Imagine eight young women assembled in a large room, called anatelier[H]probably because it contains no furniture except a very broad and long table and some chairs.
On the table, which might be considered a counter as well, were scattered different fabrics—silk, linen, cotton, and muslin; there was a great number of small pieces, cut in different shapes; there were dresses just begun, others almost finished, others still in the piece; and there were ribbons, fringes, lace, and a multitude of the odds and ends used by dressmakers, who have the art of imparting grace and value to all such things; we men do very wrong to laugh at them, for they take so much pains with their work solely to please us; and if women were not coquettish, we should be the ones most taken in.
The eight girls were seated around thetravail—that is the name now given to the large cutting table; it used to be calledétabli, but that word is now used only by working people; and you must remember that a dressmaker is not a workgirl, but an artist in dresses.
The young women were from fifteen to twenty-eight years of age, the average being about twenty-two. Some were very pretty, some exceedingly ugly, and some had faces of the type which does not attract attention, but which often pleases because it possesses what is commonlycalledla beauté du diable—that is to say, youth. If the devil always retains that element of beauty, he is a very fortunate fellow; and we know a great number of ladies, once beautiful, who would be well content to-day with thebeauté du diable.
They were all sewing more or less busily, which fact did not prevent their talking. Some had their faces bent over their work, and took little part in the conversation; but there were several who talked constantly, who were unwilling to keep silent even when one of the others tried to tell something, and who, by talking very loudly, succeeded in making themselves heard above all the rest. At times, this produced a din of voices by no means pleasant to the ear; indeed, it was not unworthy of the name ofcharivari.
Young Elina was one of the eight; she was incontestably one of the prettiest of them, also one of those who spoke least; she was superior to her companions in every respect.
One of the others, whose ugliness was most noticeable, and whose duty it seemed to be to overlook the work, doubtless because she had no love affairs to distract her thoughts, was also one of those whose mouths were almost never closed. But a tall damsel of twenty-four, whose face was not without charm and intelligence, but who was open to the reproach of being somewhat too free in her speech and manner and expression, ran a close second to the forewoman. A stenographer would have had much difficulty in following those two when they were in a talking mood, so to speak; and they almost always were.
Now, let us listen to the conversation, and try, amid all that chaos, to discover its subject and purport.
"What have you done with the gray silk, Mademoiselle Laura?"
"It's under your nose, you big goose; your nose is so long, you could touch it with it."
Mademoiselle Laura was the tall young woman we have mentioned; as she worked and talked, she kept her hips in motion as if she were dancing thecachucha. The forewoman's name was Mademoiselle Frotard, and she who had asked for the silk was a stout girl whose intelligence seemed to have been entirely absorbed by her corpulence; her name was Julienne, but her companions took the liberty of calling her Julie, Jules, and sometimesPotage. She had an excellent disposition and never lost her temper.
"Who's got the pink satin?"
"That will be a handsome dress—satin and velvet. Is it for a duchess?"
"Oh, no! it's for an actress at the Opéra-Comique; they dress ever so much better than the great ladies."
"Speaking of the Opéra-Comique, they say that there's boxes there with salons; is that so, Mamzelle Laura?"
"Well, rather, nephew."
"Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we must work and not idle so; here's a wedding dress that must be done to-morrow; Madame Dumanchon has promised it."
"It seems to me, we work well enough, mademoiselle; we don't take our eyes off our work. What more do you expect us to do? We haven't got twenty fingers!"
"That's all right, Mademoiselle Augustine; do you think I don't see you laughing and looking at Euphémie, who can't do anything but laugh? Humph! how stupid it is to laugh all the time, at the least thing—and often without knowing why!"
"I never laugh without knowing what I'm laughing at, mademoiselle! You're mistaken; I know very well what I'm laughing at."
"Well, tell us what it was that amused you so just now."
"Just now? why, I looked up and saw Jujules gaping and trying to sneeze at the same time; and she made up such an absurd face! Ha! ha! ha! she looked exactly like the milkwoman's donkey at the corner of the street."
"I, look like a donkey!"
"Hush, Potage, you haven't got the floor! I belch it from you, as an ancient orator said."
"Oh! Mademoiselle Laura, for heaven's sake, be a little more decent in your language; you often say things that ought not be said in a workroom of young ladies; Madame Dumanchon don't like it, and she holds me responsible."
"What's that? what are you singing to us? You accuse me of being indecent just because I say: 'I belch it from you'! That's a little rough, on my word! if you read the least bit of history, you'd know that anecdote, which isn't the least bit immoral, Mademoiselle Frotard; and for all you're so squeamish to-day, I've heard you sometimes fire words at us—I don't know where you picked 'em up, but they were a little tough."
"I, fire words at you!—Oh! if I went to the Bal Saint-Georges, like you, I might learn some very pretty things; but I defy anyone to say they ever saw me in such places."
"It's just as well you don't go; what would you do there? you probably wouldn't be invited to dance! and that would make you sick. By the way, let me tell you that the Bal Saint-Georges is a very nice place; the company there's a very good sort, and I pride myself on being one of the most regular attendants at theseBall-Clubs, as the wrinkled oldgentlemencall 'em, who go there to dance theanglaiseand other national jigs."
"Where's the piece of velvet I just put down here? Have any of you taken it, mesdemoiselles?"
"You've got it in your dress."
"So I have; great heaven! what was I thinking about?"
"Ha! ha! she sticks things in her bosom and then goes looking for 'em! She'll end by looking for her nose."
"And she won't find it; she's flat-nosed."
"Ha! ha! ha!"
"Good! there goes Euphémie again!"
"Bless my soul! how can I help laughing, when you say such silly things?"
"Look at Elina—she don't laugh, and she don't keep her tongue clacking; so she gets ahead with her skirt."
"Oh! Elina's preoccupied; she's been very pensive for some time; that's why she don't talk."
"I didn't suppose I was forbidden to think," rejoined little Elina gravely, and without raising her eyes.
"Of course not; thoughts are free, and they use their freedom! they're very lucky, our thoughts are; they can travel, they can run about the fields and go into whatever company they choose; while we have to sit here, planted on our chairs, and sew all day long! God! what fun! When shall I have a million a year, so that I can coddle myself and sleep and eat méringues all day? Oh! méringues—they're a high-toned delicacy, I tell you!"
"What are they made of?" asked stout Julienne, looking at Laura, who replied with the utmost seriousness:
"Preserved snails. The next time you go into a confectioner's, ask him for a snail méringue, and see how good it is!"
"Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we mustn't talk so much. Madame will soon be back, and this ball dress don't get on at all; and, you know, we still have two wedding dresses to finish this week."
"Two wedding dresses! Everybody seems to be getting married! I don't know why nobody marries me;—and you, Julienne, wouldn't you like to get married?"
"Me? oh, no, mademoiselle! on the contrary, I'd hate it."
"You would? Why, pray?"
"Because my cousin told me that when you're married you can't sleep alone any more; and I like to kick my legs about in bed, and I know it would bother me to have someone with me."
"Oh! what a simpleton you are, big Julienne! you sleep with your husband, and that don't prevent your kicking your legs about—not by any means!"
"How do you know that, Mamzelle Laura? Are you married?"
Mademoiselle Laura contented herself with an impatient gesture, muttering:
"Do let me finish; you disturb me when I am trying to make Turkish points. Oh! what a sigh Elina just gave! Haven't you finished moving, young dreamer?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; it was all done this morning."
"Ah! that's why you came later than usual?"
"I spoke to Mademoiselle Frotard about it."
"Who moved you? Was it Sans-Cravate, the Lovelace of the cooks of the neighborhood?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Then it must have been his mate—Jean Ficelle. He's a very clever youth. I sent him once to carry a letter to someone, on important business, and I saw that hewas full of intelligence.—Pass me the Scotch thread, Sophie."
"Oh! mesdemoiselles, you know very well that Elina has a messenger she always patronizes—one Paul, who puts on airs when we pass, which I consider altogether too cheeky; I propose to tell that young man of the people what I think of him some fine day!"
"Isn't a messenger as good as other men?" muttered little Elina, angrily. "Why hasn't he the right to look at us?"
"As good as other men! a messenger!" cried a young woman with an affected manner, a mocking smile, and a shrill voice; "fellows who live on street corners or in wine shops! Great God! if one of them should presume to stare at me very long, I'd soon show him his place."
"What nonsense!" said stout Julienne; "they're always in their place!"
"You see, I haven't any low tastes. I wouldn't go out with a man who didn't have gloves and trouser-straps!"
"Oho! she reminds me of that tall Hélène who used to work here, and had the brass to say to us: 'I don't go with any men but those that have red morocco boot tops; I don't have anything to say to a man who has black leather ones, because they don't go with patent-leather boots.'"
"I didn't know that honest men were canaille," retorted Elina, flushing with anger; "I thought no one was ever called by that name but villains and rascals."
"Hallo! here's Elina showing fight!" cried Laura; "dame!you attacked her on a sensitive spot. Bah! I've broken my needle; that's the fifth one to-day. That makes Euphémie laugh. It's very funny, ain't it?"
"Ha! ha! ha! five needles [aiguilles]! I thought she said five eels [anguilles]!"
"Oh! my dear, eels don't break; you can do whatever you please with eels—even to making amatelote."
"I know a song about 'em," said Julienne, "where it's said that eels are like young girls."
"The deuce! Potage has made me prick myself," rejoined Mademoiselle Laura; "she refers to something they sing at the Opéra-Comique:
There you have it; I heard it inMazaniello;and that's a mighty fine opera, I tell you! I saw it at a theatre in the suburbs, where they had three supers to represent the Neapolitan populace in revolt; one of the three was a little old man of fifty or sixty, with a red cap, who kept running into the wings to turn up a lamp that threatened to go out, and finally took the lamp down altogether and held it in his hands during the grand final chorus, of which the words were:
"'Death, death to the tyrants!'
I believe. And when he was singing, as he was anxious to put spirit into it, he waved the lamp as if he was threatening the audience, so it seemed as if he intended to kill the tyrants with lamp oil. At last, right in the middle of the chorus, one of the three musicians who composed the orchestra stood up and shouted, as mad as you please: 'Sacrédié!Monsieur Fiston, don't hold your arm out so far; you're throwing oil on me! My coat's all spotted! Is it the fashion now to sing in opera with a lamp in your hand?'—Mon Dieu! I never laughed so much in all my life!"
"What a lucky creature that Laura is! she goes to the theatre very often."
"Oh! I used to go much oftener. I had an acquaintance who stuffed me with tickets and all sorts of delicacies."
"A gentleman?"
"To be sure—and a very pretty fellow he was. I never saw a man wear his cravat so jauntily; he used to tie it in the most enticing rosette——"
"Mademoiselle Laura, you're beginning to say improper things again!"
"Pshaw! Mademoiselle Frotard, is there any law against my knowing a good-looking man? I believe I have a right to have known more than one; I'm twenty-four; I don't make any secret of my age, and I don't play the prude. I certainly don't claim to be a perfect innocent——"
"I'd like to see those boxes with salons; I shan't be happy till I've been in one."
"You must get your lover to take you, some day when he's in funds."
"My lover's never in funds; I don't know what he does with his money; he wouldn't treat me to a glass of cider! He pretends that he puts every sou in the savings bank against the time we get married."
"Believe that and drink water, my poor Sophie!—Pins, please."
"The large scissors."
"Here they are."
"However, he took me to the theatre once, because somebody'd given him the tickets. That day, I remember, we dined in my room, on very little, and I was very hungry at the theatre; it was a theatre on the boulevard, and the play was a long melodrama. At half-past elevenwe still had four acts to see. But in the play, where the scene was a farmhouse, and peasants coming home from work, all of a sudden they brought on a big wooden bowl and went to eating cabbage soup. It was real cabbage soup, I can tell you, and it was smoking hot and smelt awful good. Imagine the effect it produced on us, hungry as we were!—'I've a good mind to apply at once to be admitted to the chorus,' I says to Oscar; but he had already got up and opened the door of the box, where we were all alone, and called the opener; when she came, I heard him say: 'Madame, my wife's in a situation where it ain't safe to refuse her anything—a situation in which women are subject to the strangest whims and the most extraordinary desires; you understand what I mean—she's enceinte. Well, after a dinner fit for the angels, at Véry's, here she is acting like a madwoman because she smells the cabbage soup they're eating on the stage. She wants some of it, says she must have it, and threatens me with a plate of soup as offspring if I don't satisfy her craving. Isn't there some way of doing it, madame? there's no sacrifice I'm not capable of making to prevent my wife's giving me a cabbage for a son.'—The opener, hoping to be handsomely paid, replied: 'Never fear, monsieur; I'll just go down and tell 'em at the office, and they'll send word on to the stage; your wife shall have some cabbage soup, I promise you.'—'A thousand thanks, madame,' says Oscar. 'Please go and ask for a lot of it at once, for in her present condition, when we dine at a restaurant, my wife always eats soup enough for four, and it doesn't do her a bit of harm.'—The box opener went off, and Oscar came back to his seat. You can judge whether I wanted to laugh. 'Keep quiet,' says my lover, 'and try to look as if youwere in the condition I said you were; we are going to sup at the expense of the management; it won't hurt them, and it will give us great pleasure.'—And, sure enough, in a few minutes the opener came into the box with a pretty little soup tureen, a deep plate, and a spoon, which she offered me with a most amiable smile.—'Madame shall have all she wants,' she says; 'they've filled the tureen, so that madame can satisfy her craving.'—'You are a thousand times too good,' says Oscar; 'but I hope that you will be satisfied with me, too.'—With that, the woman bows to the ground, and goes off, shutting the door behind her. No sooner were we alone, than Oscar filled the plate for me, but kept the spoon and began to gulp down all that was left in the tureen; as there was only one spoon, I had to wait till he'd finished before I could eat my plateful; but the soup was fine, I assure you. When we had finished, Oscar called the box opener again, and gave her the tureen and plate and spoon.—'Would you believe that my wife would eat it all!' he says. 'It's incredible what feats a woman in her condition will perform!'—The opener said that she was delighted that I had satisfied my craving, and off she went again with the things we had given back to her. As soon as she was out of sight, my lover says to me: 'Put on your hat and shawl, and be all ready to go.'—Then he looked out in the corridor, but was flabbergasted to see our box opener sitting there in her chair; she had given the things to a lemonade boy to carry back to the stage. Oscar swore between his teeth, but as he was one of the kind that's never embarrassed, he says: 'Wait till the end of the next act.'—The act ended very soon; then he motioned to me to get up, I took his arm, and we went out of the box. I leaned on him asif it was very hard for me to walk. As we passed the opener, Oscar says to her: 'What do you suppose it is now, madame? this wife of mine insists on having an ice. Gad! what strange ideas Nature has!'—'But, monsieur, you could just as well have had it brought to your box.'—'True, but I think it won't do my wife any harm to have a breath of air. Keep our seats for us, madame; is it a long intermission?'—'Not very, monsieur.'—'Come, then, my dear love; let's make haste, for I'm very much interested in the play, and I don't want to lose a scene. Be sure and keep our box for us, madame.'—With that, Oscar pulled me along, and we left the theatre, with not the slightest desire to return. The box opener didn't even get the price of the cricket she had pushed under my feet. And that's the only time my lover ever treated me."
Mademoiselle Sophie's anecdote greatly amused the young dressmaking apprentices. Mademoiselle Euphémie could not control her outbursts of laughter, and the corpulent Julienne cried:
"But it would have been much more convenient for eating, if they'd had a box with a salon. There must be plates and glasses in those boxes."
"They even have a kitchen at one side," said tall Laura, "with everything you need to roast a joint."
"Oh! what fun it must be to see a play and turn the spit at the same time!"
"Mon Dieu! how you do chatter to-day, mesdemoiselles! If this nonsense goes on, we shan't be able to deliver our orders."
"Talking don't prevent sewing, mademoiselle."
"We haven't any reason to be dismal," said the girl with the affected manners.—"By the way, mesdemoiselles, I saw our old comrade Léonie yesterday. She had thearm of a man who didn't have any style at all—and who was dressed like a messenger!"
"Ah! some women have such vile taste!"
"They stoop so low!"
"There are some who wouldn't blush to love a bootblack."
"A messenger and a bootblack are the same thing."
"Do you think so, Euphémie?"
"To be sure; when you want to have your shoes polished, you go up to a messenger and put your foot on hiscrochets, and he's obliged to polish 'em right away."
"Indeed! but what if he don't have any polish?"
"That don't make any difference. Besides, those fellows always do have; they lend their things to each other."
"I must treat myself to a shine, then. Two sous is enough to pay, and I'll have my shoes shined by young Paul, the messenger who plays the swell."
Little Elina said nothing, but held her head still lower over her work; for her eyes were full of tears, she was choking with vexation and anger, and she did not want them to see her weep.
Luckily, Madame Dumanchon's arrival put an end to this conversation. When their mistress was present, the girls dared not talk or laugh or sing; they had to content themselves with looking at one another from time to time, and making signs or wry faces.
Elina left the workroom with a heavy heart and eyes still red with weeping.
"Mon Dieu! how spiteful those girls are!" she said to herself. "But what would they say if they knew that poor Paul, whom they sneer at so, is also a foundling? But all that doesn't prevent my loving him, for I'm sure that he's honest and good, and that he loves me. Oh!his voice rang so true when he told me. And it seems to me that, for all his humble condition, he has better manners and expresses himself better than any of the men who come to speak to the girls sometimes."
To help her to forget the chagrin she had felt in the workroom, she hurried across the street to say good-night to Paul before returning to her aunt's. But her hope was disappointed: Paul was not in his place, and, having looked about to see if she could discover him anywhere, Elina sadly went home, flattering herself that she would have better luck the next day.
The next day came; Elina, who had slept very little and dreamed a great deal,—which seems, at first glance, a difficult feat, yet happens not infrequently,—descended from her loft, dressed with care, looked at herself in her mirror oftener than usual, to make sure that her hair was becomingly arranged, and left the house, saying in reply to her aunt, who asked her where she was going so early, that there was a press of work, and that Madame Dumanchon had urged them to come in good season.
"There ought not to be many people in the street as yet," thought Elina, as she went downstairs; "and we shall have time to talk a little. I am sure he's as anxious for a little talk as I am."
She walked rapidly from her home to the dressmaker's, and when she reached the corner of the boulevard glanced toward Paul's usual stand; but he was not there, and there were nocrochetsor jacket to indicate that he had been there.
"It seems that he is less eager to see me than I am to see him," murmured Elina, with a sigh. "But he may have business this morning, some errand a long way off—so that it isn't his fault that he isn't here. Oh, yes! thatmust be it, for it isn't possible that he doesn't want to see me this morning."
Reflecting that it was still very early to go to her work, the girl walked some distance along the boulevard, then returned to the corner of Rue du Helder. Paul had not arrived, but his two comrades, Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle, were in their places.
Elina hesitated, walked away a few steps, then returned to the boulevard, saying to herself:
"But I haven't bought anything yet for my breakfast and dinner; still, I must live to-day, so I will go and buy something; meanwhile, he will come; as his comrades have arrived, he must be here soon."
She walked along the boulevard, going from one shop to another, hesitating between the pastry-cook and the grocer, between a loaf of bread and somegalette, between honey and jam, in order to spend more time about it and to give Paul an opportunity to arrive. But she had to make up her mind at last. She returned to Rue du Helder with a portion ofgalette, which she had no desire to taste; but Paul was not in his place. She must needs resign herself to the necessity of going to her work without speaking to Paul, without even catching a glimpse of him.
All day long, her feet itched; she tried to invent pretexts for going out, she offered to do all the errands; but her zeal was unrewarded, she was not sent out; and the more eagerness she manifested, the more determined Mademoiselle Frotard seemed to be that she should not go. So that she was compelled to wait until evening.
As soon as the hour for ceasing work had come, she went away among the first; and when she reached the street, she gazed anxiously about. But her heart fell, her hope vanished; Paul was not there.
To be unable to see the person whom one loves best, to have no idea where he is, or what is the cause of his absence—is not that enough to make one exceedingly unhappy, and have we not all had that experience? Profound discouragement and gloom seize upon our hearts at such times, and it seems to us that all is lost, that our happy days have vanished, never to return.
In this frame of mind, Elina returned to her aunt's; she could find no hope elsewhere than in her little loft, because there everything spoke to her of Paul, because it was there that he had first told her that he loved her.
The next day, Elina rose as early, dressed even more quickly, and hastily left the house. She was no more fortunate than on the preceding day: the young messenger was not in his place; she loitered about and waited, to no purpose; nor did she see him that evening, when she left her work.
A week passed thus, a week which seemed endless to Elina, who was utterly unable to understand Paul's disappearance, and did not know what to think; but her heart was oppressed by anxiety and the keenest sorrow. At last, on the ninth day, when she arrived at Rue du Helder in the morning and looked in vain for Paul, the girl could no longer endure the tortures she was suffering, and accosted Sans-Cravate and Jean Ficelle, who were seated side by side.
"I wanted to speak to your comrade—Monsieur Paul," she said, in a trembling voice; "doesn't he stand here any more?"
"You can see for yourself," replied Sans-Cravate, with his usual gruffness, intensified by the anger he felt whenever he heard Paul's name.
Elina was going away, afraid to ask any further questions, when Jean Ficelle said to her, in a wheedling tone:
"If mademoiselle wanted someone to do an errand or carry a letter, or anything else, I am at her service, and I can do what's wanted as well as the one she asks for."
"I thank you," replied Elina, "but I didn't ask for Monsieur Paul, to do an errand; that is to say, it was about something I asked him to do; he was to bring me an answer—and I haven't seen him for a week."
"Sure enough, mamzelle; he hasn't been in his place for as long as that."
"And you don't know what keeps him away? Perhaps he is sick?"
Jean Ficelle replied, with a cunning smile:
"Oh, no! that ain't the reason he ain't here."
"It isn't? Why, do you know what the reason is?"
"Dame!we have our suspicions. In the first place, perhaps he ain't a messenger any longer; he had more than one trade."
"More than one trade? What do you mean?"
"Oh! there's something mysterious about it; he's a man of mystery, is your Monsieur Paul."
"I don't understand."
"The fellow didn't tell everything he did, you see; and then, there may be another reason. As the young joker has stolen Sans-Cravate's mistress, he's afraid of getting a licking, and dursn't come and stand beside him—see?"
"And he does well," muttered Sans-Cravate, clenching his fists; "for a man can't always control himself; and,sacrédié!he'd better look out! I've got a score to settle with him, all the more because he was my friend; and when you hate your friends, you hate 'em worse than you do anybody else."
Elina had turned very pale; she gazed at the two messengers in turn, but could not speak, for what she had heard seemed to have deprived her of strength and voice alike; not until several minutes had elapsed did she succeed in faltering:
"What! Monsieur Paul—has stolen—the mistress of—of—— Oh, no! no! that is impossible!"
"Impossible!" sneered Jean Ficelle. "Ah! my pretty creature, you don't know men yet, and you don't know what they're capable of. But we're sure of what we say; we caught the thief in the market, as the saying is. Look you, I'll give you a comparison——"
"No, monsieur, no! I don't care what you say!" replied the girl, paying no heed to Jean Ficelle's comparison; "I am perfectly sure that that isn't true!"
With that, Elina turned away, putting her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away her tears; for she was profoundly afflicted, although she refused to believe that Paul was guilty.
Sans-Cravate looked after her with interest as she walked away.
"Poor girl!" he said; "she don't believe he's unfaithful; she still has confidence in him, she refuses to abandon it; that's a fine thing, I tell you."
And a gleam of serenity appeared on the messenger's brow as he asked himself if he were not doing wrong not to imitate the girl. But Jean Ficelle exclaimed:
"Ouiche!she has confidence in him, you say? Not much! It was self-esteem made her say that, but she ran off crying like a baby."
Sans-Cravate resumed his preoccupied air, and Jean Ficelle began to whistle.
Albert desired to see the beautiful cashmere shawl belonging to Madame Plays, the mate to which Madame Baldimer was so desirous to own. But in order to see the shawl, it was necessary to see her who wore it, and the young man was not certain whether it would be well for him to call on Madame Plays; after the slightly unceremonious way in which he had ceased his relations with her, sending Tobie as his substitute, he had reason to fear that he might not be warmly welcomed; indeed, he was not at all certain that his messenger had been well received, for when Pigeonnier returned from his interview, Albert was losing money at bouillotte, and was somewhat heated by the punch, so that he had paid no attention to the little fellow's answers on the subject of his rendezvous.
Albert concluded that the best way to find out whether Tobie had fully taken his place in the heart of the superb Plays was to go and ask him. But to do that it was necessary to know his address. Tobie had said several times that he lived on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins; but that is a long street, and Albert felt no inclination to enter every house and ask for Monsieur Pigeonnier.
He was musing upon this subject on the day following his visit to Madame Baldimer, as he sauntered along the Boulevard des Italiens, as usual, with a cigar in his mouth,when he spied his friend Célestin, who at once came to meet him and held out his hand.
"Good-morning! how are you?"
"Very well."
"And the love affairs?"
"Oh! not in bad shape."
"I'll bet that you have seen Madame Baldimer again."
"You would not lose. I saw her at her house yesterday; she had given me a rendezvous. My affair is progressing, and on her return from the country, where she has gone for a few days, I hope that your friend will have nothing more to wish for."
"Good! I congratulate you."
There was a touch of irony in Monsieur Célestin's felicitations of his friend. Albert paid little attention to it, because he was accustomed to Célestin's manner, which always suggested that he was laughing at the person to whom he was speaking. That is a very clever way of concealing one's lack of merit—to pose as a scoffer or ablagueur, which are much the same thing.
"I am very glad to see you; perhaps you can help me to find the person I want to see."
"If you are looking for a faithful woman, I should find it very hard to direct you to one; for I don't know any."
"No, not that; I simply want to know Tobie Pigeonnier's address."
"The deuce! that's almost as hard to find as the other. In the first place, is it quite certain that little Tobie has any address? I believe he contents himself with perching, like the birds; he lights now here, now there."
"Let's not joke; he told us that he lived on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins."
"True; but at what number?"
"Ah! that I don't know."
"It's very easy to say: 'I live on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins, or Rue de la Paix, or Rue de Rivoli,'—when you confine yourself to that;—in that way, you can live in the most fashionable quarters of Paris. For my own part, I believe little Tobie has a nest in some closet on Rue du Pont-aux-Biches or Place du Chevalier-du-Guet. His hasty departure from our little party at Balivan's the night before last—after putting up a fetich for five hundred francs, that poor Varinet gave him change for—— Do you know, that looks rather shady to me. If he had lost the five hundred francs, it would be all right; you would say that it probably wasn't convenient for him to pay; but he lost only about fifty."
"Didn't he go to pay Varinet the next day?"
"I don't know, but I'll bet he didn't; however, we can soon find out, for there are Varinet and Balivan now, drinking chocolate at Tortoni's."
Albert and Célestin entered the café and accosted their friends, just as Balivan was dipping his cigar in the chocolate, thinking that it was a roll.
"Ah! here you are, you rakes!" cried Balivan; "have you been passing a night at the card table? What scandalous conduct! you are to blame for my not being able to do a stroke of work yesterday."
"But you are working hard to-day, Balivan. Upon my word, you are eating a fine cigar with your chocolate, instead of a roll!"
"Mon Dieu! so I am. Why do they make cigars of this shape? I took it for agaufre,[I]and I adoregaufresin chocolate."
"We came to ask you about young Tobie, messieurs.—Have you seen him since night before last, Monsieur Varinet?"
"Who in the devil is Monsieur Tobie?" queried the white-eyebrowed young man, in amazement.
"The individual of the fetich—the olive."
"Oh, yes! the man who put up an olive at five hundred francs."
"The same. Has he been to you to pay his debt and redeem his pledge?"
"No; and to prove it, I'll show you that I still have it in my purse."
Monsieur Varinet drew his purse and showed them the olive among some gold pieces; it had dried and had shrunk considerably.
"If you keep the thing much longer," said Balivan, "you'll have nothing left but the stone."
"Do you know Tobie's address, messieurs?" asked Albert.
"No," replied the painter; "if I knew it, I should have gone there before this to remind him of his fetich, which he has not redeemed. As it was at my rooms that he contracted that debt to Monsieur Varinet, whom he had never seen but once before, I consider it infernally ill-bred in him not to have paid up at once."
"Oh! I am not at all alarmed," said Varinet, calmly.
"But I must see this little Tobie," said Albert; "and I will not fail to remind him of his debt; for it would be exceedingly unpleasant for us to have Monsieur Varinet fall a victim to his confidence in a person whom he had reason to look upon as a friend of ours."
"What's all this? what friends are you talking about?" said the jovial Mouillot, as he joined the four young menand shook hands with them. "I have just seen Dupétrain talking with a lady on Rue de Richelieu, messieurs; he had her backed up against a porte cochère, and, in my opinion, he was trying to magnetize her on the carriage stone."
"Ah! it's Mouillot!"
"How much did you win at bouillotte the night before last, Mouillot?"
"Six hundred and twenty francs; that's all."
"What a lucky dog he is! he always wins."
"Do you know Tobie's address, Mouillot?"
"Tobie's address? how should I know it? he never asks one to come and see him. When he invites his friends to breakfast, the mice will dance the cancan! By the way, has he redeemed his fetich?"
"No; Varinet hasn't seen him."
"Poor Varinet! that olive must be a little stale."
"So you don't know Monsieur Pigeonnier's address?"
"Not I."
"The first time that I had the honor of seeing the gentleman," said Varinet, swallowing a glass of water, "he told me that he was a commission merchant. If that is so, his name and address ought to be in the directory."
The other young men laughed heartily at Varinet's suggestion.
"Ha! ha! commission merchant!"
"That kind is never in the directory!"
"I'm not sure even that he's an unlicensed broker."[J]
"It's so easy in Paris to pretend to be what you are not!"
"There are many people who go so far as to assume names that don't belong to them."
"And who often succeed in making dupes, under the shelter of an honorable name."
"What is there that is never stolen in Paris?"
Meanwhile, Monsieur Varinet, desiring to satisfy his mind on the subject, sent the waiter for a business directory; they consulted the bulky volume, but they sought in vain the name of Tobie Pigeonnier, and the tall young man with white eyebrows began to frown as he looked at his olive.
"Listen, messieurs," said Albert; "we must not allow Monsieur Varinet to fall a victim to his confidence in a person to whom he was introduced by us. I don't say that Tobie intends to deny his debt, nor do I think so; but, lest he forget it, I make this proposition—that we beat up Monsieur Pigeonnier, we four, who know the city pretty well. I will take the Chaussée d'Antin, the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and the Champs-Élysées."
"I, the Marais and the Palais-Royal quarter," said Balivan.
"I will look out for the Faubourg Saint-Germain and the boulevards," said Célestin.
"And I," cried Mouillot, "I go everywhere, in all directions, and I will take care of the rest. The first one who sees Tobie must capture him and take him to Varinet's house, or bring him here: this will be our general rendezvous. We will come here every morning to report the result of our search."
"Agreed; we will go Tobie-hunting."
"Tobie-hunting it is! Tally-ho!"
"But one suggestion, messieurs," said Mouillot; "I don't see why this hunt should interfere with our hunting grisettes also. How about your little neighbor, Balivan? She is really charming, do you know? What are you doing with her?"
"Oh! I assure you, messieurs, that young woman is very virtuous, and I don't advise you to think about her—it will be time thrown away."
"Virtuous!" repeated Célestin, with a shrug; "I thought you knew more than that about the sex, my dear artist! We found your little virtue in a dark loft, with a young rascal, who was holding her very tight—and for whom I have a rod in pickle; but he wasn't in his usual place this morning."
"Nonsense," said Albert; "you don't propose to fight with a messenger, I trust! and, after all, if he is her lover, he was quite right to defend the girl."
"Oho! here's Albert taking up the cudgels for the dressmaker! it's highly edifying.—I propose a wager, Mouillot: fifteen napoleons that I triumph first over that timid virtue."
"Done! I take the bet.—Are you in it, Albert?"
"No."
"Albert is too busily occupied elsewhere," said Célestin, in a mocking tone; "and, besides that, don't you see that he has set himself up as the defender of grisettes?"
"Messieurs," interposed Balivan, "I assure you that neither one of you will win. My neighbor won't listen to you."
"You'll see whether she will or not, artist. I will be persistent, I tell you; not so much on account of the girl, as to be revenged on that cur who played the insolent with us. He does our errands, and he dares to talk back to us! upon my word, it is sickening!"
The young men had left the café and were about to separate, when Bastringuette passed them on the boulevard, with her flowers.
"There's Bastringuette!" exclaimed Albert; "parbleu! she is always out of doors—she must help us in our hunt for Tobie."
"True, she can act as beater," said Mouillot.
The young men walked toward the flower girl, and halted in front of her. Bastringuette looked up at them.
"Mon Dieu!" she ejaculated; "what a bunch of customers to fall on me all at once! What luck for me! for I haven't sold anything to-day. Buy my flowers, messieurs; I have something to put in your buttonholes."
"Bastringuette," said Albert, "do you remember the young man who was with us the day before yesterday on the boulevard? the one who thrust his nose into all your bouquets to smell them better?"
"You mean a fat little fellow with a face that looked like a painting, and a small glass in one eye?"
"That's the man, you know him."
"Well, we are hunting him."
"Is he a stag?"
"Yes; we are even afraid that he's a kite!"[K]
"A kite! and you want to hitch something to his tail, so that he'll go up straighter."
"Ha! ha! ha! On the contrary, we're running after him to prevent his flying at all. If you see him, tell him a lady wants to see him at Tortoni's."
"No, no, messieurs; Tobie wouldn't believe that; he knows that ladies don't often go to Tortoni's, and that they wouldn't give him a rendezvous there; the best way would be to have Bastringuette tell our man that a lady, who wishes to see him alone, will expect him, at nine in the evening, at the—the—Pâté des Italiens.—You might even give him a handsome bouquet, and tell himthat the lady sent it to him. And when you have done it, just tell one of the waiters in the café, and he will inform us; we all go there every day."
"Bravo!" said Mouillot; "that's an excellent scheme; if our flower girl here sees Tobie and tells him that, he will surely fall into the trap, and we'll nab our man at the Pâté des Italiens."
"Well, Bastringuette, will you do what we want?"
"Why not?—that is, if I see the man."
"Oh! you will surely see him! But what's the trouble, Bastringuette? you don't seem in as good spirits as usual to-day; has there been any difficulty in our love affairs?"
The tall girl replaced her tray on her hip, with a sigh, and answered:
"My love affairs! Oh! they're all done with; they've gone to bed."
"What do you mean? Has Sans-Cravate been unfaithful to you?"
"Just the opposite; I tried to be to him."
"Bravo! good enough! that's frank, at all events! Agree, messieurs, that very few women who act like Bastringuette would answer as she did."
"Oh! bless my soul! I don't take four roads to get to a place. I don't know how to hide my passions. I didn't want to deceive Sans-Cravate, so I told him that I didn't love him any more."
"And he tried to force you to stay with him—to love him?"
"Not much! as if a man could force a woman to do such things when it don't suit her! You're pretty countrified still, if you think that. A woman ain't to be forced—I don't care how many keys and picklocks you have. When she don't choose to—good-day!"
"Well, then, why are you so dismal? is your new love affair going wrong already?"
"I tell you that I haven't got any love affair—that I don't propose to have any more!"
"But you say you tried to be unfaithful to Sans-Cravate?"
"That's all right! that's my business, my secret; it don't concern you! Are you my fathers and mothers, to cross-examine me like this?"
"Ha! ha! beware, messieurs, our ally is on the point of losing her temper."
"Here, Bastringuette," said Albert, tossing a five-franc piece on the girl's tray; "this is for keeping a sharp lookout for Tobie, and we promise you twice as much more if you send him to the rendezvous as we have agreed."
"All right, I'll try to earn it. Adieu, my little loves!"
Bastringuette walked away; and the young men separated, promising to meet in front of Tortoni's at the same hour the next day.
Albert did not fail to be at the rendezvous at the appointed time, and found Mouillot there.
"Célestin and Balivan will be here directly," said the latter; "there's nothing new; Bastringuette hasn't left any word at the café. Have you had any better luck?"
"No, I haven't succeeded in discovering the slightest trace of the quarry."
"Perhaps we shall be more fortunate to-morrow."
The next day brought no different result. On the fourth day, Balivan came running into Tortoni's just after his friends.
"I've seen him," he cried, "on Rue de Bondy, near Porte Saint-Martin. I recognized him perfectly, and Iam certain he saw me, too, for he turned purple and looked the other way."
"Well! you ran after him——"
"What did he say to you?"
"Did you take him to Varinet's?"
"Has he redeemed his olive?"
"Mon Dieu! my friends, I don't know how it happened; but I noticed at that moment that my cigar was out, and I stepped into a tobacco shop close by to get a light; it took only a minute, but when I returned to the street I looked in every direction—all in vain; I couldn't find Tobie again!"
"The devil take you!"
"Oh! that's just like Balivan! He catches sight of the man we've been hunting for four days, and, instead of grabbing him, he goes into a shop to light his cigar!"
"You ought to take yourself for your model! you'll never find such another."
"Faith! messieurs, I think perhaps you'd have done the same, if you had been in my place. An excellent pure Havana cigar! A fellow can't afford to let it get cold; it's like coffee, it must be taken hot. However, we're sure now that Tobie's in Paris, that's something."
"Why, who ever doubted it? But you won't be the one to make him pay Varinet."
The young men separated, a little discouraged. Two days later, Albert had made no further progress, and he knew that Madame Baldimer might return from the country at any moment. Being determined, however, to purchase the shawl she had praised so extravagantly, before she should return, Albert decided to call upon Madame Plays and brave her indignation.
Having made up his mind, he bent his steps toward her abode; but he took care to purchase a lovely bouquet en route; we must always be gallant, especially with a woman who has had a weakness for us.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon; that was the time of day when the superb Herminie held court in her boudoir and gave audience to those favored mortals who were privileged to enter that mysterious sanctuary.
Albert, who could fairly say: "Having been brought up in the harem, I know all its nooks and corners," passed the concierge, with his head in the air, walked directly to a small private staircase, went up to the first floor, stopped in front of a door, and knocked almost like a Freemason.
In a few seconds the door opened, and a lady's-maid, whose face was exceedingly ugly, but much more intellectual than her mistress's, uttered a cry of surprise when she saw Albert.
"Oh! monsieur," she said, "it's a long while since we've seen you here!"
"That is true, Lisa; I have been unable to come these last few days. But tell me, is your mistress visible? May I pay my respects to her?"
The lady's-maid smiled faintly, as she replied:
"It is impossible, monsieur. Madame has the vapors; she cannot receive you."
"She can't receive me—me?"
"You, monsieur."
"But she never used to have the vapors for me."
"Dame!monsieur, she has them now."
"Very well; I understand, Lisa; this means that your mistress doesn't choose to receive me, and so she has given these orders."
The maid dared not admit that that was the truth; but she smiled, and put her finger to her lips. Albert was too well-bred to disregard such an order; he too laughed as his eye met the lady's-maid's, and he turned on his heel, saying with a tragicomic air:
"I have deserved my fate, and must submit to it."
But as he was about to leave the courtyard, he paused.
"Suppose I pay the husband a visit?" he said to himself. "Parbleu! I'll do it; he's just the boy to reconcile his wife and me, or at least to be of great service to me in this emergency. Let's see dear Monsieur Plays."
Albert took the main staircase this time; he asked a footman if Monsieur Plays was at his desk, and, receiving an affirmative reply, entered the merchant's office.
The superb Herminie's husband was a little man, of middle age, neither handsome nor ugly, with a very red, babyish face, round eyes, wide open and prominent, red lips always wreathed in smiles; in a word, what might be called a happy face; and happy he was to the last degree.
When he saw young Vermoncey enter his office, Monsieur Plays's face assumed a curious expression; it was evident that he was embarrassed, and did not know how he ought to receive his visitor. This reception in no wise surprised Albert, for he knew that Monsieur Plays adapted his ideas to his wife's on every subject; one was sureof a cordial welcome from the husband, so long as he was in madame's good books; but as soon as she looked coldly on anyone, or had trouble with one of her adorers, the dear husband dared not be friendly to the person from whom madame had withdrawn her favor. And as Monsieur Plays was one of those men who would like to be on good terms with the whole world, his wife's caprices sometimes caused him very great embarrassment.
"Madame Plays has been giving me a horrible name to her husband," thought Albert, noticing the stiff manner in which the merchant greeted him. And, determined to divert himself with the embarrassment of the unfortunate husband who turned a cold shoulder to the young men who ceased to pay court to his wife, he went up to Monsieur Plays, grasped his hand just as he was about to withdraw it, and shook it violently.
"Good-morning, my dear Monsieur Plays!" he cried. "I am delighted to find you. I have been meaning for a long time to come to see you. But time passes so quickly! This is the first moment I have been able to find for a week."
Monsieur Plays did not know what reply to make; he bowed, took his pen out of his mouth and put it back again, glanced timidly about the room, as if he feared that his wife would appear, and stammered at last:
"Monsieur Albert—certainly—very well—and you—— You are very kind. But, you see, I am working just now—I am doing something——"
Albert pretended not to understand the lack of cordiality in that reply; he threw himself into an easy-chair, and continued:
"And the pleasures, Monsieur Plays, how do the pleasures, the little love affairs, come on, eh? Aha! it seemsthat you're a great lover of the sex, but you keep it dark! Oh! you have made many conquests, they say; I've heard of you in the foyer at the Opéra—yes, and in the wings too."
The merchant, who was highly flattered to be looked upon as a rake, smiled and rubbed his hands as he replied:
"No, really! you have heard of me at the Opéra?—and in the wings? But I have never been there; Madame Plays wouldn't allow it."
"I believe you, and she is right. But one may know some of these theatrical ladies without going there."
"No, no, I assure you! But, wait; I believe that a lady did ask me one day to pay a draft that had fifteen days to run, on the plea that she had to take a little journey; but I believe she told me she was amarcheuse."[L]
"You see! you acknowledge the corn, rake that you are!"
"What? Why, it never occurred to me that that lady was on the stage. She said she was amarcheuse, and I understood that she liked to take long walks."
"Oh! you joker! play the innocent, if you will; but you know perfectly well that that's what they call the supernumeraries at the Opéra."
"I give you my word that I had no idea of it. What do you say? there aremarcheusesthere?"
"Yes, monsieur; and they are a very popular class of lorettes."
"Then there ought to betrotteuses[M]there, too."
"Ha! ha! you're a sad rascal, Monsieur Plays! And the best part of it is that you conceal your game so perfectly."
Monsieur Plays roared with laughter; he was overjoyed to have discounted a draft for a lady connected with the stage, who had mentioned him in the wings. But he suddenly remembered that his wife had told him that she would not receive Albert any more, that he was an exceedingly ill-bred young man, who had been shockingly rude to her in society; whereupon the poor husband became sober, repented of having laughed, and muttered, with a piteous glance at Albert:
"I don't know why I am laughing, for I have a great deal to do. I have some accounts to look over, and I am away behind. I have an endless amount of work on hand."
Before the young man could reply, a small door leading from the office to the private apartments was suddenly thrown open, and Madame Plays appeared.
The robust Herminie was in morning dress, but there was always something piquant, something seductive, in her costume as well as in her eyes. A figured dress, very high in the neck, entirely concealed her charms, but outlined them with an exactitude which produced a rather more startling effect than nudity; two globes, possibly a little large, but very well placed, proudly embellished her ample chest; a tightly laced waist and very pronounced hips served as a pedestal to that bust; and her somewhat dishevelled hair, with long corkscrew curls falling over her shoulders, formed an attractive setting for Madame Plays's face, to which her excitement and her angry glance, as she entered her husband's office, gave much animation.
Herminie manifested no surprise when she saw Albert; it was evident that she expected to find him there, but she hurled a glance at him with which she apparentlyhoped to strike him to the earth. The young man withstood that awful glance as coolly as if he were provided with a lightning rod, and answered it with a low bow, while a faint smile lurked about the corners of his mouth.
Monsieur Plays was terrified when his wife appeared; he thought that she had heard him laughing with Albert, and he saw that she was angry; so he could not decide what to do, and, in his embarrassment, chewed his pen instead of simply holding it in his mouth.
"Ah! you have company, monsieur?" said Herminie, biting off her words, and looking from Albert to her husband; "I am sorry to interrupt your conversation, messieurs. Doubtless you have some very interesting things to say to each other. If I had dreamed that Monsieur Vermoncey was here, be sure that I should not have come."
"My dear love—we were saying—I don't know what. I didn't expect a visit from——"
"I called upon you first, madame," Albert interposed; "but I was told that you had the vapors, that I could not see you; so I came to ask your husband about your health, as I was anxious about it."
"Yes," murmured Monsieur Plays, spitting out a piece of his pen, "yes, Monsieur Albert came to——"
"Ah! so you are anxious about my health, monsieur! That is a surprise; I should never have guessed it. Ha! ha! admirable! You amuse yourself at a person's expense, you play a trick upon her—a shameful, outrageous jest of a sort you wouldn't dare try with a grisette—and then, a week afterward, you come here as if nothing had happened, with a cool, placid air! Oh! it makes me ill, it sets my nerves on edge; I would like to smash something!"
All this was emitted with remarkable volubility by the superb Herminie, as she paced the floor in intense excitement. Her husband drew back when she talked of smashing something, and faltered:
"I was busy working, going over my accounts, and——"
"All right, monsieur, all right! I don't ask you what you were doing. Well! what are you eating now? what's that you are twisting about between your teeth? Have you taken to chewing tobacco? that would be the last straw!"
"No, my dear love; I was just sucking my pen—for amusement."
"That's an odd stick of candy," said Albert, laughing.
Even Herminie could not restrain a smile; but she instantly resumed her wrathful expression, and turned her back to her husband to speak to Albert:
"I shall never forget that abominable letter! I would never have believed, monsieur, that you would write such things! It was in the vilest taste!"
"On my honor, madame, I do not know what you mean; I am not aware of having written a single word that could offend you."
"Oh! this is too much! to make such a statement as that! I am terribly sorry that I destroyed the insolent letter, but I know it by heart."
Monsieur Plays had returned to his desk, and was mumbling between his teeth:
"Five and six are eleven, and eight makes nineteen—and eight makes nineteen——"
"And then, it was so idiotic: 'your face is constantly before me, calf's headen tortue,'—isn't that very refined?—and—'I send you an intimate friend—perfectlyfresh.'—Ah! your friend was fresh, and no mistake! Such a little fool! and how I treated him!"
"What you say perplexes me entirely. I cannot understand it. There must be some mistake—you must have read some other letter."
"Oh, no! it was addressed to me all right!"
"Nineteen and twenty-four make forty-three; put down three and carry—and carry——"
"Be quiet, Monsieur Plays; you are insufferable with your addition! What do I care what you carry? Hold your tongue!"
Monsieur Plays subsided, with an air of consternation, nor did Albert say anything more; but he produced the lovely bouquet, which he had thus far held behind his back.
When Herminie saw it, her face softened, and it retained only a slight pouting expression as she said:
"Ah! you have a bouquet."
"Yes, madame; I intended to offer it to you when I called, but I was not fortunate enough to be admitted."
"It is very pretty."
Monsieur Plays walked timidly to Albert's side, and murmured:
"Your bouquet is charming; I was saying to myself: 'It smells very sweet here, and it can't be me.'"
"Will you condescend to accept it, madame?"
"I ought not to, for I am sure that it wasn't intended for me; but I am so fond of flowers! Well, give it to me."
She took the bouquet and held it to her nose.
"It is very sweet," she said; "it perfumes the whole room. But, no matter; I detest you, I will never forgive you while I live, I forbid you to come to my house any more."
"Oh! madame, the idea of bearing malice to such an extent as that! and for what? for a misunderstanding, a blunder perhaps, but in which you surely cannot believe that there was any intention to offend you. No, you will not be so cruel—you will allow me to continue to call upon you."
Herminie played with her bouquet without replying, but Monsieur Plays said smilingly to Albert, in an undertone:
"She'll allow you to; I am sure that she doesn't bear you any ill will now."
"Why do you interfere, Monsieur Plays? I don't know what you mean by meddling in my affairs! Keep quiet, I tell you again; this doesn't concern you!"
Monsieur Plays set about cutting a quill.
"Besides, I don't like people who have so many whims," continued Herminie, after a short pause. "If you pass a week without thinking of a person, why shouldn't you pass months? To what motive do I owe monsieur's call to-day?"
"I had a motive, madame," Albert replied, with a smile; "I have heard a great deal of a cashmere shawl which you wore at Count Dahlborne's reception; it is a marvel of beauty, it seems, and I have heard it extolled so highly that I am very desirous to see it. Will you not be kind enough to show it to me?"
Herminie thought that Albert resorted to that pretext in order not to make her husband jealous; for she was far from suspecting that the shawl was really what had brought her fickle lover back to her. The idea amused her, and she replied, with a laugh:
"Oho! so you came to see my cashmere! Well! I won't show it to you; if I did, I should have to admityou to my boudoir, and I have sworn that you shall never put your foot there again."
"But we swear so many things! A pretty woman's oaths are written on sand, and the slightest breath effaces them."
"And what are men's oaths written on?"
"On brass.—Isn't it true, Monsieur Plays, that we men keep to our oaths?"
"Why, yes; such things have been known. I myself, for instance, swore that I would stop taking snuff when I married Madame Plays, because she doesn't like to hear people sneeze: well, I have kept my oath; to be sure, I still sneeze, but not so often."
While Monsieur Plays indulged in this reflection, his wife looked fixedly at Albert, and there was in her eyes an animation, a flame, which indicated something very different from anger. On his side, the young man bestowed a very tender glance on her, and said:
"Come, don't be cross with me any more, but promise to show it to me."
"No; I should have to admit you to my boudoir."
"I am so anxious to see it."
"Indeed! you want to see it, do you?" said Herminie, with a sly smile.
Monsieur Plays moved about on his chair, saying:
"Come, my dear love, as it will give him pleasure, do show it to him. Bless my soul, how good that bouquet smells!"
Herminie was touched; she smiled at the young man in a very significant way, and held out her hand to him.
"Oh! I am too weak," she cried; "you abuse my weakness—ah! Dieu! Well, give me your hand and escort me to my apartment. But I won't show it to you, I tell you!"
Albert took the hand that Madame Plays offered him, and, with a bow to her husband, left the room with her by the little door.
Monsieur Plays seemed overjoyed, and whispered in Albert's ear as he passed:
"I know her; I promise you that she'll show it to you."