“What does all this mean, monsieur?”
“It means, my dear love, that you will do like the others: you will change; your love will pass away.”
“Never, monsieur.”
“Never is a word that means nothing at all in love. However, you will have plenty of time to think about it, as I give you two years for reflection. Until then, allow me to hope.”
“Oh! it is useless, monsieur.”
“I beg pardon; by hoping one lives content, and I cling to my hope. Adieu, fair Louise; continue to behave becomingly; your remuneration will be increased doubtless, and I shall continue to put mine aside; and, as a very trivial but very shrewd popular proverb says: ‘Let’s let the mutton boil!’—I lay my homage at your feet.”
Monsieur Gérondif took his leave, and Louise was at liberty to weep without restraint. She did not bestow a thought on the tutor’s offers, she thought only of Chérubin, who no longer loved her, who had ceased to think of her, and who had mistresses. She had been afraid for a long time that he had forgotten her; butnow she was certain of it, and it is a far cry from fear to certainty, in love.
The return of Madame de Noirmont and her daughter forced Louise to conceal her tears. She hastily wiped her eyes and tried to dissemble her depression, for she felt that she must not betray the secret of her heart.
On that day Monsieur de Noirmont went out after dinner. Ernestine remained with her mother, to whom, as they worked, she said whatever came into her head, especially as she saw that it was one of her moments of good humor. When Madame de Noirmont smiled at her daughter’s speeches, the latter was so delighted that she often laid her work aside to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, who sometimes held her lovingly to her heart for some moments.
Louise, for whom they rang to order tea, entered the salon at one of the times when Madame de Noirmont’s arms were about her daughter; and the sweet child, in her joy at being so fondled, cried out:
“See how happy I am, Louise! see what a dear, good mother I have!”
Louise stood still in the middle of the salon; she was glad for Ernestine’s happiness, and yet, in the touching picture before her eyes, there was something that hurt her, she did not understand why. Two great tears escaped from her eyes; but she turned quickly, so that they might not see her weeping.
Meanwhile Madame de Noirmont had resumed her grave demeanor, and Ernestine had had to return to her seat. Louise served the tea as quickly as possible, then left the room, fearing that her sadness would be noticed.
Despite all her efforts to be calm, Louise was still crying when Ernestine entered her room to ask her some question, before going to bed. Seeing that Louise’s facewas wet with tears, her young mistress ran to her, and said with the most touching interest:
“Mon Dieu! crying, Louise! What’s the matter?”
“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle. I know that I should not weep here, where everyone is so kind to me; but I could not help it!”
“Have you some reason for being unhappy? You would not cry like this for nothing. Louise, I insist on knowing why you were crying.”
“Well, mademoiselle, it is because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, the picture of the happiness you enjoy made me feel more keenly than ever the misery of my position. Oh! mademoiselle, it isn’t envy that makes me say it! I bless Heaven for making you so happy; but I could not help crying when I remembered that my mother never kissed me, that I shall never be able to throw my arms about her!”
“What’s that you say, my poor Louise? Doesn’t your mother love you?”
“It isn’t that, mademoiselle. But listen, I am going to tell you the truth, for I don’t know how to lie. And then, I don’t understand why I should make a mystery of it; you won’t be any less kind to me when you know that I am a poor girl, abandoned by her parents.”
“Is it possible? you haven’t any parents?”
“At all events, mademoiselle, I don’t know them.”
Thereupon Louise proceeded to tell Ernestine the story of how Nicole had been employed to take care of her, and of the kindness of the village people, who had kept her and treated her like their daughter, when they found that she was abandoned by her mother.
Ernestine listened to the story with the deepest interest. When Louise had ceased to speak, she kissed her affectionately, saying:
“Poor Louise! Oh! how glad I am you have told me that! It seems to me that I love you even more since I know that your parents have abandoned you. And that dear, good Nicole! those kind peasants! Ah! what splendid people they are! I will tell mamma all about it to-morrow! I am sure that it will interest her too.”
“Oh! that isn’t worth while, mademoiselle; Madame de Noirmont may not like it because I have told you about my troubles.”
“I assure you, on the contrary, that, for all her serious manner, mamma is kind and good; and, besides, she likes you very much. She has said to me several times that your manners were just what they should be, and that is great praise from her, I tell you!—Well, good-night, Louise, sleep soundly, and don’t cry any more. If you haven’t any parents, you have some people here who love you dearly and who will take good care of you.”
Ernestine left Louise, to go to bed, and the latter felt less unhappy when she saw her young mistress’s affection for her—an affection which she shared with all the sincerity of her soul.
The next morning the Noirmont family met at the breakfast table. Ernestine had not seen her mother since the preceding night, because a headache had kept Madame de Noirmont in bed later than usual; but her father, who rarely appeared at breakfast, had just taken his seat, when Ernestine, after kissing her mother, said in a mysterious tone:
“I have something very interesting to tell you this morning, and I am glad papa came to breakfast, to hear what I am going to say.”
“Really?” said Monsieur de Noirmont, smiling, and in a tone of mild raillery. “From the way in which yousay that, I imagine that it must really be something most serious.”
“Why, yes, papa, it’s very serious! Oh! you look as if you were laughing at me, but when you know what it is, I’ll bet that you will be as touched as I was last night when I found poor Louise crying!”
“What! is it something about Louise?” asked Madame de Noirmont, with an air of deep interest; “can it be that anything has gone wrong with her? I should be extremely sorry, for the girl is a very good girl indeed, and seems to deserve our kindness.”
“This is what it is; listen. Louise didn’t want me to tell you; but I am very sure that you won’t blame her for it; it isn’t her fault.”
Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said impatiently:
“Come, my child, go on, explain yourself.”
“Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the tea, she found me in mamma’s arms, and we were kissing each other.”
“That is well, my daughter; what next?”
“At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn’t find a fichu that I wanted, I went to Louise’s room to ask her where she had put it. I found her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied, sobbing: ‘Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.’”
“An abandoned child!” murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly became deathly pale.
“But,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, “if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us that the girl’s parents lived in the outskirts of Paris—I don’t remember in what village.”
“Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here; but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise thought it was better to tell the truth.”
“She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you, madame—are not you curious to hear this girl’s story?”
Madame de Noirmont replied with a few almost unintelligible words; it was as if she were oppressed by some secret suffering, which she was doing her utmost to conceal.
Meanwhile, Ernestine had not waited for her father to repeat his request; she had run off to call Louise, who soon appeared before the assembled family.
Monsieur de Noirmont looked at her with more interest than he had previously displayed; Ernestine smiled at her affectionately; Madame de Noirmont lowered her eyes and became paler than ever. From the disquietude that had taken possession of her, from the anxiety that could be read upon her features, one would have taken her for a criminal awaiting judgment.
“Come, Louise, come nearer,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, motioning to her; “my daughter has told us of what you told her last evening. Do not tremble, my child; we shall not reproach you for telling us what was not true when you entered our service.”
“Oh! it was not I, monsieur!” murmured Louise.
“I know it, it was the person who obtained the situation for you, who thought it his duty to tell that falsehood.—So you do not know your parents, my poor girl?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Where were you brought up?”
“At Gagny, monsieur.”
“At Gagny. Ah! that’s it; I had forgotten the name of the village that you told me when you came here.—And the people who brought you up?”
“A kindhearted peasant woman, Nicole Frimousset. She was nursing Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain at the time.”
“Indeed! so this woman was the young Marquis de Grandvilain’s nurse?”
“Yes, monsieur, he is my foster-brother, and in my childhood we played together all the time.”
“Very good! But that doesn’t tell us how you went to Gagny.”
“Mon Dieu! monsieur, it was a lady—my mother, I suppose—who carried me to dear Nicole’s, and begged her to take me to nurse. I was then a year old; she left some money with Nicole and went away, saying that she would come again. The next year she sent a little more money by a messenger from Paris; but she didn’t come to see me, and no one ever after came to inquire for me.”
“But what was the lady’s name; where did she live?”
“Nicole didn’t think to ask her any of those questions; for she could not dream that she would abandon me, that she would never come again. The messenger from Paris did not know who the lady was who hired him on the street, he could not tell my good nurse anything.”
“But was no paper, no mark found on you or on your clothing?”
“Nothing, monsieur, absolutely nothing.”
“That is very strange.—Don’t you agree with me, madame?”
As he asked this question Monsieur de Noirmont turned to his wife, whom he had not looked at while questioning Louise; Ernestine, whose eyes followed her father’s, uttered a piercing shriek.
“Oh dear!” she cried, “mamma has fainted!”
Madame de Noirmont’s head had fallen against the back of her chair; she had in fact lost consciousness, and the livid pallor of her face made her condition seem most alarming.
They hastened to her assistance; Ernestine wept and lamented as she kissed her mother again and again. Louise shared her distress; she lost her head, did not know what to do, and did not hear what was said to her. But Monsieur de Noirmont, who retained all his presence of mind, called Comtois, and, with his assistance, carried his wife to her room and laid her on her bed.
After some time, Madame de Noirmont came to herself; but there was a look of gloom and anxiety in her eyes, which indicated that the cause of her trouble still existed. She turned her eyes slowly on her husband and her daughter; then, as she caught sight of Louise, who was a little farther away and who seemed to share the general anxiety, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow.
“Mamma, dear mamma, how do you feel now?” cried Ernestine, squeezing her mother’s hand.
“Better, my dear, I feel better.”
“What was the cause of your sudden illness, madame?” asked Monsieur de Noirmont with interest. “You gave us a terrible fright.”
“Why, I have no idea, monsieur. I had a sudden feeling of suffocation; then a cold perspiration broke out all over me, and I lost the use of my senses.”
“You didn’t feel well this morning, you had a headache,” said Ernestine.
“Yes, that is true,” replied Madame de Noirmont hastily. “I felt poorly this morning, and that is the cause, no doubt——”
“And then Louise’s story must have grieved you, made your heart ache. That probably made you worse.”
“Do you wish me to send for the doctor, madame?”
“No, monsieur, it is not necessary; I need nothing but rest and quiet—and a little sleep, perhaps.”
“We will leave you, then.”
“But I shall be close by,” said Ernestine, “and I will come at the slightest sound.”
Madame de Noirmont seemed most desirous to be left alone. All the others went away, Ernestine still deeply moved because she had seen her mother in a swoon, and Louise very much cast down because she feared that the story of her misfortunes had touched her mistress too deeply.
Madame de Noirmont passed the rest of the day in her room; she kept her bed and expressed a wish to be alone. The next day passed in the same way; and for several days she did not leave her bed.
She refused to see a doctor, however, and declared that her trouble required no other remedy than rest.
But from the first moment of her illness, it was evident that Madame de Noirmont’s humor had changed: she hardly spoke; sometimes her daughter’s presence seemed irksome to her; she answered her curtly and received her caresses without warmth. As for Louise, while her mistress kept her room, she persistently declined her services on the pretext that she did not require them.
Poor Louise was greatly distressed.
“Madame your mother,” she said to Ernestine, “will not let me wait on her, or even go into her room. I am afraid that I have displeased her, mademoiselle; perhaps she does not like to have in her house a girl whose parents are not known.”
Ernestine tried to comfort her, saying:
“You are wrong. Why should you think that mamma has anything against you? No, it is this trouble of hers, it’s her nerves that make her depressed and irritable. Why, she even pushes me away now when I kiss her, and she doesn’t kiss me; that makes me unhappy too, but I am sure that mamma still loves me.”
As she spoke, the sweet child shed tears, and Louise mingled hers with them, for she could think of no other consolation to give her.
Madame de Noirmont made up her mind at last to leave her room, and she went down to the salon. The first time that Louise saw her, she longed to ask about her health, but she dared not; her mistress’s eyes seemed to avoid hers, and she did not display her former kindliness to her. For the merest trifle, Madame de Noirmont lost patience, scolded and became angry; sometimes she gave Louise ten contradictory orders in the same minute. The poor girl lost her head, was bewildered, did not know what to do, while Ernestine gazed at her mother with a surprised and grieved expression, when she saw her treat her protégée so harshly.
Sometimes, however, a violent change seemed to take place in that strange creature; after speaking sharply and severely to Louise, Madame de Noirmont, remarking the poor girl’s heartbroken expression, would suddenly change her tone; her eyes would fill with tears and follow Louise’s every movement; then she would call her in a gentle, affectionate, even tender voice, and the girl would return instantly, joyous and eager; but her mistress’s face would already have resumed its stern expression, and she would motion her away, muttering curtly:
“What do you want? I didn’t call you.”
Several weeks passed in this way. One morning, Madame de Noirmont, who seemed even more thoughtful than usual, said to her daughter when she came to kiss her:
“Really, I don’t propose to keep your maid; the girl is good for nothing; we must dismiss her. We will pay her two or three months’ wages more than is due her. Tell her, and advise her to return to her village; I think that she made a great mistake in coming to Paris to seek employment. Do not try to change my decision, it would do no good.”
Ernestine was in despair; she was very fond of Louise, and it would be a real sorrow to her to part with her; but her mother had spoken in such a stern and decided tone that the poor child dared not reply. She said nothing, but lowered her eyes with a sigh, and left the room to perform the distressing duty with which her mother had entrusted her. As she left her mother’s apartment, Ernestine met Monsieur de Noirmont, who came up to her and kissed her, and said, observing her sorrowful air:
“What is it, my child? You look as if you had been crying!”
“It’s nothing, papa.”
“You know, Ernestine, that I do not like evasions or mysteries; I insist upon knowing at once what makes you unhappy this morning.”
“Well, papa, it’s because mamma is going to send Louise away, poor Louise, our maid, who is so sweet, and whom I love so dearly. But mamma doesn’t like her any more; she says that Louise isn’t good for anything; but Louise works just as much as she ever did, and she sews like an angel. But as mamma insists, I am going to tell Louise, so that she——”
“Don’t go to her, my child, it is not necessary; Louise will stay in this house.”
“But, papa, when mamma told me——”
“I tell you the opposite, my child, and I am the only master here.”
Ernestine said no more, for her father had assumed a severe expression which in him denoted that he had formed a resolution which no one could change. Monsieur de Noirmont then went to his wife and said to her in a cold and impressive tone:
“Your humor is very capricious, madame, as anyone may see by the way in which you treat your daughter sometimes; but you extend it to defenceless servants also, and that is what I cannot endure. This young Louise, who came here to wait upon Ernestine, is honest and virtuous; her appearance is as becoming as her manners; I think that it would be difficult to find another so satisfactory; and yet you propose to dismiss her, madame—you expect me to turn a good girl out of my house, because, for some unknown reason, she has ceased to please you; because your fanciful humor makes you more difficult than ever to serve!—No, madame, that shall not be; I propose to be just before everything, and this girl shall remain in my house, because it would be unjust to send her away.”
Madame de Noirmont had not a word to say in reply; she hung her head and seemed completely crushed.
Chérubin did not see Daréna for a week; he fretted and fumed with impatience, fearing that his intrigue with the pretty Pole had fallen through altogether; and, as is always the case, he became immeasurably more enamored of the object of his passion as his fear of not possessing her increased. It was for the purpose of giving him time to reach that climax of passion, that Daréna, who was thoroughly acquainted with the human heart, had allowed several days to elapse without going to see him.
At last Daréna appeared at the hôtel de Grandvilain one morning, hurried and breathless, like a man who had galloped twelve leagues without a halt. He pushed old Jasmin aside and almost knocked him down, when that worthy retainer attempted to tell him that he did not know whether he could see his master, who had not yet risen.
“I don’t care whether he’s up or in bed, he is always visible to me,” replied Daréna imperiously. “Learn, you old donkey of a valet, to know the persons whom your master is always delighted to receive.”
As he spoke, Daréna rushed into the young marquis’s bedroom, leaving Jasmin propped against the wall, muttering in a voice that trembled with wrath:
“Old donkey! he called me an old donkey! He’s an impertinent knave. The Grandvilains, father or son, never called me that. He’s not a donkey, but I have an idea that he’s a much more dangerous animal!”
Daréna reached Chérubin’s bedside and pulled the curtains aside, crying:
“Up, Joconde! up, Lovelace, Richelieu, Rochester! The moment of triumph has arrived at last!—Sapristi! I can fairly say, my dear fellow, that I have made myself ill for you! Ouf! I can do no more!”
And Daréna threw himself on a couch, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.
“But what has become of you during these eight long days that I have not once seen you, and have not known what to think of your silence?” asked Chérubin, looking closely at his friend. “I thought that you had forgotten me.”
“Ah! that is just like a man—a young man! Because things are not done on the instant, you think that you are forgotten. Do I ever forget my friends? Am I not absolutely devoted to you? If you have not heard from me for a week, it is because I had nothing to tell you; but I have been on the lookout, watching and waiting for the moment to act. It has come at last; I have acted, and the fair Globeska is in our power.”
“Is it possible? Oh! do tell me how you did it, my dear Daréna?”
“Parbleu! by my ordinary method: I scattered money about. I know no other way, especially as it always succeeds. Dress, and meanwhile I will tell you how it all came about; but don’t call your valet; you will understand that I can’t talk about it before a witness. I have already compromised myself enough—but damn the odds!”
Chérubin rose and began to dress, saying:
“Go on, I am listening; I shall not lose a word.”
“You know that the pretty Pole lived with her husband in furnished lodgings in the Marais; I succeeded in effecting the delivery of your billet-doux by bribing a lady’s maid and two concierges. The Comtesse de Globeska replied that she was mad over you and asked nothing better than to leave her tyrant. That was all very well, but how were we to abduct the young woman from a man who left her no more than her shadow? It was very difficult. Seven days passed thus; Monsieur de Globeski did not leave his wife for an instant. At last, yesterday, I learned from a concierge, by a further use of money, that the Polish count had decided to leave Paris, and that he was going to take his wife to Norway; of course, if we had had to pursue our conquest to Norway, it would have taken us too far. I instantly formed my resolution, saying to myself: ‘He shall not take her!’
“I learned—still by the lavish use of money—that the post-chaise was to call for our Poles at eight in the evening. I arrived just before the hour; the carriage came and stopped in front of the house, and I went boldly up to the postilion and led him aside.
“‘I adore the woman who is going with you,’ I said. ‘I am going to follow with two friends to a lonely place on the road, one or two leagues from Paris; we shall pretend to attack you, and fire a few shots with pistols loaded with powder only. You will stop; we will open the carriage door and seize the young woman; then you will start off at full speed with the old gentleman, and if he shouts to you to stop, you will pay no attention until you have galloped at least two solid hours.’
“You will understand, my dear Chérubin, that I should not dare to make such a proposition as that to apostilion, without supporting it by convincing arguments. I handed him a thousand-franc note, and he turned his back, saying:
“‘What do you take me for?’
“I added five hundred francs. He remarked that it was a very ticklish business! I added another five hundred. He agreed to everything. That’s the way things are done in Paris. I went off to choose two rascals on whom I could rely, in consideration of five hundred francs, which I gave to each. I also hired a post-chaise. When the Comte de Globeski started off with his wife, we followed; and, about two leagues from here, between Sèvres and Chaville, in a place where nothing grows but melons, we discharged our pistols. The bribed postilion stopped. It was dark, and everything went off as I had arranged. We kidnapped the young woman. The old Pole defended her like a genuine demon; indeed, he inflicted a slight dagger wound on one of our men in the scuffle, which forced me to disburse three hundred francs more. However, we captured the divine Globeska, and I took her to the house I have hired, where she passed the night and is now awaiting you.”
“Oh! what a series of events, my dear Daréna! But great heaven! this stealing a woman from her husband, and by force! Suppose it should be known? Isn’t it a crime?”
“Bah! are you going to have scruples now?—At all events, there was no other way, and then, if worse comes to worst, I am the only one compromised; but my friendship is of the sort that defies danger.”
“And the pretty Pole—where have you taken her?”
“To a little house that stands all by itself near Barrière de la Chopinette; I could find nothing better. And then I considered that to go into the country, at adistance from Paris, would incommode you too much. The house I have hired is in a spot where very few people pass; the outlook is not very cheerful, but what do you care for that? You aren’t going to shut yourself up with a woman, to look out of the windows at people passing, are you? Isn’t one always happy when with the person one loves?”
“Oh, yes! of course; but in what quarter is this Barrière de la Chopinette?”
“In the quarter of La Poudrette, and of lonely promenades, in the direction of Ménilmontant. However, we can go there in a cab. Remember, my dear fellow, that your charmer is waiting for you; I told the concierge of the house to order as toothsome a breakfast as he can procure in that quarter, and some superfine wines. Make haste and finish dressing—put on your best clothes, perfume yourself——”
“Perfume myself? Indeed, I shall not; perfumery makes me sick.”
“As you please, but put on your armor. Lucky Chérubin! you are about to possess one of the loveliest women I have ever seen; and her Polish accent, too, is most fascinating.”
“And she loves me, you say? she has admitted it?”
“Parbleu! how many times must I tell you? In fact, I should say that her conduct was quite sufficient proof of it.”
“She didn’t weep when she was kidnapped?”
“Weep! She danced—she adores dancing, it seems. By the way, I need not tell you that I have nothing left of the funds you advanced me. The postilion and my men to pay—the hire of the post-chaise and the house—and all the people I bribed. In fact, you owe me fifteen hundred francs.”
“Fifteen hundred francs!” exclaimed Chérubin, as he walked to his desk; “it costs a lot to abduct a woman!”
“To whom are you telling that? to me, who have abducted a hundred perhaps, in the course of my life? Indeed it was in that way that I spent a large part of my fortune; but it is a princely pleasure all the same, in which everybody cannot indulge.”
Chérubin handed Daréna the sum that he required, and said:
“I am ready.”
“Very good; send out for a cab; you will understand that we can’t go to yourpetite maisonwith your tilbury and your groom. You should never take your servants into the secret of a mysterious intrigue like this; such people are too fond of talking.”
“You are right.—Holà! Jasmin!”
The old servant appeared, still with a long face, and cast an angry glance at Daréna. Chérubin ordered him to send for a cab.
“Will not monsieur take his cabriolet?” queried Jasmin, with an expression of surprise.
“Evidently not!” cried Daréna, laughing at Jasmin’s face; “as your master orders a cab, he doesn’t propose to take his cabriolet. Off with you, old ruin, and make haste, if you possibly can.”
“Old ruin!” muttered Jasmin, as he left the room. “Still another insult—and I must swallow it all! I am very much afraid that this ne’er-do-well will ruin my young master. I should like to know why he makes him take a cab, when he has his own tilbury and cabriolet.”
However, Jasmin did his errand; the cab was summoned. Chérubin went downstairs with Daréna, and they both entered the vehicle, which Jasmin looked after, with a far from pleased expression, as it drove away.
Daréna told the driver where to take them. After quite a long drive they stopped in front of a shabby house outside Barrière de la Chopinette, on the outer boulevards.
“Here we are!” said Daréna, jumping out of the cab.
Chérubin looked at the house, which had but one floor above the ground floor, with two windows on the front.
“This isn’t a very handsome house!” he exclaimed.
“It is very fine inside,” replied Daréna. “The principal thing is that it’s isolated; the devil himself would be in it if the husband should unearth you here! My dear fellow, when you run off with a woman, you must take the greatest precautions. And after all, what do you care about the house? It’s the woman that you come here to see. For my part, I should have been perfectly happy in a shepherd’s hut, with the object of my love.—Send the cab away; I am going to ring.”
Chérubin made haste to pay the cab-driver, who returned to his box and drove away.
Daréna pulled a wire beside the low door that gave admission to the house. A little fellow of some thirteen years, with an impudent expression, whose knavish and insolent bearing harmonized well with a very dirty costume, answered the bell, his cap over his ear, his blouse flapping in the wind, and his hands black with dirt. He bestowed a glance of intelligence on Daréna, who recognized little Bruno, the same urchin of whom Poterne had tried to make a monkey, and who, on his side, had conceived the idea of appropriating the skin which he had used in studying his character. Later Poterne had found Bruno, who had squandered his disguise; the business agent took the liberty of thrashing the boy, then forgave him, and charmed by the happy talents which young Bruno manifested, determined toemploy him again when the opportunity should present itself. In the scheme which had been devised to dupe Chérubin, it was necessary to station some intelligent person, who could be trusted, in the house which had been hired. Poterne instantly thought of the urchin, to whom he did not pay much, and who had all the qualities essential to forward their designs.
“Ah! this is the concierge’s son,” said Daréna, glancing at Bruno as they entered the house, and leading Chérubin through a sort of vestibule, toward the staircase. “Where’s your father, my boy? is he away?”
“Yes, monsieur, he had to go to a place ten leagues from here, to see my aunt, who is very sick.”
“And you are keeping the house?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Has the lady who slept here had everything that she wanted?”
“Oh, yes! monsieur; don’t you be afraid; that lady hasn’t wanted for anything. She’s upstairs. By the way, she says that she’s beginning to get tired of being all alone.”
“Patience! monsieur here has come to keep her company.—How about the breakfast; is it ordered?”
“Yes, monsieur; and it will be fine, I tell you. I was the one that went to the restaurant——”
“This little rascal is overflowing with intelligence,” said Daréna, turning to Chérubin, “and I recommend him to you in case you need anything.—Well, my dear friend, here you are with your charmer now, and I will leave you.”
“What! you are going to leave me?” cried Chérubin, almost in an offended tone.
“Why, I don’t see that there is anything more for me to do here; the rest is your business. You are goingto breakfast tête-à-tête with a little foreigner, who is mad over you. Would not a third person be in the way?”
“Oh, yes! of course. Well, then, au revoir.”
“Au revoir, my dear marquis, and may love crown you with its sweetest favors!”
Daréna smiled, almost ironically, as he shook hands with Chérubin; then he flashed a glance at Bruno and left the house, closing the door behind him.
Chérubin felt intensely excited when he found himself in that strange house, in a quarter which was entirely unfamiliar to him, with no other company than a boy who stared at him with a sly expression, as he cracked nut after nut which he took from under his blouse.
The vestibule had two doors, both of which were open, disclosing the interior of two rooms, in one of which the only furniture was several rickety tables, and in the other, one table and a wretched cot bed; the windows on the boulevard were supplied with iron bars, but entirely unprovided with curtains.
Chérubin, who had seen this at a glance, reflected that Daréna had not spent much money in furnishing the house. Then he turned to Bruno, who was still breaking nuts, sometimes with his teeth and sometimes with his feet, and humming at intervals a tune of which nothing could be heard save:tu tu tu tu tu tu r’lu tu.
“Where is madame la comtesse’s apartment?”
“Whose?” queried the ex-bootblack, looking up with an insolent expression.
“I ask you where the young lady is, who has been in this house since last night?”
The boy thrust his tongue into his cheek,—a street Arab’s trick when he proposes to lie—and answered:
“Oh, yes; the young foreign lady, who was kidnapped, and who slept here—tu tu tu r’lu tu—she’s upstairs, onthe first floor, in the finest apartment in the house, where she’s sighing and having a stupid time—tu tu tu r’lu tu!”
Chérubin asked no further questions; he went upstairs—there was but one flight—and stopped at a door, the key of which was on the outside. His heart beat very fast at the thought that he was about to stand in the presence of the young Pole who had consented so readily to leave her husband and go with him; but he remembered how pretty she was, and he decided to knock.
“Come in,” cried a voice, “the key’s in the door.”
Chérubin recognized Madame de Globeska’s accent; he opened the door and found himself face to face with the young woman.
Chichette Chichemann wore a very simple costume, into which a few odds and ends of lace, flowers and fur had been introduced, in an attempt to set it off; but they produced the contrary effect in the eyes of a good judge. But Chérubin was not as yet an expert in such matters; moreover, a man in love pays no heed to such details. What impressed him at once was Chichette’s pretty face, over which was perched the same velvet toque that she wore at the Cirque; and as he entered the room she greeted him with a pleasant smile, crying:
“Ah! here you are; that’s very lucky! for I was beginning to be awfully bored, all alone here!”
Encouraged by this greeting, Chérubin seated himself beside the young woman, and said to her in a very tender tone:
“Ah! madame, then you will pardon what my excessive love has led me to undertake? You have consented to trust my honor, to fly from him who—from him who—that is, from that gentleman who looked so ugly and who assuredly is not worthy to—to——”
Chérubin had never said so much at one time; he stopped, for he did not know how to finish his sentence. But Chichette gave him no time; she instantly replied:
“Yes, yes! I’ve fled from my tyrant. But let’s talk about something else.”
“She doesn’t want me to talk about her husband!” said Chérubin to himself; “she wants me to talk about something else—my love, no doubt. She is charming.—And so,” he continued aloud, “you do not regret having entrusted to me the care of your happiness, and being here at this moment, far from your native country [pays]?”
“My pays? oh, yes, I always regret my little pays! but I hope to see him again some day. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Ah! how kind you are, madame! how lovely you are! If you knew how—I—I—I love you!”
It required a great effort on Chérubin’s part to say that, and he dared not look at the young woman, fearing that she would consider his declaration rather abrupt. But Mademoiselle Chichette, far from seeming offended, began to laugh idiotically, and replied:
“Yes, yes! I know. Ha! ha! It’s nice to love, and you have very fine eyes. Ha! ha! I’d like right well to laugh with you.”
And the so-called Polish countess, who seemed, in truth, much inclined to laugh, and who showed some very pretty teeth, looked at the young man in a meaning fashion, and did not tell him to talk about something else. For a moment Chérubin was tempted to kiss his enslaver, who almost offered him her fresh, pink cheeks; he confined himself to taking a hand, which he laid upon his heart and pressed it hard.
Chichette, tired perhaps of having her hand pressed to Chérubin’s heart, said to him, still laughing:
“How your thingumbob goes tick-tack! It’s like a big clock.”
“Oh! it is emotion, madame; it is pleasure; it is——”
“Aren’t we going to breakfast?” cried Chichette suddenly; “I’m hungry, I can hear my belly crying; it goesflouc-flouc!”
These words brought Chérubin back to less romantic thoughts; he ran to the door, opened it, and shouted:
“I say, young one—what about that breakfast?”
“Here it is, monsieur, here it is! Right away, smoking hot!” replied Bruno; “the restaurant man’s just this minute come.”
And a moment later a wine-shop waiter came up the stairs with the young concierge. They laid a table with two covers; they produced a basket filled with bottles, with seals of all colors; they covered the table with freshly opened oysters, and placed several covered dishes on another table. At sight of the oysters the so-called Pole indulged in the most plebeian demonstrations of delight, and began to dance about the room, crying:
“Ah! oysters! I like oysters so much! I’d let myself be hamstrung for some oysters.”
Chérubin was amazed to hear Madame de Globeska express herself in such terms, but he attributed it to her ignorance of the language.
The waiter was too much accustomed to such expressions to be surprised. As for young Bruno, he contented himself with thrusting his tongue into his cheek again and muttering:
“Thanks! that’s a fine sort of talk! This game will get spoiled!”
The breakfast was served. The waiter left the room with the urchin, and they took care to close the door behind them. Mademoiselle Chichette did not wait forChérubin to escort her to the table; forgetting all the lessons she had had in behaving like a comme il faut person, she ran and took her seat in front of one of the covers, crying:
“Let’s eat! let’s eat! Oysters! ah! that’s good!”
“She seems to be very hungry!” thought Chérubin, as he took his seat at the table. And he made haste to supply the young woman with oysters; but she did not wait for him to select them for her; she put them out of sight with wonderful rapidity, then held out her glass, saying:
“White wine, please; I’m very fond of white wine too.”
Chérubin filled her glass with a white wine from a bottle which had been supplied with a long cork, to give it the appearance of sauterne; but it looked as if it were not drinkable with anything but oysters.
The young man considered that they were very badly served, generally speaking: the plates were the commonest china, the covers had not the ring of silverware, and the linen was very far from being fine. The wine, too, despite its yellow seal, seemed to him decidedly poor; but his conquest thought it delicious; she swallowed oysters, emptied her glass, called for more oysters and held out her glass to be filled, without any perceptible interval. Chérubin could not keep up with her; not until there were no more oysters on the table did Mademoiselle Chichette conclude to make a little pause.
“I will call the little concierge and tell him to take these things away,” said Chérubin.
“No, no, I’ll take ‘em away myself!” replied Chichette; she rose, and with a turn of the hand cleared the table of plates and shells, and brought two of the covered dishes. The young man tried in vain to preventthe lady from performing that task; she would not listen to him, and did not resume her seat until it was all done.
“Mon Dieu! how it distresses me to see you take all this trouble, madame la comtesse!” said Chérubin; “but you seem to have been brought up to household duties. In Poland, young ladies receive a less frivolous education, I see, than in France; and your noble parents did not disdain to teach you these little domestic details. They are dead, doubtless—your noble parents?”
“Yes, yes! Let’s talk about something else! Let’s see what’s in this dish. Ah! how good it smells! It’s rabbit! Oh! I’m so fond of rabbit!”
Chérubin did not fully agree with his inamorata; he did not like rabbit himself, and he found that the breakfast which had been ordered for him did not at all resemble what he ordinarily ate at restaurants in Paris. But his companion was much less particular than he; she helped herself to the rabbit and seemed to enjoy it hugely; she even exclaimed from time to time:
“It’s mighty well fricasseed!”
Chérubin offered her some wine with a different seal. Chichette drank red as well as white, then uncovered another dish, and shouted, leaping up and down in her chair:
“Ah! chowder! Oh! I’m glad of that! I’m so fond of chowder!”
“It seems to me that she’s fond of everything!” thought Chérubin; “she certainly has been very well brought up; she doesn’t play the prude!”
Chichette voted the chowder delicious; she helped herself several times without waiting for Chérubin to offer it; she was particularly enthusiastic over the sauce; finally she began to lick her plate, unwilling apparentlyto leave the least particle of the sauce which she liked so much.
The young man was thunderstruck when he saw the Comtesse de Globeska put her plate to her mouth and run her tongue over it; but he concluded that custom in Poland permitted such behavior. When Chichette noticed that her companion was watching her, she realized that she had made a blunder, and instantly replaced her plate on the table, saying:
“Oh! that was just a joke! I won’t ever do it again! But let’s see what’s under that other cover.”
Chichette uncovered the last dish, which contained fried fish. She uttered a joyful exclamation:
“Ah! gudgeons! fried gudgeons! Oh! I’m so fond of fried fish!”
“I am delighted, madame, that you find all these things to your taste,” said Chérubin, serving his charmer to gudgeons; “but really you are not hard to suit; to me it seems that our breakfast is not worthy of you. Evidently there are no good restaurants in this quarter.”
“Oh, yes, yes! at La Courtille.”
“At La Courtille! I don’t know that place; did your husband take you there to dinner sometimes?”
“My husband! Oh! let’s talk about something else. I’d like something to drink; gudgeons make you thirsty in a minute.”
Chérubin hastened to supply his guest with a wine decorated with a different seal, which she drank and declared excellent. The young man would have liked to lead the conversation back to his love, but his conquest was so busily engaged in eating and drinking that he dared not divert her from an occupation in which she seemed to take so much pleasure; and then he recalled his breakfast with Madame Célival and said to himself:
“I ate heartily to drive away my bashfulness. Perhaps this pretty Pole is doing the same; but God grant that she doesn’t end as I did!”
When there was no more fish, they passed to the dessert, which was very modest, consisting only of biscuit, cheese and dried fruit. Again Chérubin anathematized the restaurant keeper; but Chichette continued to declare everything excellent; she stuffed herself with figs, raisins, and biscuit; she drank several glasses in succession to wash it all down; and at last she stopped eating and leaned against the back of her chair.
“It’s strange,” she said, “but I’m not a bit hungry now.”
“It would be much stranger if she were!” thought the young man, as he moved away from the table in order to approach his companion.
Having placed his chair close beside Chichette’s, he ventured to take her hand.
“How fortunate I am,” he said in a hesitating tone, “to be—to be with you! What a lucky chance it was that led me to the theatre where you were; for, but for that, I should never have met you; and yet, my friend, the gentleman who was with me that evening says that we were born for each other.—Do you think that, madame?”
Chichette rose hurriedly, saying:
“I am rather full; it’s funny, for I didn’t eat very much.”
She walked several times around the room. Chérubin went to her and said:
“Do you feel ill?”
“Oh, no! it will pass off.”
Chichette sat down again, not on her chair, but on an old couch, covered with spots, the cushions of whichlooked as if they were stuffed with chips. The girl stretched herself out on it, however.
“I say, this is mighty comfortable,” she said.
Chérubin gazed amorously at her and cried:
“Oh, yes! there certainly was sympathetic attraction in our meeting. My tutor, Monsieur Gérondif, explained it to me once. He took a little piece of agate, rubbed it hard on his coat sleeve, then held it toward a straw, and the straw instantly jumped at the stone and clung to it.—‘Thus the magnet attracts iron,’ said my tutor; ‘thus sympathy draws together two hearts that were made to love and understand each other.’—Ah! madame, I am not a Pole, but I love you as dearly—more dearly, perhaps; for my inexperienced heart feels a craving for love, and if—and if——”
Chérubin paused, because it seemed to him that his words were accompanied by a dull, rumbling sound. That sound came from the couch. He had noticed that his pretty companion closed her eyes while he was speaking, but he supposed that it was from modesty. However, desirous to learn the cause of the noise he heard, he approached the young woman and saw with surprise that she was not only asleep, but was snoring heavily.
The unfortunate lover gazed for some time at his sleeping enslaver; but the snoring became louder with every instant; ere long it was like the breath of a forge bellows, and Chérubin gradually drew away; he felt that his amorous desires were vanishing; for a woman who is snoring like a Swiss inspires infinitely less passion than one whose breathing is soft and light.
Chérubin seated himself on a chair.
“She is asleep,” he said to himself; “she is even snoring. Evidently my remarks did not interest hermuch, as she went right off to sleep while she was listening to me! It’s very strange! This young woman has such manners and uses such language—If Daréna hadn’t assured me that she was a Polish countess, I should have thought her something very different. The idea of going to sleep while I was talking to her about my love! If that’s the way she is mad over me!—Great heaven! what snoring! Jacquinot used to snore, but not so loud as that. Perhaps I ought to wake her—and kiss her; but she is sleeping so soundly, it would be too bad. And then, I believe that listening to that monotonous noise is putting me to sleep too.”
Chérubin dropped his head on the back of his chair; he closed his eyes, and in a moment, he was in the same condition as Mademoiselle Chichette, except that he did not snore.
Let us leave the young couple asleep, and see what the engineers of this whole intrigue were doing.
On leaving Chérubin, Daréna had gone in search of his friend Poterne, who, still dressed as a Polish count, was waiting for him at a restaurant in Ménilmontant. The two gentlemen sat down to breakfast and discussed their plot.
“It goes as if it were on wheels,” said Daréna. “Chérubin is now with the girl, whom he thinks that I kidnapped for him! I trust that Chichette won’t make any slips of the tongue. But no matter! with that accent of hers, anything will go; and besides, a lover never pays any attention to idioms!”
“Was my little Bruno at his post?”
“Yes; he is supposed to be the concierge’s son. That boy has the look of a famous scamp.”
“He has a lot of intelligence; he’ll go a long way!”
“So I believe.”
“Besides, for the last act of our comedy, it will be better to have nobody there but a boy, who won’t interfere with us at all. And then, too, it will be much more probable that I was able to force my way into the house, if there’s nobody but a boy to guard it; for we must strike the great blow now. A few thousand-franc notes, by the way, are all right; but they’re gone too soon. We have an opportunity to obtain a good round sum and we mustn’t let it slip; it won’t come again.”
“You are perfectly right, Poterne. What we are going to do to-day is not strictly honorable; but, after all, the little fellow is rich; sixty thousand francs won’t ruin him.”
“You don’t want me to ask for more?”
“Oh, no! we mustn’t flay him. It’s understood then—in two hours you will go to the house.”
“Why not earlier?”
“My dear Poterne, how impatient you are! we must give the lovers time to breakfast and to abandon themselves to the joys of love. Deuce take it! everybody must amuse himself, after all; and consider, Poterne, that by leaving them together longer, you will inevitably take themin flagrante delicto!That is much the shrewder way. You are supposed to be the husband; your wife has been spirited away, and you find her in her ravisher’s arms; you bellow and roar and swear that you will kill them both—your wife especially! Chérubin pleads for mercy for her, and you refuse to accord it unless he signs notes of hand for sixty thousand francs.—You have some stamped paper, haven’t you?”
“Oh! I have all that I need. But suppose the young marquis defends himself, suppose he refuses to sign?”
“Nonsense! a mere boy! You must threaten him with prosecution for abducting your wife; you will haveyour dagger, and you can still insist on killing her; Chérubin is too generous not to try to save her.”
“I agree with you there.”
“In all this, Monsieur Poterne, take good care not to hurt anybody! Your dagger isn’t sharp, I trust?”
“Oh, no! there’s no danger.”
“And when you speak, assume some kind of an accent, so that he won’t recognize you.”
“I will be careful, and I will do a great deal in pantomime.”
Everything being arranged, the gentlemen breakfasted and conversed at great length; ordered a pipe and cigars, and smoked to pass the time away.
More than two hours passed. Poterne replaced his green spectacles on his nose, saying:
“Now I can go and finish up our business.”
He rose; Daréna did the same.
“Yes, it is time; let us go.”
“But I don’t need you,” said Poterne; “besides, you mustn’t go into the house with me, it would be imprudent. If Chérubin should see you, he would call on you to help him.”
“I know all that, you old sharper; but you don’t imagine, I presume, that I am going to let you go off all alone with notes for sixty thousand francs in your pocket? No, my dear fellow, I love you too dearly to lose sight of you. I propose to watch you into the house; I know that it has but one door; I shall keep my eye on that door, and if it should occur to you to run away too fast, I promise you that you will soon be overtaken.”
“Oh! monsieur le comte! you have suspicions that hurt me terribly!”
“Why, no, it’s simplysavoir-vivre, it’s the way of the world, that’s all! Off we go.”
The two worthies passed the city wall to the outer boulevards, and walked toward Barrière de la Chopinette. When they were within three hundred feet of the house where he had left Chérubin, Daréna stopped and said to his companion:
“Now, go on alone, illustrious Poterne, and manage the business gracefully; remember that the whole thing must be carried through with the courtesy and formality which betray men of breeding.”
Poterne went on to the house and knocked softly at the door, which Bruno opened.
“Are they upstairs?” queried Poterne in a low voice.
“Yes.”
“Have they had their breakfast?”
“It went up more’n two hours ago.”
“And they haven’t called since?”
“Not a call; and they don’t even make any noise—you can’t hear ‘em move.”
“All right.”
Poterne pulled his enormous hat over his eyes, made sure that his spectacles were secure, stuffed bunches of flax into his mouth to fill out his cheeks, and walked toward the stairs. He stole cautiously up, reached the door, saw the key outside, and said to himself:
“How imprudent lovers are! what a childish trick!”
He turned the knob softly, then rushed into the room, shouting:
“Ah! traitor! guilty wife! I have caught you! You must die!”
Poterne expected shrieks of despair, as he had arranged with Chichette; but, hearing nothing at all, he walked farther into the room and was thunderstruck to see the lovers sound asleep at an extremely respectful distance from each other.
“Sapristi!” said Poterne to himself; “and I hoped to catch ‘em in flagrante—as monsieur le comte said. They are amusing themselves by sleeping! If that’s the way the young man makes love! Chichette must have made some stupid blunder. But no matter! I must act; besides, I surprise them together, that’s the main thing; and if they’re asleep, it’s because it suits them to sleep.”
Thereupon Poterne began to rush about the room with shrieks and imprecations. He pulled Chichette’s ear and she awoke; he pinched her arm and she shrieked with him. Chérubin opened his eyes and saw that man, whom he recognized as the Comte de Globeski, storming and blaspheming and drawing from his breast a sort of dagger with which he threatened the young woman. Chérubin realized at once that his charmer’s husband had run them to earth. He trembled and turned pale, and faltered:
“O mon Dieu! we are lost!—Don’t kill her, monsieur, I entreat you! Kill me rather—although I have respected your wife’s honor.”
“Yes, yes, I will have my revenge,per Diou!Bigre! Ah! you think, villain, to steal my wife from me!” screamed Poterne, stamping on the floor. “Tarteiff sacre mein Herr!On the high road—stop my cab—no, my carriage.—Ah! madame, you shall die by my hand—on the honor of a Polish count!”
Chichette did not seem greatly alarmed; she continued to yawn and rub her eyes; Poterne passed her and pinched her with more force; whereupon she gave a loud yell and exclaimed:
“Oh! how stupid that is! I don’t want you to do such things to me!”
Poterne began to roar so that Chérubin might not hear what Chichette said. He brandished his dagger withone hand, while with the other he stuffed the flax back into his mouth, whence it had almost escaped. But Chérubin had lost his head; the presence of that man, whose wife he believed that he had abducted, his outcries, his oaths, and the dagger he was brandishing, terrified the young man beyond words. Poterne, seeing that he was in a condition to submit to whatever terms he might impose, took the notes from his pocket, placed them on the table, found a pen and inkstand and presented them to Chérubin.
“If you wish to save this guilty woman, god dem!” he said, “there is only one way to appease my wrath.”
“Oh! speak, monsieur, command—All you choose.”
“Fill out these notes of hand—here are four of them—make them twenty-five thousand francs each.Per Diou!that is toopoco!”
“Notes of hand—for a hundred thousand francs?”
“Yes, signor.”
“Oh! you want me to——”
“If you hesitate, sapermann! I will kill this guilty wife of mine, I will kill you, I will kill everyone in the house—fichtre!—and then myself.”
“Oh! no, no, I do not hesitate, monsieur. I will make them for whatever sums you say.”
“Good! then you will make them for thirty thousand francs each.—Come! write and sign—per Dio!”
Chérubin seated himself at the table; he took the pen in his trembling hand and cast a sorrowful glance at his conquest, who had thrown herself on the couch, where he believed that she had swooned, whereas she was simply trying to go to sleep again. But Poterne returned to his side, ground his teeth and swore blood-curdling oaths. The young lover at once began to write; he had already filled out the body of one note, and was about tosign it, when they heard a loud noise below; then steps rapidly ascended the stairs, the door was thrown open, and Monfréville appeared, followed by old Jasmin, who uttered a cry of joy at sight of his master.
“Ah! here he is!” he cried; “God be praised! they have not destroyed him!”
Chérubin felt as if he were born again when he saw his friend; he threw himself into his arms, while Monfréville, observing his confusion and bewilderment and pallor, asked him:
“Great God! my dear fellow, what are you doing here, in this house—this den of thieves, to which a little rascal refused to admit me?”
“Ah! my friend, the fact is that—that I have been very guilty!” Chérubin replied in a voice broken by sobs. “I abducted madame—this gentleman’s wife; that is to say, it wasn’t I who did it—Daréna abducted her for me. Monsieur is a Polish count, and he insisted that I should give him my notes for a hundred and twenty thousand francs, or else he would kill his wife! Ah! how glad I am to see you!”
While Chérubin was speaking, Poterne, who was very ill at ease, tried to sidle toward the door; but Jasmin had stationed himself in front of it, after taking pains to lock it.
As he listened to his young friend, Monfréville looked about the room in keen scrutiny. He examined Mademoiselle Chichette and the supposititious outraged husband, who acted as if he wished to crawl under the table. Chérubin had no sooner finished speaking than Monfréville ran up to Poterne, snatched off his hat and spectacles, and raised his cane threateningly.
“This creature a Polish count!” he exclaimed; “why, it’s that vile Poterne, the agent of that contemptibleknave Daréna! They plotted together this infamous scheme to extort money from you!—Ah! I am strongly tempted to break my cane over this cur’s shoulders!”
“Poterne!” cried Chérubin; “is it possible? Poterne!”
“Why, yes,” said Jasmin, “it’s the dealer in preserves and dogs and turtles. Ah! my dear master, I suspected that they meant to take you in again; and that that man who called me an old donkey was fixing up some treacherous scheme to catch you.”
When he saw Monfréville’s cane in the air, Poterne fell on his knees.
“Mercy, monsieur,” he faltered, “all this was only a joke—nothing else; it was a comedy!”
“A jest, you villain! But your notes of hand were properly stamped! Oh! we know now what you are capable of, you and your worthy friend, Comte Daréna, who has fallen low enough now to blush at nothing, and in whose eyes all methods of procuring money are all right. We agree not to treat you as you deserve. Go and join your confederate, and tell him that this young man is able now to judge him as he is, and that if he should ever presume to show his face at the hôtel de Grandvilain, the servants will be instructed to turn him out.”
“Yes, indeed, I will undertake to do it!” said Jasmin. “He called me an old ruin too! but an honest ruin is worth more than a sharper in perfect repair.”
Monsieur Poterne did not wait to hear any more; he picked up his hat and spectacles, hastily opened the door, and fled; but he was not so quick that he did not receive the toe of Jasmin’s boot in his posterior; and the old servant said to him at the same time: “There, you thief; take that for your preserves!”
Monfréville walked toward Chichette, who had remained on the couch, without speaking or moving; he could not help smiling at her expression.
“And you, madame la comtesse,” he said, “in what shop do you usually work?”
“I make Italian straw hats on Rue de Grenétat. It wasn’t my fault; they promised me a lot of money if I’d make believe I was monsieur’s wife; and I consented so I could put it by and marry my little pays.”
Mademoiselle Chichette drew her handkerchief and looked as if she were going to weep; but Monfréville reassured her by saying:
“I have nothing against you, my girl; don’t cry, and go back to your Italian straw hats. But believe me, it is much better for one in your trade to dance the cancan than to play the great lady.”
Mademoiselle Chichette blew her nose, made several curtsies, then left the room with a shamefaced air, not venturing to glance at Chérubin.
“And now, my friend,” said Monfréville to the young marquis, “I think that we too may quit this wretched barrack. I believe that there is nothing to detain us here longer.”
“Oh, no! and I am so happy, my dear Monfréville, after having such a terrible fright! I will tell you the whole story; but first tell me how you succeeded in learning that I was here, and how you happened to arrive so opportunely.”
“That’s easily done; do you see that cab at the door?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the same one that brought you here. I called at your house after you left; I found Jasmin very uneasy; he told me that you had gone away in a cab with Daréna, whose frequent visits of late, together with his air ofmystery, had aroused my suspicions! I asked Jasmin if he had called the carriage himself, and when he said yes, I asked him to take me to the cabstand. There we waited more than two hours for your cab to return. It appeared at last. I gave the driver twenty francs and told him to take us to the place to which he had taken you; he asked nothing better, and he brought us to this house. Knaves are very shrewd, my dear boy, but luckily there is a concealed power shrewder than they, who defeats the most cunningly devised schemes at the moment when their authors deem themselves most certain of impunity. Some call that power Providence, others chance, fatality, destiny, luck. I don’t know what name to give it, but I bow before it and am only too glad to believe that, if there are people here on earth inclined to do evil, there is a power on high, ever on the watch to prevent or repair it.”
Chérubin pressed Monfréville’s hand affectionately; then they left the house on the outer boulevard, which even little Bruno had abandoned, for they saw no sign of anybody. They entered the cab with Jasmin, upon whom they were almost obliged to use force, because the old fellow insisted on riding behind.
When they reached home, Chérubin told Monfréville how Daréna had managed the affair, and how he had urged him above all things to preserve the most absolute secrecy about it.
“I am not surprised,” said Monfréville, “that he urged you not to mention it to me; he knew that I would not be taken in by the story of a Polish countess who was anxious to be abducted by a young man whom she had seen just once, at the theatre.”
“He said that you set yourself up now as a man of strict virtue, to make people forget your former conduct;he declared that you used to be famous for your love-affairs, your conquests, and that your principles then were much less severe than they are to-day.—Forgive me—I am only repeating what he said.”
Monfréville’s brow had grown dark; his face wore an expression of deep sorrow, and he was silent for some time. At last, fixing his eyes upon Chérubin’s, he said in a melancholy tone:
“It is true, my friend, that in my youth I did many foolish things, and I have some serious faults with which to reproach myself. But I was so cruelly punished that I was cured in good season. That does not prevent me from being indulgent to others, because I am well aware that it is a part of our nature to be subject to passions and weakness, and to be led astray by them sometimes. Some day, Chérubin, I will tell you a story of my young days, which has had an influence on my whole life. You will see that these love-affairs, which we treat so cavalierly at twenty, sometimes have very bitter results.”
“Thus far,” said Chérubin, with a sigh, “I haven’t been lucky in my love-affairs, and my amorous adventures have not afforded me much enjoyment!”