DarÉna hurried downstairs and said to Poterne:

“You will send this little rascal away instantly and find a woman between forty and sixty years of age, who has a face that is somewhere near respectable; that will give the girl confidence, and she will stay here. I am not sorry to get rid of Monsieur Bruno anyway, after he admitted so readily those people who ruined our last affair.”

“A respectable woman,” said Poterne—”I don’t know any such. How in the devil do you expect me to find anything of the kind at La Courtille?”

“Where you choose—nonsense—a dealer in old clothes—a fortune-teller—a charwoman—and teach her her lesson.”

DarÉna returned to keep Louise company and told her that the concierge had gone to the central market, because there was no market in that quarter, but that she would soon return.

Meanwhile Poterne began by discharging Monsieur Bruno, who was much displeased to be turned out-of-doors, and who ventured to indulge in some far from respectful gestures as he withdrew. But Poterne did not amuse himself watching Bruno’s antics; he went about to the neighboring wine-shops, and from house to house, inquiring for what he wanted. At last, after two hours search, he found it. He returned to the house with a woman of about fifty years, tall as a grenadier, with a cap on her head which certainly had not been washed for a year, and a dress the color of which was no longer distinguishable; a pimply face, blear-eyes and a nose smeared with snuff completed her portrait.

“This is Madame Ratouille, Monsieur de MonfrÉville’s confidential servant,” said Poterne, presenting his companion.

Madame Ratouille, to whom Poterne had given careful instructions, curtsied very low to DarÉna and greeted Louise most affably, assuring her that the house was at her disposal, and that her master, Monsieur de MonfrÉville, would approve of her having urged the young lady to wait for him. Madame Ratouille, being extremely loquacious and anxious to play her part well, because she had been promised six francs a day and all that she wanted to eat, lost herself in a sea of words intended to prove to Louise that she would be out of reach of insult in that house. The girl, feeling certain that Madame de Noirmont could not have sent her to any but respectable persons, thanked Madame Ratouille warmly, and consented to await Monsieur de MonfrÉville’s return under her care.

DarÉna passed some time with Louise; Poterne seized the opportunity to show the new concierge over the house, where she was supposed to have lived for a long while. He urged her not to talk too much, for fear of making some slip, and above all things not to allow anyone to have access to the girl who was placed in her charge; then he went away with DarÉna, who bade Louise adieu, informing her that he would come the next day to find out whether his friend MonfrÉville had returned, and whether she had everything that she needed.

When they had left the house, Poterne said:

“This girl has fallen into our hands to make up to us for the Polish intrigue. She is a fascinating creature! It is impossible that young ChÉrubin should not adore her; indeed, you have often told me how much he used to talk about his little playmate—a proof that he hasn’t forgotten her, as she thinks; but we mustn’t let him have her except for her weight in gold.”

DarÉna made no reply; he seemed to be thinking deeply, and Poterne did not dare to disturb him; he proposed to have the management of the affair in his own hand.

The next day DarÉna made a careful toilet and went with Poterne to the little house. While he talked with Louise, Poterne remained below, talking with Madame Ratouille, who assured him that the girl had not had a moment of ennui as she had played cards with her all day.

DarÉna remained with Louise until nightfall; when he went away with Poterne, he was as silent as on the day before.

The following day passed in the same way; but Poterne observed that his dear friend was becoming more and more coquettish in his attire. Madame Ratouille continued to play cards with Louise, who thought that Monsieur de MonfrÉville was very slow about returning. But DarÉna said to her every day:

“Be patient; he must return at last, and as you have waited for him so long, it would be absurd to go away just at the moment of his return.”

But Louise was beginning to be disturbed; it seemed to her that the gentleman who came every day to keep her company, no longer addressed her with the same respect or kept so far away from her; she considered that he gazed at her too often and too long; and she had observed some things in Madame Ratouille’s manners and speech which materially diminished her confidence in that woman.

On the sixth day, when they left the house, where they had remained later than usual, Poterne, surprised to find that affairs were still at the same point, said to his companion:

“I say! what’s your plan? When shall you see the young marquis? What fairy tale do you propose to tell him on the subject of the girl?”

DarÉna puffed himself up and replied in a fatuous tone:

“I have changed my mind! This girl is decidedly too pretty to turn over to another man; she pleases me. I had forgotten what love was, and she has revived that sentiment in my dilapidated heart! Louise shall be my mistress; and then, later, when I am tired of her, we will see.”

“That’s a fine idea!” cried Poterne. “Is that the way you hope to earn money? Fall in love—you! why it’s pitiful! just because you have a few gold pieces in hand, and because you have been lucky at play these last few days. But it will soon be spent; and if you miss this opportunity——”

“Poterne, if you don’t stop annoying me, I’ll break this stick over your back! I mean to possess that child; perhaps it is only a whim, but it suits me to gratify it. She’s a little jewel, is this Louise, not a false one, like the one you sold to ChÉrubin. To-morrow, you will order a delectable repast, with wines which you will be kind enough not to purchase at La Courtille; you will order it sent to my villa near BarriÈre de la Chopinette; I will dine with Louise, and I will sleep there. As to you, if Madame Ratouille tempts you, I turn her over to you.”

“Sapristi! I should prefer five years at Toulon!”

“You heard me, Poterne: a dainty feast at the little house to-morrow.”

“And you think that this young Louise will consent to——”

“Why not, when I have induced her to drink a few glasses of champagne? And if she doesn’t consent, why, I will do without her permission. For six days now I have been darting burning glances at her, and if she hasn’t understood them, so much the worse for her! it isn’t my fault, and I have no desire to take it out in sighs.”

“Well,” thought Poterne, as he followed DarÉna, “he has taken it into his head, and anything that I could say would do no good.”

While all this was taking place, ChÉrubin and MonfrÉville were searching Paris, making inquiries, asking in all directions if anything had been seen of a young woman, of whom they gave an exact description. All of ChÉrubin’s servants too had taken the field; Monsieur GÉrondif started out as soon as he had breakfasted and did not return until dinner-time, swearing that he had travelled twelve leagues during the day in search of Louise. Jasmin had gone to Gagny to inquire whether by any chance Louise had returned there; but the girl had not been seen, and Nicole, when she learned that the whereabouts of her adopted child were unknown, shed tears, cursed the tutor, who was responsible for Louise’s going to Paris, and swore that she would find him and beat him if her child was not found.

Two days passed and no trace of her had been discovered; toward the end of the third day, ChÉrubin had just left MonfrÉville, to return home, in despair over the non-success of his search, when, as he crossed the Pont Neuf, his eyes happened to fall on a small boy, leading an ugly dog, which he offered for sale to the passers-by.

The young dog fancier’s face bore altogether too noticeable an expression of craft and mischief not to attract the attention of a person who had seen it before. ChÉrubin instantly recognized the little scamp who was watching the house to which DarÉna had taken the so-called Comtesse de Globeska; and, without any very clear idea in what way that encounter might be of service to him, he walked toward Monsieur Bruno, who recognized him and seemed delighted to see him.

“Ah! it’s you, is it, monsieur? I recognize you!” said Bruno, staring impudently at the young man; “you’re the man they tried to gull with a German woman who made believe she was a Pole! Don’t you want to buy my dog? It’s a terrier; he’ll bring things back better’n I do, for I never bring anything back at all. Six francs! that’s not a high price. I found him yesterday and I’m selling him to-day; we’re both hungry, and that’s why I’ll let you have him so cheap.”

“Ah! so you sell dogs now, eh?” said ChÉrubin.

“Well! I’ve got to do something, as those fellows turned me out-of-doors. You know who I mean—your friend that’s such a bully, and that old thief of a Poterne. You see they’ve taken another girl to the little house yonder, but she’s a very different kind from the Alsatian; she’s a mighty sight prettier.”

A sudden thought flashed through ChÉrubin’s mind; he led Bruno aside, put twenty francs in his hand, and said to him:

“Here, that’s for you; and ten times as much more if you will help me to find the woman I am looking for.”

“Twenty francs! My eyes! what luck! I never had so much money at once. The dog’s yours.”

“Now answer my questions. DarÉna and Poterne, you say, have taken a young girl to the house outside the barrier?”

“Yes, in a carriage, an old cab.”

“How long since? do you know?”

“Pardi, yes! I was there when they brought her. It was—let me see—a week ago to-day.”

“A week—and we have been looking for her three days; oh! it must be she! Is this young lady pretty?”

“Lovely, and she don’t look like a country wench like the other. They made her believe that she was at a Monsieur de MonfrÉville’s house; then that old vagabond of a Poterne went off and found, I don’t know where, an old woman to play concierge; and they kicked me out.”

“Did they call her by name before you?”

“Wait a minute—I remember now that, when they arrived, Monsieur DarÉna said, as he brought the girl into the house:

“‘This is my friend Marquis ChÉrubin’s foster-sister.’”

“It is she! Ah! the villains! I’ll make them give her back to me! Poor Louise! in that infamous DarÉna’s hands for a week! God grant that I may arrive in time!”

“Take me with you. If you appear at the door, they won’t let you in.”

“I’ll break the door down.”

“Oh! it’s too strong; but I promise you that I’ll find a way to make them open it.”

“Come, then, come; I will double the reward I promised you, if Louise is under my protection soon.”

“Ah! a fine trick! They’ll kick me out, will they? Thanks! I guess I’ll have a little revenge.—Go on, Boudin, I give you your liberty—go find a dinner.”

Bruno released his dog. ChÉrubin hesitated a moment, uncertain whether he should inform MonfrÉville of his discovery; but every instant’s delay made him more and more fearful that Louise would fall a victim to some plot, and he felt that he had sufficient resolution and courage to rescue her, single-handed, from the dangers that threatened her. He took a cab with Bruno, and was driven first to his house, which was not far away; he took a pair of pistols, determined to make use of them, if necessary to rescue Louise; then, without a word to any of his people, he returned to the cab, which conveyed him and Bruno to BarriÈre de la Chopinette.

It was dark when they reached the outer boulevard. ChÉrubin quivered with impatience, rage, and fear of not finding Louise. Little Bruno, who thought of everything, said to him:

“Have the cab stop before we’re very near the house. If they should hear it, it would put them on their guard.”

ChÉrubin realized the wisdom of that advice; he alighted with Bruno, ordered the driver to wait for him, and walked toward the house with his little companion. The shutters were closed on the ground floor and first floor; but through the poorly joined boards it was easy to see that there were lights on both floors.

“There’s somebody there!” said ChÉrubin, his heart beating violently.

“Yes. Now is when we need to be cunning, in order to get in. Wait, and don’t breathe. Have your pistols all ready to frighten them when the door is open. You’ll see how I pull the wool over their eyes.”

And Bruno knocked on the door, beginning at the same time to whistle and hum his favorite tune: Tu tu tu tu r’lu tu tu tu.

Poterne was at table with Madame Ratouille, on the ground floor; DarÉna had gone upstairs, where he had ordered Louise’s dinner to be served, announcing his purpose to dine with her. He had just declared his love to Louise, who, terrified and trembling, began to understand that she had fallen into a trap, and implored heaven to come to her aid.

On the ground floor, where there was no talk of love, they ate much and drank even more. Madame Ratouille’s eyes had grown so small that they were invisible, and Monsieur Poterne’s tongue was beginning to thicken, when Bruno knocked on the door.

For some time no one answered; at last Poterne’s voice inquired:

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, PÈre Poterne; it’s your little monkey, Bruno; please let me in.”

“What do you want, you scalawag? what have you come here for? We are not in need of you. Away you go!”

“I came to get a Greek cap that I forgot to take; I’m sure I can find it, for I know just where I put it. Let me get my cap and I’ll go right away.”

“You annoy us. Go somewhere else and get a cap. Leave us in peace.”

“If you don’t let me get my cap, which is in your house, I’ll knock on the door all night, and I’ll make row enough to bring the watch here.”

That threat convinced Poterne; he opened the door, grumbling:

“Well, come in and find your Greek cap; and make haste to clear out.”

But instead of the small boy whom he expected to see, ChÉrubin darted into the house, with a pistol in his hand, the barrel of which he held against Poterne’s chest, saying in a low voice, but with fire flashing from his eyes:

“If you make a sound, I’ll kill you!—Where is Louise?”

Poterne was so frightened that he could barely murmur:

“Upstairs—with DarÉna.”

ChÉrubin asked no more questions; he darted forward, rushed upstairs, and with a kick forced the door of the apartment on the first floor. He was no longer the weak, timid young man, who could neither speak nor act, but a Hercules whom nothing could withstand. As he entered the room he saw Louise struggling and doing her utmost to repel DarÉna, who was trying to take her in his arms. ChÉrubin rushed upon the man who sought to outrage Louise, and seizing him about the middle of the body, lifted him up and threw him violently across the room, against the table on which the dinner was served.

DarÉna had no time to grasp what had happened, or to defend himself; his head struck the corner of the table, his chin broke a plate which cut his face, and he fell, murmuring ChÉrubin’s name.

“ChÉrubin!” cried Louise, staring at her rescuer, afraid to believe her eyes, but shedding tears of joy. “Is it possible? It is he! it is you!”

“Yes, Louise, it is I, ChÉrubin, your friend, your brother—so overjoyed to find you! But come, come! Do not stay any longer in this infamous house! As for you, villain, if there is any heart left in your body, and if you wish to have the honor of dying by my hand, come to my house, and you will find that the young man whom you believed to be so shy and timid, knows how to use a sword and a pistol.”

DarÉna could not reply, for he was unconscious.

ChÉrubin took Louise’s hand and led her away; on the lower floor they found Madame Ratouille still at table, while Poterne was trying to hide in a butter firkin, and Bruno stood guard at the door. ChÉrubin did not stay an instant with DarÉna’s confederate; he led Louise from the house, and told Bruno to call the cab to the door; he did so, and they entered. But, before they drove away, ChÉrubin took a handful of gold pieces from his pocket and gave them to Bruno, saying:

“Take this; you have earned it by doing a good deed; I hope that it will bring you luck, and that you will try to become an honest man.”

The cab drove off. ChÉrubin held both of Louise’s hands in his; and for some time those two, who had not met for three years, were so pleased and happy to be together again, their hearts were so full, their emotion so intense, that they could exchange only incoherent words and broken sentences.

“It is really you, ChÉrubin, who saved me,” said Louise. “So you did still think of me?”

“Why, Louise, I have been searching Paris for three days, looking everywhere for you, ever since I learned that you had disappeared from Madame de Noirmont’s. I have not lived, I have not had a moment’s peace of mind!”

“Can it be true? Then you still love me, ChÉrubin?”

“Love you, my Louise! Ah! more than I ever did—I realize it now! I let a long while go by without going to see you, it is true; you must have thought me indifferent or ungrateful; but I always intended to go to see you, if Monsieur GÉrondif had not told me that you were in Bretagne, where you were so happy that you did not mean to return to Gagny.”

“Oh! the liar! And it was he who drove me to despair by telling me that you never gave a thought to your old playmate, that you had no desire to see her again.”

“The miserable villain! why, that was perfectly horrible!”

“And it was not true, and you do still love your poor Louise? Oh! how happy I am!”

This time the drive from the barrier to his house seemed very short to ChÉrubin. He alighted, led Louise into the house, and took her up to his own apartment. She followed him trustfully; she was with the man she loved—that was the only thought in her mind.

Jasmin, who had come up to his master’s apartment with a light, uttered a cry of joy when he saw the girl, and ChÉrubin briefly explained to him how he had found her.

“So it was that blackguard Poterne again—the preserved turnips fellow!” cried Jasmin; “and his master—another rascal! Do you know, monsieur, it has occurred to me several times that they were mixed up in this.”

“Louise will remain here. I do not propose that she shall leave me,” said ChÉrubin; “I am too much afraid of losing her again. She will have apartments in this house; but meanwhile she will occupy mine to-night. Jasmin, you will have a room prepared for me upstairs.”

“Yes, my dear master.”

Louise tried to object to that arrangement; she disliked to disturb ChÉrubin and said that the smallest room in the house would suffice for her; but ChÉrubin paid no heed to her, and Jasmin went to carry out his orders.

The young people were left alone. It seemed that ChÉrubin would never tire of gazing in admiration at Louise. She was so lovely, so charming, so fascinating, in his eyes, that he cried:

“And I forgot you for all those creatures that I thought that I loved. Ah! Louise, there is not a single one of them who can be compared with you!”

The girl told her friend all that she had done since she left the village; she concealed from him none of her thoughts; she had no secrets from him. When she reached the time of her entering Madame de Noirmont’s service, she told him of all the incidents that had marked her life there; then, suddenly putting her hand to her breast, she made sure that she still had the letter which she was to deliver to Monsieur de MonfrÉville, and which DarÉna was trying to make her give up to him when ChÉrubin arrived so opportunely to rescue her.

“I will take you to MonfrÉville to-morrow,” said ChÉrubin, “for it is too late to-night to send for him to come here. Madame de Noirmont told you that he would tell you who your father is; but, my dear Louise, let us swear that, whatever happens, we will never part again. If you have no parents, I will take the place of them both; I will be your protector, your friend, your——”

ChÉrubin did not know how to finish, but he took Louise’s hand and covered it with kisses. The girl was so happy to find that her old playmate still loved her, that she gladly took the oath that he requested. They did not weary of telling each other of their love, and of swearing that they would love each other always. Then they recalled their childish delights, their first games, the happy moments that they had passed together, those days, so brief and so blissful, which they might perhaps know again.

To two people who love each other sincerely and who have not seen each other for a long time, the hours pass rapidly and unnoticed. Jasmin had long since come to inform his master that a room had been prepared on the upper floor, and ChÉrubin had dismissed him, making ready at the same time to follow him. But he resumed his conversation with Louise, he let his eyes rest in unalloyed delight upon hers, which were filled with emotion and love. They exchanged more oaths of never-ending love and thought no more about parting.

Suddenly a neighboring clock struck two.

“Mon Dieu! it is very late!” said Louise; “two o’clock! I would not have believed it! My dear, I am keeping you from sleeping; we must say good-night, but only till to-morrow.”

“Very well,” said ChÉrubin, “I will leave you to sleep, Louise. Good-night—since it must be.”

And the young man gazed lovingly at the girl—and did not go away. At last he added with some embarrassment:

“Louise, before we part, won’t you let me kiss you? I have not dared to do it since I found you; and yet, in the village, we used to kiss very often.”

The girl saw no reason why she should deny the friend of her childhood the sweet privilege which she used to accord him, and her only reply was to walk toward him. ChÉrubin threw his arms about her and pressed her to his heart; but his kiss was no longer the kiss of a child. Louise realized her imprudence too late; how can one shun a danger which one does not anticipate? And then there are sins which it is so pleasant to commit, and ChÉrubin swore so earnestly that he would always love her!—He had ceased to be bashful!

XXVIII
MONFRÉVILLE’S LOVE-AFFAIRS

Daybreak found ChÉrubin still in Louise’s arms; the apartment made ready on the floor above had not been required. But when morning came, the young man crept softly upstairs, so that his servants might think that he had passed the night there. About nine o’clock he rang for Jasmin and bade him go down and see if Mademoiselle Louise had risen and could receive him.

The old servant eagerly performed his errand and returned with a radiant face to inform his young master that his dear friend had risen, that she was as lovely and fresh as a rose, and that anyone could see that she had slept soundly all night.

ChÉrubin smiled at Jasmin’s perspicacity, and went down at once to Louise.

The girl wept and hid her face on her lover’s breast; but ChÉrubin said to her in the tone which speaks true love and which reaches a woman’s heart so quickly:

“Why should you regret having made me happy, when I propose to employ my whole life hereafter to make you happy? We will never part, you will be my faithful companion, my beloved wife.”

“No,” replied Louise, weeping, “you are rich and of noble birth, and you cannot marry a poor girl without father or mother. I shall love you as long as I live, but I cannot be your wife; for perhaps a day would come when you would be sorry that you had given me that title, and then I should be too wretched.”

“Never! and it is very wicked of you to have any such idea!—But there’s the letter that you are to deliver to MonfrÉville—that should inform you who your parents are. I will throw myself at their feet, and they will have to consent to my becoming your husband.”

Louise sighed and hung her head.

“But am I worthy now to find my parents?” she replied. “It seems to me that I no longer dare to deliver the letter to that gentleman; perhaps I should do better to destroy it.”

ChÉrubin succeeded in allaying her fears; he decided to write to his friend and to send him the letter that the young woman dared not carry to him. So he at once wrote MonfrÉville the following letter:

ChÉrubin signed this letter, enclosed with it the one that was given to Louise, and sent them both to his friend early in the morning.

MonfrÉville was alone when ChÉrubin’s letter was brought to him, and he lost no time in reading it. When he saw Madame de Noirmont’s name and learned what she had said to Louise, he trembled and turned pale, and his eyes instantly rested on the enclosure; he glanced at the superscription and exclaimed:

“Yes, she has written to me; I recognize that writing, although it is a long while since my eyes last rested on it. Great God! what can have induced her to write to me, after swearing that she would never look upon me except as a stranger, that she would wipe the whole past from her memory? And this girl that she sent to me—Ah! if I dared to hope!”

MonfrÉville broke the seal of Madame de Noirmont’s letter. Before reading it, he was obliged to pause again, for he was so excited that his eyes had difficulty in distinguishing the letters. At last he made an effort to recover himself, and read:

When he had finished reading this letter, MonfrÉville abandoned himself to the wildest delight; he ran his eyes over Madame de Noirmont’s missive again, for he feared that he was the plaything of a delusion; he was too happy to think that Louise, whose beauty and virtue and sweet temper everyone joined in extolling, was the daughter whom he was ardently desirous to find. But soon he recalled something that moderated the exuberance of his joy; he remembered ChÉrubin’s letter, took it up and read it again, and a melancholy expression stole over his face.

“Heaven did not choose that my happiness should be without alloy,” he murmured, with a sigh; “doubtless it is to make me expiate my sin; but after being so guilty myself, there is nothing left for me to do but to forgive.”

Louise and ChÉrubin were still together; they were impatiently awaiting MonfrÉville’s arrival, and their impatience was blended with a secret fear which they could not clearly define.

At last, Jasmin announced: “Monsieur de MonfrÉville.”

Louise, deeply agitated, lowered her eyes; ChÉrubin ran to meet his friend, but stopped short when he saw his serious, even stern, expression, and faltered, offering him his hand:

“Haven’t you received my letter, my friend?”

MonfrÉville did not touch the hand that ChÉrubin offered him; he turned his eyes on the girl who stood, trembling, at the farther end of the room; and, as he gazed at her, he felt that his eyes filled with tears. But, struggling to conceal the emotion that he felt, he seated himself a few steps from Louise, who still kept her eyes on the floor, and motioned ChÉrubin to sit, saying:

“Yes, I have received your letter; and I have read the one from Madame de Noirmont, who tells me that mademoiselle was adopted by the same good woman who nursed you.”

“Well, my friend, is it true that you know Louise’s father, that you can help her to find him? But do you think he will make her happy, that he will not put any obstacles in the way of our love?”

MonfrÉville glanced at the girl again and said in a faltering voice:

“Yes, I know mademoiselle’s father.”

Louise raised her eyes at that, and looked at MonfrÉville with a thrill of hope and of filial affection, crying:

“You know my father? Oh! if it should be true, monsieur, that he would deign to love me—to——”

She could not finish the sentence; her voice trembled and the words died on her lips.

“Before answering your questions,” MonfrÉville continued, after a moment, “it is necessary that I should tell you an anecdote of my youth. Please give me your attention.—I was just twenty-two years old; I was independently rich, absolutely master of my actions and with very little control over my passions. I loved a young lady belonging to an honorable family. She had no mother to watch over her, and during her father’s absence, my love succeeded in triumphing over her virtue. Believe me, it is very wrong to abuse a sentiment you have aroused, in order to induce the person you love to forget her duties; and it rarely happens that one is not punished for it!”

Here ChÉrubin lost countenance and dared not look at MonfrÉville, while Louise, pale and trembling, felt the tears falling from her eyes.

“Soon after,” continued MonfrÉville, “being obliged to visit England on business, I went away, promising the victim of my seduction that I would soon return to ask her father for her hand. But when I was away from her, inconstancy, too natural in a young man, led me to forget my promise. But I received a letter in which she told me that she was about to become a mother, and that I must hasten back to her, if I wished to save her honor and repair the wrong I had done. Well! I left that letter unanswered; I had another intrigue on hand! Two years passed. I returned to France, and, remembering the woman whom I had abandoned in such dastardly fashion, and the child who did not know its father, I resolved to offer my name and my hand to her to whom my conduct had been so blameworthy. But it was too late—she was married! As she was married to a man of honorable position, I felt sure that she had succeeded in concealing her weakness from all eyes; but I was wild to know what had become of my child. After many fruitless attempts, I succeeded at last in obtaining a secret interview with the woman who had loved me so well; but I found only an embittered, implacable woman, who, to all my entreaties, made no other answer than this: ‘You abandoned me when I implored you to come home and make me your wife and give your child a father. I no longer know you! I desire to forget a sin for which I blush; and, as for your daughter, all your prayers will be wasted, you shall never know what has become of her.’ This decree, pronounced by an outraged woman, was only too strictly executed. Sixteen years passed. I renewed my prayers at intervals, but in vain: they were left unanswered. And now, ChÉrubin, you know the cause of the fits of melancholy which sometimes assailed me in the gayest circles; of that instability of temper for which I am noted; sometimes, amid the noisy amusements of society, the thought of my child would come to my mind, and the wealth that people envied, the good-fortune that I seemed to enjoy—ah! I would willingly have sacrificed them to hold my daughter in my arms just once! But to-day my desires are granted; to-day, a friend of her whom I once loved so dearly, has deigned to restore my child to me at last! But O my God! when I should be so happy to recover her, must I needs learn at the same time that she is guilty? that seduction, which wrecked her mother’s happiness, is the lot of my child also?”

MonfrÉville had not finished when Louise and ChÉrubin threw themselves at his feet. With their faces bathed in tears, they kissed his knees, and Louise held out her arms, murmuring tremulously:

“Forgive me, father—forgive us! Alas! I did not know my parents, and ChÉrubin was everything to me!”

MonfrÉville opened his arms and the lovers threw themselves upon his heart.

“Yes,” he said, as he embraced them, “yes, I must forgive you, for henceforth I shall have two children instead of one.”

XXIX
CONCLUSION

Some time after that day which restored a father to Louise, Monsieur de MonfrÉville, who had publicly acknowledged her as his daughter, bestowed her hand on Marquis ChÉrubin de Grandvilain.

And on the wedding-day, Nicole came to Paris, doubly happy to be present at the ceremony which sealed the happiness of him whom she still called her fieu, and of the child to whom she had, for a long time, been a mother.

And Jasmin, who seemed to have recovered all his youthful vigor, absolutely insisted upon discharging fireworks in the courtyard for his master’s nuptials; but stout Turlurette opposed it, recalling the accidents that had happened at the time of ChÉrubin’s birth. So that Jasmin confined himself to firing a few rockets, with which he burned off what little hair he had left.

As for Monsieur GÉrondif, ChÉrubin, after bestowing a tidy little sum upon him, requested him to seek other pupils. The tutor, finding himself possessed of a round sum, determined to make a name for himself in Paris; he founded a Latin journal, wrote a tragedy, gave a course of lectures on universal knowledge, and tried to compel ladies to dress without corsets. After some time, having succeeded only in squandering his capital, he was very glad to return to Gagny and resume his post as schoolmaster.

As the result of his fall among plates and glasses, DarÉna was permanently disfigured, so that he dared not show himself in respectable society; he abandoned himself more freely than ever to his taste for debauchery, and after a wild orgy and a night passed at play with some low wretches, whose money he had won, he was found in the street, dead and stripped clean.

Thus ended a man born in good society, brought up in opulence, and well educated, but reduced to the lowest social level by his vices.

After losing his intimate friend, Monsieur Poterne became a dealer in return checks at the doors of theatres, and in that occupation he received several beatings because one could never get into the theatre with the checks that he sold.

Little Bruno took advantage of the advice and the money that ChÉrubin gave him; abandoning the practice of stealing dogs to sell, he set up a little shop, did a good business and became an honest man; he often said that it was easier than to be a knave.

Louise was a happy wife and a happy daughter. MonfrÉville never told her her mother’s name; but when she went into society, where she was warmly greeted as young Marquis ChÉrubin’s wife, she sometimes met the Noirmont family. It was with the keenest pleasure that she embraced Ernestine, who always manifested a warm affection for her. Then her eyes would seek Madame de Noirmont’s, who, on her side, was always on the watch; and when, concealed behind the throng, their eyes met, their glances were eloquent with all the love that a mother’s and a daughter’s hearts can contain.

As for ChÉrubin, he became a model husband; it is even said that he was faithful to his wife; that young man was always different from other people.

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