The young man departed, very much out of sorts; he perceived that he had made a blunder in questioning the barber, who was probably his adored one's father; for the young men of that time were inflamed with love as quickly as those of today. He felt that before going into the shop he should have obtained some information in the neighborhood, and he decided to finish as he should have begun. In all times the bakers have had very correct ideas about their neighbors, because the neighbors are all obliged to go or to send to the baker's. Urbain went into a shop at a little distance, and while paying for some rolls entered into conversation with the woman who was behind the counter,—a conversation in which all the servants who arrived at that moment took part.
"Do you know a barber in this street?"
"A barber? Yes, my good monsieur; down there at the corner of the Rue Saint-Honoré,—Master Touquet. Has monsieur some businesswith him? Oh, he's a very skilful man at his trade, and has made lots of money, by shaving beards, or in some other way. What that is I won't pretend to tell you. That's so—isn't it, Madame Ledoux?"
"It is true," said Madame Ledoux, resting a basket of vegetables on the counter, "that Touquet has not always enjoyed an excellent reputation. I have lived in the neighborhood for eight years and, thank God, I know everything that has passed here,—all that everybody has done here, and all that everybody is still doing; and that reminds me that yesterday evening I saw Madame Grippart come home at ten o'clock with a young man, who left her in front of the grocer's shop after having held her hand in his for more than two hours, while that poor Grippart was peacefully slumbering, for he goes to bed at nine o'clock. That doesn't trouble him; he well deserves it, for he went about everywhere saying that his wife had a strong breath, and those things need not be said.—But to return to Master Touquet. Oh, that's a sly blade, a crafty, cunning fellow. I've known him since he settled in this street; he's been here nearly fifteen years. He rented the house which belonged to M. Richard. You know, my neighbor, the old cloth merchant?"
"The one whose wife had two fat, plump twins seven months after they were married?"
"Who didn't look at all like their father. It'sthe same. Well, this Touquet was then barber, bathkeeper and lodging-house keeper, and report says that beside that he helped young men of family in their love affairs. He then kept two shop-men, and should have made money; however, he was for a long time miserably poor, since his shop-men left him because he did not pay them. Everyone was very much astonished ten years ago when Touquet kept with him, and began to educate as his own child, the daughter of a man whom he did not know, who had come to lodge with him by chance, and who was killed the same night in a fight between some worthless fellows and the officers of the watch. The poor man! they found his corpse down there,—Rue Saint-Honoré, before the draper's shop. Do you remember it, Madame Legras?"
Madame Legras, who had just come into the baker's shop, began by throwing herself on a chair and crying,—
"Good-day, ladies! Good Heavens! how dear the fish is today, nobody can look at it."
And Urbain sighed, saying, "The fish will take us away from the barber"; but to advance in love one must often have patience, and in the midst of all this gossip that which concerned Touquet was precious to the young bachelor.
"I wished to have an eel to feast my husband, but it was impossible."
"Is it his birthday?"
"No; but he took me yesterday for a walk around the Bastile, and one compliment brings on another. I can say with pride that there are few households so united as ours. During the four years that I have been married to my second husband, M. Legras, we have quarrelled only five times; but that was always for some trifling cause. What were you talking about, ladies?"
"Of our neighbor Touquet, about whom this gentleman desired some information."
"Touquet the barber? My word, ladies, you may say whatever you will, but I don't like that man."
"He's a very handsome man, however."
"Yes, of the same height as M. Legras; but there is something hard and false and stern in his appearance."
"Yes, for some time past; formerly he was gayer, more open. Now monsieur never chats; he has grown proud."
"That's not surprising; he has made money."
"Yes, by shaving beards perhaps."
"It's a good deal more likely he has made it by assisting the love affairs of some great nobleman, in procuring and abducting some beauty."
"Come, ladies, don't be so malicious. As for me, you know I haven't a bad tongue. Touquet is very skilful at his trade. I know very well that in order to buy and pay for that house where he now is he must have shaved a good many faces;but they say now the barber is very steady and economical."
"When the devil is old—"
"Touquet is not old; he's hardly over forty years."
"Adopting that little girl should have brought him good luck."
"That's what I was telling monsieur. Poor little thing! Nobody knows anything about her, except that she had a father."
"Well, neighbor, somebody found a letter on him having for an address, 'To Monsieur Moranval, gentleman.'"
"Ah, he was a gentleman?"
"Yes, my dear. Oh, I remember all that as if it were yesterday."
"How fortunate one is in having such a memory! And what did the letter say?"
"It seemed that there were only a few lines of which nobody could make much of anything; someone recommended to this Moranval to take great precautions in the business which brought him to Paris. But what business? Nobody knows anything about it."
"Did they find nothing else on him?"
"No; there is little doubt that the poor man was robbed after being murdered."
"Did they go to Touquet's to inquire what he knew about it?"
"Touquet answered the officers of justice thatthe man had come down to his house the evening before, and had introduced himself as a gentleman who was about to remain for some time in Paris; that he had first asked him to put his little girl to bed, and that later he had gone out, saying he should be absent for an hour or so. Touquet had waited up for him a great part of the night, and it was not till the next day that he learned from public rumor that a man had been found murdered in the Rue Saint-Honoré, a short distance from his house; that, being already uneasy about his guest, he had gone to see the victim, and had recognized the man who had arrived at his place the evening before."
"I hope that's a history. Unfortunately, one hears only too many similar stories. Ours are really cut-throat streets, and it is not well, after nine o'clock, to be out in them. The gentlemen of the parliament make decrees often enough, but it doesn't do much good. A little while ago, it seems a counsellor of the Chamber of Investigation was similarly murdered. The parliament has just promulgated a new ordinance against these worthless fellows—haven't they, monsieur?"
"Yes," said Urbain; "the public prosecutor has just complained of murders, assassinations and robberies, which take place every day, as many upon the highways as in the city or the suburbs, by armed persons who forcibly break into houses, and that through the negligence of the police officerswho do not properly perform their duty. Parliament yesterday passed a new decree, ordering that vagabonds, men of bad character, and robbers, should vacate the city and the faubourgs of Paris within twenty-four hours."
"Well, you'll see, tonight we shall hear a bigger rumpus than ever."
"And the barber Touquet is not married?" resumed Urbain, who wished to return to the subject of conversation which was interesting to him.
"No, he's a bachelor," said Madame Ledoux.
"And this young girl that lodges with him—"
"She's the little one whom he adopted."
"She had no other protectors?"
"What could you expect, since nobody knew her parents? Touquet has, they say, taken very good care of her; I will do him the justice to say that. He has taken into his house, to wait on the little one, a servant, old Marguerite, a gossip, who is always seeking for preservatives against the wind, the thunder, the sorcerers, or even for talismans to guard her dear Blanche against the snares of the gallants."
"Blanche, then, is the name of the young girl?"
"Yes; that is her name."
"And this old woman is the only one about her?"
"Mercy! isn't that enough? Besides, the little one never goes out, and no one ever sees her even put her nose out of the window."
"Tell me, ladies, don't you think, with me, that the barber has brought up this pretty child for himself, and that he would not take so much care of her unless he was in love with her?"
"Indeed, that might very well be possible. Touquet is still young, and perhaps wishes to marry her."
"Nonsense! I don't believe that; and besides, they say that the young person is not good-looking. I have heard it said by an ugly little thin man, with a long sword, who is often at the barber's shop, that the orphan is very ugly."
"Ugly!" cried Urbain quickly. "That's a frightful lie!"
"Ah, monsieur has seen her, then?" immediately said the gossips, looking at the young man with a mischievous air.
The latter felt that he had committed an imprudence; but having nothing more to learn from these dames, he made them a low bow and left the shop, leaving the gossips to talk among themselves.
"Well, if he hasn't gone, and he didn't tell us what he wanted with Touquet."
But Urbain had learned enough; and while directing his steps toward the Rue Montmartre, where he dwelt, our lover cogitated thus:—
"She's not the barber's daughter; he has stood to her in place of a father, but he has no rights over her except those accorded to a benefactor bya grateful heart. She's the daughter of a gentleman, which is much better; my father was a gentleman also, who valiantly fought under King Henry. The old soldiers still remember Captain Dorgeville, and the name which he has transmitted to me is pure and without stain. I am alone in the world; I am my own master. Like her I have no parents, for a year ago death deprived me of my good mother. My fortune is very moderate,—twelve hundred livres income and a little house by the seaside. That is all my father left me; but she has nothing more, and by working I could render her happy. I am about to take my bachelor's degree, but I shall now leave this unfruitful career; science brings fortune too slowly. I don't know, however, if I could please her. Yes, that's the first task with which I should occupy myself. If she loves me, I will ask her hand of the barber. He will wish to assure her happiness; he could not refuse me unless he himself—— If these women said rightly he is in love with her. The hard tone with which he answered me this morning, his refusal to lodge me in his house, make me believe it. And that wretch who dared to say that she was ugly!—when object more enchanting never met my eyes. Ah, it wasn't of her he was speaking. If such a thing could happen, I should like to see her, to tell her of the love which she has inspired; and, if I could manage to please her, nothing then could prevent me from becoming her husband."
These were, somebody will say, very foolish plans concerning a young girl whose face one had only perceived through some very dim window-panes; and it was on the possession of this almost ideal object that Urbain already based the happiness of his life. But let us look back on our own lives. We were hardly more reasonable,—happy if between us and the chimeras which enchanted us there was nothing thicker than a pane of glass.
CHAUDOREILLEnow started off at a great pace towards the city. The ten crowns which he felt in his purse, on which he prudently kept his hand while walking, caused him to hold his head even more arrogantly than he usually did. He had placed his little hat over his left eye in such a manner that the old red feather with which it was adorned fell precisely over his right eye, and as he walked mincingly along, at each step that he took the chevalier could thus enjoy the waving of his ridiculous plume.
Never had the Chevalier de Chaudoreille felt so clever, so inordinately satisfied with himself. Blanche's image, so sweet, so beautiful, her delightful manner, which possessed all the innocent witchery of girlhood, was still before his eyes, and as he was never lacking in confidence as to his own merits, he readily persuaded himself that the young beauty could not see him with indifference, and was even a little taken with him. On the other hand, the enterprise with which he was charged by the barber, as the agent of the Marquis de Villebelle, flattered his self-love. Hebelieved himself the friend, the confidant, of the Marquis de Villebelle, although the latter had never spoken to him; but he thought that the adroitness with which he would serve him in his amorous plan would be sooner or later known to the great nobleman and would win his favor. Full of this idea, he hastened to reach the shop of which Touquet had spoken. Before entering, Chaudoreille resumed to himself,—
"One mustn't go in here," said he, "looking like a snob, and turn the shop upside down without buying anything. I must not forget that I am sent by a great personage. They have given me ten crowns on account, as the price of my services, but I can very well spend twenty-four sous."
This determination taken, he opened the door of the shop and entered nimbly; but in wheeling round in order to appear more graceful and to bow at the same time to the right and left, he sent Rolande's scabbard through one of the panes of the glass door, and it broke in a thousand pieces.
Chaudoreille's face lengthened and he felt some confusion, for he calculated that the price of the pane already exceeded the sum he had intended to lay out. Two young persons seated behind the counter burst into laughter, while an old woman placed opposite murmured between her teeth,—
"He must be very awkward."
"I will pay for it," said Chaudoreille at last, heaving a big sigh.
"Indeed I should hope so," responded the shopkeeper; "but has anyone ever seen a man carry a sword bigger than himself?"
At these words the chevalier drew himself up and stood on his tiptoes, and glanced angrily at the old woman.
"It's very astonishing," said he, "that anyone should permit herself such reflections. I carry the weapon that suits me, and if a bearded chin had said the same thing to me, my sword would have immediately taken the measure of his body."
"I didn't intend to say anything to make you angry," replied the shopkeeper, softening; "only it seemed to me that that long sword would embarrass you in walking."
"Embarrass me! That is a different thing," and Chaudoreille turned his back to the shopkeeper to approach the young ladies, saying to himself,—
"I didn't come here to discuss the length of my sword. Let's leave this woman's twaddle."
"What do you wish, monsieur?" said a young, squint-eyed girl, with a flat nose, thick lips and crooked chin, whose dark-red skin seemed covered with a coat of varnish.
Chaudoreille looked at her for some moments, saying to himself,—
"By jingo! she's not very much like the portrait of the little one which they gave me. It's true that love is blind, and that great noblemen like original faces."
But after looking at the person who addressed him, Chaudoreille glanced a little farther and perceived another woman measuring some ribbons. At the first glance the barber's messenger recognized the young girl whose portrait had been drawn for him. She was all Touquet had painted her, though he could not then see the color of her eyes, which were bent on the ribbon. Chaudoreille approached her and, bowing graciously, said to himself,—
"This is our affair. I have an astonishing tact for divining correctly. Other people hesitate for an hour; but I recognize immediately those who have been pointed out to me, and I am never deceived. Here are some delightful ribbons," said Chaudoreille, leaning on the counter, carelessly caressing his chin, and trying to imitate the free manners and impertinent tone of the profligates of the day.
The young girl then raised her eyes to the chevalier; their brightness, their expression, arrested Chaudoreille in the midst of a compliment from which he expected the most happy results.
"By jingo! what a glance! what fire!" said he, taking a step backward, while the damsel continued to look at him.
In order to enchant her he attempted to turn a light pirouette, in which Rolande's scabbard just missed putting out the eye of the cat, which was lying on a neighboring stool. A mocking smileplayed on the lips of the young girl, who said, "What ribbon does monsieur wish?"
"What ribbon? My faith! I don't much know. Something to match the rest of my costume. It is to make a knot for Rolande."
"And who is Rolande, monsieur?"
"My sword, beautiful brunette, which I will pass through the body of him who denies that you have the most beautiful eyes in the world."
Delighted at his compliment, Chaudoreille said to himself in an undertone,—
"Take care; we mustn't go too far, or be too amiable; I must not forget that I did not come here on my own account. This young girl appears somewhat smitten, from the way she looks at me. Zounds! if I had a ruff I would with good-will cheat the Marquis de Villebelle of the little one. Come, Chaudoreille, hide your charms if you can; don't dart your glances at this pretty person, and hasten to tell her that she must not occupy herself with you."
While saying this Chaudoreille unrolled and examined twenty different ribbons, approaching them to the handle of his sword and throwing from time to time a glance about him, to assure himself that he could speak without being heard by the other two women in the shop.
This manœuvre did not escape the eyes of the young girl, who smiled, and seemed to wait for Chaudoreille to explain himself. Happily for Chaudoreille, two people came into the shop, and while the old woman and the other damsel were serving them, he opened a conversation in a low tone.
"I did not come here only to buy a ribbon, celestial merchant."
"If you wish anything else, speak, monsieur, and you shall be served."
"Julia, have you not finished with monsieur?" said the old woman impatiently, looking angrily at the long falchion of the chevalier, which, every time he moved, threatened her cat's eyes.
"Monsieur has not decided yet," answered Julia, while Chaudoreille cried with an impertinent air,—
"It seems to me that I should be allowed to choose my own colors. When a man like me comes into a shop, one should, my good woman, keep him there as long as possible; if you wish to have my custom, leave me to chat as much as I please with this beautiful child."
This insolent mode of speech was then so much in fashion, that she remained silent, in place of putting the chevalier out, as would be done now to a coxcomb who behaved like Chaudoreille.
"Oh, by jingo! if one did not keep these little shopkeepers in their place I believe they would permit themselves to make observations to us," said Chaudoreille, approaching for the twentieth time a gold-colored ribbon to his doublet. "Thiscolor goes very well with my cloak. What do you think of it, adorable damsel?"
"I think that these ribbons are too fresh to blend with monsieur's clothing, and that that one swears at them."
"I confess that the velvet of my jerkin is a little tarnished, but what could you expect? When a man fights he necessarily attracts dust and powder. Here's a cloak that I've not had more than six weeks, and I'll wager that you would say it had been worn for some months."
"Decide on your ribbon, monsieur," said the young girl, without answering.
"Give me a gold-colored rosette," said Chaudoreille; and he added in a mysterious tone, "I have something very important to communicate to you."
"I doubt it," said Julia.
"Come," said Chaudoreille to himself, "I'll wager that she believes that I'm in love with her and is impatiently awaiting my declaration. I'm incorrigible; I let myself go, and I have turned her head without even perceiving it. Let us hasten to disabuse her.—No, beautiful brunette, you need not doubt it," responded he, lowering his eyes with a coquettish air; "I ought to confess to you that it is not of myself that I seek you, and that I am only the ambassador of Love, when you would have taken me for Love himself."
Julia's hearty laughter prevented Chaudoreillefrom continuing, and he did not know at first how to take this excessive gayety; but his self-love always made him place things to his own advantage, and he decided to laugh also, while saying in a low tone to the young girl,—
"Isn't it very funny to behold in me a lover's messenger?—I, who could cheat them all of their conquests. It's a great joke, in truth."
"Come, monsieur ambassador, give me your message," said Julia, looking pityingly at the envoy.
Chaudoreille threw a glance all around him, put a finger on his mouth, examined the persons who were in the shop, pushed from him a stool on which the cat was lying, then leaning toward Julia with the air of a conspirator, he whispered in her ear,—
"A great lord sent me to you. He's a rich and powerful man; he's a personage in favor; he's the gallant who—"
"He's the Marquis de Villebelle," said Julia impatiently. "I've known him for a long time. What does he want with me? What has he bidden you say to me? Come, monsieur, speak."
"It must be that I am very adroit," said Chaudoreille, "when without my speaking she divines everything that I wish to say to her.—Since you know his name," resumed he, again approaching his face to Julia's ear, the latter brusquely pushing him away, "I have no need of telling you. This great nobleman adores you."
"Undoubtedly he did not employ you to express his sentiments."
"No, but he sent me to ask you to meet him. If you do not accord him this favor, he will set fire to the four corners of this street, that he may have the pleasure of saving you, fair Julia,—for it is thus I believe that you are called, which makes me think that you are not French. Have I rightly divined?"
"Has anyone commissioned you to ask that question?" asked Julia, looking at Chaudoreille disdainfully.
The latter bit his lips, put his left hand on his hip, and said in a bass voice,—
"What shall I say to the noble Marquis de Villebelle, of whom I am the intimate confidant, and whom I represent at this moment?"
"Tell him to choose his messengers better," said Julia in a dry tone.
"I was sure of it," said Chaudoreille, taking some steps backward; "she has fallen in love with me; it is my personal attractions that have played me this trick. All this is very disagreeable; I should have disguised myself a little, or at least should not have permitted my eyes to make fresh wounds. There is money to be got here. By jingo! I must not lose sight of that;" and Chaudoreille repeated to Julia, not allowing her, as a matter of prudence, to see more than his profile,—
"What shall I say to the marquis? Where will you walk tomorrow evening?"
The young girl waited for some moments in silence, appearing to reflect deeply; while Chaudoreille fingered his purse, very anxious as to her answer, and saying to himself,—
"In any case, I shall not give them back the ten crowns.
"Tomorrow evening at eight o'clock, on the Pont de la Tournelle," said the young Italian at last; for Julia, in fact, was not French.
"'Tis enough," responded Chaudoreille, continuing to hold himself in such a manner as to show only his profile; "I have nothing more to ask of you; let us part, for fear the sight of me make you change your resolution."
The messenger already had hold of the knob of the door when Julia recalled him.
"You have forgotten to pay for your ribbon, monsieur."
"By Jove! that's true. What the devil has got me? I'm as stupid as possible."
While saying this Chaudoreille drew forth his purse, rattling the ten crowns that it held as loudly as possible, counting and recounting them several times in his hand.
"I don't know if I have any change about me," said he. "Ordinarily I carry nothing but gold, it is so much lighter. How much is it, beautiful merchant?"
"Thirty sous, monsieur."
"Thirty sous for a rosette!" cried Chaudoreille to himself, making a grimace, and putting the coins back in his purse. "That seems to me a considerable price. You must notice that the ribbon is very narrow."
"For a man who carries nothing but gold," said Julia, "I am astonished that monsieur should bargain over such a trifle."
"I'm not bargaining; but still it seems to me that you might knock something off, and that for twenty-four sous one ought to have a superb rosette. No matter; I'll pay it with a good grace; give me my change."
He presented one of the crowns with a sigh, and while Julia was counting out his change he fastened the gold-colored rosette to Rolande's handle. The effect that the ribbon would produce somewhat mitigated his regrets at paying thirty sous for it. He took the money, and, recalling to himself that they could ask him to pay for something else, he ran to the door, darted into the street and disappeared as quickly as possible.
"And my window-pane," said the old shopkeeper,—"did he pay for my pane?"
"Ah, mon Dieu! no, madame," answered Julia.
"I was sure of it. Run, my good girls, run as fast as you can. That wicked coxcomb, trying to play the spark, with his old threadbare mantle, with his old feather that I wouldn't take to dustmy shelves! He turned everything upside down here, and just barely missed putting out my cat's eyes; he was impertinent to me, bargained for two hours over a rosette, and ran away without paying for the pane. He's some pickpocket, some cutpurse."
The two damsels opened the shop door and looked down the street, but could see nothing of monsieur le chevalier.
"It's my fault, madame," said Julia; "I should have asked him for the price of the window. I will pay for it."
"Yes, mademoiselle; that will teach you another time not to listen to the conversation of these gentlemen who make so much trouble and haven't a sou in their pockets."
The young Italian did not answer. It is probable that at that moment she was not interested in the pane of glass or in Chaudoreille.
Night approached. For some hours all had been silent in the barber's shop; for he, following his habitual custom, had closed his shutters as soon as day declined, since he was not in the habit of receiving strangers and waited on no customers in the evening. This was the time that Touquet had chosen for his dinner hour, although people commonly took this meal much earlier. The barber's dinner, therefore, also passed for a supper.
As soon as Marguerite called from her kitchen, "We are waiting for you, mademoiselle," Blancheleft her room and quickly went down into the lower room where the meal was served. Touquet dined with the young girl. This was the moment of the day when they were longest together, although the barber always appeared to wish to abridge the time as much as possible, remaining at the table only as long as was absolutely necessary in order to satisfy his appetite, and answering only in monosyllables to all that Blanche said to him, so as not to prolong the duration of the repast.
This time the barber was, as usual, seated near the hearth, waiting for Blanche to come down; but when she appeared, contrary to his custom, he raised his eyes to the young girl and seemed to wish to read hers. Surprised at being thus regarded by him whose looks had always evaded her smile, Blanche involuntarily lowered her eyes, which beamed with truth and innocence, and a little more color appeared in her cheeks; for the barber's look was more piercing than usual.
Touquet already seemed reassured. The expression of Blanche's features had dissipated the uneasiness which he had felt; he placed himself at the table and made a sign to the lovely girl to take her accustomed place. The meal seemed as though it would pass in silence as usual; Marguerite only, while changing the dishes, ventured some remarks, to which Blanche answered a few words.
But all of a sudden the young girl appeared to recall an agreeable idea, and cried,—
"My friend, did you hear the music this morning?"
"The music," said Touquet, glancing furtively at Blanche; "yes, I believe I heard it."
"Oh, it was so pretty! They sang in Italian at first; then afterwards in French,—a romance. Wait; I believe I can remember the refrain," and Blanche sang with expression,—
The barber knitted his thick eyebrows while listening to Blanche.
"What! you have already learned the romance?" said he in an ironical tone.
"No, not all the romance; the refrain only."
"And that was the first time you had heard it?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Did you open your window then?"
"No, though I should very much have liked to do so; but I glued myself against the window so as to hear better."
"And to see better, no doubt."
"See! Oh, I like to hear much better," answered Blanche, almost frightened at the barber's glance.
"Are there no curtains at your window?" asked Touquet in a moment.
"Yes, monsieur, there are curtains," answered the young girl timidly.
"Blanche, I've told you that I don't like you to expose yourself to the oglings of the coxcombs who pass and repass in the street."
"But, my friend, can anyone see me through the windows?"
"Yes; no doubt of it."
"Oh, well, my friend, if that displeases you, I won't go to the window again."
Touched by Blanche's sweetness, the barber assumed a less severe expression, and, rising from the table, he said, almost kindly,—
"Go back to your room, Blanche; I will try soon to render your life less monotonous. Yes, I feel that you cannot continually remain in such dull retirement."
"Why, I am all right, my friend; and if I could only learn that romance altogether, but M. Chaudoreille only sings me his villanelle, and that is not amusing."
"I will buy you some others."
"Oh, try to get me the one I heard this morning,—
I love to eternity.
Can you remember it?"
"Yes, yes; I will remember it.—But I am waiting for someone to come; go upstairs to your room."
Blanche curtseyed to the barber and gayly went up to her room, while Touquet said to himself, following her with his eyes,—
"Come, I was wrong to make myself uneasy; she knows nothing of him."
An hour after this conversation somebody knocked at the barber's door and Marguerite admitted Chaudoreille, who came into the lower room with the important air of a man who is very well pleased with himself.
"You're very late," said Touquet, signing to him to seat himself.
"Why, what the deuce, my dear fellow! Do you think that these affairs are so speedily arranged?"
"I don't believe, however, that you've been all this time in the shop where I sent you."
"No, undoubtedly; but I passed a greater part of the time there. After that it was necessary for me to have some dinner, for you did not invite me to partake of yours, I believe."
"Well, were you successful? Give me an account of your mission."
"I went there. Wait, while I dry my forehead a little."
The barber made a movement of impatience and Chaudoreille passed over his face a little silk handkerchief, which for prudence' sake he never unrolled. After emitting some exclamations of fatigue, during which Touquet impatiently stamped his foot, he commenced his story.
"To go to that place in the city I could take two roads; I don't know but I could take three."
"You wretch! take a dozen if you like, but get there."
"It was necessary for me to get there, and then to return here. I decided on going by the Pont-Neuf, then down the quay into the street. You know, where they sell such good tarts."
"Chaudoreille, you're mocking at me."
"No, I'm not; but it seemed to me I should tell you everything that I did. But you are so petulant. Finally, I took the shortest way. I went into the shop where the young girl works."
"That's good luck."
"I entered with that grace which characterizes me; I bowed first to an old woman who was on the right, and afterwards bowed to two young girls who were on the left. In the middle of the shop I saw nobody but a cat sleeping on a stool."
"No doubt you bowed to the cat also."
"Oh, if you interrupt me I shall get all mixed up. They asked me what I wanted; I answered, dissembling my designs, 'Let me see some ribbons.' They showed me some reds, some blues, some greens, some yellows, some oranges; during this time I examined the two little ones. As nature has endowed me with a penetrating eye, I recognized immediately the one you depicted for me."
"You spoke to her?"
"A moment and you shall see how I conducted the matter. I was sufficiently adroit to get her to serve me. She asked me what color I had decidedupon; but I, with careful cunning, did not decide in order that I might prolong the conversation. At last, by a happy chance, some other people came into the shop; then we were less observed."
"And you told her what had brought you there?"
"I decided first for a gold color, and I got her to make a rosette for Rolande. Wait; don't you think this becomes me well?"
So saying, Chaudoreille rose and put his sword near Touquet's face, who pushed the chevalier rather brusquely into his seat, exclaiming,—
"If I didn't restrain myself I should break every bone in your body to teach you not to abuse my patience thus."
"There's no pleasure in conducting an intrigue with you," said Chaudoreille, a little disconcerted at being reseated so heavily; "but if you wish that I should come to the facts, here I am. I made known to her the intentions of the Marquis de Villebelle."
"His intentions? I didn't communicate them to you."
"That is to say, his love, his passion. At last I demanded a meeting for tomorrow evening."
"Well, what then?"
"She hesitated for a long time, reflected for a long time; then I redoubled my eloquence; I pictured the marquis dying of despair if she repulsed his vows."
"Idiot! was that necessary?"
"Yes, certainly; it was highly necessary; the little one was weighing it."
"Did she make any wry faces?"
"No; on the contrary, she gave me the most interesting glances."
"Finally, is she coming?"
"Yes, by jingo! she's coming. Yes; but it took me to decide her."
"Tomorrow evening?"
"Yes, at eight o'clock."
"Where is she to be?"
"On the Pont de la Tournelle."
"That's good."
"As soon as I had got her answer, I attached my rosette."
"Excuse me from the rest; I know enough."
"You must know that in bowing too precipitately I broke a pane, for which they made me pay a crown, and for which I hope I shall be reimbursed.—Ah, that's not all; I know that the lady is named Julia, and also that she is an Italian. You see I did not lose any time. Are you pleased with me?"
"Yes, it's not so bad," said Touquet, with a less gloomy expression, approaching a table on which Marguerite had, according to her usual custom, placed some cups and a pewter pot full of wine. "Stop your eternal chatter; I'm well enough pleased with you. Drink a cup of wine."
"You call exactitude of detail chatter," said Chaudoreille, filling one of the cups up to the brim; "but I was trying to show you that I did not steal the money which you gave me. As for the pane of glass, I had to make that circumstance known to you, for I had only nine crowns remaining.—Ah, I forgot; the gold-colored rosette cost me two crowns, so I've only received seven."
"Two crowns for that miserable knot," said the barber, glancing mockingly at the handle of the sword. "Chaudoreille, you have missed your vocation; you should be a steward; you know how to swell your bills."
"What must I understand by these words, I beg of you?"
"That that rosette did not cost over fifteen sous."
"Yes, for a passer-by, for an unknown, perhaps; but when one represents a great nobleman, shopkeepers fleece him, and I didn't believe that I should haggle. If anyone had asked me three times the price, I should have given it without uttering a word."
"Calm yourself," said Touquet, smiling at the heat with which Chaudoreille tried to prove that he had spent three crowns; "we must reimburse you for your ruff."
"Oh, I'm not uneasy about that, but what shall I do tomorrow? Shall I go to the rendezvous? Shall I carry off the little one?"
"No; that concerns me only. I can trust you to startle the game for me, but I don't think proper to let you bring it down."
"You know me very little still, my dear Touquet. I believe that you should render more justice to my adroitness and my valor. If you knew how many intrigues I have drawn to a successful end! It's necessary to see me in moments of difficulty. I take precedence over everybody; I would abduct a Venus under the eyes of Mars, and all the Vulcans would not make me afraid."
"I don't doubt it, but I don't want to put you to the proof."
"All the worse for you, for you would see some very surprising things. No obstacle would stop me; when I'm excited I'm an Achilles. Wait; I should just like once, by chance, that you should find yourself in some danger, that you should have need of help; then, as quick as lightning, with Rolande in my hand—"
At this moment a noise was heard in the street, and Touquet, squeezing Chaudoreille's arm exclaimed,—
"Be quiet! be quiet! I hear something."
"What does it matter to us what they are doing in the street? There are, perhaps, some young men laughing and amusing themselves. Let them do it. I tell you, then, that, brandishing my redoubtable sword—"
"Be quiet, then, stupid," resumed the barber,holding the chevalier's arm still more tightly; "they are beginning again."
They then distinctly heard the sound of a guitar which someone was playing near the house.
"Someone who loves music," said Chaudoreille.
"Hush! let us listen," said Touquet, whose features expressed the most lively anxiety, while the chevalier murmured in a bass voice,—
"They don't play at all well; they have need of some of my lessons."
Almost immediately a voice was heard which, accompanied by the guitar, sang a tender romance, of which the refrain recalled to the barber the words which Blanche had quoted to him.
"No more doubt of it," said Touquet, rising suddenly; "they are singing to her. Ah, reckless fellow, I'll go and take away from you all desire to return here."
While saying these words the barber ran to get his poniard, which hung over the fireplace, while Chaudoreille changed color and murmured,—
"What the devil is the matter with you? What are you going to do? and who are you going to do it to?"
"To an insolent fellow who is in front of this house. Come, Chaudoreille; follow me. If there were ten of them, they should have the pleasure of feeling my poniard. You shall also have the pleasure of chasing and chastising these blackguards."
While saying this Touquet ran into the shop and hastened to open the door, being by that means sooner in the street than if he had gone by the passageway. While he precipitately drew the bolts, Chaudoreille rose with a good deal of fury and ran three times round the hall, crying,—
"Where the devil have I laid my sword?"
This feat accomplished, he perceived that Rolande had not left his side, and cried to Touquet, who could not hear him,—
"Stupid that I am! In my hurry I did not see him. I am with you; I have only to draw him from the scabbard.—Come then, Rolande.—It is this cursed knot which holds him. Plague be on the rosette! Touquet, here I am; amuse them a little until I can draw Rolande from the scabbard."
But the barber was already in the street, while Chaudoreille remained at the back of the room, appearing to be making futile efforts to draw his sword, crying all the while,—
"I am with you! Cursed rosette! Without it I should have already killed five or six."
ITwas really for little Blanche that somebody was singing and accompanying himself on the guitar. Lovers are the most imprudent of mortals. Urbain in loving Blanche was experiencing love for the first time, for he would have scorned to have given the name of love to those momentary caprices of the fancy which are extinguished as soon as gratified; and even at the early date at which we are writing, the young men permitted themselves to have such whims; but when they loved truly that lasted in those good old times, or so they say, much longer than it does today, at least among the little shopkeepers. The great have always had their privileges, in love as in everything else.
A first love causes one to commit many imprudences; but the second time that one's heart is assailed by the tender passion, one has a little more experience; and the third time, one knows how to hide his play. It is necessary to become habituated to everything; and if women do not invariably hold to their first love, are not invariably faithful to it, it is only that they may acquirethis habituation, and it would ill become us to call it a crime in them.
But Urbain disturbed himself very little, as it will appear; he had unceasingly before his eyes the face of the enchantress he had perceived at the window, and he ardently desired to see her when there should be nothing between them. What he had heard from the gossips of the neighborhood had strengthened his hope and perhaps added to the feeling he already experienced for her, for there was something romantic in the history of the young orphan; extraordinary events inflame the imagination, and that of a lover takes fire very easily.
But before seeking to surmount the obstacles which stood in the way of gaining the one he loved it was first necessary to obtain her love, without which all his plans could avail him nothing. One may brave the jealousy of a rival, the watchfulness of a tutor, anger, vengeance, and the daggers of a thousand Arguses; but one cannot brave the indifference of the beloved object. Before that obstacle all prospects of happiness vanish. A very much smitten lover wishes to find a heart which responds to his own. That brutal love which is satisfied with the possession of the body, without caring for that of the soul, could only exist among the petty tyrants of former times, who plundered travellers and achieved the conquest of women at the point of the sword; then, putting theirvictims behind them on their horses, as a custom-house officer possesses himself of contraband goods, went off to enjoy themselves with their booty in the depths of their fastness, troubling themselves very little that the unhappy creatures responded to their loathsome caresses only with tears.
Today love is more delicate. Before everything, one desires to please; and with his guineas the great lord wishes to touch the heart as well as the hand of the pretty dancer; and he succeeds, because dancers generally carry their hearts in their hands.
While taking his humble meal Urbain said to himself,—
"How shall I see her? How shall I make myself known to her? Blanche—what a pretty name! and how well it suits her! But the barber doesn't seem very tractable; his house is a veritable fortress. It is necessary, before everything, that that charming girl should know that I love her, that I adore her. This morning she listened to the musicians, and appeared to be greatly pleased with the last romance they sang. I know that romance; I'll go this evening and sing it under her window; perhaps she will show herself; perhaps at night she opens her window to take the air."
The air was a little nipping, for the season was severe; but a lover always believes it is springtime.Delighted by the idea Urbain went home to get his guitar, and waited impatiently, until the streets should be deserted, to go and serenade a woman whom he did not know.
This Spanish custom was then much in fashion in France. There are still some little towns where it is preserved, and where one may hear between ten and eleven o'clock sentimental songs accompanied by the guitar; but in the great capitals it is only the blind and the organ-grinders who sing love in the streets.
The hour propitious to lovers having arrived, Urbain went to the Rue des Bourdonnais; he had easily recognized the barber's house, having specially noted it in the morning; a feeble light which shone between the curtains of Blanche's window seemed to indicate that the young girl was not yet sleeping, and, without reflecting that the other dwellers in the house would hear him, Urbain had sung with the most tender expression he could put in his voice.
We have seen what followed on this imprudence. At the sound of bolts being drawn, the young man softly departed, and, hiding at the entrance of the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, he heard the threats and the swearing of Touquet.
"He's escaped," said the barber, reëntering the lower room and angrily throwing his sword on the table. These words seemed to break the charm which held Rolande in his scabbard; and Chaudoreille,drawing his sword suddenly, and making it flash in the air, ran precipitately into the shop, crying,—
"And now, master singers, I'll let you see something fierce."
"Don't I tell you there's no one there," repeated Touquet, while Chaudoreille appeared to wish to draw the bolts of the door. "I made too much noise; the rascal heard me and ran off."
"Are you quite certain there's nobody there?" said Chaudoreille, still brandishing his sword.
"Yes, quite sure."
"I have a great inclination to go into the street and satisfy myself as to that."
"Do as you please about it; you are your own master."
"No; on reflection, I believe that would be a blunder; they may perhaps come back; it will be better to let them approach without fear; then we can fell suddenly upon them, and give them no quarter."
So saying, the chevalier put Rolande into the scabbard and returned to the lower room, where he seated himself before the fire and again filled his cup with wine, which he swallowed at one draught, to cool—so he said—his anger.
The barber strode up and down; he was strongly agitated, and appeared to have forgotten the presence of Chaudoreille, as he murmured at intervals in a gloomy voice,—
"That which I feared has happened at last! That beautiful bud has been seen, and they will all wish to cull it. They will seek to learn who she is, where she comes from; there will be a thousand remarks, a thousand inquiries, and who knows where that will lead? Bungling fellow that I am! I well had need to guard the child. I believed I had made a master stroke which would disarm all suspicion. I ought to have foreseen that one day she would be sixteen, that she would be charming, and that in order to possess her they would employ all the stratagems which I have often used on behalf of others."
"My dear fellow," said Chaudoreille, carrying to his lips for the third time a goblet filled to the brim, "my honest Touquet, if you don't want to take care of the little one any longer, give her to me, and I'll answer to you for it that no fop shall be allowed to see her face."
"What shall I give you?" said the barber, as if he had only just become aware of Chaudoreille's presence. "What are you talking about? Answer me!"
"Oh, by jingo, you were speaking of the young flower you have sheltered; I heard you very plainly."
"You heard me!" cried Touquet, seizing Chaudoreille by the arm with which he was holding his full cup; "and what did I say? What did you hear? Speak, wretch! Speak, will you?"
"Take care! you're shaking my arm. Here's my doublet all stained with wine now. What the deuce! You'll have to give me another."
"What have you heard?" repeated the barber in a threatening voice, raising his closed fist on Chaudoreille, while with the other hand he shook him so briskly by the arm that a great part of the wine covered the jaws and neck of the chevalier.
"Nothing, nothing, I swear to you," murmured the latter, lowering his eyes, so as to avoid the barber's gaze. "I only said to you that this wine has a fine bouquet, and that if you wished to give me some bottles to keep I should carefully guard it from all eyes. I believe that's what I was saying; for, in truth, you've turned me upside down with your irritable conduct, and I don't know what I'm saying."
Touquet loosened his hold of Chaudoreille's arm, as if ashamed of his hasty movements, and, resuming his calmer tone, seated himself near the latter.
"There are some things I wish to keep secret—not that they're of any great importance; and, for the matter of that, I don't think that you will ever allow yourself to prate about my affairs; you are too well aware that my dagger would at once deprive you of the organ of which you made such use."
"What the deuce do you suppose I could blab about you?" said Chaudoreille, drying his faceand his clothing with his little silk handkerchief, and pinching his lips, as if doubting whether Touquet had not already cut out his tongue. "You never tell me anything about your business, and I'm not a man to invent the slightest untruth."
"I've told you what all the world knows,—that I have sheltered Blanche since she had been left an orphan at my house, and that I know no more than anyone else about her father or her family. She is now grown up and pretty. Lovers will begin to come; that's what vexes me. They'll seek to learn everything about this young girl, and assuredly they won't know more about it than I am telling you. The one who was singing just now is known to me; he came into my shop this morning, and stayed two hours, in the hope that Blanche would appear. Do you hear me, Chaudoreille?"
"I hear you—if you wish me to," said the chevalier, continuing to rub his doublet; "for I don't know if I should or if I should not hear you. That shall be as you wish."
"I wish you weren't quite so foolish," said the barber, glancing scornfully at his neighbor.
"No words of double meaning," answered Chaudoreille; "you know I don't like them. This cursed wine stains, and for the moment I don't know where to get another doublet."
"He's a mere child, a scholar, who has not yet a beard on his chin," said the barber after a moment's silence, which was only interrupted by the rubbing of the handkerchief on the spots impregnated by wine. "He shows the small experience he has had in love intrigues by coming to sing before my door—in order to let me know who was there. The poor boy has much need of a lesson."
"He certainly is not first-rate at the guitar.".
"I don't believe that he can be known to Blanche. No—but that romance he was singing,—it's precisely the same as the one she mentioned to me,—
My darling is all to me."
"That doesn't equal—
Thou hast lost thy fond dove too.
Zounds! what a difference in the melody!"
"No, Blanche is candor itself; she would not have spoken to me of that romance had she known the young man. Why the devil haven't you taught her something else besides that old rubbish of Louis the Twelfth's time? If you had taught her to sing something pretty she would not have been enraptured at the first romance sung by wandering minstrels."
"What do you say? Are you talking to me?" said Chaudoreille, raising his head.
"Of course I am, since you call yourself a professor of singing."
"My dear Touquet, listen well to what I am going to say: I don't tease you about your method of shaving beards, and don't you meddle with my way of teaching music. Each one to his own trade. You know the proverb. I teach my pupils nothing but masterpieces, and I'm not going to cram their heads with the little gurglings of those miserable clowns who travel from Naples here singing the same roulade."
"It's vexatious, then, that the young girls prefer these roulades to your masterpieces. You gave Blanche a music lesson this morning, and she tells me that you have wearied her with your villanelle."
"Had anyone but you told me that?" cried Chaudoreille, rising in vexation. "I should have attributed it to jealousy. But it's getting late; it's been a tiring day, and I must go to rest. If, however, you wish me to remain here for fear the singers should return, I will sacrifice my repose."
"No, no; it's unnecessary," said the barber, smiling. "They won't come back; go to bed."
"You have no need of my services tomorrow evening, then?"
"No—however, if you like to be walking on the Pont de la Tournelle at the hour agreed on, you could at any rate serve as a spy for us."
"Sufficient," said Chaudoreille, pulling his hat over his eyes; "you can count on me in life and in death; I shall be at the rendezvous at the exact hour, and Rolande shall be sharp. Good-by!"
So saying the chevalier passed through the passageway into the alley and opened the door of the house. He thrust his head out into the street, and, after glancing cautiously to the right and left, went on his way like a stag who hears the sound of the chase.
ASeverything coheres, everything is connected in this lower world, there is no chance; but there are many rebounds which transmit from one to another events, effects, for which we bless or curse fate,—as they are fortunate or unfortunate,—instead of tracing them to their original causes, from which, in truth, we are sometimes removed so far as to have no cognizance of them.
Thus it came to pass that our young Urbain had blessed chance on perceiving that the light was still burning in Blanche's room; but if the young girl had not gone to rest it was not by chance, but because Marguerite could not decide to go up to bed in her new room before knowing where the little door in the back of her alcove led.
Now if the garrulous old maidservant had not confessed to her master that she had witnessed his nightly vigils, the latter would not have made her change her lodging; and the fear which induced him to do so was due to other causes still more remote; thus, by a series of events, Marguerite's gossip had led to Blanche's hearing Urbain's sweet andtender voice sing the romance which had so enchanted her in the morning.
"Yes, mademoiselle," said the old woman, some moments before the young lover began to sing, "I know I should die of fright if I should have to sleep alone in that horrid room, formerly inhabited by a magician, without knowing where that little door leads to—perhaps into that Odoard's laboratory. Who knows whether he isn't still there? These sorcerers are sometimes shut up by themselves for half a century, searching for secrets which will enable them to give human kind into the hands of the devil. I am sure that M. Touquet, who is very indifferent in regard to everything pertaining to sorcerers, has not once been into that room. Let me pass the night in your room, my child; tomorrow, when it's daylight, we'll go together and open that door, since the Chevalier Chaudoreille wasn't polite enough to do so. I can pass the night in this easy chair; I shall be much better here than upstairs, and I can tell you some interesting stories before you go to sleep."
Blanche could not refuse Marguerite what she asked as a favor; the old woman was relating her third story of sorcery, and the young girl, who felt that her eyes were growing heavy, was about to go to bed, when the sounds of a guitar were heard.
Blanche listened, and made a sign to Margueriteto be silent, and soon recognized with delight the air which she was desirous of learning. There is something sweeter, more seductive, in music thus heard in the middle of the night; it finds its way more quickly to the heart. Urbain's voice was flexible and melodious. Blanche, transported, remained motionless, as though she feared by a single movement to lose a sound, while Marguerite, gaping with astonishment, looked at the engaging child without appearing greatly enchanted with the music. But Marguerite was more than sixty years old, and music had not the same effect upon her as upon Blanche; the sounds reached no farther than her ears, while they vibrated deliciously in the depths of the heart of sixteen.
Very soon, however, the noise which they heard in the street put an end to Blanche's happiness; she recognized the barber's voice, and the threats which he pronounced made her tremble, as well as Marguerite, who cried immediately,—
"Go to bed! go to bed quickly, my child, and extinguish the light; if M. Touquet sees that we are still awake, if he should find me in here—O holy blessed Virgin! I shall be lost."
"But why is he so angry?" said Blanche. "Is singing in the streets in the evenings forbidden? I was so pleased to hear that romance. What harm was the young man doing?—for it was a young man who was singing—was it not, dear nurse? It was not the voice of an old man, and,oh, how well he sang! I have never heard such a pretty voice; it had a singular effect on me; it made my heart beat with pleasure—didn't it yours, Marguerite?"
Marguerite, whose heart was beating only with fear, contented herself with repeating, "Go to bed quickly, put out the lamp, and above all don't say tomorrow that you heard the singing; that would prove that you were not yet asleep, and M. Touquet wishes everyone to go to sleep as soon as they go to bed."
Since it was necessary to yield to the insistence of the old servant, Blanche went to bed, but she did not go to sleep; the young singer's voice still seemed to ring in her ears, and on hearing the least sound in the street she imagined that it was the musician again. As to Marguerite, after putting out the lamp, she extended herself in an armchair near the fire and fell asleep, murmuring a prayer to drive away evil spirits.
The morning after this night, so fertile with events, Blanche arose early. She was pensive, preoccupied, still dreaming of the young singer's voice; she felt new desires, and sighed as she glanced toward the street. Marguerite ran to her work, saying to Blanche,—
"When monsieur is most busily engaged with his customers, we'll go up together into my room; but, my child, above all don't say anything about the music."
Blanche promised her, saying, "Why should he be angry because somebody came to sing such a pretty air under our windows?"
The barber said nothing to the young girl about the adventure of the night; he contented himself with observing Blanche, and the lovely child, remembering the threats which she had overheard him utter against the singer, had no desire to chat; she hastened to return to her chamber, where Marguerite was not long in coming to rejoin her.
"Now is the time," said the old servant; "monsieur has a good many people to shave. Come, my child; come up with me, and above all don't be frightened; I have taken every precaution necessary to drive away the goblins."
"Frightened!" said Blanche, because she saw that Marguerite was trembling. "No, dear nurse, no; I assure you that I'm not thinking of your secret door at all."
Thus saying, Blanche darted lightly up the stairs, while Marguerite followed her more slowly, saying, "Happy age when one has no fear of magicians, because one does not understand all their wickedness,—it is true that she has a talisman."
When they reached the room, Blanche entered quickly, while the old woman made a genuflexion and invoked her patron saint, after which she decided also to go into her new room, throwing anxious glances about her. Blanche had run intothe alcove and already drawn the bed into the middle of the room.
"Wait a moment; don't be so imprudent," cried Marguerite to her. "Is it necessary to do things so quickly?"
"But, dear nurse, the sooner we open that door, the sooner you'll be reassured."
"Reassured! that's what I wish. Have you your talisman, my darling?"
"Of course I have. Didn't you sew it yourself inside my corsets?"
"That's true."
"I don't see the door you were talking about."
"It is so well encased in the woodwork."
"Ah, here it is!"
"Wait a moment, mademoiselle, while I throw some holy water before it."
"But there's no key; how can we open it?"
"Well, we must try. I have several keys that I have picked up while cleaning the house, perhaps one of those will open it."
Marguerite advanced tremblingly towards the end of the alcove. She drew from her pocket half a dozen rusty keys of different sizes, and was about to try one of them, but her hand shook and she could not find the keyhole. Blanche seized one key and tried it unsuccessfully, then a second; but at the third the young girl uttered a cry of joy, for the key turned, and Marguerite crossed herself, murmuring,—
"O my God, the door is opening!"
In fact, the door yielded to Blanche's effort and opened, creaking and groaning on its hinges, and the two women beheld a square closet; but, as it received no light except from the little door that opened into it, and as that door led into a dark alcove, one may conceive that there was little daylight there. Blanche remained on the doorsill and Marguerite recoiled a few steps, saying,—
"See now, my child; I was right in thinking that that door led somewhere. Oh, this is as dark as a cave."
"Let us go in here, nurse."
"But not without a light, I hope. Wait; I will go and light my lamp. I don't know that it is prudent of us to enter this closet."
"But, Marguerite, you see very well that there is nobody here."
"I can see nothing except darkness. Wait; take the lamp, and you go first, my darling; you have your talisman; nothing will happen to you."
Blanche entered first; she seemed more curious than alarmed, while the old woman could scarcely persuade herself to follow. The closet was six feet square, and held nothing but two big empty chests placed on the floor, which time had covered with dust and spiders' webs.
"Well now, my dear nurse," said Blanche, smiling, "where are the sorcerers? I don't see anything frightful here."
"In fact," answered Marguerite, glancing all about her; "there's nothing but four walls, no other door, and these two chests are empty. I'm sure that no one has disturbed this place for half a century. No matter; I swear to you that I shall not come back here again. I don't know why I feel so uneasy here. How the floor creaks under our feet!"
"It's because no one has walked here for a long time; this house is old."
"Come, my dear child, let us leave this closet; I shall shut the door and double-lock it, and I shan't open it again while I stay in this room."
Thus saying, Marguerite pushed Blanche before her, then closed the little door and double-locked it, murmuring between her teeth,
"Alas! if some sorcerer should wish to open the door that lock would not resist him; but every night I shall cross my shovel and tongs before it."
This visit terminated, Blanche went down, humming to herself the romance of the evening before, and Marguerite returned to her work.
The barber had ordered dinner early; and at six o'clock in the evening he left the house, repeating to Marguerite:
"Redouble your watchfulness, do not allow any man to go near Blanche without my permission, and inform me if you hear anyone singing in the street."
The old woman promised to obey. Touquetwrapped his mantle about him and left to execute the marquis' plan. As he was accustomed to conduct similar intrigues, he knew where to procure everything that was necessary; and at a quarter to eight he was on the Pont de la Tournelle, while about a hundred feet from him two men awaited his orders near a travelling-chaise drawn by two horses.
For a long time Chaudoreille had been walking on the bridge. Fearing to miss the rendezvous, given for eight o'clock, he had arrived at six; burying his head between his shoulders and hiding his chin under his little mantle, he tried to give himself the air of a conspirator. With his left hand on Rolande's handle and the other holding his mantle, he walked sometimes slowly and sometimes with a precipitant step; and every time that anyone passed him he did not fail to murmur, in such a manner as to be heard,—
"How late she is in coming! What can keep her? I am burning! I am bursting! I shall die with impatience."
As soon as he saw Touquet he ran to him and pulled the edge of his mantle; then, looking to see if anybody was passing, he said to him in a mysterious tone,—
"Here I am."
"Well, hang it, I see you!" said the barber, shrugging his shoulders; "but I'd much rather see the little one."
"She hasn't appeared yet, I can answer for that. I've looked in every woman's face."
"It's not eight o'clock; let us wait."
"Be easy; I'll go and put myself in ambuscade and examine all the feminine visages."