"Who could remain angry with you?" said Marguerite, pressing Blanche's hand; "but for all that, it's very disagreeable to change rooms—to move at my age."
"I will help you, dear nurse; I will carry everything."
"Oh, it's not that; it's on the same landing; it's not far to carry things. But the room I'velived in for eight years, ever since I came here, was, thanks to my prayers and precautions, protected from the visits of all evil spirits. There I could defy all attempts of sorcerers and magicians; and all that I did there I shall have to do over again in the new room where I am to sleep."
"Do you believe, then, Marguerite, that sorcerers will come to visit you if you don't take all your precautions?"
"And why not, mademoiselle? Don't those people get in wherever they can penetrate? There are a great number of them in Paris. They carry away the corpses off the gibbets of Montfaucon; they commit a thousand horrors to make their sorceries successful. It is now nearly fifty years ago (it was my mother who told me that story) that a lackey, ruined by play, sold himself to the devil for ten crowns. The demon transformed himself into a serpent and took possession of the lackey, introducing himself into the latter's body by the mouth; and from that time on the unlucky man made horrible grimaces, because the devil was in his body. Some years later a watchman was carried off by a sorcerer."
"Ah, dear nurse, you are going to tell me some more of those stories which will make me timorous at night."
"I don't tell you these to make you tremble, but to prove to you that it's necessary to be on one's guard against magicians, and not to be likethose incredulous people who doubt everything when we have so many examples of the power of magic. I'll not do more than cite to you the Maréchale d'Ancre and Urbain Grandier, who lodged some devils in the bodies of some pious Ursulines at Loudun; that is too frightful. But I will only tell you what happened to a magician called César Perditor; that dates seventeen years back, or thereabouts. You see, my dear child, that's not very ancient."
"But, dear nurse, aren't you going to begin your moving?" said Blanche, who did not seem very eager to hear Marguerite's story.
"We've plenty of time," answered the old servant as she drew her chair close to Blanche's, delighted to relate a story about sorcerers, although that would make her tremble also. Marguerite commenced immediately:—
"This César was, said they, very well versed in his magic art, and produced at his will both hail and thunder. He had a familiar spirit, and a dog that carried his letters and brought back the answers to him. At a quarter of a league distant from this city, on the Gentilly side, he lived in a cave, in which he caused the devil and all his infernal court to appear. Ah, my poor child; they say that at a great distance from the cave a frightful noise might be heard every night. He made love philters, and wax images, by means of which he caused the persons they represented to languish and die.
"One day—no, it must have been one night—an old man came to the cave, who appeared to be suffering and in great distress. A great lord, a libertine, a worthless fellow, had stolen away his daughter, his only child; the old man in his despair, unable to obtain justice, went to the magician to procure the means of revenging himself upon the man who had outraged him."
"Nurse, it seems to me your master is calling you," said Blanche, interrupting Marguerite.
"No, no; he did not call me. Except at meal times, what need has M. Touquet of me? But as we were saying, the old man went to seek a magician, and the latter promised him help; in fact, they heard more noise than usual in the cave that night,—so much that the lieutenant of police sent some people there, and César was taken and led to the Bastile, where soon after the devil strangled him."
"And the old man, nurse?"
"He never returned to his dwelling; without doubt the devil carried him away also, or else the great nobleman, having learned that he had gone to the magician's house. But nobody knows anything further about it. Still, that will prove to you, my dear, how dangerous it is to have anything to do with those people."
"Dear nurse, this little talisman which you gave me, that I wear,—is not that the work of a sorcerer?"
"Certainly not, darling; on the contrary, it is to preserve you from their snares that I gave it to you. It is under the protection of my patron saint; with that, my dear Blanche, you could go about, run anywhere; your innocence would not be in the slightest danger."
"Why, then, does my good friend never permit me to leave my room?"
"Ah, my dear Blanche, it is because M. Touquet does not believe in talismans; and it is very unfortunate for him."
"But you, Marguerite, who are afraid of everything,—why don't you carry a similar talisman?"
"Ah, my child, the quality of yours consists principally in preserving your virtue, and at my age one has no need of a talisman to preserve that."
"My virtue! Do magicians take virtue from young girls?"
"Not only magicians, but fascinating gallants,—finally, all the worthless fellows of whom M. Touquet was talking to you this morning."
"And what would these people do with my virtue?"
"My dear child, that is to say, they would seek to turn your head, to give you a taste for coquetry, dissipation, baubles, vanity and deceit; then you would be no longer my good, sweet Blanche."
"Ah, I understand; but, dear nurse, without a talisman I fully believe that I should never havethose tastes. I would do nothing that should cause trouble to those who had taken care of me from my infancy, who have done so much for me since I lost my father."
"That's all very well, my child, but with a talisman you see I am much easier; and if M. Touquet believed about it as I do, he would give you a little more liberty. Not that I blame him for fearing for you the attempts of worthless fellows; you are growing every day so pretty."
"Dear nurse, do worthless fellows trouble pretty girls, then?"
"Alas, yes, my dearie. I have seen them often do so; and, unfortunately, the pretty girls listen willingly to the good-for-nothing fellows."
"They listen willingly to them, nurse? Is it because they speak better than other men?"
"No, not better, but they know so well how to dissemble; their speech is golden, their eyes deceptive, their manners—Ah, how glad I am that you have a talisman!"
"But, nurse, since I do not leave my room—"
"That's true, my dear; but you will not always keep your room, and under my watchful care it seems to me that one could very well allow you to take a little walk from time to time. M. Touquet is severe—very severe—to make me change my lodging because I noticed that he did not sleep at night. Is it my fault—mine—that he does not sleep?"
"He prevents me from opening my window."
"Ah, that is because it opens on the street; and if he knew you looked so often through the lattice—But no one can possibly see you; the panes are so small, so close together."
"Oh, yes; it is like a grating."
"A father could not be more strict."
"Ah, Marguerite, he stands to me in the place of mine."
"Yes, yes; I know it well; however, he is no relation—is he?"
"No, Marguerite; I believe not."
"According to what I heard in the neighborhood, before I came into his service, you are the daughter of a poor gentleman who came to Paris to follow a lawsuit about ten years ago."
"Yes, dear nurse; I was then five years and some months of age. It seems to me, however, that I still remember my father; he was very good, and he often kissed me."
"And your mother,—do you remember her?"
"Alas, no; but I believe I can still remember the time when my father and I arrived here; we had been a long time in a carriage, and came from far off."
"And M. Touquet lodged you, for then he kept lodgings; and after that?"
"I was very tired; they gave me something to eat and put me to bed in this room, and I have always occupied it since."
"And after that?"
"I did not see my father again. The next day M. Touquet told me he was dead."
"Yes; it was very unfortunate, they say. There were then, as there are very often still, fights in the night between pages and lackeys and honest men, who were often attacked by these cursed scoundrels while entering their own houses. That night they committed a thousand disorders in the streets of Paris; several persons were assassinated; and your poor father, who had gone out, was, while returning, drawn into a brawl, and perished trying to defend himself. That is all that I have learned; do you know anything further?"
"No, Marguerite; besides, you know very well that my protector does not wish me to talk about that."
"Yes, because he fears that it will give you pain."
"He has deigned to keep me near him, to educate me as his daughter and give me some accomplishments; and I have for him the most lively gratitude."
"Oh, yes; he has done very well by you. He loves you, although he is not caressing, nor does he say much; and I am very sure that he has the greatest interest in you. It seems that he does not intend himself to marry, although he is still young. He is in easy circumstances,—more so than he wishes it to appear."
"Do you believe that, Marguerite?"
"Ah, hush! If he knew that I had said that, and that I had sometimes seen him counting gold, he would send me away for it."
"You have seen him counting gold?"
"I did not say that to you, mademoiselle. No, no; I have seen nothing. Ah, mon Dieu! what a gossip I am! I had much better go and attend to my moving."
"I will go with you, dear nurse."
"Come then, if you like, Blanche."
Blanche followed Marguerite as she went up, and hastened to carry the furniture and clothing of the old servant to the opposite room. In vain Marguerite cried to her,—
"Slowly, mademoiselle; don't carry anything until I have sprinkled it with holy water."
Blanche, to spare Marguerite fatigue, had very soon finished the moving.
"You will be better here," said Blanche; "this room is more convenient, larger."
"I shall find it pretty sad," said Marguerite, casting fearful glances around her. "That large alcove, those dark hangings, those recesses—Oh, mademoiselle, do see, if you please, if there is anything in that big closet."
Blanche ran to open the closet, and, after having looked through it, brought to Marguerite a little book, thick with dust.
"That's all I've found, dear nurse," said she,presenting the book to the old woman, who put on her spectacles and said,—
"Let's see a bit what it is."
Marguerite succeeded, with no little trouble, in reading, "Conjuring-book of the Sorcerer Odoard, the Famous Tier of Tags."
"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Marguerite, letting the book fall; "I am lost if that sorcerer has slept in this room. Miséricorde! a tier of—"
"What does that mean,—a tier of tags?"
"That is to say—that is to say, mademoiselle, a very wicked man, who doesn't love his kind; a man who casts spells to make folks unlucky."
"Are there any of those sorcerers now?"
"Alas, yes, my dear child; they are always casting spells, for I have met during my life several persons who have been bewitched by them. Let us burn that; let's burn that quick."
Marguerite hurried to throw the book of sorceries on to the hearth, where she lit a fire; then she began to pray to her patron saint, and Blanche went down to her work.
BLANCHEand Marguerite had no sooner taken their departure from the back room and returned to their customary avocations, than Touquet hastened to meet a man who had come into the shop, saying to him, in a friendly tone,—
"Come in, come in, my dear Chaudoreille, you've made me wait a deuce of a time and today I have something really important to say to you."
The personage who had just come into Maître Touquet's house was a man of a very striking and peculiar appearance, about thirty-five years of age, though he appeared at least forty-five, so worn was his face and so hollow his cheeks. His yellow skin was only relieved by two little scarlet spots formed on the prominence of his cheek bones, which by their brightness and their gloss betrayed their origin. His eyes were small but bright; and M. Chaudoreille rolled them continually, never, by any chance, fixing them on the person to whom he was speaking. His short snub nose contrasted with his large mouth, which was surmounted by an immense red mustache, the colorof his hair; while beneath his lower lip a tuft of beard terminated in a point on his chin.
The height of the chevalier was barely five feet, and the leanness of his body was accentuated by the threadbare close jacket which enveloped it; the buttons of his doublet were missing in many places, and some ill-executed darns seemed ready to gape into holes; his breeches, being much too large, made his thighs appear of enormous size, and made the legs which issued from them appear still more lanky, for his boots, with flaring tops which drooped to his ankles, could not hide the absence of calves. These boots, of a dark yellow, had heels two inches high, and were habitually adorned with spurs; the doublet and smallclothes were of a faded rose color, and accompanied by a little cloak of the same tint, which barely covered his figure; in addition to these, he wore a very high ruff; a small hat surmounted by an old red plume, worn slanted over one eye, an old belt of green silk, a sword which was very much longer than anyone else carried, and of which the handle came up to his breast. The above is a very faithful portrait of the one who called himself the Chevalier de Chaudoreille, if we add that his slight Gascon accent denoted his origin; that he marched with his head high, his nose in the air, his hand on his hip, his legs stiff, as though ready to put himself on his guard; and that he appeared disposed to defy all passers-by.
On entering the shop Chaudoreille threw himself on a bench, like one overcome by fatigue, and placed his hat near him, crying,—
"Let us rest. By George! I well deserve to. Oh! what a night! Good God! what a night!"
"And what the devil did you do last night to make you so tired?"
"Oh, nothing more than usual for me, it's true: flogged three or four big rascals who wished to stop the chair of a countess, wounded two pages who were insulting a young girl, gave a big stroke with my sword to a student who was going to introduce himself into a house by the window, delivered over to the watch four robbers who were about to plunder a poor gentleman. That's nearly all that I did last night."
"Hang it!" said Touquet, smiling ironically, "do you know, Chaudoreille, that you yourself are worth three patrols of the watch? It seems to me that the King or Monsieur le Cardinal should recompense such fine conduct and nominate you to some important place in the police of this city, in place of leaving a man so brave, so useful, to ramble about the streets all day, and haunt the gambling-hells in order to try to borrow a crown."
"Yes," said Chaudoreille, without appearing to notice the latter part of the barber's phrase, "I know that I am very brave, and that my sword has often been very useful to the State—that is to say, to the oppressed. I work without pay;I yield to every movement of my heart; it's in the blood. Zounds! honor before everything; and in this century we do not jest. I am what somebody at court calls a 'rake of honor': an offensive twinkle of the eye, a rather cold bow, a cloak which rubs against mine, presto! my sword is in my hand; I am conscious of nothing but that; I would fight with a child of five years if he treated me with disrespect."
"I know that we live in the age when one fights for a mere trifle, but I never heard it said that your duels had caused much stir."
"What the devil, my dear Touquet! the dead cannot speak; and those who have an affair with me never return. You have heard tell of the famous Balagni, nicknamed the 'Brave,' who was killed in a duel about fifteen years ago. Well, my friend, I am his pupil and his successor."
"It's unfortunate for you that you didn't come into the world two centuries earlier; tourneys are beginning to be out of fashion, and chevaliers who right all wrongs, giant killers, one no longer sees except on the stage at plays."
"It's very certain that if I had lived in the time of the Crusades I should have brought from Palestine a thousand Saracens' ears, but my dear Rolande was there. This redoubtable sword, which came to me from a distant cousin, was the one carried by Rolande the Furious; it has sent a devil of a lot of men into the other world."
"I'm always afraid that you will fall over it; it seems to me too big for you."
"It has, however, been curtailed an inch since I have had it, and that by reason of its having been used so much. I fear that if I should continue in the same style, it will become a little dagger."
"Stop talking about your prowess, Chaudoreille; I have to speak to you of matters more interesting than that."
"If you will shave me first; I have great need of it. My beard grows twice as quickly at night when I do not sup in the evening."
"It looks as if you had dieted for some days, then."
While the barber prepared everything that was necessary for shaving Chaudoreille, the latter detached his sword. After having looked all over the shop in search of a place in which it seemed convenient to put it, he decided to keep it on his knees; he relieved himself of his cloak, then he took off the faded ruff which surrounded his neck, and abandoned his odd, lean little figure to the cares of Touquet, who came forward bearing a basin and a soapball. The barber began by taking and throwing into a corner of the shop the sword which Chaudoreille was holding on his knees. The chevalier made a movement of despair, crying,—
"What are you doing, unhappy man? You will break Rolande, the sword which Charlemagne's nephew carried."
"If it's such a good blade it won't break. How do you think I can shave you holding that great halberd on your knee?"
"It's necessary to handle it with care at least. Zounds! you are nearly as quick as I am."
"Do you want me to cut your mustaches?"
"No, no,—never. A chevalier without mustaches! What are you thinking of? Do you want people to take me for a young girl?"
"I don't think anyone could so deceive himself."
"That's all right; I especially pride myself on my mustaches, and the imperial that gives a masculine air. Ah, King Francis the First knew very well what he was doing when he wore that little pointed beard on his chin. Don't you think that I bear some resemblance to that monarch?"
"You resemble him so much, in fact, that I defy anyone, no matter who it might be, to perceive it. But let's get to my business: I wish to employ you. Your time is free?"
"Free? Yes; that is to say, for you there is nothing that I won't leave. I've only two or three amorous appointments and five or six affairs of honor; but those can be put off."
"There's some money to be earned."
"I'm a man who would put myself in the fire to make myself useful."
"The business is not positively my own."
"Yes, I understand,—a delicate mission. Youknow that I've already served you in many such cases."
"I hope that you'll be more adroit this time; for the manner in which you conducted yourself in the last matters in which I employed you should have prevented me from asking you to serve me again."
"Oh, my dear Touquet, don't be unjust; it seems to me that I managed them passably well. First, you desired me to carry a letter to a young lady without letting her parents know of it."
"Yes; and you positively gave the note to her mother."
"What the devil! how should I know it was her mother? That woman had rouge, flowers, laces, a corset which made her waist about as thick as my purse; I believed her to be the young lady. With their hoops, basquines and immense head-dresses, it will soon be impossible to distinguish the sexes."
"Another time I told you to feign a quarrel with one of your friends, so as to draw a crowd together in the street in order to stop the chair of a young woman to whom someone wished to speak; but after two or three blows had passed you ran away."
"Ah, my friend, but that does not detract from my bravery. I knew that the quarrel was only pretended; despite that, at the third blow I felt the blood mount to my face, and I ran away for fear of getting angry."
"This time I hope you will conduct yourself better."
"Speak, if you have need of my valor."
"No, thank God, I shan't have to put your valor to the proof; the matter is very simple and will not cost you a great effort of genius."
"So much the worse; I swear by Rolande that I feel disposed to brave every terror.—Take care, my friend; your razor almost touched my nose; you will end by taking off a piece, and that would destroy the charm of my physiognomy."
"Fear nothing, most valorous Chaudoreille; I will respect your face; it would be a pity to spoil it."
"Yes, most assuredly; it would cause tears to more than one great lady who deigns to look with favor upon your humble servant."
"Those great ladies would do well if they gave you another doublet, for yours has well earned its retirement."
"My dear fellow, love doesn't pause for such trifles; I please with or without a doublet; the figure is everything, and I'm more than a match for many a chevalier covered with tinsel and gewgaws; besides, if I wished to have some lace or cuffs or trinkets, I should not have to give more than a smile for them. Ah, by Jove!—Take care there, my brave Touquet. See! your neighbor's dog is going to take my ruff. Ah, the rogue! he's holding it in his chops."
"You must take it away from him."
"That's very easy for you to say. That cursed dog bites everybody."
Chaudoreille got up, half shaved, and ran and took his sword, which he drew from the scabbard; but during this time the dog had left the shop, carrying off the ruff, and the boastful chevalier pursued him into the street, crying,—
"My ruff! Zounds, my ruff! Stop thief!"
The shouts of Chaudoreille made the dog run more quickly, and the passers-by looked on with astonishment at the half-dressed man, with one cheek shaven and the other covered with soap, who ran, sword in hand, crying, "Stop thief!" The idlers gathered—for there were idlers as early as 1632—and followed Chaudoreille, that they might see the end of the adventure. The children stoned the dog, which redoubled its speed, passed through an alleyway and disappeared from Chaudoreille's sight. The latter, who could do no more, stopped at length, heaving a big sigh. His anger was redoubled when he saw everybody looking and laughing at him; he swore then, but so low that nobody could hear him; and, making the best of his way through the crowd which surrounded him, he sadly regained the barber's house.
"You must be a fool, to run through the street like that," said Touquet, who had grown impatient during Chaudoreille's race; "you deserve that I shouldn't finish shaving you."
"Oh, zounds! that is very easy for you to say; I have been robbed—a magnificent ruff."
"You can put on another."
"I haven't another."
"With a smile you could have as many as you wish."
"Yes, yes; but I'm not by way of smiling just now."
"Come, calm yourself. If our affair is successful, as I've no doubt it will be, I'll give you some crowns with which you can buy other collars; for ruffs are no longer in fashion."
This assurance alleviated somewhat Chaudoreille's grief, and he reseated himself, that the barber might finish shaving him.
"You will go today into the city," resumed the barber, while finishing the chevalier's toilet,—"into the Rue de la Calandre; you will go into a perfumer's shop which is about half-way down the street."
"Yes, yes, I know; that is where I supply myself."
"Better and better! It will be easier for you to obtain an entrance. You should know, then, the young girl whom I will describe to you: twenty years old, of medium height, unrestrained figure, brown hair and intelligent black eyes."
"Listen; I don't believe that I know her, seeing that it's two or three years since I bought any perfumery, because scents make me nervous."
"If you could dispense with lying to me, Chaudoreille, at every turn, you would give me great pleasure."
"What do I understand by that? I lie? By jingo! I swear to you, by Rolande—"
"Hold your tongue and listen. A great nobleman is in love with the young girl whose portrait I have just given you. This great nobleman is the Marquis de Villebelle."
"By Jove! What, the Marquis de Villebelle! He's a jolly fellow, who makes everybody talk about him. I'm delighted to work for a man of that stamp; he's as brave as he is generous. That's a profligate after my own heart. I shall be glad to give him proofs of my zeal and my genius."
"You'll have to begin by holding your tongue; remember, the least indiscretion will cost you dear. I should not have told you the name of the one who is concerned in this matter if the young girl had not known; but as she might herself tell you, it is better that you should learn it from me. Remember, you are still in my employ, and not in that of the marquis. I could myself have discharged the commission which he gave me, but I am beginning to have a reputation for probity and wisdom; it is generally thought that, turning from the errors of my youth, I no longer mix in intrigues, and I don't wish to disturb the good opinion they now have of me in this neighborhood."
"Ah, rascal, you're as mischievous as a monkey;you think of nothing but increasing your business, and your cold, severe air deceives some people. You're right, by jingo! One must dissemble; it's the essence of intrigue, and I shall try to throw off the appearance of being a libertine and a profligate in order that I may be more successful in wheedling the little innocent."
The barber shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and again approached the blade of his razor to Chaudoreille's nose. The latter's face became still paler, except the spots on his cheeks, where the color seemed immovable.
"Curse it!" cried Touquet, while holding the end of Chaudoreille's nose between his fingers, to prevent him from moving, while he plied the razor; "can't you ever keep still and refrain from trembling beneath my razor blade? You deserve to be slashed all over your face.—Come, get up; it's finished."
"Many thanks," said Chaudoreille, breathing more freely; "I am shaved like a cherubim. Oh, you have a hand as dexterous as it's nimble. That makes seventy-seven shaves that I owe you for."
"That's all right; we'll reckon that later."
"I know that you'll recall it to me; you're not like the barber who shaved one of my friends on credit, and who made a notch in him every time, to mark the shave, he said."
"Before the people come in, let us agree on what we have to do."
"Speak on; I am listening while I am washing myself."
"You will go, then, to the perfumer's shop, and while buying something—"
"Oh, yes; a collar or a ruff."
"No matter,—no matter what."
"I find that ruffs suit me better."
"Hold your tongue, cursed chatterer; there's nobody here to notice your face. You will enter into conversation with the young girl I have depicted; you will say to her that M. le Marquis is in love with her to the point of distraction."
"Yes; I shall say to her that he will stab himself before her eyes if she won't meet him."
"It's not a question of killing himself, idiot. That's a fine way to seduce a grisette!"
"I never seduced them any other way."
"Talk about presents, jewelry; they respond to that much quicker."
"Each one to his own method; as for me, I never make love that way; for the rest, I'll say everything that you wish; I'll make the marquis as generous and magnificent as a native of Gascony."
"Finally, you will demand a rendezvous, in the name of the marquis, for tomorrow evening."
"Where shall it be?"
"Wherever you like, but preferentially in an unfrequented quarter."
"Very well; and after?"
"Oh, the rest is my affair."
"A moment: if the little one doesn't grant an interview?"
"What are you thinking of? A shop girl who knows that she is pleasing to the noble Seigneur de Villebelle—I am certain that she's on tenter-hooks already because no messenger has reached her. You must beware of committing any blunder which will render you unsuccessful."
"Be easy; I'm not a clown, I flatter myself, and I wish by this affair to put myself in the good graces of the marquis."
"Yet again, it is not for him, but for me, that you are doing the business; if you should allow a single word of this adventure to escape in the town, if you should have the misfortune to mention the marquis, remember that then the blade of my razor won't leave that face whole about which you seem to make such a fuss."
The barber's eyes evinced his firm determination of keeping his promise; Chaudoreille hastened to get his sword and attach it to his side while murmuring,—
"Yes, undoubtedly I make much of my face; it is very worthy of the trouble, and has given me many happy moments. This devil of a Touquet is always joking, but between friends one should not get angry. We are both aware of our mutual bravery, and it's superfluous for us to give proofs of it. I swear to you by Rolande that I will usethe greatest discretion, that I may be relied on. Our acquaintance doesn't date from today; for nearly fifteen years we have been united in friendship. We are two jolly fellows who have played our pranks. How many intrigues have we conducted by our skill, without counting our personal prowess! You, built like a Hercules, an antique figure, noble carriage,—you would have adored big women—that is to say, tall women; I, smaller but well made, with a more modern physiognomy,—I prefer them more graceful and slender. But love never troubled you much; you prefer money. Ah, money and play,—those have been your pleasures. As for me, I'm fond of gaming also; I play a very strong game of piquet. But gallantry employs a great part of my time. I can't help it; I love the women. But that's not astonishing; I am their spoilt child; they have strewn the path of my life with flowers, without counting all those that still remain for me to cull. I dedicated to them my heart and my sword. But love and valor do not always lead to fortune; you have gathered wealth quicker than I, and I compliment you upon it. While I have been following after some Venus, you have conducted without my aid some intricate intrigues; for this house did not belong to you formerly, and now you are the proprietor of it; it did not fall to you from the clouds."
"What are you meddling with?" said the barberangrily. "What does it matter to you how I acquired this house? When I've employed you haven't I paid you, and often a good deal better than you deserve? I've already told you, Chaudoreille, that if you wish that we remain friends, and if you desire through me to earn money from time to time, you had better not begin your foolish questions, nor seek to learn that which I do not judge fit to confide to you; otherwise I shall show you my door and you will never enter it again."
"Oh, not so fast. By jingo! he's a little Vesuvius,—this dear Touquet. If I gave way to my natural temper we should see some fine things; however, that's ended; silence on that subject. Now I am dressed; I lack nothing but my ruff; how can I go out without that?"
"You went out very well a minute ago, half dressed."
"But a minute ago I was sword in hand, and in those moments I see nothing but my victim. It's all right; I will pull my cloak up a little higher. Ah, I was forgetting an essential. That I may buy something in the little one's shop it's necessary that I should have some money, and my pockets are empty this morning."
"Wait; take these ten crowns, on account of what I shall give you if you fulfil my instructions correctly."
"That's well understood," said Chaudoreille,taking the money and drawing from his belt an old silk purse, which had formerly been red, in which he placed, one by one, with an air of respect, the ten pieces which the barber had given him.
"It's still too early," said Touquet, "for you to go to the perfumer's; those dames do not open their shops as early as we do ours; while waiting till the time comes for you to execute your commission couldn't you go up and see Blanche, and give her a music lesson? That will amuse her, and I notice that she does not find much to distract her in her room, where she sees no one but Marguerite."
At the name of Blanche, Chaudoreille raised his eyes to Heaven, and heaved a sigh which he stifled immediately, crying,—
"By the way, how is she, the pretty child? I was going to ask you about her, for it is a century since I have seen her."
"She's very well, but she's tired of being in the house and wishes to go out."
"What the devil! why don't you send me more often to keep her company? I can amuse her, my beautiful Blanche, and I can play something for her."
"I'm not sure that you can amuse her much. Blanche said to me that you always sang the same things, and that she now knew as much as you do of the sitar."
"These young girls are full of conceit. I confess that she's made rapid progress, and that is not astonishing; I have a way of teaching which would make a donkey capable of singing songs; besides, the little one is intelligent, but I flatter myself that I can still teach her something more."
"Chaudoreille, I have given you a great proof of my confidence in permitting you to see Blanche; you must swear to me that you will never speak of her beauty."
"Be easy; when by chance anyone asks me if I know the young girl who is under your care, I answer—since we are on the subject—that I have seen her three or four times, and that she is neither one thing nor the other,—one of those faces which people say nothing about."
"That's well; if anyone imagined that this house held one of the prettiest women in Paris, I should nevermore have a moment's peace; I should be incessantly tormented by a crowd of gallants, of profligates, of libertines; I should see this house become the rendezvous of all the worthless fellows of the neighborhood. I couldn't go away for a moment without one of them trying to introduce himself to Blanche, and Marguerite's watchfulness would be as insufficient as my own to frustrate all the enterprises of these gallants. It is to avoid all this annoyance that I withdraw Blanche from the notice of curious people."
"Oh, as far as that goes, you do very well;I quite approve your conduct; you must not let them see her, nor allow her to go out for a moment. If you wish, I can say everywhere that she's horrible,—blind of one eye, lame, and hump-backed."
"No, no; one must never overdo one's precautions and fall into a contrary excess."
"It would be so sorrowful if some miserable adventurer should carry this beautiful flower away from us."
"How? carry her away from us?"
"I should say carry her away from you; it is only by favor that I see her. She is, in truth, a jewel; she has the candor, the innocence of childhood. Ah, zounds! how happy you are, Touquet, for you are guarding this treasure for yourself, I'll wager."
"For myself?" said the barber, knitting his brows; then he was silent for a moment, while Chaudoreille, placed before a little mirror, occupied himself in studying some smiles and glances of the eye. "I have already told you that I do not like questions," responded Touquet at last; "but I see that you will be incorrigible until your shoulders have felt the weight of my arm."
"Always joking. You are really a most ironical man."
"Come, go up to Blanche's room; you can stay three-quarters of an hour. You must leave by the passageway; I don't wish the people who will behere to see you come from the interior of the house. You will go where I told you, and you will come and give me an account of the result of your enterprise."
"At your dinner hour?"
"No, this evening, at dusk."
"As you please, as you will. Ah, mon Dieu! I am thinking how I can go up to my young pupil without a ruff."
"Will that prevent you from singing?"
"No, but decency—this naked neck. Lend me a collar,—anything."
"Hang it! is it necessary to make so much fuss? Do you think that Blanche will pay much attention to your face?"
"My face! my face! It would seem, to hear you, that I am an Albino."
"Here's somebody coming; get out."
The barber pushed Chaudoreille into the passage, where the latter remained for a quarter of an hour, seeking by what manner he could hold his cloak, and deciding at last to go up to his pupil.
BLANCHEwas seated at work near her window, the small, dim panes of which scarcely permitted her to distinguish anything in the street.
However, from time to time she glanced downward in that direction to distract her thoughts; not that she was at all sad, or that she had anything to trouble her, but a young girl who is nearly sixteen years of age experiences in the depths of her innocent heart certain void, vague desires which she cannot easily account for. She sighs, she becomes dreamy; a mere nothing renders her uneasy; the least noise, the sound of an unknown voice, makes her heart beat more quickly; she looks oftener in the mirror; she pays more attention to her toilet, though, as yet, there is nobody in particular whom she wishes to charm. But a secret instinct implants in her the desire to please, a sure symptom that she begins to feel the need of loving; and, for that reason, she falls into reveries and sighs without knowing why—so it was, at least, in the time of which we are speaking. As to the young girls of our own time, they dream, also, but they sigh less.
The character of the barber, the cold, serious manner which he wore before Blanche, did not invite confidence, and imposed a restraint on the young girl, whose ingenuous heart seemed to seek a friend. She respected Touquet and obeyed him; she regarded him as her benefactor, but she could not chat freely with him, for the barber's laconic answers always appeared to indicate little desire to engage in a long conversation. To make up for this, Marguerite was very chatty, and would willingly have passed the entire day in gossip; but the sole subjects of her conversation were sorcerers, magicians and robbers, and these were not at all amusing to Blanche, who preferred, to Marguerite's appalling stories, a tender love-song or a story of chivalry, the heroes of which were very strong on love; and one of that ilk had no less prowess as a paladin because he was faithful to his lady for twenty years.
Blanche was dreaming, then, when somebody rapped softly at her door; and immediately Chaudoreille's odd little head appeared between the door and the wall, and he said in mellifluous accents,—
"May one come in, interesting scholar?"
Blanche raised her eyes and burst into a fit of laughter on perceiving Chaudoreille's face, this being the effect his appearance ordinarily produced on the young girl.
"Come in, come in, my dear master," said she,rising to curtsey to Chaudoreille, who then introduced himself entirely into the room, bowing to Blanche three times, so low that each time his sword fell before him, and on rising he was obliged to put Rolande into his scabbard again.
"I am so much in the habit of drawing him," said Chaudoreille, "that he can't rest quietly in his sheath for two hours at a time.—Come, be quiet, Rolande; you know well, my dear companion, that the night never passes without my giving you some occupation."
"Why, Monsieur Chaudoreille, do you fight every day?"
"What else could you expect, beautiful angel? It is my element; I should not sleep if I had not drawn my sword, and I should fall ill if three days were to elapse without my ridding the earth of an impertinent fellow or a rival."
"O good Heavens!"
"But let us leave that subject and speak of you, delightful creature. You seem to me fresher and more beautiful than ever; it is the unfolding of the bud, it is the opening of the flower, it is the fruit which—By the way, how are you?"
"Very well. Did you come to give me a music lesson?"
"Yes, if you will permit me the pleasure. It is a long time since I had that happiness."
"I hope you're going to teach me something new."
"By Jove! I'm not at the end of my tether. Besides, were new songs lacking, your beautiful eyes would inspire me to improvise a ballad in sixteen couplets."
Blanche brought her sitar and handed it to Chaudoreille, who raised his eyes to Heaven and heaved a big sigh as he took it.
"Are you going to be ill, Monsieur Chaudoreille?" questioned the young girl, astonished at this moaning.
"No, I am not ill; however, I feel rather uneasy," answered Chaudoreille, venturing to try the effect of the glances and smiles which he had studied before the glass.
"You seem to have difficulty in breathing," responded Blanche; "perhaps your supper last night did not agree with you."
"Pardon me; I swear to you it did not trouble me in the least. I have a horror of indigestion. Out upon it! I never put myself in the way of having it."
"Sing to me the air you are going to teach me; that will make you feel better."
"She is innocence itself," said Chaudoreille to himself while tuning the sitar; "she doesn't understand what makes me sigh. Despite that, however, I can see that she's glad to see me. Patience; before long her heart will awaken, and I shall be its conqueror."
Blanche took up her work again; Chaudoreilleseated himself near her, and after a quarter of an hour's tuning of the sitar, coughed, expectorated, blew his nose, turned around on his chair, arranged his cape, pursed his mouth, passed his tongue over his lips, and at last commenced in a shrill voice, which pierced the ears, an ancient ditty which Blanche had heard a hundred times before.
"I know that, my dear master," said she, interrupting Chaudoreille in the middle of a point d'orgue, which he seemed willing to prolong indefinitely; "that's one of the three you have already taught me."
"Do you think so?"
"Wait; I'll sing it for you."
Blanche took the instrument, and, gracefully accompanying herself, sang, in a melodious voice which gave a charm to the old ballad.
"That's very well, indeed," said Chaudoreille; "you sing the passages precisely in my manner; I seem to hear myself."
"Teach me another, then," said the young girl, returning the instrument to him; and Chaudoreille intoned a virelay on the great feats of Pepin the Short.
"I know that, too," said Blanche, stopping him.
"In that case I will sing you a charming villanelle."
"Mercy! that will be the third of those you have taught me. Don't you know any others?"
"Pardon me, but as a cursed dog ran off with my ruff while I was being shaved, I cannot venture a new song while my throat is naked; it would embarrass the middle notes. Nevertheless, the villanelle is always a novelty, since I ever sing it with variations."
"Well, I'll listen," said Blanche, glancing towards the street. Chaudoreille heaved another sigh, and when he had taken a position which seemed to him more favorable for displaying his graces, he commenced the villanelle, which he sang to Blanche every time that he gave her a lesson:—
At this moment some perambulating singers came into the street. They stationed themselves in front of the barber's house and, accompanying themselves on their mandolins, sang some Italian songs. Blanche listened eagerly; this music, so different from that which she heard from her master of the sitar, stirred her pulses deliciously, and approaching the window she cried,—
"Oh, how pretty that is!"
"Yes, undoubtedly it's pretty," said Chaudoreille, who believed the young girl to be speakingof the villanelle; "but it's necessary to acquire the same expression that I have given it. Notice it well, 'I have lost my turtle-dove,'—the accent tremulous with grief; raise the eyes to the ceiling, beat time with the left foot. 'And her flight I must pursue,'—a distracted air, and always the same accompaniment with the thumb and index finger. 'Is she not the one I love?'—a soft, flute-like sound, and make a movement of surprise while sustaining the falsetto. 'You regret your own fond dove,—' that demands much expression. 'You regret,'—an exquisitely performed shake,—'your own fond dove,'—inflate the sound and ascend still."
"Ah, I should be contented if I could only hear such music often," said Blanche, who had paid no attention to what Chaudoreille was saying, and had listened only to the Italians.
"I should much like to give you a lesson every day, lovely damsel; but my occupations overwhelm me—and then, Master Touquet does not often permit me the pleasure of seeing you; when far from you I sing without ceasing,—
You regret your own fond dove."
"It's a barcarolle—is it not, monsieur?"
"No, my dear girl; that's called a villanelle, the favorite song of our ancient troubadours, and of shepherds who bemoaned their shepherdesses."
"What a pity that I don't know Italian!"
"What do you require Italian for,—in order to say,
Is she not the one I love?"
"Be quiet, be quiet; they're singing in French now," said Blanche, pressing close to the window-panes, and signing with her hand to Chaudoreille not to stir.
"What's that you're saying?" cried the sitar master, rising in surprise,—"for me to be quiet! Does that noise out there disturb you too much? To the devil with the street singers who prevent you from hearing me! I hardly know how to restrain myself from going to drive them away with a few blows from my good blade Rolande!"
"If I only dared open my window for a few moments," sighed Blanche. "But no, I must not, for M. Touquet has firmly forbidden me to do so. What a pretty, pretty air! Ah, I shall easily remember that,
that's the refrain."
"No, divine Blanche, you are mistaken; these are the words,—
The singers departed. Blanche then left the casement, and, on turning, saw Chaudoreille withhis neck elongated, the better to execute a note. She could not restrain a desire to laugh, which was evoked by the face of the chevalier; and the latter remained with his mouth open, not knowing how to take the young girl's laughter, when Marguerite entered the room.
"It's burned at last," said the old woman as she came in.
"What is burned," cried Chaudoreille,—"the roast?"
"Ah, yes, indeed; it's a book of witchcraft, of magic. It was very hard to get it to burn, those books are so accustomed to fire."
"What is that you say, Marguerite? You have books of magic,—you who are afraid of everything? Do you wish to enter into communication with the spirits of the other world?"
"Ah, God keep me from it, Monsieur Chaudoreille. But I'll tell you how that book came into my hands, where it didn't stay long, for it seemed to me that that cursed conjuring-book burned my fingers. My master wished me to change my room—because—but I oughtn't to tell you that."
"Try to remember what you wished to tell me."
"Well, it seems I must quit the room I've occupied, to go into one in which no one has set foot during the eight years I have been in the house; and, to judge by the look of it, no one had visited it for a long time before. It's so dark, so dismal;the window-panes, which are two inches thick with dust, hardly allow the daylight to penetrate into the room."
"I had an idea—God forgive me—that she was going to recount to me all the spiders' webs she had found there. What do you think of it, my charming pupil?"
Blanche did not answer, for she had paid no attention to what Marguerite said; she was committing to memory the sweet refrain which had appeared so pretty to her, and was repeating in a low voice,—
"I love to eternity;"
and Chaudoreille, seeing her steeped in reverie, would not disturb her, fully persuaded that the young girl could not defend her heart against the charms of the villanelle.
"It's not a question of spiders," resumed the old servant, rather ill-humoredly; "if I had not seen that which—but at the bottom of a closet Mademoiselle Blanche found a diabolical book; it was the conjuring-book of a sorcerer named Odoard. Have you ever heard tell of a sorcerer by that name?"
"No, not that I remember. If you were to ask me about a brave man, a man of spirit, a rake of honor, most certainly I should have known him; but a sorcerer! What the devil do you think I should have to do with him? These people don't fight."
"Monsieur Chaudoreille,—you who are so brave,—you must render me a service."
"What is it?" inquired Chaudoreille, paying more attention to Marguerite's words.
"Just now, after having burned the conjuring-book of that Odoard, surnamed the great Tier of Tags, I made another inspection of my room, sprinkling holy water everywhere, as you may well suppose."
"And what followed?"
"At the end of the alcove I perceived a little door,—one would never have supposed there was a door there; but, though old, I have good eyes, and, while pushing the bed, which made the wainscot creak, I saw the door."
"To the point, I beg of you," resumed Chaudoreille, whose eyes betrayed the uneasiness he tried in vain to dissemble.
"Well, now, I confess to you, monsieur, that I didn't dare open that door. It was no doubt the door of a closet; but that alcove is so gloomy, so dark. Finally, I'll be very much obliged if you'll come up with me and go first into whatever place we find there. I daren't ask M. Touquet, for he'd scoff at me."
"And he would be right, by jingo! Why, Marguerite, at your age, not to have more courage than that!"
"What can you expect? I'm afraid there may be a goblin in that closet, who will jump in myface when I open the door, which has perhaps been closed for many years; for I've never seen M. Touquet enter the room."
"Don't goblins pass through keyholes? Come, Marguerite, I blush for your cowardice."
"No one can say that sorcerers are rare in Paris. Haven't they established a Chamber at the Arsenal expressly to judge them?"
"That's true, I confess; but I don't see what makes you imagine there are any in this house?"
"Ah, Monsieur Chaudoreille, if I was to tell you all I have seen and heard—and at night the noises which—"
"What have you seen, dear nurse?" inquired Blanche, whose reverie had flown, and who had heard the last words of the old woman.
"Nothing—nothing—mademoiselle;" and the old servant added, addressing the chevalier in a low tone, "My master doesn't like me to talk of it, and he'll send me away if he learns—"
"That's enough; I don't wish to hear anything further," said Chaudoreille, rising and taking his hat. "And since Touquet has forbidden you to tell these idle stories, I beg you not to deafen my ears with them."
"But you'll come upstairs with me and look in the closet—won't you, monsieur?"
"Ah, mon Dieu! I hear ten o'clock striking; I should be in the city now; I didn't receive ten crowns for listening to your old stories; I mustrun. Au revoir, my interesting pupil. I am delighted that my last variations gave you pleasure. I hope before long to give you another lesson. With a master like me, you should be a virtuoso."
While saying these words Chaudoreille drew himself up, placed his left hand on his hip, arranged his right arm as though he were about to take his weapon; but, instead of drawing Rolande from the scabbard, he carried his hand to his hat and bowed respectfully to Blanche; then, passing quickly by Marguerite, who tried vainly to restrain him, he opened the door and went downstairs humming,—
THEbarber Touquet's shop was as usual filled with a motley crowd of people of all classes. There were gathered students, shopkeepers, pages, poets, bachelors, adventurers, and even young noblemen; for the fashion of the time permitted these amiable libertines to mingle sometimes with persons in the lower classes of society, whether they sought new sensations in listening to a language which for them had all the fascinating charm of novelty, or whether it was for the purpose of playing tricks on the persons with whom they thus mixed.
Master Touquet's shop was large, and moreover furnished with benches, which latter conveniences were an almost unheard-of luxury in a time when people took their diversions standing, and when no one was seated even at the play. The barber by this means extended his custom; he attended to everything, answered everybody, and did more himself than ten hairdressers of today. His hand, which was skilful, nimble and accurate with scissors or razor, had earned him the reputation of being one of the best barbers inParis, and drew to his shop many fops, because in the middle class one held it an honor to be able to say, while caressing one's chin, "I've been shaved by Touquet." But those whom he had served sometimes remained for a long time in conversation with the persons who were awaiting their turn, the greater part of these idlers desiring to chat for a moment on the news of the day and the adventures of the night. Towards ten o'clock in the morning there was always a numerous gathering at Master Touquet's shop.
There one saw all kinds of toilets; but then, as today, rich garments did not always betoken rank or fortune in those who wore them. The taste for luxury was becoming general, because consideration was accorded only to those who had splendid equipages and magnificent clothing. An appearance of wealth and power obtained all the honors; true merit without distinction, without renown, remained forgotten and in poverty. And one assuredly sees the same thing today.
Access to court was easy. For a parvenu to introduce himself there, often nothing more was necessary than a costume similar to those worn by courtiers,—the hat adorned by a feather, a doublet and mantle of satin or velvet, the sword at the belt, the whole enlivened by trimmings of gold or silver braid. Each sought to procure for himself the most splendid personal appearance, and many ruined themselves in order to appear wealthy.
An attempt was, however, made to arrest this tendency to luxurious habits, which could not hide the poverty of the time. By an edict of the month of November of the year 1633, it was forbidden to all subjects to wear on their shirts, cuffs, head-dresses, or on other linen, all openwork, embroideries of gold or silver thread, braids, laces or cut points, manufactured either within or without the realm.
In the following year a second edict appeared, which prohibited the employment, in habiliments, of any kind of cloth of gold or silver, real or imitation, and decreed that the richest garments should be of velvet, satin or taffetas, without other ornament than two bands of silk embroidery; it also forbade that the liveries of pages, lackeys and coachmen should be made of any other than woollen stuffs. But these laws were soon infringed; men will always have the desire to appear more than they are, and women to hide what they are.
Among the different personages assembled in the barber's shop there was one who chatted with nobody and seemed to take not the slightest interest in the relation of the scandalous adventures of the night. This was a young man who appeared about nineteen years of age or a little over, endowed with a physiognomy by no means cheerful; for one ordinarily applies that term to those round, fresh faces, red and plump, which breathe health and gayety. He had beautiful eyes, but was pale;noble features, but rather a melancholy expression; finally, he had what one calls an interesting face, and this sort are in general more fortunate in love than those of cheerful physiognomy. The young man's costume was very simple; neither ornament nor embroidery adorned his gray coat, buttoned just to the knee and cut like our frock coat of today; his belt was black; no ribbons floated from his knees and his arms; he neither had a sword nor laces, nor plumes on the broad brim of his hat.
He had been for a very long time in the barber's shop. On entering, his eyes had appeared to search for something other than the master of the place; he had thrown glances towards the back shop, and still continued to do so. Several times already his turn had come and Touquet had said to him,—
"Whenever you wish, seigneur bachelor."
The young man's simple costume was, in fact, that which was ordinarily worn by law students in Paris; but to each invitation of the barber the bachelor only answered, "I am not pressed for time," and another took his place.
After a time the loiterers and gossips departed and the young man found himself alone with Touquet, to whom his conduct began to appear singular.
"Now you can no longer yield your turn to anybody," said the barber, offering a chair to the stranger. "In truth I cannot shave you; you have not enough on your chin; but without doubt youcame for something, and I am at your service, monsieur."
"Yes," said the young man with an embarrassed air, turning his eyes towards the back shop, "I should like—my hair is too long, and—"
"Seat yourself here, seigneur bachelor; you will find that I am skilful; my hand is as well accustomed to the scissors as to the razor."
The young man decided at last to intrust his head to the barber, but as soon as the latter paused for a moment he profited by it to turn and look into the back shop.
"Are you looking for anything, monsieur?" said Touquet, whom this trick did not escape.
"No—no. I was only looking to see if you were alone here."
"Yes, monsieur; you see I have no need of anybody to help me in order to satisfy my customers."
"Indeed, someone told me you were extremely skilful."
"And monsieur has had time to judge of my talent, he has been nearly two hours in my shop."
"I had nothing pressing to do; and then, I wished to obtain some information of you. Tell me, my friend, who occupies the first story of this house."
"I do, monsieur," said Touquet, after a moment's hesitation.
The young man seemed vexed then that he had asked the question.
"May I learn, monsieur, how that interests you?" resumed Touquet, looking at the unknown attentively.
"Ah, it is that I am looking for a lodging—in this quarter. One chamber would suffice me. Do you not take lodgers, and could you give me a room if this house belongs to you?"
"This house does belong to me; in fact, monsieur, I cannot grant your request. For a long time I have let no lodgings, and I have no room in the house, which is not very large."
"What! you cannot let me a single chamber, a closet even? I repeat to you, I wish to have one in this neighborhood; I often have business in the Louvre. I will pay you anything that you ask."
"Anything?" said the barber, glancing ironically at the young man's simple garments. "You are getting on, perhaps, a little, monsieur student. All the same, your desires cannot be gratified, and I advise you to renounce your plans."
Touquet dwelt on this last phrase, and the young man's face reddened a little; but the barber had finished his ministrations, and the former had no way of prolonging his stay with a man who did not appear to wish to continue the conversation, and to whom he feared he had said too much. The bachelor rose, paid, and at last left the shop, but not without looking up at the windows of the house.
"That's a lover," said Touquet, as soon as theyoung man had taken his departure. "Yes, his uneasiness, his looks, his questions—oh, I understand it all. I have served too many lovers ever to be deceived about that. Curse it! this is just what I feared. What vexations I foresee! What anxieties are about to assail me! He must have seen Blanche, but where? when? how? She never leaves the house without me, and that very rarely; however, this young man is in love with her, I'll bet a hundred pieces of gold. Halloo there, Marguerite! Marguerite!"
The old servant had heard her master's loud voice; she mentally invoked her patron saint and went down to the shop.
"How long is it since Blanche went out without my knowing it?" said the barber suddenly.
"Went out? Mademoiselle Blanche?" said Marguerite, looking at her master in surprise.
"Yes,—went out with you. Why don't you answer?"
"Blessed Holy Virgin! that hasn't happened for two years; then Mademoiselle Blanche was still a child, and you sometimes allowed her to go with me to take a turn in the big Pré-aux-Clercs. But since that time the poor little thing has not been out, I believe, except twice with you, and that was at night, and Mademoiselle Blanche had a very thick veil."
"I didn't ask you if she had been out with me. And has any young man been here in myabsence who has asked you about her, or who has sought to be introduced to her?"
"Indeed, I would have given him a warm reception. Monsieur doesn't know me. Except the Chevalier Chaudoreille, mademoiselle has seen no one; as to the latter, he came this morning to give her a music lesson."
"Oh, Chaudoreille isn't dangerous; but if some student, some young page, should come in my absence and seek to see Blanche, remember to send such heedless fellows away promptly."
"Yes, monsieur, yes. Oh, you may be easy. Besides, hasn't the beautiful child always about her a precious talisman which will preserve her from all danger? I defy ten gallants to turn her head so long as she carries it, and I will see that she does not leave it off."
"Watch, rather, that she does not open her window; that will be better. If that should happen, I should be obliged to give her the little room which opens on the court."
"Ah, monsieur, Mademoiselle Blanche would die there of weariness; there one can barely see the light, and the poor little thing does not go out, and could only work during the daytime with a candle."
"Unless she opens her window, it will be a long time before she occupies it," said Touquet in a low voice, making a sign to the servant to leave him, which the latter did, saying,—
"What a misfortune not to have faith in talismans! If monsieur believed in them, he would not deprive that poor little thing of every amusement."
The barber had not been mistaken in judging that the young man, who had had so much difficulty in tearing himself away from the shop, was a lover.
The Italian's song had so captivated Blanche's ears that the young girl had stood close to her casement, and had not budged from it during the time that her music master had made his variations on the villanelle. At the same moment Urbain was passing, and he had stopped to listen to the music, and while listening his glance was carried to Blanche's window. At first he had seen nothing but some very small panes; but at last, through these panes, his eyes could distinguish a face so pretty, eyes so blue and so full of the pleasure that Blanche was experiencing, that the young man had remained motionless, his looks fixed upon that window, near which the charming apparition remained. When the music ceased the pretty face disappeared, and the young man had said to himself,—
"I was not in error; there is an angel, a divinity, in that house."
And as that angel, that divinity, lived in the modest house of a barber, the bachelor had believed he should penetrate into the third heavenin entering Master Touquet's shop; but he returned to ideas more terrestrial on seeing nothing but men who had come to be shaved, who had about them nothing divine, despite all the essences with which their chins were besmeared. Urbain had glanced towards the back shop, hoping to perceive the pretty figure of the first floor, and had prolonged as much as possible his stay in the barber's shop. We have witnessed the result of his conversation with the barber.