The baths on Rue Dauphine were kept by one Landry. He was a man of sixty, but still vigorous and robust, despite his gray moustache, which he wore very long. By his soldierly bearing and the way he carried his head, one could divine that he had seen military service. And Landry was, in fact, an ex-soldier. He had fought under Henri IV, whose name he never mentioned without carrying the back of his right hand to his forehead, or without manifesting his emotion by the change in his voice.

At the great king's death, Landry, then thirty-six years of age, had left the service. Later, although his face was scarred, his martial set-up and his military gait had fascinated Dame Ragonde, a widow with a small hoard. She had married Landry, and they had obtained, by purchase, a license to keep hot and cold baths.

Landry was a tall, thin, stiff individual. He had an uncommunicative air, and his long gray moustache tended to make his expression even less inviting. However, Master Landry was not a bad-tempered man. He had never been known to seek a quarrel with anyone; and when quarrels arose among his neighbors, it was usually he who intervened to restore peace. It is true that his voice was strong and that his moustache produced an imposing effect on the vulgar.

He performed his duties as bath keeper and barber with the scrupulous exactness which old soldiers retain in civil life with respect to everything that they consider a duty. But it was not wise to speak ill of Henri IV or of his minister Sully in the old soldier's presence. When such a thing occurred, a sudden change would take place in the whole aspect of the man; usually calm and cold, he would become as quick to explode as powder; his blood would boil anew with all the fervor of his younger days; and the unhappy wight who had presumed to utter a word derogatory to his idols would be chastised before he had time to apologize.

But such episodes were likely to be very infrequent, for the memory of good King Henri was held in too great veneration by Frenchmen for anyone to venture to impugn it.

Dame Ragonde, the bath keeper's wife, was fifteen years younger than her husband, but she seemed almost as old as he.

She was a tall, thin, yellow-skinned woman. Had she ever been pretty? That she had been seemed more than doubtful. Her small, pale-green eyes were very bright, but they had an arrogant—yes, evil expression; they were eyes of the sort that seem never to look in any direction with any other purpose than that of finding something to blame, to reprove, or to forbid. Her long nose, hooked at the end like a parrot's, made her resemble in some degree a bird of prey. And her thin, bloodless, tightly closed lips seemed destined to open only to emit harsh or bitter words.

Since the day of her marriage to Landry, her second husband, nobody remembered having seen Dame Ragonde smile; indeed, it was not certain that she smiled on that day.

Her voice was shrill and piercing, her words always short and sharp; this fact, by the way, was creditable to the lady; she was no gossip and never said a word more than she had to say.

Who would have guessed that of that union between a man who was not handsome and a woman who was downright ugly a daughter would be born who would prove to be a veritable model of beauty, grace, and charm?

Such, nevertheless, was Bathilde, the only child of Landry and Ragonde.

At eighteen, her beauty had reached its perfect development: she was one of those types which painters delight to find, when they wish to paint a virgin, an angel, or a demon of temptation.

Bathilde was blond, but the tint was not one of those dull blonds in which there is a reflection of white; her long, thick, silky hair verged rather on the chestnut. Her skin had that whiteness in which there is life, and not that dull tone which imparts an aspect of inanition to a living person. On the contrary, the lovely girl's cheeks had a rosy tinge; and at the slightest word of reproof that was addressed to her, they at once became a most brilliant carmine. Large, deep-blue eyes, almond shaped, and shaded by long chestnut lashes; a small, fresh, red-lipped mouth; irreproachable teeth of dazzling whiteness; a chin slightly oval in shape; fine, but clearly marked eyebrows; a noble, beautiful brow, over which thick curls seemed proud to be placed.

Such was Bathilde, who possessed, in addition, a slender, lithe, dainty figure, a remarkably small foot, and a hand worthy to serve as a model.

But a mere enumeration of her advantages affords but a faint idea of the fascination of that young girl, of the charm with which her whole person was instinct, of the sweet melody of her voice, and of the pleasure that one felt in hearing it.

Sometimes one remains unmoved before the most unexceptionable beauty; for that which attracts and captivates us is not so much the perfection of the features, the regularity of the outlines of a face, as its amiable and gracious expression—a second element of beauty which many times exerts more power than the first; but when the two are combined, when nature has endowed a single woman with both, then it is that it is very difficult to avoid losing one's heart and one's reason.

And that lovely, graceful, fascinating girl was the daughter of Landry and Dame Ragonde!

Nature sometimes indulges in such strange whims. Do we not see flowers whose perfume intoxicates us and whose gorgeous colors dazzle our eyes, blooming upon stunted, thorny stalks?

As Bathilde's beauty would have attracted too many gallants, too many seducers, to Master Landry's shop, the girl never appeared there, nor did she wait upon the ladies who patronized her father's baths.

Bathilde had been brought up very strictly; almost always confined to her bedroom, which did not look on the street, the girl never went out except with her mother; and then a long veil, attached to her hood, covered almost the whole of her face, leaving nothing in sight save the end of her nose. If the sweet girl ventured to disarrange the veil and to expose one of her pink and white cheeks to the air for a moment, Dame Ragonde would instantly exclaim in her shrill, harsh voice:

"Your veil! your veil! Take care!"

Bathilde knew what that meant, and would hasten to swathe her lovely face anew.

Certainly, if Master Landry had desired that his establishment should be besieged by crowds of customers, he could easily have gratified his wish: nothing more would have been necessary than to allow his daughter to come to the shop now and then. Bathilde's beauty would have made a sensation, the court and the city would have been stirred to their depths, everyone would have desired to know that plebeian chef-d'oeuvre, and, with the inevitable vogue of his place of business, the bath keeper's fortune would have been assured.

But in this respect Bathilde's parents proved that their own honor and their child's virtue were to them treasures more precious than gold.

Some neighbors, knowing how strictly Bathilde had been brought up, said, and with some show of reason, that a mother should be able to watch over her daughter without converting her house into a prison. That to keep a child from knowledge of the world was not the way to protect her from the dangers that are encountered there at every step; and that it was downright barbarity to deprive a girl of all the pleasures suited to her years because it had pleased the Creator to endow her with all those physical qualities which charm and fascinate.

If these or other similar remarks reached Dame Ragonde's ears, it is probable that she paid little heed to them and that they made little impression on her. Immovable in her determination, impassible in her nature, rigorous in her conduct, she made no change whatever in her methods with her daughter.

And as for Master Landry, although he loved Bathilde dearly and was very proud of her, he looked upon his wife as the general whose duty it was to manage the internal economy of his household. As such general, he obeyed her promptly, reserving to himself only the command of the two apprentices employed in his baths.

However, Landry's establishment was prosperous, as were almost all the baths of those days, because they were very few in number.

The neighborhood of Rue Dauphine, which was less thickly populated than Rue Saint-Jacques, already contained some noble mansions and fine houses, occupied by magistrates, members of the Parliament, men of the robe, and rich annuitants. Moreover, the proximity of the PrÉ-aux-Clercs, which was still a favorite promenade, although some buildings were beginning to be erected there, contributed to attract to Master Landry's baths a more distinguished and more fashionable clientÈle, better society, in a word, than the ordinary patrons of his confrÈre, Master Hugonnet.

Furthermore, although the fascinating Bathilde was concealed from prying eyes, beauty spreads about it a perfume which causes its presence to be divined, and which attracts connoisseurs, even though they are destined to have nothing to show for their pains.

Despite all the precautions taken by Dame Ragonde, she could not prevent her neighbors from talking; they repeated, to whoever chose to listen, that Master Landry had a daughter more beautiful than the marvellous princesses of the Thousand and One Nights; that her surpassing beauty was the reason that her father and mother concealed her from all eyes, because they feared that somebody would take her away from them; and that they destined her for some wealthy foreign prince.

Others declared, on the contrary, that Master Landry's daughter was a monster of ugliness and deformity, and that it was to shelter the poor girl from the ridicule which was certain to be poured out upon her that they were careful to keep her out of sight.

This last version, however, obtained little credence. As a general rule, people do not take so many precautions with an ugly girl, or keep such close watch over one who has no reason to fear the enterprises of gallants.

Mystery always arouses curiosity, and the veil in which Dame Ragonde swathed Bathilde's face intensified the general desire to see it. Extremes are dangerous in everything: the man who puts too many bolts on his door arouses a suspicion that he possesses a treasure.

Chance had brought Landry and his confrÈre Hugonnet together. One evening, when the latter was returning home, as usual, after a merry evening over the bottle at a wine shop recently opened in the CitÉ, at some distance from his house, he lost his way. Alone, late at night, the barber wandered for a long while through the dark and muddy lanes which were then called streets, feeling his way along the walls, seeking his own door, and cursing because he did not find it.

Two men, emerging suddenly from a blind alley, walked toward the drunken man, who at once asked them to direct him. But he had applied to a pair of vagabonds, whose only reply was to set about robbing Master Hugonnet of his purse, his cloak, his great fur cap—in fact, of a large part of his clothes. At the outset, as a result of his intoxication, which entirely changed his disposition, Hugonnet placidly allowed himself to be stripped, thinking that he had to do with unfortunate creatures who needed all those things for their families. But one of the marauders having been so imprudent as to strike him on the head, the blow, by sobering the barber, instantly changed the face of affairs. Restored to his senses, and realizing with what manner of men he had to do, he defended himself stoutly; he dealt the two robbers some lusty blows, and they, irritated at meeting with such stubborn resistance from an intoxicated man, were already brandishing the daggers which they proposed to use, when Master Landry appeared upon the stage of this nocturnal attack.

To draw the rapier which he always carried under his cloak, to rush to the assistance of the man who was beset, to attack the two robbers with cut and thrust, to put them to flight, and to restore to Master Hugonnet his cloak, which had fallen to the ground—all this was the affair of a moment for the old trooper of Henri IV.

Hugonnet, completely sobered by the combat, offered Landry his hand and exclaimed:

"Vertudieu! I am inclined to think, comrade, that but for you those scoundrels would have made me pass a bad quarter of an hour!"

"I thank heaven that I arrived in time to offer you my assistance!"

"Sapristi! you went about it in the right way. You seemed to be at home! How you handle your sword! I think that my knaves went off with the marks you made on them."

"It would be a great pity if I did not know how to fight. When one has had the honor of serving under the great Henri IV; when one has fought under him at Arques and Ivry——"

"Do you say that you served with the good king who wanted all his subjects to have a fowl to put in the pot? Shake hands! I am doubly happy to have met you; and, with your permission, I consider myself from this moment one of your friends."

"With all my heart, for you too are a brave man; I saw that by the way you defended yourself against those cutthroats. And yet, you had no weapons."

"Well! I did my best. Besides—I can afford to confess it, now that it's all over—those thieves surprised me rather easily, because I was a little—er—tipsy. I was on my way home from a new wine shop just opened in the CitÉ. The wine was good—it always is good in a new place—and we did not spare it. When I set out to go home, I missed my way—for the devil take me if I know where I am now!"

"At the Carrefour de Bussy; see, this is the street leading from the Porte de Bussy to the PrÉ-aux-Clercs."

"In God's name, what road did I take?—I, who live on Rue Saint-Jacques, corner of Rue des Mathurins, where I have baths, hot and cold—Master Hugonnet, at your service; for it is right that you should know whose life you have saved."

"You are a bath keeper?—Pardieu! this is a strange meeting! I, too, am one—Master Landry, Rue Dauphine, near Quai Conti."

"Is it possible!—you are the bath keeper on Rue Dauphine? I have heard of you.—You have a wife, I am a widower. You have a daughter, and so have I. How old is yours?"

"Twelve years."

"So is mine. Parbleu! confrÈre, our daughters must be friends, as their fathers will be; are you willing?"

"Shake hands, ventre-saint-gris! as our good king used to say."

The two bath keepers shook hands once more. Landry started Hugonnet on the right road, and they returned to their respective homes.

This meeting took place about five years before the time at which our tale opens. Bathilde and Ambroisine were still children; people took little notice of them, for we do not pause to consider whether little girls of twelve are likely to be very beautiful some day. We prefer, and wisely, to wait until they have become so, before ogling them.

Dame Ragonde's surveillance was naturally less active then; being still a mere child, Bathilde enjoyed some liberty. So she was allowed to see her new friend, for Master Hugonnet did not fail to pay a visit to his confrÈre.

Landry was not expansive; he was not a frequenter of wine shops, and never drank too much; but when he had pressed anyone's hand in token of friendship, that person might be sure that he could rely upon the old soldier's assistance, upon his arm, under all circumstances.

Dame Ragonde had not looked with great pleasure upon this new intimacy contracted by her husband; but she knew that it would be useless for her to try to break it up. Landry was not one of those weathercocks who change their sentiments and affections according to the advice that is given them. The husband and wife each had a will of iron. A concession once made, neither of them attempted to encroach on the other's rights; it was doubtless to this mutual respect for each other's rights and each other's will that they were indebted for the peace which reigned in their household.

The two little girls very soon learned to love each other; there was between them just that difference in humor, in spirit, in temperament, which attracts and binds together, and leads to those strong and lasting attachments which defy time and the blows of fortune.—Observe that we are speaking of friendship, not of love. As to the last-named sentiment, we have never known an instance of it which resisted the slightest test of its strength, when that test was applied with skill!

That which people are pleased to call sympathy cannot be the similitude between two natures. For, put together two gossips, two testy or obstinate or irascible, quarrelsome and satirical characters, and see whether they will love each other, whether they will be able to live together. There would be a constant state of war.

On the contrary, nature created the strong to support the weak, patience to allay irascibility, gentleness to appease wrath, gayety to charm away melancholy.

Bathilde was shy and timid; she trembled at the slightest sharp word, and her gentle and affectionate nature was more inclined to melancholy than to gayety.

Ambroisine was of a very different temperament: active, merry, thoughtless, often angry; she said fearlessly whatever came into her head; frankness lay at the foundation of her character; her heart was susceptible, but it did not like to be sad for long. With her the tears came quickly and disappeared no less quickly.

When Bathilde seemed to be unhappy, when her lovely eyes seemed to express some hidden grief, her little friend would say to her:

"Somebody has been cross to you, I am sure. I can see that you have been crying. Tell me who made you cry, and I will go to him and make him come here and beg your pardon."

But Bathilde would simply look down and murmur:

"It was my mother."

"Did you do anything naughty?" Ambroisine would inquire.

"I asked her if I might go to see you soon."

Ambroisine would not dare to say anything more, but she would turn her head aside and furtively wipe away the tears that stood in her eyes; then she would again look at her friend, seize both her hands, and make her dance around the room, crying:

"You mustn't think about that any more!"

When the girls had reached their fourteenth year, Dame Ragonde began to think that Ambroisine was too lively, too mischievous, too self-willed, and that her companionship might be dangerous for her daughter; she would no longer allow her daughter to go to see her friend under the escort of a servant; she alleged as an excuse the necessity that Bathilde should study; and when Ambroisine came to see her, Dame Ragonde never left them together; she was always by to prevent those affectionate confidences which she believed to be dangerous. Her presence, her stern manner, her curt speech, froze Bathilde's heart, and she forced back those impulsive outbursts of affection which she would have liked to lavish on Ambroisine. But the latter, although disappointed at being unable to chat at her ease with little Bathilde, retained in Dame Ragonde's presence her playful humor, her vivacity, her frankness, and she often found a way to bring a smile to her young friend's lips.

And so, as soon as Master Hugonnet's daughter had left the house, Bathilde's mother never failed to exclaim:

"What an ill-bred child that is! What a bold-faced creature she will be some day! But, patience: I will put this matter to rights."

And as the girls grew older, they were allowed to see each other less and less. On Bathilde's side, the surveillance to which she was subjected became more minute; she seldom went out, and she paid no more visits. At Master Hugonnet's, on the other hand, Ambroisine, when she grew tall and strong, was placed by her father at the head of the establishment; and as a great many people came to the baths, she had little time left to give to friendship.

But as soon as Ambroisine had a moment to herself, she hastened to Rue Dauphine, to exchange a clasp of the hand with her friend.

Sometimes Dame Ragonde, who also had to overlook her apprentices and her servants, was busy at the baths, and Bathilde was alone in her bedroom. Then, what joy for the two friends! with what ardor they took advantage of that moment of liberty! for the older they grew, the more interesting their conversations became. At seventeen, two girls have other things to say to each other than at twelve or thirteen. It is useless to keep them sequestered all the time—they will always have something interesting to tell each other.

Ambroisine especially, who was entirely her own mistress, was certain to have very many things to tell. And so, when a lucky accident enabled the two girls to exchange their thoughts, they would hardly take the time to embrace; questions and answers succeeded one another with astounding rapidity.

"Your mother isn't here? What luck!"

"What a long time it is since I saw you!"

"We are always so busy at home!"

"I am so bored!"

"I haven't a moment to myself during the day; such a lot of fine ladies come to bathe!"

"It's the same way here; but I am not allowed to wait on them."

"I wait on them; I dress them when they don't bring their servants, and that very often happens—they prefer to come alone; I don't know why—or rather, yes, I think that I can guess why."

"Oh! tell me, Ambroisine!"

"No, no, it isn't worth while! Besides, I am not sure; it is just an idea of mine."

"Tell me your idea, please, Ambroisine! Mon Dieu! if you don't tell me anything, if you don't teach me a little, how do you expect me to know anything, when I am always shut up in this room and only go downstairs to dinner; when I see nobody but my father and mother, who hardly ever speak to me? Why do the fine ladies prefer to come to the baths alone?"

"Why, you see, I do not quite know how to tell you.—But, no matter! what difference does it make, after all? Many cavaliers, young men, come to the baths also."

"So they do here, but I never see them. Do you see them?"

"Sometimes—when I go down to the shop, and when I help father; for I know how to shave, I do; I can shave very well when I set about it."

"What! you shave—men?"

"Well! I surely don't shave women, as they have no beards."

"Oh! what a lucky girl you are! what fun that must be!—Do you really dare to take a man by the chin?"

"Well, why not? I assure you that it doesn't frighten me; indeed, I must not be frightened, for if my hand shook I should shave badly and cut the customer.—Don't tell your mother this; for she thinks now that I am too bold."

"Oh! there is no danger of that!"

"To be sure, it may be that my father tells yours."

"Yes; but my father will never say a word to my mother about it—they talk so little!—But these cavaliers whom you shave—they speak to you, I suppose?"

"To be sure—and those whom I don't shave speak to me, too; indeed, I never know whom to answer, for as soon as I go down to the shop they are all after me."

"And you are not afraid?"

"Not a bit; what do you suppose I am afraid of?"

"Indeed, I don't know! but my mother tells me that a young girl runs so much risk when she listens to a man; and you, who listen to more than one, must run a much greater risk!"

"But nothing happens to me, you see! for when the young gentlemen presume to do things that are not nice, or make too—too gallant remarks to me, why, it doesn't take me long to send them about their business!"

"What are the too gallant remarks, and the things that are not nice?"

"Mon Dieu! must I tell you everything? It is strange that you know nothing!"

"Where, then, do you suppose that I can learn anything?"

"The too gallant remarks—those are when men tell us that we are pretty or attractive—that they love us, that they adore us."

"Oh! but it must be nice to have that said to you! Is it necessary to be angry? what a pity!"

"One must be very angry when they add: 'Love me, I implore you; reciprocate my love, give me your heart; I will be faithful to you!'—and a lot of oaths, of which they don't mean a word!"

"Ah! do you think that they don't mean a word of them? In that case, why do they say them?"

"Because it amuses them. But if we listened to them, they would say much more."

"And the things that are not nice?"

"That is when these fine fellows presume to suit the action to the word. The ones who do that are the boldest; they take your hand, and, while pretending to admire it, they don't hesitate to kiss it; or they put an arm about your waist, and, if they can catch you napping, they try to kiss you."

"What! are there men so presumptuous as that?"

"Indeed there are! the presumptuous ones are much more numerous than the respectful ones; that is a great pity, for if it were not so——"

"Well?"

"Why, one might talk with them a little."

"Have they ever tried to kiss you?"

"Yes, indeed, and more than once; but I know how to defend myself. I box their ears, and I don't do it with any gentle hand, either."

"What! you box your customers' ears?"

"When the customers make too free with me; but no matter how well you defend yourself, sometimes you cannot escape the kiss."

"Have you ever been kissed, Ambroisine?"

"Mon Dieu! yes! some of those little pages are so quick, and some of the young nobles so audacious! There is one in particular, Comte LÉodgard de Marvejols—you must have heard of him?"

"I! why, you forget that I hear nothing, see nothing, know nothing!—What about Comte LÉodgard?"

"Oh! he's a terrible scapegrace, I tell you! a rake, a roisterer, a seducer! There is only one opinion about him, and not a week passes that he does not set people talking about him. He abducts girls, yes, married women even; he beats their fathers or husbands; he fights duels, cudgels the watch, passes whole days and nights in gambling hells, gambling and drinking; in short, he is worse than the devil!"

"O mon Dieu! how frightened I should be of him! He must be very ugly, isn't he?"

"Why, no, and that is just what deceives you; unfortunately, he is not ugly at all; for if he were hideous to look at, he would be much less dangerous. He is a handsome young man, with a forest of long black hair, and eyes of the same color, that shine like carbuncles; and when he looks at you, he has a way of giving them such a benignant expression! You would think sometimes that he is a little saint; but you very soon find out your mistake."

"What a pity! A scapegrace is a reprobate, and that ought to appear on his face. Has that young nobleman ever tried to kiss you?"

"I should say so! there was a time when he came to our place every day; he laid traps for me, tried to make appointments with me, and brought me presents."

"Presents?"

"Which I never received.—It did no good for me to lose my temper, to fly into a passion, to threaten to scratch him—that only made him laugh; he declared that I was even prettier when I was angry.—As you can imagine, it is when my father is not at home that they torment me so; for he would not stand it. But one day I lost my patience: Comte LÉodgard had seized my hands, in spite of my struggles, and he was just about to kiss me, when I called father. If you had seen how quickly he took the young nobleman up in his arms and set him down in the street! The count was frantic; he drew his sword and rushed at father. But you know Master Hugonnet—it isn't wise to irritate him. In an instant, he had seized Comte LÉodgard's sword and had broken it across his knee. The count strode away, uttering the most horrible threats, swearing that he would teach father what it costs to lack respect for a great nobleman. Father began to laugh, and in a moment he had forgotten all about it. But, for my part, I confess that the count's threats frightened me, and for a long time after I trembled whenever father left me, when he came home later at night than usual; but that was three months ago, and nothing has happened."

"And the young man has not been to your shop again?"

"Oh, no! not since that time."

"In all this, you have not told me why the fine ladies who come to the baths prefer not to bring their servants with them?"

"Ah! what a memory you have!—Well, I have noticed very often that there is a young gentleman below who knows one of the ladies; when she leaves the bath, the young man is there, waiting for her; they talk together, they go away together; so, you see, when a lady knows that she will have a cavalier to escort her home, she does not need to bring a servant."

"If you knew, Ambroisine, how I love to listen to you—you tell me things that are so entirely new to me! Oh! please tell me some more of your adventures!"

But when Ambroisine was about to gratify her friend, perhaps they would hear Dame Ragonde's slow, regular steps approaching. Thereupon, the subject of conversation would instantly be changed, and they would talk exclusively of serious or religious matters until Bathilde's mother said:

"You have talked enough; bid your friend adieu, it is time to separate."

Thereupon Ambroisine would leave her young friend; but all that she had heard furnished Bathilde with food for thought for many days.