muscular arms, and loud voice. They were also the two about whose
spiritual state their pastor had felt most concern. Nancy, a slave to
violent passions, furious temper, and a craving for drink. Stone, free
from all these vices, yet, in his self-righteousness and blindness of
heart, almost as far from the kingdom of heaven as the neighbor whom he
despised. Almost at the same time the two had been stricken down, the
one by a terrible accident, the other by sudden illness. Affliction had
come to both the Pharisee and the publican. One had been raised and
restored, though maimed, to her home; the other was never to quit his
cottage till carried forth in his coffin. But mercy had visited each,
and, as they met to attend the solemn service together, both penitents
could say in the words of the Psalmist, _It is good for me that I have
been afflicted_.

This was the first time that Nancy had been a communicant; she had never
before dared to approach the table of the Lord. Stone, on the contrary,
had attended regularly, at stated times in the year; but with him, until
now, the service had been but an empty form, only tending to increase
the blindness of his conscience, by leading him to think that he had
fulfilled all righteousness, when he made thus open profession of faith,
without one spark of its living reality. At that time Ben Stone would
have scouted the idea of Nancy Sands, whom he deemed the worst woman in
Colme, being permitted to enter his cottage on an occasion so solemn, to
show that she shared his faith and his hopes, and might share his
happiness in the mansions above. Yet there they were now together,
Pharisee and publican, both brought to the foot of the cross; the once
despised drunkard meekly giving God thanks that she was not what she
once had been, and the Pharisee, not raising up so much as his eyes unto
heaven, but silently uttering the prayer, _God be merciful to me a
sinner_!

Often had Persis and her husband joined in the holy service, but never
had they felt heaven nearer to them, and the Christian's hope sweeter,
than they did in Stone's cottage on that bright August eve. They saw
the saving power of the gospel in the two penitents before them, the
one rescued from the rock of self-righteousness, the other from the
whirlpool of intemperance. The little flock gathered together in that
peaceful home seemed an emblem of that blessed band, who, through God's
mercy and grace, shall, after life's troubles and tossings, reach in
safety the heavenly shore.

As the Frankses returned, after the solemn meeting by the sick-bed of
Stone, a rich, golden glow was over the sky, and a deep stillness in
the air; heaven seemed to be all brightness, and earth all peace. Then
came a sound, solemn at all times, but especially so at that hour, the
measured tolling of the church-bells for a departed soul. It was the
first announcement to those who had met in Stone's cottage that the
unhappy Sir Lacy had been called to his last account.

Yes, the bells that had been silent on his arrival at his ancestral
home, now, with slow and mournful peal, announced his departure. Soon
would a dark and narrow home receive the mortal remains of the late
possessor of thousands of acres. Had power, wealth, and high station
been a blessing or a curse to him who had not indeed _buried_ his
talents, but made them an instrument of evil? The profane tongue was
now silenced; the hand that had rattled the dice, the brain once so
busy with evil designs, the heart that had been a den of wickedness,
now lay lifeless and cold. The baronet's spirit had passed from earth,
and left no sweet memories behind. Another and a far better man would
now bear his title and rule in his Hall, and dispense happiness as
widely as the late lord of the manor had tried to spread the contagion
of evil. Every toll of the solemn bell, which pealed through the calm
evening air, seemed, with a voice more impressive than that of man, to
repeat the warning, _He that being often reproved, hardeneth his neck,
shall suddenly be destroyed, and that without remedy_.

XXXVIII.

Conclusion.

Franks and his wife received a message from Mr. Curtis, on the
following morning, to desire them to come to the vicarage at one.
At their accustomed time of assembling for study, the boys of Colme
flocked to their school-house, full of expectation and excitement,
the congratulations beaming in their eyes which their lips did not
venture to utter; for something in their master's manner told them
that they must not speak to him of any change in his prospects likely
to be caused by the baronet's death. The boys, who were rejoicing in
the assurance that they would keep their "dear old Ned Franks," since
there was a new baronet now, could hardly settle to business or attend
to their tasks. Had not their teacher found it quite as difficult to
do so himself, he would have had to reprove or correct half his pupils
for the most ridiculous blunders. There was also an unusual amount
of nodding, whispering, and smiling, which Ned Franks for once tried
in vain to repress. The boys had never seemed to care so little for
addition or multiplication, or found it so impossible to master a
column of spelling. "He'll never leave us, not he;" "Won't the curate
be glad to keep him!" "That fellow with the sly look, who was to have
been our master, will have to take himself off sharp, like a beaten
dog!" "Won't we have jolly days now, and won't we work double hard at
Wild Rose Hollow!" Such were the eager whispers which passed from mouth
to mouth. It must be owned that Franks seemed to be an inefficient
school-master on that day, and had very inattentive pupils.

Lesson time was over at last, and punctual to their appointment, the
Frankses appeared at the vicarage just as the church clock struck one.
The boys, instead of dispersing as usual, had followed them, like an
escort, as far as the garden gate. Norah, with a beaming countenance,
was waiting at the door to usher them in. The young maiden had double
cause for her joy, for her mistress had received a letter that morning
from Mrs. Lowndes, mentioning that the confession of Martha, her late
housemaid, that she had taken the lost sovereign which had accidentally
dropped on the floor, had entirely cleared Norah from all suspicion of
theft. Mrs. Lowndes expressed her satisfaction that Norah had succeeded
in getting a place, and gave her testimony that, except in one unhappy
act of deception into which she had been drawn, a more truthful and
faithful servant than Norah she never had known. Norah had not at
this moment time to tell the Frankses of this letter, which had been
a great relief to her affectionate heart, but her pleasure was seen
in her looks. She ushered her uncle and his wife into the study, and
then would herself have retired, but her mistress, with a kindly smile,
beckoned her to remain. Never had she been more readily obeyed.

In the vicar's study were collected several of the villagers of Colme,
looking on with curiosity and interest. Sands, the clerk, unusually
placid and serene in his mien, stood by the side of his wife, whose
dark eyes expressed pleasure mingled with something like triumph. The
sturdy miller was also present, holding by the hand his little Bessie,
who looked brimming over with joy.

Mr. Curtis, who was seated in his large arm-chair, shook hands with
the school-master, and then Persis received first from her pastor,
and then from his wife, the same kindly greeting. Had there been any
doubt before on the subject, the manner of Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, and
the smiles of the villagers present, would have assured the Frankses
that they were summoned to hear good news. The pastor when he spoke was
listened to in respectful silence.

"I have been requested, Franks, by Mr.--I mean Sir Claudius--to express
to you his hope that you will continue, and _long_ continue," there
was a strong emphasis on the word long, "to instruct the boys of our
village school. He has had, during the time that he has been curate at
Colme (as I have had during a much longer period), the opportunity of
seeing how faithfully, zealously, and successfully you have performed
the duties of your office. To no one could we more gladly, more
confidently, entrust the charge of our boys."

Ned Franks bowed and colored at the praise; Persis exchanged a glance
of pleasure with Norah.

"And I have another pleasant office to perform," continued the old
vicar, turning to receive from the hand of his wife a well filled
crimson purse which had lain on the study table. "When we were afraid
that we were going to lose you, that you and your good wife were about
to leave Colme, a little subscription was set on foot, to procure
a testimonial to be given at parting to those who have earned the
respect--I may say the affection--of those amongst whom they have
dwelt."

"They have--they have," murmured Nancy, and little Bessie squeezed
tightly the hand of her father to express _her_ silent assent.

"We are happily to keep you with us in Colme," continued the vicar;
"but our friends"--here he turned smilingly towards the parishioners
who represented the subscribers,--"our friends will not lose the
opportunity of offering the _present_, though we all unite in hoping
that the _parting_ may be very far off."

Ned Franks, by whom this tribute of regard from his neighbors had been
altogether unexpected, was taken by surprise, and looked more confused
and embarrassed than if he had been receiving a reproof instead of a
present.

"No--indeed, sir--I am very thankful--grateful to you--to all--but I
could not,"--he stammered forth, shrinking from touching the proffered
purse. "Pray, let the money be returned to the subscribers. I feel,
from my heart I feel, their great kindness all the same as if I availed
myself of it."

"They won't touch it, not a penny of it!" exclaimed Nancy, who was
standing behind the vicar's chair. "I went round to every one this
morning. You must take the purse, Ned Franks, if it be but to throw it
away!"

John Sands, who had a high sense of decorum, looked aghast at his wife
thus venturing "to put in her word" in the vicar's own study; but the
clerk only attempted to stop her by a faintly murmured "My dear!"

"No, indeed, I will never throw away money so kindly, so generously
given," said Franks. "Pray, sir," he continued, addressing Mr. Curtis,
"let the contents of the purse go towards repairing the almshouses in
Wild Rose Hollow. I and my wife have everything that we need, and I
think that I can answer for Persis that this is the way in which she
would best like the money to be spent."

There was a little murmur through the circle of villagers, in which
admiration of the sailor's generosity was mingled with something like
dissatisfaction at his giving everything away. Nancy said, in a very
audible whisper, "They could have had their trip to the sea-side." Mrs.
Curtis, who had hitherto remained a silent though interested spectator,
now spoke.

"Perhaps all parties will be gratified by a compromise," said the lady;
"let half of the contents of the purse be contributed by Franks to the
object for which he has pleaded and worked so hard, and let him satisfy
his friends here by using the other half for a little holiday-trip for
himself and his wife, when his pupils for a time give up their studies
for gleaning."

The proposal of the lady gave universal satisfaction, and when Ned
Franks and his happy wife had quitted the vicar's house, the loud
ringing, joyous cheer which greeted them from the boys who had been
waiting outside went as warm to their hearts as the praise of their
pastor, and the practical token of the loving esteem of their neighbors.

When the sound of cheers had died away, and all the shaking of hands
and exchange of words of kindness were over at last, Franks and his
wife, thankful and happy, turned towards their own home, whilst
neighbors and boys dispersed to theirs. For several minutes neither
husband nor wife spoke a word; perhaps each understood too well what
was passing in the mind of the other for any words to be needful. At
length the silence was broken by Ned.

"Persis," he said, with emotion, "I think I'm more humbled than exalted
by all this kindness, and all this praise. How our friends judge by the
outside! It is God alone who reads the heart. How little they guess
what a struggle with evil was going on here," Ned laid his hand on his
breast, "and that not forty-eight hours since!"

"God gave you the victory," said Persis, softly.

"He helped me in the hour of temptation," said Franks; "and when
the enemy of souls takes advantage of my weakness, and sends his
fire-ships again to set this impatient spirit in a blaze, may I be
enabled to be watchful and vigilant, and steer my onward course in the
safe track left by Him who was _meek and lowly in heart_!"

My little story is almost ended. I shall not linger over any
description of the well-earned holiday-trip, which was greatly enjoyed
by Franks and his wife. The almshouses in Wild Rose Hollow were put in
most perfect repair before winter, and each one had a beautiful porch.
The work of Ned and his "jovial crew" was helped forward by the ready
purse of the new baronet. Sir Claudius never forgot that he was the
minister of the gospel, as well as the lord of the manor.

I will but give a short glimpse of the party of village boys gathered
together on the following Christmas day in the school-room, not for
study, but to partake of a substantial feast provided for them by Sir
Claudius. The large room was richly decked out with wreaths of bay and
holly, bunches of mistletoe, and sprigs of laurel. Even blind Sophy had
helped to form the garlands; for the long-cherished wish of Benoni had
been gratified at last, and Isaacs had brought him and his adopted
sister to spend their Christmas at Colme. The preparations for the
banquet had been made by Persis, with Norah and Nancy Sands as her
cheerful assistants, while Benoni, proud of the charge, had insisted on
taking care of the baby.

"What a different Christmas this is from my last!" thought Nancy, with
a humbling recollection of having made the last anniversary of her
Lord's birth an occasion for plunging into mad and sinful excess! Such
memories but deepened her thankfulness to Him who had snatched her from
the whirlpool of destruction.

"What a different Christmas this is from the last!" observed Benoni,
looking up with a glad smile into the face of Persis, his first friend
in Colme, and still the one most tenderly loved. "Last Christmas we
were in London, and there was such a yellow fog that we could not see
to read without a candle, and we had no candle to light! and we should
have stood shivering round the fire, only there was no fire to stand
round! And when we came home from church, we were hungry enough for our
Christmas dinner, only," the boy added, with a laugh, "dry bread and
cold tea didn't look much like Christmas fare!"

"You must have had a sad time of suffering, then, dear Benoni!"

"It would have been sad indeed, except that the Lord was with us in our
trouble, as he is now in our joy!"

"Ah! my boy," said Ned Franks, who had overheard the last observation,
"that is the secret of having life's voyage a safe and a happy one. It
is when the Master is with us that we are guided through the rocks and
the shoals, and kept from running aground. It is having the Master with
us that turns the storm into a calm, so that the winds and waves are
still. And so, when the children of God reach the heavenly shore, it
will only be because the Master was with them, and hath brought them at
last, through his power and his love, unto their desired haven."

THE END.

Transcriber's Note

  Obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected.

  Hyphenation has been made consistent throughout.

  Footnotes have been moved to the end of the chapter.

  Blank pages before illustrations have been removed.

  Emphasised text is shown thus:
  _italics_


same as always. To be sure, they may, perhaps, differ a little from
those of the people you associate with. But, excuse me, monsieur, I
cannot stand here any longer, and I am not going in the same direction
that you are."

"What! you are going to leave me!"

"Adieu, monsieur!--By the way, I must tell you that I do not receive any
more. We have ceased to have our evenings at home."

She gave me a disdainful nod, and, without listening to my efforts to
detain her, walked away so rapidly that I soon lost sight of her.

I was stupefied; that woman's conduct seemed to me so outrageous, so
insulting, that it was some time before I could believe in its reality.
It seemed to me that I must have been dreaming. For a moment, I was
tempted to run after her; but I had enough control over myself to
understand that it would be weak and cowardly to make any further
attempt to speak to a woman who had treated me with such contempt. And I
had believed that she loved me! Ah! how I had fooled myself! Because a
drunken man in cap and blouse had called me his friend, because I had
admitted that I knew him, I became a compromising personage, and she
could no longer afford to see me or speak to me! she had even given me
to understand that she did not propose to receive me at her own house!
and all that, without listening to what I might have to say, without
finding out whether I could or could not explain that unpleasant
adventure. Ah, madame! I thought that you had a heart; I found that I
was mistaken, that you had a mind only; and that is a very barren mind
in which no trace of sentiment can ever be detected.

I stood a long while on the same spot, absorbed in my thoughts. But the
throng had largely disappeared, and the Champs-Élysées was becoming
deserted; snowflakes falling on my face explained the sudden change. The
weather was no longer the same; the radiant sun was obscured by clouds,
which, with the snow, gave a totally different aspect to the scene.

"Well!" I said to myself, as I walked slowly away, "nothing is constant,
in the heavens or on earth! We must submit to the storms of the heart,
as to those of nature."

As I retraced my steps toward the scene of that unfortunate meeting, I
remembered the paroxysm of anger to which I had given way; and now that
I was once more able to reflect, I was stirred by a feeling of regret
and pity when I thought how violently I had thrown to the ground the
poor wretch who sought my assistance. I knew that his conduct was most
reprehensible, that he had abused my kindness a hundred times; but to
spurn him, to throw him into the dust! Was it possible that I had really
treated him so? That woman's presence, my anger, my humiliated
self-esteem, had led my reason astray. What could have become of the
poor fellow? He had fallen at my feet without attempting to defend
himself, without a complaint; and it seemed to me that I had read only
surprise and grief in his eyes, instead of anger. If that other man had
had him arrested!--and that seemed to be his intention, for I had not
thought of giving him what Ballangier owed him, and that was the first
thing that I should have done. How could I find out how the episode had
ended?

I looked about; I recognized the place where I was sitting with the
three ladies, but there was no one there. The snow had put all the
idlers to flight. The people who passed walked rapidly, with their heads
down; there were no hucksters, no itinerant singers, nobody to whom I
could apply for information. I walked on, but had not taken thirty steps
when I saw a man leaning against a large tree, apparently unconscious of
the snow that covered his cap and blouse. He stood quite still, but his
eyes were turned in my direction. I walked toward him: it was
Ballangier.

He looked at me with a shamefaced, timid expression; when he saw me
walking sadly toward him, I fancied that tears glistened in the eyes
which no longer dared to meet mine; and when I stood beside him, and was
on the point of apologizing for pushing him away so roughly, he fell at
my feet, on the snow, and humbly begged my pardon for speaking to me
when I was with friends.

Ah! I was no longer angry with him; I made haste to raise him, and shook
him by the hand. I believe that my eyes too were moist.

"You forgive me, then?" murmured Ballangier. "I was drunk, you see; I
had been drinking; if it hadn't been for that, I wouldn't have spoken to
you. I should have remembered that one time a scene almost like this
broke off a marriage you had in view.--But you punished me, and you did
right; I deserved it. Still, you know, I am little used to such lessons
from you. _Dame!_ when you threw me down, that sobered me off in an
instant. You were in such a rage with me--and you've always been so
good-natured before. But you did well; yes, you did well to treat me
like that, for it shook me all up. I realized that I was a great scamp,
a miserable wretch; that I was always on hand to do you a bad turn, to
put you to shame; although I didn't say--no, it don't make any
difference how drunk I may be, I'll never say that thing. But I promise
you that this will be the last. You'll never have any reason to complain
of me again."

"I believe you, Ballangier, I believe you! But your conduct is no excuse
for mine. I ought not to have treated you harshly, as I did just now.
You were drunk, and I should have taken pity on your condition. When I
think that I pushed you so roughly that you fell, I am terribly angry
with myself. Come, give me your hand again, and forgive me for throwing
you down."

Ballangier took my hands and effusively pressed them in his, while great
tears fell from his eyes and he muttered:

"He asks me to forgive him, after all the mean tricks I've played on
him! Oh! you're too good to me, Charles; you ought to beat me--yes, beat
me like an old carpet; for I cheated you also about going to Besançon.
It is true that I had had a letter from Morillot--you saw the letter,
you know; but when you gave me four hundred francs for the journey, I
didn't go as I had promised you! I allowed myself to be led away by some
of those villainous loafers whom we are foolish enough to call
_friends_, when we ought rather to call them _enemies_. What sort of
friends are they who can do nothing but drink and carouse and raise the
devil in wine shops, who pass their lives in idleness and make sport of
steady, hard-working mechanics, and who never cease trying to make us do
all sorts of foolish things, so that we may end by being as worthless as
they are? With friends like that, a man ought to smash their ribs the
first time they give him bad advice; I'm sure that would lessen the
number of vagrants that are taken to the Préfecture every week. But
that's all over; I'll take my oath, Charles, by all that's holy, that
it's all over this time! You won't be obliged again to--push me, as you
did just now."

"I believe you, Ballangier; let us forget all that. But tell me--how did
you succeed in getting rid of your creditor?"

"Piaulard? Oh, yes! now you remind me of it, it is strange; for I didn't
pay him. Well, after you threw me on the ground, where I lay for some
time, all dazed like--not that I was hurt at all, but I was dazed by the
effect I felt inside of me; I can't describe it--at last I got up, and
found everybody had gone, Piaulard with the rest, for I didn't see him
again. It's a strange thing, sure enough. I stayed a long while right in
the same place, like a dazed man; I don't know what I was thinking
about--that is to say, I was looking for you; I was determined to see
you and ask your pardon.--Ah! now I remember--a lady came and spoke to
me."

"A lady?"

"Yes, yes! Why, I forgot all about her!"

"What was her appearance? Try to remember; draw her portrait for me."

"She was dressed in style, and I think she was rather tall; as for her
face, I didn't pay any attention to it. I was still looking for you; I
was like a madman; I didn't know what I was doing, but I was calling
your name, and I think I was weeping too."

"But what did this lady say? what did she want of you?"

"Wait a minute; I don't just remember what she said. She tried to
comfort me, and then--yes, I think she offered me money."

"Money?"

"Yes. I don't know what for, but she said: 'Take this;' and then, faith!
I don't know what else she said. All I know is that I told her to let me
alone; she interfered with my looking for you. When she saw that I
wouldn't answer her, she left me."

"And you didn't take her money?"

"Oh, no! indeed I didn't!"

"That was right, Ballangier; you did right to refuse. Didn't she say
anything else to you?"

"Mon Dieu! I didn't listen to her at all. I was looking all the time to
see if I could see you pass, and I just said to her: 'Oh! let me look
for Charles; you prevent my finding him!'--And she went off."

"Poor fellow! Here, take this; pay your creditor--you owe him
twenty-nine francs, I believe--that is, if someone hasn't already taken
it upon herself to pay him, as I am inclined to think."

"Someone? Nonsense! who could it be?"

"A person whom you don't know, but I do. However, you must look up this
Piaulard, and find out about it. Then go to work, straighten yourself
out, make yourself a good workman, and come to see me if you need my
help."

"Ah! Charles, I don't deserve to have you make any more sacrifices for
me; I am forever annoying and distressing you! Keep the money; I must
learn to earn my living at last."

"You will succeed, as soon as you have sincerely made up your mind to do
it, I don't doubt. But, meanwhile, I want you to pay your debts and not
be left without anything. So, take this; I insist upon it! If by means
of your work you should become rich, and I should need to be helped, I
would accept without blushing what you offered me."

"What you say puts some heart and courage into me," cried Ballangier,
grasping my hand as he spoke. "Help you some day! _Cré coquin!_ I should
be a proud and happy man then!"

Luckily, my purse was well filled, for I had come out with anticipations
of an intrigue. I put eighty francs in Ballangier's hand. The money had
been intended for another purpose; but I began to think that it was
better employed so.

I said adieu to Ballangier, who reiterated his oath to turn over a new
leaf, and I went home.

I had an idea that it was Madame Dauberny who had paid Piaulard and
offered money to Ballangier. Why did she do it? A strange woman that,
whom I would have liked right well to understand.

XXX

CONFIDENCE IS OF SLOW GROWTH

Madame Sordeville's behavior after my encounter with Ballangier left me
in a morose and melancholy humor, which I was unable to overcome for
several days. I would have been glad to see Madame Dauberny, to divert
my thoughts. If, while losing my hold upon a pretty woman, I had found a
sincere friend, I certainly should not have lost by the exchange. But
how was I to see Frédérique? Where could I meet her? Surely I could not
go to her house! Strangely enough, I had succeeded in closing the doors
of both those ladies; and what had I done to bring about that result?
After all, I had no proof that it was Frédérique who had paid Monsieur
Piaulard. To write to her on that subject would be a great blunder, even
if I were not mistaken; so I concluded to wait until chance should bring
us together.

One morning Pomponne appeared, with the mysterious air which he deemed
it fitting to assume, even when he brought me my coat. He leaned over me
and said in a low tone:

"Monsieur, that woman who came here some time ago, with something in her
apron that I couldn't see--she is outside; she wants to know if she can
speak to monsieur."

"What woman? I don't know what you're talking about."

"She said: 'Ask your master if he will see Madame Potrelle.'"

"Madame Potrelle! Idiot! why didn't you tell me her name at once?
Certainly I will see her; show her in."

Pomponne seemed sorely perplexed; but he went to the door and said:

"You may come in, Madame Potrelle!"

The concierge from Rue Ménilmontant made her appearance, courtesying
profusely. She had her apron rolled up against her breast as before;
which fact led me to think that she had again taken the opportunity to
give one of her cats a little outing.

I motioned to Monsieur Pomponne to withdraw; which he did regretfully,
after a piercing glance at the concierge's apron.

"Excuse me for disturbing you, monsieur," said Madame Potrelle,
unrolling her apron, in which, instead of a cat, I discovered several
waistcoats and remnants of material. "I've brought back the work you
gave my young tenant; it's been done more'n three weeks now; and, you
see, when I found you didn't come again---- Do you know it's more'n two
months since you sent Madame Landernoy this work?"

"What? is it really so long as that, Madame Potrelle? I am too negligent
altogether. But I have had many things on my mind since, and I may as
well admit frankly that I had forgotten my waistcoats."

"Oh! you needn't make any apologies for that, monsieur. _Pardi!_ a young
man in society must enjoy himself; that's easy to understand. And then,
you know, as a usual thing, the seamstresses carry the work back to
their customers--the customers don't go after it. That's why I says to
our young mother this morning----"

"First of all, how is she? how is the child coming on?"

"Very well, monsieur; little Marie's rather delicate; she's slight, like
her mother; but she's growing like a little mushroom. As for Madame
Landernoy--you know, you saw her before the baby was born; well, you
wouldn't know her to-day. Her cheeks and lips are red again, and her
figure's slender and her eyes clear. Oh! she's mighty pretty now, I tell
you!"

"So much the better, I am sure!"

"Well, no, monsieur; it ain't so much the better! in fact, she don't
like to have people call her pretty."

"Why so, Madame Potrelle? I shall never believe that a woman is sorry to
be attractive."

"Well, that's the way it is with her, monsieur; because, since she's got
to be so fresh and pretty, it's begun all over again."

"What has begun again?"

"Oh! mon Dieu! the young popinjays running after her."

"When a woman doesn't answer the men who follow her, they soon leave her
in peace."

"Sometimes, monsieur, sometimes. But some of 'em stick like leeches.
Still, as you say, she don't answer 'em, and when they come and apply to
me, as a middle-aged man did not long ago--you ought to see how I stand
'em off! He offered me ten francs, the blackguard, to let him go
upstairs and say two words to Madame Landernoy; he was sure she wouldn't
be sorry to have him come; he had a pretty proposal to make to her.
'Monsieur,' says I, standing on my footwarmer to make myself more
imposing, 'you take that young woman for what she ain't; and if you
don't clear out this minute, I'll throw two cats at your head.' He saw
that I had Bribri in one hand and his brother in the other, and he
didn't ask for his change. He ran, and I guess he's running still."

"Very well done, Madame Potrelle! I see that your cats may serve a
useful purpose on occasion."

"My cats! Why, monsieur, there's Mahon, the oldest one--he's every bit
as good as a Newfoundland."

"Did the man you speak of come again?"

"Never. As you said, you can sweep out such fellows as that very quick.
But about a week ago, the poor woman came into the house in a terrible
fright, trembling all over. She rushed into my place, and said: 'Protect
me! don't let him come in here, or I am lost!"

"Mon Dieu! whom had she seen? Her seducer, probably; that wretch who
treated her so horribly!"

"I don't think it was him; for his name's Ernest, and that wasn't the
name she said. 'He dares to pursue me again, the monster!'--Anyway, she
had a terrible scare, for she hasn't dared to put her foot outdoors
since that day."

"And she said nothing else?"

"No, monsieur; when I tried to ask her what had scared her so, she said:
'Oh! don't say anything more about it, Madame Potrelle; he's a villain
who did me a great injury; but you mustn't let anybody come up to my
room, and I shan't go out again for some time.'--Now, monsieur, I'm
coming back to your waistcoats. As I have a shrewd knack of guessing
when the waters are low--that is to say, when money is scarce, without
being told, I says this morning to our young mother, while she was
dandling the little girl on her lap: 'But,' I says,'you have some work
here that you finished long ago: Monsieur Rochebrune's waistcoats.'--I
took the liberty of mentioning your name, monsieur, because I know it
from you giving me your address; and you didn't say anything about
keeping it secret."

"No, Madame Potrelle; I told you that I had no reason for concealing my
name, for I have no evil designs. Go on."

"'The waistcoats are done, that's true,' says Madame Landernoy, 'but I
don't know if the gentleman will be satisfied. I did my very best; but
as he don't come to get them----' 'Well,' I says, 'as he don't come to
get them, why shouldn't we take 'em to him? It seems to me, that would
be more polite, for he's rather a dandy, and he wouldn't want to carry a
bundle.'--'Perhaps you're right,'she says, thoughtful like; 'but one
thing's certain; I won't go to that gentleman's house.'--Do you see?
she's still afraid--yes, she's still afraid of you! In spite of all I
could say about you, she couldn't believe you would take an interest in
her without some motive. You mustn't be angry, monsieur, for, as the
proverb says: 'A burnt child dreads the fire.'"

"It doesn't anger me at all, Madame Potrelle; the better one knows the
world, the more fully one realizes how hard it is to inspire confidence.
That is sad, like almost all truths."

"So, then, monsieur, I offered to bring you the waistcoats; she was more
than willing, and here I am. If monsieur wants to examine the
work--here's the pattern."

I looked at what the woman had brought me, and was perfectly amazed at
the exquisite quality of the work. I had intended the waistcoats for my
servant; but they were as fine as if they had come from one of our most
famous tailors.

"The buttonholes are pretty well made, seems to me," said the concierge;
"but perhaps monsieur don't agree with me?"

"Indeed I do, Madame Potrelle; and I can't understand how that young
woman can have succeeded so well with work that she isn't accustomed
to."

"Oh! _dame!_ it's because she was bound to satisfy monsieur. Now, you
must see if they fit you all right."

I tried on the waistcoats; we were compelled to admit that there was a
defect in the way they were cut; they gaped apart at the top. The poor
concierge walked round and round me, crying:

"I'm sure it's a small matter, just a little bit to be taken in
somewhere; but we must find out where. If our young woman could see 'em
on you, I'll bet she'd know in a minute what needs to be done."

"I should be very glad to go to her room and try them on; but she's so
afraid of me! No matter! I'll keep them as they are."

"No, monsieur, no; I don't propose to have her send you work that ain't
done right; you pay too well."

"By the way, how much do I owe for these?"

"I don't know, monsieur. Madame Landernoy's never made any before; so
she says: 'Let the gentleman pay what he thinks they're worth, and I'll
be satisfied.'"

"Four waistcoats, at twelve francs each, makes forty-eight francs."

"Oh! monsieur is joking! Twelve francs for making a waistcoat! You can't
mean that, monsieur! At that rate, all women would be waistcoat makers;
they can't get any such pay as that."

"You weary me with your scruples, Madame Potrelle; my tailor charges me
eighteen or twenty francs, sometimes more, for a waistcoat. With what I
paid for the material, these won't cost any more than that, and I
certainly don't propose to get them any cheaper."

"Sapristi! monsieur, tailors must do mighty well, then! All right, you
can pay that price, since that suits you; but, I tell you, I won't take
the money till they fit."

Thereupon the concierge walked toward the door.

"Where are you going, Madame Potrelle?"

"I'm going to tell our young woman she must fix over your waistcoats,
monsieur; that they're a gold mine, but that she's got to take 'em in a
little. In a word, I'm going to bring Madame Landernoy back with me.
What the devil! with me here, she won't be afraid of you eating her, I
fancy! To be on your guard is all right; but there's no need of making a
fool of yourself! I'll be back, monsieur."

"But your door, Madame Potrelle?"

"My cats are there--and my little niece."

The good woman went away, refusing to listen to my remonstrances. Would
she bring Mignonne back with her? I most sincerely hoped that the young
woman would not be annoyed thereat. My desire to know her better was due
solely to my wish to be of use to her. I was not in love with her.
Indeed, since Madame Sordeville had treated me so shamefully, I did not
propose to love any woman. That was my intention, at least.

Madame Potrelle had been gone nearly two hours, and I was preparing to
go out, thinking that she would not return, when there came a gentle
ring at my door, and Pomponne soon appeared, still with his air of
mystery and walking on tiptoe, and said:

"Monsieur, it's the old woman who was here just now; she hasn't got
anything in her apron this time, but she's brought with her a young
woman--or demoiselle--who is very good-looking."

I could not help laughing at Monsieur Pomponne's reflections; but I
remembered Mignonne's extreme suspicion. It was essential that I should
assume a serious bearing, to banish from her mind any thought of
seduction. So that my expression was almost stern when I ordered
Pomponne to admit my visitors.

Madame Potrelle entered first. Mignonne came behind her, with a timid,
embarrassed air, in which one could read a serious and studied reserve.
The concierge had not exaggerated when she said that her tenant had
become a lovely woman. It was a long time since I had seen Mignonne, and
I am not sure that I should have recognized her. She was remarkable for
the refinement of her features, for the beauty of her coloring, which
was not red, but a delicate pink, perfectly in harmony with her white
skin; for her fair hair, which was neither colorless nor of too
pronounced a tone; and, lastly, for the genuine _blueness_ of her
eyes--a thing that is seldom seen, for most eyes that are called blue
are of any color you please except that.

And then, there was in Mignonne's whole aspect a touch of melancholy
that made her doubly interesting, because it was in no wise affected; it
seemed to me that everyone must, at sight of her, have a feeling of
sympathy for her. Perhaps it was because I was acquainted with her
misfortunes that I thought so. This much is certain: that, as I looked
upon her, I was touched, deeply moved, and that in my feelings there was
nothing resembling love, or the desires to which the sight of a pretty
girl often gives birth. There was a large element of respect in the
interest that she aroused in me.

"Excuse me, monsieur," said Madame Potrelle, pushing Mignonne in front
of her. "Here's Madame Landernoy; I told her there was something to be
done to your waistcoats, with which you are well satisfied, all the
same."

"I regret the trouble you have taken, madame. However, it affords me the
opportunity of congratulating you on the perfection of your work. I was
fortunate in having you consent to work for me."

I said this in a very cold tone and without fixing my eyes on Mignonne,
who seemed to grow a little bolder and replied:

"But your waistcoats don't fit, monsieur----"

"Oh! I think that it's a very small matter; you are not a tailor, and,
of course, you could not succeed in doing everything just right at the
first trial; but if you will allow me to try on one of them in your
presence----"

"_Pardi!_ of course you must try 'em on," cried the concierge; "there's
no other way to see what's wrong! and, after all, a waistcoat's
different from a pair of breeches!"

Mignonne lowered her eyes at Madame Potrelle's remark. I removed my coat
and put on one of the waistcoats. Mignonne had no choice but to come to
me and touch my chest and back, like a tailor taking my measure. But
while she was making her examination, I was careful not to look at her
once; so that she was somewhat reassured.

"I see what needs to be done, monsieur: the collar is too low; it's not
much to do, and then I think they'll fit very well. I will take them
away with me, and to-morrow----"

She hesitated, and I made haste to say:

"I shall not be here to-morrow, but that makes no difference; if you
bring the waistcoats back, be good enough to leave them with the
concierge; you need not take the trouble to come up."

"Yes, monsieur," she murmured, almost smiling, for she was beginning to
feel altogether at her ease. Madame Potrelle looked at her with a
triumphant expression.

I offered Mignonne the money that I owed her. She looked at it and said:

"What, monsieur, as much as that--for so little work? It's too much,
monsieur!"

"Madame," I said, rather sharply, "I have told Madame Potrelle what I
have to pay my tailor for a waistcoat. I do not intend to make you a
present; but, on the other hand, I don't propose to have anyone think
that I am trying to defraud a poor seamstress."

"Don't you go to work and make monsieur angry!" cried the concierge. "As
he's in the habit of paying that price, what's the use of vexing him and
putting him in a bad humor? you mustn't go against people's grain like
that!"

Mignonne said nothing; but she took the money I offered, and made a very
modest courtesy. For the first time she looked at me without a
suspicious expression in her eyes.

"Now," I said, "will you allow me to make you a proposition, madame? You
may accept it or not, as you think best. But, first of all, pray be
seated for a moment; and you too, Madame Potrelle."

The concierge did not wait to be urged. The younger woman made more ado
about it; her suspicions were reawakened. She waited to hear what I had
to say.

"I am a bachelor; I have none of the kind-hearted female relations, no
aunts or cousins, who condescend sometimes to cast an eye over a young
man's linen closet, where there is always something that needs mending.
Our clothes especially are sadly neglected; indeed, no care at all is
taken of them. The result is that we spend much more money than we need
to spend, which would not happen if some trustworthy person, some
skilful seamstress, like yourself, madame, would take charge of affairs.
This, then, is my proposition: that you should come once a week--with
Madame Potrelle--and inspect this chest of drawers in which my linen is
kept; carry away what may need to be mended, and bring it back when it
is done; in short, madame, that you should keep this part of my
establishment in order. If you are afraid of disturbing me, or of
finding company here, come about five o'clock in the afternoon, for I am
never at home at that time; the keys are always in these drawers, and my
servant will have orders to allow you to do as you please. That is what
I propose, madame. As for your compensation for the work, I fancy that
we shall have no difficulty on that subject."

Mignonne listened to me with close attention. Madame Potrelle was in
ecstasies; she could hardly keep her seat, and did nothing but cross and
uncross her legs. At last, after reflection, the young woman replied:

"Really, monsieur, I do not know how I have earned the confidence with
which you honor me. What you propose is a new proof of your kindness,
and----"

"No, no, madame; pray consider that, by undertaking this work, you will
do me a real service; you will bring order, and consequently economy,
into my housekeeping. So you see that I shall be your debtor. Well! do
you accept?"

"Does she accept!" cried Madame Potrelle, springing up as if she were
going to dance. "Why, who ever heard of refusing such an offer as that?
a thing that makes her sure of regular work; especially when she sees
that it's for a gentleman who--for someone who hasn't any desire
to--why, it's as plain as can be!"

"Yes, monsieur, I accept, and with gratitude," said Mignonne; "for I
have a child, and by giving the mother assurance of a living you benefit
the child no less."

I would have liked to shake hands with her; but I restrained myself, and
replied, with the same indifferent air:

"In that case, madame, it is all settled, and it rests with you to say
when you will enter upon your duties. You will have work enough, I
promise you, for it's a long time since my belongings have been put in
order."

"Then, monsieur, as I have nothing to do just now, I'll carry a bundle
of linen home with me, by your leave. I'll look it over at home, for I
have left my daughter with a neighbor, and I don't like to abuse her
good nature."

"That's so," said the concierge; "and I ain't very easy in my mind about
the actions of my twins and their sister."

"Do as you please, madame. Just open those drawers; you will find the
bed and table linen in this closet."

Mignonne opened one of the drawers in the commode, and hastily made up a
bundle, which she wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. She was still
engaged in that occupation, when I heard my doorbell, and a moment later
a familiar voice in the reception room.

"There's no need of announcing me, my boy; I'll go right in without
ceremony. A doctor may always go in."

At the same instant, the bedroom door opened and Balloquet appeared.

"Bonjour, my dear fellow!" he said; "I beg your pardon; I interrupt you,
perhaps. But if I intrude, tell me so, and I'll go away."

I had just taken Balloquet's hand, and told him to remain, when
Mignonne, who had made haste to tie up her bundle, and was about to
leave the room with Madame Potrelle, glanced at the new-comer and
suddenly changed color; then, trembling with agitation, she threw her
bundle on the floor, seized the old woman's arm, and cried:

"Come, come, madame! Let us go at once; I can't stay here another
minute! Oh! it's shameful! It was a trap!"

"Well, well! what makes you throw all that linen on the floor? Why don't
you carry it away?" murmured the old woman, aghast at Mignonne's action.

"I won't take the work. I refuse it! I'll never come here again, never!
never! Come, madame! let us go at once!"

As she spoke, the young woman ran to the door and went out, refusing to
listen to what her companion said; and she, utterly unable to understand
what she saw, decided to follow her, crying:

"What on earth's the matter with her? What's got into her? Refuse work,
when she needs it! Refuse the offers of an honorable man, who wishes her
nothing but good! Faith! it's sickening! Much good it does to take an
interest in folks! Excuse me, monsieur, I must follow her; but she's got
to explain all this. Excuse her, monsieur; it's some crazy idea she's
got in her head. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! to refuse a gentleman like
monsieur--there's no sense in it!"

The concierge left the room at last. As for myself, I was so
thunderstruck by Mignonne's conduct that it had not occurred to me to
ask her for an explanation.

Balloquet, meanwhile, had remained standing in the middle of the room,
looking from one to another, unable to understand what was taking place.

"Well! what in the deuce is going on here, my dear fellow?" said the
young doctor, when Madame Potrelle had disappeared. "Can it be that my
arrival caused all this hurly-burly and put that young woman to flight?
She seemed to be a very attractive person--not the one who went out
last, but the other. I didn't have time for a good look at her, but she
struck me as rather _chicolo_."

"You didn't recognize her, then, Balloquet?"

"Recognize her? Why, do I know her? I have no remembrance of ever seeing
her."

"Ah! I see, I see; I understand it all now."

"You are very lucky, for I don't understand a word of it."

I remembered that Balloquet had been Fouvenard's friend, and it was
probable that Mignonne had met him when she was with her seducer; and
so, when she saw a man come into my room whom she had seen with him who
had deceived her so shamefully, she concluded, doubtless, that I too was
a friend of Fouvenard. That being so, was it surprising that her
suspicions and her terror should have returned, and that she should have
refused to work for me? Poor girl! I had succeeded in winning her
confidence, and this accident had destroyed all that I had had so much
difficulty in obtaining. It seemed that, with the best intentions, I was
fated always to remain an object of terror to her.

I kept my reflections to myself; I deemed it unnecessary to tell
Balloquet that the young woman he had found in my room was she whose
shame Monsieur Fouvenard had not hesitated to proclaim. My visitor was
still standing in the middle of the room, and he cried at last,
irritated by my silence:

"Evidently I came at an inopportune moment. Excuse me. I'll come again."

But I detained him and made him sit down.

"No; you could never guess---- But let us say no more about this
incident.--You seem in better spirits, my dear Balloquet?"

"Oh! my feathers are coming out again; not enough to pay you, but that
may come in time."

"For heaven's sake, don't talk about that!"

"I have seen Satiné, my sweetheart, again. She has gone into another
invention now--still in the glove line, however. She cleanses gloves;
she has invented, or someone has given her, a secret for cleansing them;
and as gloves get soiled very quickly and are rather expensive, there's
a lot of money to be made in cleansing."

"True; but I thought the process was already known."

"Yes, it is possible to have gloves cleansed; that's so; but when they
had been through the process they smelt of the cleansing
liquid--turpentine, or something else. You went into a salon and
swaggered about, playing the dandy, and people said as soon as you came
near: 'Ah! here's a man whose gloves have been cleansed!'--That was
annoying, you must admit. It took fifty per cent off your costume. Some
people concluded at once that your coat had been turned and your
trousers dyed, that your waistcoat was second-hand, etcetera, etcetera.
Conjectures went a long way, sometimes."

"And your charmer has found a way of avoiding that?"

"Yes--that is to say, not altogether; gloves cleansed by her process
have an extremely pleasant odor; they smell of rose; oh! you can smell
them a mile away; it's amazing! You go into a salon, and people think
that the Grand Turk and his whole harem have arrived; they can't smell
anything but you."

"But that may have the same drawbacks as the other process, my dear
fellow. People will wonder why you smell so strongly of rose."

"Yes; but when I arrive, I shall begin by saying: 'I adore the odor of
rose! I have lately bought some essence of rose, so strong that all my
clothes are perfumed with it'--In that way, I avert suspicion from my
gloves. However, it seems that the new process is a success. My
sentimental Satiné is in funds; the odor of rose is popular. For my
part, I have had a few patients--among others, a rich old gentleman with
whom I am very well satisfied; he has had an inflammation of the lungs
for six weeks, and it doesn't seem inclined to subside. I keep it up by
means of fumigations. I have paid three creditors already with that
inflammation. To-day, as I happened to be in your neighborhood, I said
to myself: 'I may as well call on Rochebrune and give him my address;'
for I have an address for the moment. Cité Vindé, No. 4, _ter_ or _bis_.
But I'm very sorry that I put that young woman to flight. Have I such a
very terrifying aspect? I haven't any moustache."

"I repeat, Balloquet, don't think any more of that incident. You could
not have foreseen what happened.--But tell me about that girl who came
to consult you while I was in your room; you remember, don't you? the
girl who had been so maltreated by a miserable blackguard!"

Balloquet passed his hand across his brow and his face became almost
serious--a rare occurrence.

"Yes, I remember; you mean Annette?"

"Annette--that was the name. You went to see her, didn't you?"

"Yes, I visited her nearly two months."

"And then?"

"And then happened what I had anticipated from the very first: she
died."

"Died! Great God! you could not save her?"

"It was impossible. All that I could do was to relieve her suffering as
much as possible. Poor girl! she suffered too much, even then. A cancer
developed, you understand, at that place. I say again, I deadened the
pain as much as I could, but it was impossible to save her."

"It is perfectly ghastly. So the unfortunate child was tortured--yes,
murdered by that---- Oh! the infernal scoundrel! the monster!"

"Yes, it was that Bouqueton who caused the poor girl's death; I am ready
to testify to it, if necessary. But you told me, I believe, that you
know the villain?"

"I don't know him, but I know who he is."

"Well, is there no way of avenging the poor creature, of punishing her
assassin?--for the man is an assassin, and a hundred times more criminal
than those who ply their trade openly on the highroad. If we prosecuted
him before the courts, we should have no chance of proving his crime, I
fancy. The victim is dead, and there is no evidence. I asked her several
times if she had not some letter, or something that came from that
Bouqueton; it would have been invaluable. But all that she had was a
paltry ring, of no value, not even gold, which he gave her one day as
being very valuable."

"Have you seen the ring?"

"Yes; I asked Annette for it several days before she died. The poor
child, who had divined her doom, although I did my best to conceal it
from her, gave me the bauble, and said with angelic gentleness: 'You may
intend to search for the man who injured me so, and punish him; but it
isn't worth while, monsieur; after all, I have only received the reward
of my misconduct. If I hadn't left my parents to lead a disorderly life,
this thing wouldn't have happened to me. I see that I've got to die, but
I forgive the man who caused my death."

"Poor Annette!"

"I concealed my intentions from her, but I took the ring. It's all right
for the victim to forgive--but our duty is to punish. This is the ring,
Rochebrune."

Balloquet took from his pocket a little gold-plated ring, with several
colored stones of no value set in the form of a star; its only merit was
that it was easily identified by its oddity and its ugliness. I took
possession of it eagerly, crying:

"Leave it with me, my friend; let me keep it, I beg you; it will help me
some day to avenge poor Annette."

"With all my heart. But I say again, try to let me have a share in the
vengeance; don't forget me when the time comes. I saw the victim die,
and I should enjoy seeing the murderer punished."

"I promise to let you know at once, when the time comes; and if I need
you to help me----"

"Sapristi! I will be on hand then, even if I am pursued by creditors!
But my affairs will be settled in due time. Au revoir, my dear fellow!
The next time I come to see you, I'll wear a pair of my essence of rose
gloves, so that you can tell your friends and acquaintances about them."

Balloquet shook hands with me and took his leave; and I carefully put
poor Annette's ring away in my desk.

XXXI

DISAPPOINTED HOPES

Annette's death and Mignonne's unjust suspicions of me left me in a
melancholy mood; and when, as sometimes happened, Madame Sordeville's
conduct came to my mind, it did not tend to restore my self-contentment.
I was not precisely unhappy, but I was disgusted to think that I had so
misplaced my affections; and, more than all, I craved other affection.
Can a man live without love, at thirty years? Indeed, I believe, with
Voltaire, that love is necessary at every age, and that it is love that
sustains us.

I was in this frame of mind when Madame Potrelle appeared. The good
woman began with her usual profusion of reverences, and with an
abundance of apologies for the abrupt manner of her departure on the
occasion of her last visit; but she hoped that I bore her no ill will
therefor.

I reassured her, and asked if she was sent by Madame Landernoy.

"Oh, no, monsieur! she didn't send me--that is to say, not exactly; but
she knows I've come. I'll bet she's waiting impatiently for my return;
and yet, worse luck! she won't listen to a word about you; she won't
work for you; she wouldn't put her foot inside your door for--I don't
know what! She's wrong; I'm perfectly sure she's doing wrong, and that
she's mistaken in what she thinks about you. So I came to tell you what
it was that frightened her, what turned her head."

"I suspect what it was, Madame Potrelle. But, no matter, tell me what
you know."

"In the first place, monsieur, as I told you, when she came back from
buying provisions a week or two ago, my young tenant rushed into my
place, frightened to death, and singing out: 'Protect me! don't let him
come in!'"

"Yes; and afterward a middle-aged man offered you ten francs to let him
go up to Madame Landernoy's room."

"Yes, monsieur; but that last one was just one of the men who are always
following women. But, for all that, it seems he was in earnest, and he
watched her a long while after, poor child. When men are--on my word,
they're worse'n tomcats. Excuse the comparison, monsieur; I don't mean
that for you."

"Let us come to what you had to tell me, Madame Potrelle."

"You see, a woman ends by getting confused with all these blackguards.
_Dame!_ she's got to be so pretty again! I didn't lie to you about that,
did I, monsieur?"

"Your tenant is very good-looking. Above all, she has an interesting,
respectable look, which ought to protect her from the schemes of seekers
after adventures."

"Oh, no! not at all, monsieur; just the opposite! Libertines run after
virtuous women most of all. They want 'em! they must have 'em! 'Ah!'
they'll say; 'there's one that's never gone wrong; I'll just push her
down into perdition.'--Excuse me; I'll come back to the point. The other
day, when Madame Landernoy went out of here like a rocket, I ran after
her, and, _dame!_ as I didn't think she'd done right, I asked her to
explain herself; and this is what she said, word for word: 'I was right
in not having confidence in Monsieur Rochebrune; I recognized that young
man who just came in as a friend of my seducer, of the man who wasn't
content with deserting me, but tried to cover me with shame. Now,
nothing will take away my idea that Monsieur Rochebrune is one of
Ernest's friends, too. How do I know that they are not planning some
trap that they mean to lead me into? When I came home in such a fright
two or three days ago, it was because I'd met that horrible
Rambertin--the man who conceived and carried out the most outrageous
treachery! And that man ran after me and dared to talk to me again about
his passion! No, Madame Potrelle, I won't go to Monsieur Rochebrune's
again, and I won't work for him; for all that he's doing for me isn't
natural. Besides, I am sure now that he has seen Ernest, and that's
enough to make me feel something worse than fear of him.'--Those are
Madame Landernoy's very words, monsieur. I stood up for you; I told her
that it wasn't possible that you had any hand in wicked schemes against
her; and that I'd put my hand in the fire to prove it--and so I would!"

"I thank you for your good opinion of me, Madame Potrelle, and I assure
you that I deserve it in this matter."

"Oh! I don't doubt it, monsieur. But the young woman's got that idea in
her brain, and there's no way to get it out. But something came into my
head, and I told her of it. 'You think,' I says, 'that Monsieur
Rochebrune's a friend of your seducer, and you think it's strange he
should take so much interest in you and pay you more for your work than
it's worth. But how do you know Monsieur Ernest hasn't repented of the
way he's treated you? After all, he's the father of your little girl;
how do you know but what he's thinking about her, and wants her to have
everything she needs?'--That seemed to strike her; she thought a long
while, and then she says: 'Oh, no! no! when a man has tried to cover an
unhappy mother with shame, he don't repent! his heart is closed to every
honest feeling, and he never remembers that he has a child. And yet, if
by any chance--if you have guessed right---- But, no, I can't believe
it, it isn't possible!'--At that, monsieur, I saw that in the bottom of
her heart she thought I had guessed right; so I says to her: 'Well! I'll
just go to Monsieur Rochebrune, and ask him flat-footed how it is, and
I'm sure he'll answer me honest.'--So I started off, monsieur, and here
I am."

"You did well, madame, to believe that I would answer you frankly. You
may repeat what I am going to tell you to Mignonne--that is her
Christian name, and she will understand now how I know it.--I do know
Monsieur Ernest Fouvenard; he has never been a friend of mine; and if he
had been, his treatment of your tenant, of which he dared to boast in my
presence, would have been enough to put an end to our friendship. In
fact, that is just what has happened between him and the young man whom
you saw here. He was intimate with Monsieur Ernest; he broke with him
entirely as soon as he learned of this outrageous performance of his. I
was profoundly interested by Mignonne's misfortunes; and that interest
was absolutely pure, as I did not then know her. I understand why she
looked upon me at first with suspicion; when one has been so shamefully
betrayed, it is natural to suspect evil designs in the most innocent
actions. I saw your young tenant, and I did not fall in love with
her--not even after she recovered her beauty. But she aroused the
liveliest interest in me, and it would have been a very pleasant task to
me to make her lot easier. That is the whole truth; I hope that Mignonne
will deign to believe it. As a general rule, men are evil-minded; but
there are still some who do good solely for the pleasure of doing it;
the exception proves the rule."

"I believe you, monsieur; oh, yes! I believe you," said the concierge,
sadly; "but I am sorry that I didn't guess right. I wish that miserable
Monsieur Ernest had thought of his child. Whatever she may say, I am
sure the poor mother would have been pleased in the bottom of her
heart."

"I am not enough of a hero, Madame Potrelle, to give credit to another
for the little good I am able to do; besides, when that other is a
miserable wretch, a dastard, who prides himself on his infamous conduct,
it seems to me that it would be nothing less than downright fraud to
give him credit for acts which would imply that his heart was not devoid
of every worthy feeling. Mignonne was right in thinking that the man who
would have covered an unhappy mother with opprobrium is not capable of
repentance. Your supposition was born of a kind heart; but Monsieur
Ernest has one that is rotten to the core, and with such hearts there is
no resource. Now, I have told you the whole truth; Mignonne will believe
me or not; I cannot help myself. But if she does change her opinion with
regard to me, tell her that I bear no malice, and that the work I
offered her will still be at her disposal."

I dismissed the concierge. Let Mignonne think and do what she chose, I
had done all that I could to help her. I neither could nor ought to go
any further.

The spring had returned, and one fine day I had left home thinking of
Madame Dauberny, whom I would have given all the world to meet, when I
felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and recognized my former
acquaintance, Baron von Brunzbrack.

"How in der teufel are you?" said the baron, taking my hand.

"Ah! is it you, Monsieur de Brunzbrack? I am delighted to meet you. Do
you know that it is more than six months since we met?"

"Ja, I know id veil; but I could not meed you no more, pecause--you know
pecause vhy?"

"What do I know? Assume that I do not know--I shall be much obliged."

"Pecause I no longer go to Monsir Sordeville."

"Ah! you no longer go there? Faith! I had no means of knowing that, for
the very simple reason that I myself have not put my foot inside that
door since--yes, since the night we played baccarat together, against
Madame Dauberny."

"Ten you pe like me. Te loafely voman, she vill haf varned us poth."

"Warned---- Who, pray?"

"Te loafely Frédérique."

"Ah! so Madame Dauberny suggested to you too not to go to Madame
Sordeville's, did she?"

"Ja! I haf one day received from her ein leedle note, vich I haf alvays
keep, pecause I vas much bleezed to receive tat note vich she haf write
herself. You shall see; I haf id alvays on my heart, in my cigar case."

And the baron, taking a dainty cigar case from his pocket, produced a
small folded paper that smelt horribly of tobacco; luckily, the tobacco
was of the best quality.

He opened the letter and handed it to me, but did not let it leave his
own hands. I recognized Frédérique's hand, and I read:

     "MY DEAR BARON:

     "Do you care for my advice? Do not go to Monsieur Sordeville's any
     more. I say this in your own interest. Later, perhaps, I shall be
     able to explain my reasons. /* "Yours devotedly,

     "FRÉDÉRIQUE DAUBERNY."

I could not restrain a sort of shudder as I read the last name, and
reflected that such a woman as Frédérique was that man's wife. Suppose
that she knew what he was doing! But, no; she would do something
imprudent; it was better that she should not know that story until
Annette was avenged.

The baron carefully replaced the letter in his cigar case, and restored
the latter to his pocket, saying:

"Vhen I haf tat note received, I vas mad mit choy. I pelieved tat te
Frédérique, she vas chealous of some voman who vent to Monsir
Sordeville, berhaps of Montame Sordeville herself. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Did you follow the advice she gave you?"

"Ach! _pigre!_ I vould haf no more gone to Sordeville's for ein embire!
But I haf called often to see Montame Dauberny; I haf hard luck; she pe
nefer in! I haf not pin aple to meed her. And you, mein gut frent?"

"I received the same advice from Madame Dauberny."

"And you opeyed, like me?"

"Not instantly; I went once more to see Madame Sordeville, but in the
afternoon."

"Ach! gut! gut!"

"Indeed, I expected to see her often; but an unforeseen event changed
all my plans. I have not been there since, and I shall never go again."

"Ach! gut! gut! Is id also to do Montame Dauberny's vish?"

"Not at all; it is for another reason, which I cannot tell you."

"Gut! gut! I no untershtand. You must not--you must not shtill pe in
loafe mit te peautiful Frédérique?"

"Mon Dieu! no, my dear baron! When could I have fallen in love with her,
pray? I never see her; I never meet her."

"Gif me your hand, mein frent."

"And yet, I confess that I have the greatest desire to see her and speak
with her."

"Ach, ja! I untershtand; and so haf I; to ask her vhy she haf forbid us
to go to te Sordevilles."

"I should not be sorry to know that. But I want to talk to her about
something which interests me more."

The baron drew back with a frown, and muttered:

"You haf a teclaration to make to her--in secret--mit mystery!"

"Sapristi! you are infernally tenacious in your ideas, baron. Once more,
there is no question of a declaration! Why on earth have you taken it
into your head that I am likely to fall in love with Madame Dauberny?
Would it please you very much if I should?"

"Ach! no! no! Gif me your hand, mein frent; I haf pin wrong. I am one
pig fool!"

The baron was still holding my hand, when a calèche stopped beside us
and a voice said:

"Would you like to take a short drive with me, messieurs?"

We looked up and recognized Madame Dauberny, alone in an open calèche.
Herr von Brunzbrack turned crimson with pleasure; for my part, I was
well pleased to have met Frédérique at last.

"Faith! madame," said I, "the baron and I were just talking of you."

"Ja, loafely lady; ve haf pin talking of you."

"I suspected as much; that is why I stopped. Well, messieurs, wouldn't
you rather talk with me than confine yourselves to talking about me?"

Our only reply was to enter the carriage without more ado. I seated
myself opposite Frédérique, the baron by her side, and we drove away.

XXXII

A REVELATION

Unless by keeping my eyes constantly lowered, I could not avoid looking
often at Frédérique; and as I had no reason to lower my eyes, and,
moreover, as I had always taken pleasure in looking at her, I was able
at that moment to enjoy that pleasure to the full.

Madame Dauberny was always dressed in good taste; that morning she wore
a gray silk gown, cut very high, which was wonderfully becoming to her.
But, after all, is it not rather the wearer who embellishes the gown?
For example: I had often noticed that Frédérique's waists fitted her to
perfection, and I had rarely noticed that fact in other women. Was it
not because Frédérique had a beautiful figure?

I was overjoyed to see that Madame Dauberny's face no longer wore that
cold, stern expression which she had formerly adopted with me. Her face
was entirely different; I could not say what it expressed, because,
although she looked at me often, she never fixed her eyes on mine; but
they shone with a brilliancy I had never before seen in them; they were
at once softer and merrier than of old; they no longer had, for the
moment at least, that ironical or severe expression to which I had once
become accustomed.

The baron, who seemed enchanted at first to be at Frédérique's side,
soon began, I think, to be sorry that he was not where I was. He
constantly leaned forward, trying to see Frédérique's face; but she wore
a broad-brimmed gray felt hat, and when the baron leaned forward to
speak to her she always turned her head, apparently in a spirit of
mischief, so that he could not have the pleasure of looking at her.

"I am very glad to have met you, messieurs," said Frédérique; "in the
first place, because it gives me the greatest pleasure to see
you--both."

That _both_ she said in a curious tone, and accompanied it with a glance
in my direction. I had sufficient conceit to believe, after all, that
she still preferred my company to the baron's.

"In the second place, messieurs, I owe you an explanation for the
letters I wrote you on the subject of Monsieur Sordeville; for I
referred to him solely, and not to his wife, when I urged you to break
off your relations with that household. Monsieur Rochebrune paid little
heed to my advice.--I do not blame you, monsieur; besides, Armantine is
my friend, and, as I have told you before, I have no desire to injure
her in your esteem. If her husband is a scoundrel, I believe you to be
just enough not to include his wife in the contempt which that man must
inspire."

"Go on, madame; what is his business?"

"Haf he made ein pankrupt?"

"Oh! if it were no worse than that! But, in the first place, Monsieur
Sordeville was neither banker, nor merchant, nor solicitor; he was
nothing, and pretended to be everything. That strange state of affairs
aroused my curiosity more than once, especially as he gave parties,
lived handsomely, made a good deal of show, and yet he was not known to
have any fortune, and Armantine's dowry was very, very small. There is
one point upon which I have always liked to be well posted, and that is,
the means of existence of the people with whom I associate. Indeed, how
much confidence can one have in those who spend a great deal and earn
nothing?

"I had several times been tempted to say a word of warning to Armantine
on that subject; but she did not trouble herself in the least about her
husband's business, and had unbounded faith in what he told her. She led
such a life as she liked; for her husband left her entirely at liberty
to do just what she chose, and seemed happy to be the husband of a
charming woman, only because she attracted numerous guests to his house.
You will agree that it would have been horrible to disturb Armantine's
peace of mind by giving her a hint of my suspicions; she would have
spurned them with horror. Poor woman! More than once, I said to myself
that I was a fool, that my ideas were an insult to Monsieur Sordeville;
and not until I had learned of several facts that confirmed my
suspicions, did I feel absolutely certain of the truth."

"Not yet do I know vat is te trut," muttered the baron, craning his neck
in an attempt to see his neighbor's lovely eyes.

"Ah! Monsieur de Brunzbrack, there are some things that are so hard, so
painful, to say! Listen: about a year ago, a young man attached to the
Dutch legation was suddenly dismissed, without the slightest explanation
of his disgrace. He had been an habitué of Monsieur Sordeville's salon
for two months. A clerk in the War Department lost his place--no reason
assigned. But he, too, had attended Monsieur Sordeville's receptions.
And you yourself, baron--did not your ambassador thank you and request
you never to set foot in his offices again?"

"Ja! Te ambassador, he haf say to me: 'You talk too much! You haf
divulzhe te secrets of te cabinet.'--I haf not untershtand, but id vas
all one to me; I haf not care for my blace."

"How is it with you, Monsieur Rochebrune? do you begin to understand?"

"In truth, madame, I fear that I do; but I dare not say as yet."

"Well, monsieur, the young attaché of the Dutch legation had been lured
on by Monsieur Sordeville to talk foolishly about certain plans of his
government.--You did the same, baron, unwittingly perhaps; that man was
so clever at making people talk about what he wanted to find out! As for
the young clerk, he had tattled about certain peculiarities of his
superiors, and Monsieur Sordeville took care that they were informed. In
a word, Monsieur Sordeville was connected with the secret police. That
is what I dared not believe at first, what I was determined to have the
proof of, if it were true. I never hesitate when the honor of a friend,
the safety and the future of people I love, are at stake. I had once
rendered a slight service to a person who is employed in the police
bureau to-day, but in a position which he can afford to avow; that
person had begged me to give him an opportunity to show his gratitude,
and I said to him: 'The opportunity has come; find out for me what
Monsieur Sordeville's position is.' I speedily received a reply
containing these words only: 'Connected with the secret police.'"

"_Sapremann!_" cried the baron; "I am sorry tat I haf talk mit him! Vat!
tat so bolite monsir--he vas ein shpy! Ach! I am shtubefied!"

I shared the baron's stupefaction; Frédérique's revelation appalled me;
and yet, I knew that in society the most disgusting vices lie hidden
beneath the most brilliant exteriors.

"And--his wife," I said at last; "does she know now what her husband
does?"

"She knows all, and I was spared the melancholy duty of telling her.
There were some scandalous scenes at Monsieur Sordeville's not long ago.
It seems that a certain man--one of the victims of that wretch's
denunciations--had succeeded, by unwearying perseverance, in learning
the source of the report that ruined him. He also learned the truth with
respect to Monsieur Sordeville. Then what did he do? Accompanied by
several friends, to whom he had told the facts, he went to the house on
a certain evening at home--for they continued to receive,
notwithstanding what was told you to the contrary."

This was said to me, and proved that Frédérique knew all.

"He went to Monsieur Sordeville's," she continued, "and there, in the
middle of the salon, before all the guests, he called him a spy and
struck him! Imagine the uproar, the amazement, the confusion, of all
those people, who were thoroughly ashamed to be there; for Monsieur
Sordeville turned pale, and did not say a word or return the blow. Poor
Armantine fainted, and they carried her to her room. Thereupon the
guests all took their hats and fled, assuring the master of the house
that they didn't believe a word of what had been said, but fully
determined never to go there again. On the next day, Armantine took
refuge with me. I dictated the following plainly worded letter, which
she sent to her husband:

"'You have deceived me shamefully, monsieur. I leave you, and I lay
aside your name. You will never hear of me again, and I trust that I may
never hear of you.'

"That is what Armantine wrote to him. You must agree, Rochebrune, that
we are not very fortunate in our husbands, either of us!"

Poor Frédérique! She did not know how truly she spoke.

"Now, messieurs, it's all over. The Sordeville family has ceased to
exist. Nobody knows what has become of the man, and nobody cares very
much. Probably he is still carrying on his profession, on his own
account. As to Armantine, luckily she has about eighteen hundred francs
a year which her husband cannot touch. She will live on that, in the
retreat she has chosen; she will cut less of a figure and not change her
gown so often; but perhaps she will be happier."

As she said that, Frédérique fixed her eyes on me for a moment, then
continued:

"I hope, messieurs, that you will forgive me now for advising you both
to stay away from Monsieur Sordeville's?"

"That is to say, madame, that we owe you our warmest thanks."

"Ach! ja! and I haf te note in your hand; id is alvays here--on my
heart."

"You do me too much honor, baron," said Madame Dauberny, with a smile;
"and I am quite sure that everybody doesn't do as you have done."

I would have been glad to be rid of the baron, for I had many questions
to ask Frédérique. I do not know whether she divined my thought, but she
ordered her coachman to drive back to Paris.

"I will not abuse your good nature any longer, messieurs," she said. "I
carried you both away rather unceremoniously; and perhaps somebody is
impatiently awaiting you."

"No; I am not avaited at all," said the baron; "I am te master of my
time."

"Where were you going, baron?" Frédérique asked, as if she had not heard
what he said.

"Montame--I vas going--I know not--I vas going novere."

"But as I am going somewhere, I will set you down at your hotel, then I
will take Monsieur Rochebrune home."

I was well pleased that she proposed to set down the baron first. To no
purpose did he say again and again that no one was expecting him, that
he was not sure that he wanted to go home; Madame Dauberny replied
simply:

"I am very sorry; but I can't drive you about all day."

Before long, she ordered the coachman to stop; the carriage door was
opened and she offered the baron her hand, saying:

"Adieu! until I have the pleasure of seeing you again."

Herr von Brunzbrack decided at last, although with great reluctance, to
alight; but when he was on the ground, he looked at me and beckoned:

"Vell! vhy haf not you come, too?"

"Because Monsieur Rochebrune is going in another direction, and I am
going to drive him part of the way."

As she spoke, Frédérique motioned to the coachman to drive on, paying no
heed to the baron, who declared that he wanted to stay with me. The poor
Prussian stood on the same spot, and glared at me in a far from friendly
fashion.

"I am not sorry to be rid of the baron," said Frédérique, "for I want to
talk with you; if you are really in no hurry, suppose we take a turn in
the Bois?"

"That will give me great pleasure, madame, for I too long to talk with
you."

"Take us to the Bois de Boulogne, _cocher_.--Ah! if the poor baron knew
this, he would be frantic!"

"Yes, for he's terribly jealous; he sees a rival in every man who has
the privilege of knowing you."

"The man believes that everybody's in love with me! he is too stupid!
But let us say no more of the baron and his love, which disturbs me very
little. Let us come to what interests you. You want to know, of course,
what has become of Armantine? Before a stranger, I would not betray her
incognito; but to you, it seems to me that I may safely tell where she
is, so that you can go there and condole with her. Armantine is living
at Passy, on the Grande Rue, near the forest; she has taken the name of
Madame Montfort. That is what I had to tell you."

"Is that all, madame?"

"Why, I should suppose that it was a great deal to you, to know what has
become of the lady of your thoughts."

"Frédérique, are you willing that we should be friends again?"

As I spoke, I held out my hand. She turned her head away, and for some
seconds seemed to hesitate; then she gave me her hand, and replied in a
voice that was not quite steady:

"Well, yes, I am willing; sincere friends; all except the _tutoiement_;
for I realize that that is impossible; anyone who heard us would form
wrong conclusions."

"Very good. But no more mystery between us; absolute and mutual
confidence. If you knew how deeply I have regretted having angered you!
You were so severe with me! You spoke to me so frigidly, and sometimes
with a touch of irony even."

"Let's forget all that. I am a little whimsical! But it's all over now.
We are reconciled. As for--as for what made me angry, I am sure that you
won't be guilty of the same offence again. You were a little bewildered
that night--otherwise, it never would have occurred to you to kiss me."

I was at a loss what to reply; for there are offences for which it is a
blunder to apologize. But Frédérique gave me no time, for she continued:

"Once more, let's say no more about it! The poet is right when he sings:

    "'The past is but a dream!'

From this day forth, we are and will remain good friends. You will tell
me all your secrets, make me the confidante of all your love affairs.
How entertaining it will be to know everything!"

"And you, Frédérique, will you tell me all your thoughts, all the
feelings that agitate your heart?"

"To be sure! But you will receive few confidences from me, for I have no
intrigues now. I don't propose to form any more liaisons of that sort.
In short, I am done with loving; I am happy as I am. I have resolved
never to listen to any man again."

"At your age! Nonsense! That resolution won't last long."

"Very well; if I change--why, I'll let you know. But let us come to you,
the man of the thousand and one passions! You ought to tell the story of
them, as a supplement to the _Thousand and One Nights_."

"That may have been true once; but I've been getting rusty of late. It
isn't virtue, I suppose; but I fancy that I am becoming hard to please."

"You will undoubtedly hasten to console Armantine, who may, perhaps,
regret her former position in society, but surely doesn't regret her
husband!"

"I, go to see Madame--Madame Montfort! Oh, no! no, indeed! Do you
imagine that I still love her?"

"Of course! Weren't you mad over her?"

"Love is a form of madness that can be cured, and I am surprised that
you think it possible for me to love that woman still--after the scene
that you witnessed on the Champs-Élysées."

"What do you say? What scene?"

"Oh! my dear friend, let us not begin already to go back on the promise
we made only a moment ago! You were on the Champs-Élysées, were you not,
when an intoxicated man claimed acquaintance with me?"

"Yes; that is, I arrived just at the end. Armantine was running away; I
saw that."

"It was you who paid the man who threatened to have the unfortunate
fellow I had thrown down arrested."

Frédérique said nothing; she dared not deny it.

"How much did you give the man?"

"Twenty-nine francs, I believe."

"Here is the money, my dear friend; accept at the same time my thanks
for your kind impulse, which did not occur to me, because I thought of
nothing but that woman who was running away from me. Furthermore, I know
that you also offered money to that poor devil, whom I left there."

"That is true; but he refused it."

"I know that too. Ah! Frédérique, _you_ are kind-hearted; you have a
generous heart, superior to the prejudices of society. You would not
have run away from me, then closed your door to me, simply because a man
in cap and blouse had called me his friend!"

Frédérique turned her face away, but her voice trembled as she replied:

"No, of course not! But you must forgive such foibles--the result of a
false way of looking at things."

"Forgive jeers, sarcasm, insults, neglect, if you please; I can
understand that; but contempt! never! Love must necessarily be destroyed
where contempt shows its head."

"But suppose that she has repented of her treatment of you?"

"True; she may have done so, since she has learned that her husband is a
spy!"

"Rochebrune! that was a very spiteful remark of yours!"

"I am entitled to say what I think of that lady."

"You are very angry with her, which proves that you still love her."

"When you mention her to me, I remember how she treated me; but for
that, I should not think of her at all. In short, I no longer love her."

"You say that because she isn't here. But if you should find yourself
looking into her lovely eyes----"

"I should remember the way they looked at me at our last interview on
the Champs-Élysées; and I assure you that those eyes would no longer
endanger my repose."

"Really? do you no longer love Armantine?"

Frédérique turned toward me as she asked the question, and I had never
seen such an expression of satisfaction and pleasure in her eyes.

"If I still loved her, why should I conceal it from you? You know, we
are to tell each other everything now."

"True; for we are friends now. We won't lose our tempers with each other
any more, will we?"

"I wasn't the one who lost my temper."

"You will come to see me, I hope?"

"You will allow me to?"

"Of course, as the past is only a dream. And I will come to your
rooms--as a friend. I am a man, you know. I don't see why I should not
come to see you--unless, of course, it would displease you?"

"Never!"

"In any event, when you have company, or when you expect some fair one,
you can tell me so, and I will leave you at liberty. It's agreed, isn't
it? I shall not come to see you on any other condition."

"It's agreed."

I took Frédérique's hand again and pressed it warmly, nor did she think
of withdrawing it. At that moment, we passed a riding party. The young
dandies of whom it was composed glanced into our carriage as they
passed. Frédérique suddenly turned pale. I looked up, and recognized one
of the cavaliers as Monsieur Saint-Bergame. At the same moment I heard
his voice, and distinguished this sentence, the last words coming very
indistinctly as he receded:

"Ah! so it's that fellow now! Each in his turn!"

Madame Dauberny withdrew her hand from mine, her features contracted,
her brow grew dark; but she said nothing. I too was silent; for, not
knowing whether she had heard what Saint-Bergame said, I was careful not
to tell her. But I had a feeling of embarrassment and of wrath, which
banished all the pleasurable sensations of a moment before.

We drove a considerable distance without speaking; and when she turned
so that I could see her face, which she had kept averted for a long
while, I detected tears in her eyes.

I quickly grasped her hand again, saying:

"What is the matter?"

Thereupon she at once resumed her usual manner, as if she were ashamed
that I had observed her emotion, and answered, with a smile:

"Nothing, nothing at all! Mon Dieu! my friend, can one always tell what
the matter is? It all depends on one's frame of mind. We are sometimes
deeply moved by a remark that isn't worth the labor of listening
to.--Take us home, _cocher_.--I can properly say _home_, for, thank
heaven! I am alone, and mistress of the house for the present."

"Your husband is----?"

"He is not in Paris; he has gone on a little trip, according to the word
he sent to me; and you can imagine that I did not detain him. It is true
that Monsieur Dauberny doesn't interfere with me in any way, that he
doesn't prevent me from doing whatever I please; but, for all that, I
feel happier when I know that he isn't under the same roof. Oh! if only
he could travel forever!"

I was certain that the man had fled after the ill-fated Annette's death;
perhaps he was afraid that she would make damaging disclosures before
she died. I was persuaded that fear alone had driven him from Paris, and
that he proposed to wait until that affair was forgotten before he
returned.

"How long has your husband been absent?" I asked Frédérique.

"About three weeks."

"When is he coming back?"

"I have no idea; you may be sure that I didn't ask him. But, my friend,
you seem to take a great deal of interest in my husband's movements: can
it be that his absence distresses you?"

I tried to smile, as I answered:

"Oh! not in the least, I beg you to believe. I asked you the question--I
don't quite know why."

Frédérique looked earnestly at me and squeezed my hand hard, murmuring:

"So it is true that even sincere friends can't tell each other
everything."

The calèche stopped on the boulevard, and I left Madame Dauberny.

"We shall meet again soon," I said.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] That is, a leader in revelry or merrymaking.

[B]

    When you're asked to take a walk,
    Look well to the weather, Lisa!
    If it blows, say that you're ill,
    Or else he'll make the most of it,
    To work his wicked will on you.
    Nay, I joke not, on my soul!
    On windy days, I've oft been caught!
    My love, for us poor, helpless girls,
    There's naught so trait'rous as the wind.

[C]

    And then, what can a poor girl do?
    She dons her good clothes, when 'tis fair:
    The wind springs up, she's in a mess,
    She cannot hold her hat in place
    And skirts and flounces all at once;
    Her eyes are quickly filled with dust,
    When in her face the sly wind blows;
    But 'tis more trait'rous far, my love,
    When she sees not the wind's approach.

[D]

    If the rain is most unpleasant,
    And wets our poor skirts thro' and thro',
    The wind's as wanton as the deuce!
    He draws in outline all our figure.
    'Tis just as if we wore tight breeches;
    A man at such times is less careful,
    For it makes him sentimental!
    And, my love, it's not our face
    He looks at while the wind is blowing.

[E] I, who once had the glory of singing for Mademoiselle Iris, propose,
with your leave, to tell you the story of the young shepherd Paris, etc.

[F] _Tutoyer_; that is, to use the more familiar form of address, to
"thee and thou" one; which, the reader will please understand,
Frédérique proceeds to do, and Rochebrune also, with some slips.

End of Project Gutenberg's Frédérique; vol. 1, by Charles Paul de Kock