After Monsieur de Noirmont expressed in such decided terms his resolution with respect to Louise, Ernestine’s mother said not a word to indicate that she still thought of dismissing the young woman; on the contrary it seemed that, having made up her mind to submit toher husband’s desire, Madame de Noirmont had recovered from her apparent prejudice against Louise. She still treated her with a coldness which sometimes approached severity; but the tone of her voice, sharp and curt at first, often softened so far as to seem almost affectionate. One would have said that she was vanquished by the charm with which the girl’s whole personality was instinct, by her timid obedience, by the eagerness with which she waited on her mistress, so that the latter was sometimes, in spite of herself, drawn on to love her.
Louise did not know that Madame de Noirmont had thought of sending her away. Ernestine and her father alone were aware of the circumstance, and the former, when she learned that her mother’s determination would not be carried out, had concluded that it would be useless to mention it to Louise, that it would grieve her to learn that she was so far from having succeeded in winning her mistress’s favor by her zeal, that that mistress had intended to dismiss her. As for Monsieur de Noirmont, after making his wishes known, he was not the man to mention such domestic matters to anybody on earth.
But a thing that was easily noticed, and that Louise saw, together with all the rest of the household, was that Madame de Noirmont became more depressed and gloomy every day. A smile never appeared on her lips; she avoided society; visits annoyed her and were a burden to her; spending almost all the time in her apartment, she ordered the servants to say that she was out, or not feeling well, so that she might not be disturbed in her solitude; even her daughter’s presence seemed sometimes to oppress and irritate her. The sweet-tempered Ernestine, who had done nothing to forfeit her mother’s affection,was sometimes very much distressed at being treated so coldly by her; when she went to Madame de Noirmont, to kiss her, she would push her away impatiently, or receive with listless indifference the marks of her affection; thereupon the girl would turn away, forcing back the tears which rose to her eyes, but which she would not allow to appear, for fear of angering her mother.
Louise, seeing her young mistress furtively wipe her eyes, would say to her:
“You are unhappy, mademoiselle, and I am very sure that it’s because your mamma hasn’t kissed you for some time past.”
Whereupon Ernestine would reply, with a deep sigh:
“That is true; I don’t know what mamma can have against me; it’s of no use for me to try to think what I can have done to displease her; I can’t remember anything. But for some time she hasn’t called me her dear child or taken me in her arms. It isn’t possible, though, that she doesn’t love me, is it, Louise? It’s her health that makes her like this; her nerves are out of order; she doesn’t complain, but I am perfectly sure that she is sick; besides, anyone can see that she has changed a great deal lately.”
“That is true, mademoiselle, I have noticed it too. Yes, you are right, it’s because madame isn’t well that she is more melancholy and doesn’t caress you so much. But why don’t you send for the doctor?”
“Several times I have said to mamma: ‘You are pale, you must be suffering; you ought to send for Monsieur Derbaut, our doctor;’ but mamma always answers in a provoked tone: ‘Nothing’s the matter with me; it’s useless to have the doctor, I don’t need him.’”
The two girls exchanged their ideas thus, seeking a way to make themselves useful, one to her mother, theother to her mistress; for they both loved Madame de Noirmont, despite the harshness and capriciousness of her temper, which so often made her unjust; Ernestine loved her with all the clinging affection of a child who refuses to see her mother’s faults; Louise with a respectful devotion which would have led her joyfully to undertake the most painful task, if it would have earned her a smile from her mistress.
But Madame de Noirmont seemed carefully to avoid giving Louise any opportunity to wait upon her; only in her husband’s presence, and when it was impossible for her to do otherwise, would she give her an order or two, or take something from her hand. The young lady’s maid, who would gladly have anticipated her mistress’s slightest wish, sometimes followed her with her eyes, in the hope of making herself useful to her; but if Madame de Noirmont caught Louise’s glance fastened upon her, her own expression would become sterner, and she would instantly motion to her to leave the room.
One day, madame was in her room, as usual, holding a book of which she read very little, because her thoughts absorbed her so completely that she could give no attention to anything else. Ernestine was seated at a little distance, embroidering, and from time to time glancing furtively at her mother, in the hope of meeting her eyes and of obtaining from her a smile, which had become a very infrequent favor. Madame de Noirmont turned to her and said, holding out the book:
“Ernestine, bring me the second volume of this; you will find it in the library, on the second shelf at the left.”
The girl rose quickly, took the book and left the room, eager to obey her mother. Having found the volume for which Madame de Noirmont had asked her, she wasabout to take it to her, when she found her drawing-master, who had just arrived, waiting for her in the salon. Ernestine gave Louise the book and told her to take it to her mother; then she sat down by her teacher to take her lesson.
Louise took the book and went to her mistress’s room. When she was about to turn the knob, she felt that she was trembling; she was so afraid of offending Madame de Noirmont, who had not sent her on that errand. However, she went in.
Madame de Noirmont was seated, her head fallen forward on her breast. She did not raise her eyes when she heard the door open, for she had no doubt that it was Ernestine; and Louise reached her side and handed her the book without daring to utter a word.
But at that moment, impelled by an outburst of maternal affection, she took the hand that offered the book and squeezed it in her own, murmuring:
“My poor love, you must have thought me most unjust to you of late, and you think perhaps that I no longer love you! Do not think that, my child; I still love you as dearly as I ever did; but you cannot understand what is taking place in my heart, and what I suffer. No, you will never know——”
At that moment she raised her head and drew the girl toward her, meaning to kiss her. Not until then did she recognize Louise. She was speechless and motionless with surprise; a terrified expression appeared on her face, from which all the blood receded, and she raised her eyes to heaven, faltering:
“O mon Dieu! and I called her my child!”
“Forgive me, madame, forgive me,” murmured Louise, terribly alarmed at her mistress’s condition. “It was not my fault, it was mademoiselle who sent——”
Madame de Noirmont struggled to master her emotion, and rejoined in a sharp, stern tone:
“Why did you come into my room? Did I call you? Why are you here? To try to surprise my thoughts, my secrets?”
“O madame—mon Dieu! can you believe it?”
“Have I not constantly found your eyes fastened on me of late, mademoiselle—following, watching my slightest movements? What makes you act so? Have you some hidden motive? Come, speak, mademoiselle.”
“If I have offended you, madame, it was entirely without intention; if my eyes have sometimes rested on you, it is because I would have been happy to anticipate some wish of yours, to do something that would please you, to earn a word or a kind look from you; that was my motive, when I ventured to look at you. And then too it was a joy to me, madame; but I will do without it, since you forbid it.”
Louise bent her head before her mistress; she was almost on her knees, and her voice trembled so that she could hardly finish what she was saying.
Madame de Noirmont seemed deeply moved; one would have said that a conflict was raging in the depths of her heart; she rose, paced the floor, walked away from Louise, then toward her. She gazed at her for a long, very long time, but not with a stern expression; her eyes were filled with tears. Suddenly she ran to the girl, who had remained on the same spot, with downcast eyes and afraid to take a step; she took her hand and drew her toward her—but almost instantly pushed her away again, saying sharply:
“Go, mademoiselle, go; I have no further need of you.”
Louise obeyed. She left the room, saying to herself:
“Mon Dieu! what is the matter with her, and what have I done to her?”
A week after this incident, Monsieur de Noirmont informed his wife that he proposed to give a great dinner. He named the persons whom he had invited, fifteen in number, and added:
“I had an idea of inviting young Marquis Chérubin de Grandvilain too; but I asked him to come to see me, and he has never come; and so, as he has not shown the slightest desire to associate with an old friend of his father, we will not have him.”
Madame de Noirmont could not conceal the annoyance which the announcement of that function caused her. But Monsieur de Noirmont continued in a very curt tone:
“Really, madame, if I should leave you to follow your own desires, we should have no company, we should live like owls. I am not a fool—a devotee of pleasure; but still, I don’t propose to live like a hermit. Besides, madame, we have a daughter, and it is our duty to think about her welfare; before long it will be time to think of marrying her, of finding a suitable match for her; meanwhile we must not keep her sequestered from society, of which she is destined to be an ornament some day. Poor Ernestine! you refuse every opportunity that offers to take her to balls or receptions or concerts. You are ill, you say. I cannot compel you to go out, madame; but, as your health confines you constantly to the house, we will entertain; such is my present determination, madame.”
Madame de Noirmont made no observation, for she was well aware that as soon as her husband had made up his mind to do a thing, nothing could divert him from his resolution; and Monsieur de Noirmont left her, having requested her to give the necessary orders sothat everything might be ready for the dinner, which was appointed for the Thursday following.
Madame de Noirmont resigned herself to the inevitable; when the day drew near, she gave her orders and superintended the preparations for the banquet. Ernestine, when she learned that they were to entertain many guests and give a grand dinner, rejoiced greatly and looked forward to it with the keenest pleasure. Pleasures and amusements had become so rare in her life, that every departure from the customary monotony seemed a blessing. Louise hoped that the dinner would afford her an opportunity to make herself useful, to display her zeal, and she shared her young mistress’s childlike joy.
At last the day came when the interior of that house, ordinarily so placid, was to echo with the voices of a numerous company. From early morning there was a great commotion in the Noirmont mansion; the master of the house alone spent the day as usual, working tranquilly in his study, awaiting the hour when the guests were to arrive; but Madame de Noirmont issued orders, overlooked the preparations, made sure that everything that she had ordered was at hand. Ernestine followed her mother about, dancing and laughing, anticipating great pleasure for that day.
“You must make yourself very lovely for the dinner,” she said to Louise, “because you are to wait at table with Comtois; that is the custom when we have company.”
“Never fear, mademoiselle,” replied Louise; “I don’t know whether I shall be lovely, but I promise to do my best to wait at table well, so that madame your mother will be content with me.”
But, a few moments before it was time for the guests to arrive, Madame de Noirmont said to her daughter:
“Ernestine, I don’t want your maid to wait at table; tell her that she may remain in her room; we shall not need her.”
Ernestine could not understand her mother’s whim; she looked up at her and said hesitatingly:
“But, mamma, usually, when we have company—you know——”
“I do not ask for your comments, my child; do what I tell you.”
Ernestine obeyed her mother; she went sadly to Louise’s room, where she found her finishing her toilet.
“Do you like me in this dress, mademoiselle?” inquired Louise; “is it suited to my position?”
“Oh! yes, yes, my poor Louise, you look very pretty!” replied Ernestine, heaving a deep sigh; “but it was not worth while to take so much pains with your toilet, for mamma doesn’t want you to wait at table; she says that you can stay in your room.”
Louise’s face expressed the disappointment caused by that command; however, she did not indulge in a single murmur.
“I will obey, mademoiselle,” she replied; “doubtless madame your mother has good reasons for wishing me not to do it. Ala! I am afraid that I can guess them: she doesn’t like to see me; my presence annoys her; I will obey, she shall not see me.”
Ernestine did not feel equal to contradicting her; for, knowing that her mother had once intended to dismiss Louise, she believed that the girl had guessed aright. She simply pressed her hand, then left her, because the time had come when the guests would probably begin to arrive.
Monsieur de Noirmont had invited more men than ladies; however, the wife of a certain advocate arrivedwith her husband; she was a tall, large woman, of much pretension, very fond of listening to herself talk, but, to balance matters, little inclined to listen to others.
Another lady, young and rosy and affable, formed a striking contrast to the first; she was the wife of a solicitor, who had just married in order to pay for his office. The advocate had married the tall lady so that he could afford to wait for clients. In society nowadays a marriage is a matter of business, seldom of sympathetic sentiments.
A few serious men, two young exquisites, and Monsieur Trichet, whom we have met before at Madame Célival’s, completed the party. Monsieur de Noirmont received his guests with his customary phlegmatic manner. Madame de Noirmont, who had made the best of it and had resigned herself to receive all that company, tried not to allow her ennui to appear; she did the honors of her salon with much grace; she forced herself to smile; she was able, when she chose, to address a pleasant word to each guest; and they were all the more pleased because they were not used to it.
Ernestine recovered her spirits when she saw that her mother seemed to have recovered hers; at her age small vexations are soon forgotten; she loved company, and of late she had had so few opportunities to enjoy herself, that she joyfully seized every one that presented itself. As the young lady of the house, she listened to those complimentary remarks which it is not safe to believe, but which are always pleasant to the ear. They said that she had grown and improved; they did not say it to her, but they said it to her parents loud enough for her to hear. Madame de Noirmont listened indifferently to the compliments paid to her daughter, but Monsieur de Noirmont was enchanted by them.
Monsieur Trichet was the same as always: talking all the time, determined to know everything, taking part in every conversation, and with his ear always on the alert to hear what was being said in all the corners of the salon; that man was kept very busy in company.
Comtois announced that dinner was served, and the whole company adjourned to the dining-room. They took their seats and began to eat, with the silence of good breeding, which is sometimes maintained until the dessert.
The first course was still in progress when Monsieur de Noirmont, not being served quickly enough, looked about the room and said to Comtois:
“Where is the maid? why is she not assisting you? I am not surprised that the service is so slow! What is she doing, pray? Didn’t you tell her that she was to wait at table?”
Comtois was sadly embarrassed; when he called Louise, she told him what orders she had received from her mistress. He twisted his tongue about, and answered half audibly:
“Monsieur—I—madame said that—that it was unnecessary for——”
Monsieur de Noirmont did not allow Comtois to finish his sentence; he rejoined shortly:
“Tell Louise to come at once; she must help you serve.”
Comtois did not wait for the order to be repeated, especially as he was very glad, in the bottom of his heart, to have the girl assist him.
Madame de Noirmont looked at her plate and turned ghastly pale; Ernestine gazed anxiously from her father to her mother; and Monsieur Trichet, who had comments to make on everything, exclaimed:
“Ah! so you have a lady’s maid who doesn’t want to serve at table? You are perfectly right to compel her to do it. Servants are amazing nowadays! If we listened to them they would do nothing at all, and we should pay them high wages! I am curious to see your lady’s maid.”
Louise’s arrival put an end to these remarks. The girl was much embarrassed when she received the order sent through Comtois; she hesitated to follow him at first, but Comtois said:
“You must come, mademoiselle; monsieur says so, and when he gives an order, you must obey.”
So Louise decided to go with the valet. The thought that she was going to vex her mistress by obeying her master’s commands caused her very great distress; so that she entered the room with downcast eyes and with her cheeks flushing hotly. But she was all the prettier so, and most of the guests seemed impressed by her beauty.
“Upon my word,” said Monsieur Trichet, “this girl would have done very wrong not to show herself! I have seen few servants so pretty.—What is that you are saying, Monsieur Dernange? Oh! I hear you: you said: ‘A Greek profile.’—True, very like it. But Greek or not, it is very distinguished for the profile of a lady’s maid.”
The two young men did not make their reflections aloud, like Monsieur Trichet, but they seemed not to weary of gazing at Louise, and they were delighted to have their plates changed by her.
The tall, pretentious lady cast a disdainful glance at Louise and muttered:
“I cannot understand how anyone can call a servant pretty!”
“That girl is fascinating!” cried the other lady; “and she has such a modest air! Everything about her speaks in her favor.”
“Oho!” said Monsieur Trichet, “it isn’t safe to trust to such airs; they’re often very deceptive. I know what I am talking about; I have had two hundred maids, and they have all stolen from me.”
Madame de Noirmont made no reply to all these reflections inspired by the sight of her pretty lady’s maid. But it was plain that she was suffering, that she was holding herself back, that she was doing her utmost to appear calm and amiable as before.
Ernestine was no longer in a merry mood, for she saw that something was wrong with her mother.
As for Monsieur de Noirmont, content to be obeyed, he turned his attention to his guests and did not observe his wife’s pallor.
The subject of conversation soon changed however, and Madame de Noirmont was able to breathe a little more freely.
Louise performed her duty as well as she could, lowering her eyes when she passed her mistress, not daring to look at her, and taking care never to stand opposite her.
But suddenly Chérubin’s name fell on the girl’s ear. Monsieur Trichet, speaking of a reception at the Comtesse de Valdieri’s, observed:
“The young Marquis de Grandvilain was not there. I have noticed too that he doesn’t go to Madame Célival’s any more. That seems strange to me, for everybody knows that the little marquis was making love to those ladies; he is still too new at the game to conceal his feelings; he used to stare at them too much—it was absurd.”
At that moment Louise had in her hands a plate of chicken with olives, which she had been told to carry to the advocate’s tall wife. But when she heard Chérubin’s name, Louise forgot what she was doing; she dropped the plate on the pretentious lady’s shoulder, and a large portion of chicken with olives fell on that lady’s dress.
“What a stupid idiot you are!” cried the tall lady, with a savage glance at Louise. “If you don’t know how to pass a plate, you should stay in your kitchen.”
Louise stood like a statue, confused and distressed. The men, thinking her prettier than ever, tried to excuse her; Ernestine rose hastily and wiped the lady’s dress, which it did not even occur to Louise to do. As for Madame de Noirmont, when she heard Louise called stupid and an idiot, her eyebrows contracted and her eyes shot fire for an instant; she half rose, then fell back in her chair, as if she were dead. Monsieur Trichet, who was beside her, exclaimed:
“Madame de Noirmont is certainly ill.—Do you feel ill, madame?”
“It is nothing, I hope,” said Madame de Noirmont, rising; “just an ill turn; I will go and take a breath of air.”
Ernestine was already beside her mother; she supported her, gave her her arm, and they left the dining-room together.
This episode caused Louise’s awkwardness to be forgotten, although the tall lady continued to grumble about her dress; but nobody seemed to listen to her. After ten minutes Madame de Noirmont returned to the table. She was still very pale, but she insisted that she no longer suffered. The dinner came to an end dismally enough; the accident that had happened to the mistress of the house had dispelled all merriment.
They returned to the salon. The men conversed among themselves, and the tall lady thought of nothing but her damaged gown. Madame de Noirmont forced herself to smile as she listened to Monsieur Trichet; Ernestine kept her eyes on her mother, and the young men looked frequently toward the door, disappointed that the pretty lady’s maid did not appear again. A game of whist was organized, but it was not kept up very long, and the guests took their leave well before midnight, because Madame de Noirmont was ill and must need rest.
It was two hours after midnight. All the members of Monsieur de Noirmont’s household had long since withdrawn to their apartments, and should have been buried in slumber. Louise, still excited by the emotions of the day, had just closed her eyes, thinking of Chérubin, who was said to have been in love with two women.
Suddenly someone opened the door of her room, and entered cautiously, holding a light. Louise opened her eyes and recognized Madame de Noirmont, in her night dress, as pale as she had been at dinner; she walked to the bed after pausing to listen and make sure that no one was following her.
“Mon Dieu! is it you, madame?” cried Louise; “can it be that you are ill? that you need my services?—I will get up at once.”
“Stay where you are, and listen to me.”
As she spoke, Madame de Noirmont went to the door and closed it, then returned to the bed, sat down beside it, took Louise’s hand and pressed it in both of hers, saying in a broken voice:
“Louise, you must leave this house, unless you want me to die—to die of grief. Oh! my suffering has beenhorrible! and I feel that I shall not have the strength to endure it any longer.”
“What! can it be that I am the cause of your suffering, madame? Indeed I will go; yes, be sure of it. Mon Dieu! if I had known it sooner, I would have gone long ago and spared you much annoyance. Forgive me; for, far from seeking to make you unhappy, I would give my life to prove my zealous attachment to you. But no matter—I will go.”
“Poor Louise! then you do not hate me—me who have treated you so harshly, who have never said a kind or gentle word to you?”
“Hate you, madame? Oh! that doesn’t seem possible to me; it seems to me that it is my duty to love you.—Oh! pardon—I forget that I am only a poor servant.”
“A servant—you! Ah! that is what is killing me, that is what I cannot endure! You, a servant in my house! O my God! I was very guilty, I know, since Thou hast inflicted this punishment on me; but to-day it was too heavy.—Great heaven! what am I saying? I am losing my wits.—Louise, my poor child, you have believed that I detested you, that that was the reason why I was constantly trying to keep you away from me, have you not?—Ah! if you could have read in the depths of my heart!”
“Is it possible, madame, that you do not dislike me? Oh! I am so glad!”
“Listen to me, Louise. You ought not to be a servant; you ought to be rich and happy, poor girl! You have suffered enough for faults committed by others; your lot will soon be changed. Here, take this letter which I have just written, and hand it to the person whose name is on the envelope, to whom you will go at once on leaving here. I do not know where the—the personto whom I am sending you lives now, but you can learn by going to Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain’s house; he is his friend, and he will tell you at once where he lives. You know Monsieur Chérubin’s house, do you not?”
“Oh, yes! I have been there twice, madame.—And the person to whom I am to give this letter?”
“That person will—at least, I think so—restore you to your father.”
“To my father! O my God! What, madame! I shall find my parents? Do you know them, madame?”
“Ask me nothing more, Louise; what I am doing now is a great deal. I swore that I would never write to this person; but since I have seen you, I have felt that it was wicked, very wicked, to deprive you of your father’s caresses; for he will be happy to recover you! Oh, yes! I am sure that he will surround you with love and care.”
“And my mother, madame—you say nothing of her? Shall I not see her too? Oh! it would be so sweet to me to hold her in my arms!”
“Your mother? Oh, no! that is impossible; your father will conceal her name from you—he must. If, however, he should disclose it, remember that a heedless word would kill her!—But I have said enough. To-morrow, at daybreak, before anyone in the house is up, you will go away; you promise me that, Louise?”
“Yes, madame, I promise.”
“That is well; and now, kiss me.”
“May I?”
Madame de Noirmont’s only reply was to put her arms about Louise’s waist, strain her to her heart, and hold her so a long time, covering her with kisses. The poor girl was so happy that she thought that she was dreaming, and she prayed heaven not to wake her.
But Madame de Noirmont, whose eyes were filled with tears, made a superhuman effort, and extricating herself from the arms that enlaced her, deposited one more kiss on the girl’s forehead and hurriedly left the room, saying in a voice overflowing with affection:
“Do not forget anything of all that I have said to you!”
Louise lay in a sort of trance; the kisses she had received had made her know such unalloyed happiness that she tried to prolong it; she dared not reflect, or seek to solve the mystery of Madame de Noirmont’s conduct; but she repeated again and again:
“She loves me! oh, yes! she loves me, for she held me to her heart a long while, and she said: ‘Don’t forget anything that I said to you!’—Ah! I shall never forget those words; I shall remember them all my life.”
Louise did not close her eyes during the rest of the night. As soon as the day began to break, she rose, dressed hastily, made a bundle of her clothes, placed in her bosom the letter that Madame de Noirmont had given her, and, softly opening the door, left her room, stole noiselessly through several rooms to the staircase, and so down to the courtyard; she knocked on the concierge’s window, he opened the gate, and at daybreak she stood in the street.
Since his adventure with Chichette Chichemann, Chérubin had been less quick to take fire; or, rather, he had begun to understand that what he had taken for love was simply those desires which the sight of a pretty woman arouses in a man’s heart; desires which are certain to be renewed often in a wholly inexperienced heart, whose sensations have the charm of novelty.
But the checks he had met with in his amorous essays had made Chérubin even more shy and timid; instead of taking advantage of the lessons that he had received to bear himself more gallantly in a tête-à-tête, poor Chérubin was so afraid of being unfortunate or awkward again, that the bare idea of an assignation almost made him tremble. On the other hand, as love, at his age, is the first joy of life, the young marquis, not knowing how he could procure that joy, became sad and melancholy. At twenty years of age, with a noble name, a handsome fortune, with good looks and a fine figure; in a word, possessed of everything that is supposed to make a man happy, Chérubin was not happy; he lost his good spirits and even his fresh coloring. He no longer had that bright, ruddy complexion which people used to admire in him; for it is useless to try to conceal the fact that, while excessive dissipation sometimes destroys the health, excessive virtue may produce the same result; excess in anything is to be deplored.
The young marquis no longer visited the Comtesse de Valdieri, or Madame Célival, because the frigid greeting he received from those ladies was equivalent to a dismissal; but he sometimes met them in society. When he did, it seemed to him that all the ladies looked at him in a strange fashion, that they whispered together and even went so far as to laugh when he appeared. All this tormented and disturbed him; he told his troubles to his friend Monfréville.
“Do you suppose that that little countess and Madame Célival have been saying unkind things about me?” he said. “I don’t know what I have done to them.”
“That is just the reason!” replied Monfréville, with a smile. “I beg you, my young friend, do not persist in this apathy, which is ill-suited to your years. You have everything that a man needs, to be agreeable to the ladies; form other connections. Have three or four mistresses at once, deceive them all openly, and your reputation will soon be reëstablished.”
“That is very easy for you to say, my dear Monfréville, but, since my misadventures, I am so afraid of being—er—awkward again with a woman, that it makes me shudder beforehand. It is enough to kill one with shame and despair! I prefer not to take the risk. And yet I feel that I am terribly bored.”
“I can well believe it—to live without love, at your age! when one has not even the memory of his follies! that is perfectly absurd. But if you are afraid that you are not yet sufficiently enterprising with a great lady, why, my friend, make a beginning with grisettes and actresses. I assure you they will train you quite as well.”
“Yes, I thought of that at first; and last week, happening to meet Malvina—you know, that lively little ballet girl?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I spoke to her. At first she called me Monsieur Jack Frost; but when I told her that I wasn’t as cold as she thought, she said: ‘To make me believe that, you must prove it.’ And she invited me again to breakfast with her—at six o’clock in the morning—and we appointed a day.”
“Good! that is excellent!”
“Oh, yes! but the day came long ago, and I didn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because I reflected that I had no more love for Malvina than for the others, and that I should no doubt make as big a fool of myself with her as I had done at my previous tête-à-têtes.”
“You were altogether wrong! your reasoning is ridiculous! The idea of reflecting about an amourette, a passing fancy! But stay—didn’t you tell me once of a grisette, a girl who worked in a linen-draper’s shop near by, and who used to ogle you? she even told you her name, I believe.”
“Yes, my friend, that was little Célanire, with the fair hair and the noseà la Roxelane.”
“Well, there’s your chance; ask Mademoiselle Célanire for a rendezvous. Judging from what you have told me, she won’t refuse you.”
“That is what I did, my friend. The day before yesterday I saw the young grisette in the street; when she found that I was walking behind her, she pretended to make a misstep; then she stopped and clung to me to keep from falling.”
“That was very clever.”
“So I thought; after that, we talked, and finally she agreed to meet me that evening on Boulevard du Château d’Eau, a long way from her quarter, for the expresspurpose of not meeting people who might recognize her.”
“That was very prudent; grisettes think of everything. Well, how did matters go at that meeting?”
“Mon Dieu! my friend, I didn’t go there either. As I was about to start, I made the same reflections that I had made concerning the little dancer. Then I was afraid and I stayed at home.”
“Oh! this is too much, my poor Chérubin! If you give way to such terrors, there is no reason why you should not be bewildered by them all your life! In old times, the old women would have said that someone had cast a spell on you, and they would have sent you to see some famous exorcist. For, in the good old days, spells were cast and destroyed frequently; indeed, it was not uncommon to see prosecutions based upon such affairs, and to see the judges order an inspection, in order to make the man prove his innocence, who attempted to make so many honest people forfeit theirs. But those barbarous days have passed—for they really deserve to be so called. Now, we know no better sorcerer than a pretty woman to discover whether a man is in love or not. So that I persist in referring you to such a one.”
Monfréville’s words did not console Chérubin in the least; he continued in his state of depression and self torment; but one morning there came to his mind a thought that roused and revivified him: he thought of Gagny, of young Louise, of his kindhearted nurse, who loved him so dearly; it occurred to him to revisit his childhood home. In his melancholy and his ennui he remembered those who loved him; in the whirl of dissipation he had forgotten them! Such cases are too common; they do not speak well for our hearts, but why did Nature make us like that?
Chérubin said nothing to any of his household; he took neither Jasmin nor Gérondif, but ordered his cabriolet, bade his little groom climb up behind, and started, after obtaining minute directions as to the shortest way to Gagny.
With a good horse it is not a long drive. Chérubin arrived at Villemonble in a short time. His heart beat fast as he drove through the village, for he recognized the country where his childhood had been passed, and a large part of his adolescence. His heart was very full when he spied the first houses of Gagny; he felt such a thrill of pleasure, of happiness, as he had not known since he went to Paris, and he was amazed that he could have allowed so long a time to elapse without returning to the village.
He recognized the square, the guard house, and the steep street leading to his nurse’s house; he urged his horse and drew rein at last in front of Nicole’s door. It was only three years since he had left it, but it seemed to him a century, and he scrutinized everything about him to see if anything had changed.
He alighted from his carriage, crossed the yard where he had played so often, and hastily entered the room on the ground floor, where the family usually sat. Nicole was there, working, and Jacquinot asleep in a chair; nothing was changed; one person only was missing.
Nicole raised her eyes, then gave a shout. She gazed earnestly at the fashionably dressed young man who had entered the room; she was afraid that she was mistaken, she dared not believe that it was Chérubin. But he did not leave her long in uncertainty; he flew into her arms, crying:
“My nurse! my dear Nicole! Ah! how glad I am to see you again!”
“It’s him! it’s really him!” cried the peasant woman, who could hardly speak, she was so overcome by joy. “He has come to see us, so he still loves me, the dear boy! Forgive me for calling you that, monsieur le marquis, but habit is stronger than I am.”
“Call me what you used to call me, dear Nicole. Do you suppose that that offends me? On the contrary, I insist upon it, I demand it.”
“Oh! what joy!—Wake up, Jacquinot, my man, here’s ourfieuChérubin come back, and in our house again.”
Jacquinot rubbed his eyes and recognized the young marquis, but dared not offer him his hand. But Chérubin warmly grasped the peasant’s rough and calloused hand. He, in his delight, ran off, as his custom was, to bring wine and glasses.
Chérubin seated himself beside Nicole; he kissed her again and again, then glanced about the room and said:
“What a pity that someone is missing! If Louise were here, my happiness would be complete. Is she still in Bretagne—a long way off? Doesn’t she mean to return?”
“Oh, yes, my boy,” murmured the peasant woman with evident embarrassment. “But you do still care for us a little bit, my dear child, although you have got used to finer folks than we are?”
“Do I care for you! Indeed I do! I understand why you ask me that, dear Nicole; I have been an ungrateful wretch, I have acted very badly. To think of not coming once to embrace you in three years! Oh! that was very wicked of me. I planned to do it very often, but one has so many things to do in Paris! Society, and all the amusements that were so new to me—it all bewildered me. You must try to forgive me.”
“Forgive him! How handsome he is! how handsome he is!”
“And then, it seems to me that if you had wanted to see me, there was nothing to prevent your coming to Paris, to my house.—You know well enough where it is.”
“Why, we did go there, my dear child, we went there twice, Louise and I. We asked to see you, and the first time they told us that you were travelling; the second, that you were at some château and would be away a long while.”
“That is very strange! In the first place, it isn’t true; I have not left Paris since I first went there, I have not travelled at all; and then, I was never told that you came.”
“The idea! I told the concierge to tell you.”
“Ah! I will look into this, and I will find out why they presumed to conceal your visits from me.”
“Bless me! that made Louise and me feel very bad, and we said: ‘As long as he knows we’ve been to see him but couldn’t find him, and he don’t come to see us, why, we mustn’t go again, because perhaps he don’t like to have us come to his house in Paris.’”
“Not like it, my dear Nicole! The idea of thinking that of me! And poor Louise too! But why did you send her to Bretagne, instead of keeping her with you?”
“Louise in Bretagne!” exclaimed Jacquinot, who returned to the room just then with a jug of wine and glasses. “What’s the sense of making up stories like that to deceive my friend monsieur le marquis?”
“What! Louise is not in Bretagne!” cried Chérubin. “Why, Monsieur Gérondif has been telling me that for two years. What is the meaning of that lie?”
“Oh! dear me, my boy!” said Nicole, “I’ll tell you the whole story, for I don’t like to lie! And then, the more I look at you, you look so good and gentle, I can’t believethat you’ve got to be a rake, a seducer, as Monsieur Gérondif told us!”
“I, a rake, a seducer! Why, that is not true, nurse, it is horribly false! On the contrary, people laugh at me in Paris because they say I am too bashful with the ladies. And to say that I am a rake! That is abominable! And my tutor dared to say such things?”
“My dear child, I am going to tell you the whole truth. Monsieur Gérondif, who came to see us often and seemed to admire Louise’s beauty, came one day about nine or ten months ago, and offered the child a fine place in Paris, which he said that you wanted her to take.”
“Ah! the liar!”
“Louise liked the idea of going to Paris, because she said that that would bring her nearer to you, and she hoped to see you once in a while.”
“Dear Louise!”
“So she accepted; but while she was packing her clothes, monsieur le professeur whispered to me: ‘I am taking Louise away to remove her from the designs of my pupil, who means to make her his mistress.’”
“What an outrage!”
“‘And if he comes here, make him believe that she’s been with a relation of yours in Bretagne a long time.’”
Chérubin rose and paced the floor; he was so suffocated by wrath that he could hardly speak.
“What a shameful thing! to say that of me! to invent such lies! But what could his object have been? Do you know where he took Louise?”
“Oh! to some very fine folks, so he told us.”
“But who are they?”
“Bless me! I didn’t ask that, my dear child, because I had so much confidence in the schoolmaster.”
“So you don’t know where Louise is? Oh! I will find out! I will make him tell me!—I am dying with impatience; I wish I were in Paris now.—Adieu! my dear Nicole! adieu, Jacquinot!”
“What, going already, myfieu? You have hardly got here!”
“And he hasn’t drunk a single glass!”
“I will come again, my friends, I will come again—but with Louise, whom I am wild to find!—Ah! Monsieur Gérondif! you say that I am a rake! We will see! They have all looked upon me as a child hitherto, but I’ll show them that I am their master!”
Chérubin embraced Nicole, shook hands with Jacquinot, and, turning a deaf ear to all that those good people said to pacify him, he returned to his cabriolet, lashed his horse and drove rapidly back to Paris.
On reaching home, he at once summoned Monsieur Gérondif, Jasmin and the concierge. From the tone in which he issued the order, and from the expression of his face, the servants did not recognize their master, ordinarily so mild and gentle. The groom went to call the tutor, who had just finished dressing, although it was midday. He went down to his pupil, thinking:
“Monsieur le marquis undoubtedly wishes me to teach him something. Perhaps he wants to learn to write poetry. Mademoiselle Turlurette tells everybody in the house that my verses are so fine! I will have him begin with free verses; they are certainly easier to write, most assuredly.”
But on entering the apartment of the young marquis, whom he found pacing the floor with an impatient and angry expression, the tutor became anxious, and began to think that he had not been summoned to give lessons in poetry. Jasmin, who did not know where he was, hismaster was scowling so at him, stood motionless in a corner, whence he dared not stir, and the concierge, who was fully as terrified as the others, remained in the doorway, afraid to go in.
Chérubin addressed the latter first; he bade him come nearer, and said to him:
“A short time after I first came to this house, a worthy countrywoman, my nurse, came to see me, with a young girl. They came twice; they were most anxious to see me; and you told them, the first time, that I was travelling, and the second time, that I was at the château of one of my friends. Why did you tell that falsehood? Who gave you leave to turn away people who are dear to me and whom I should have been glad to see? Answer me.”
The concierge hung his head and answered:
“Faith, monsieur, all I did was to follow the instructions Monsieur Jasmin gave me; and I thought he was only carrying out monsieur’s orders.”
“Ah! it was Jasmin who told you to say that, was it? Very well; you may go; but henceforth take your orders from me alone.”
The concierge bowed and left the room, delighted that he had come off so cheap.
Old Jasmin turned purple; he twisted his mouth, like a child about to cry. Chérubin walked up to him and said in a tone in which there was more reproach than anger:
“And so, Jasmin, it was you who ordered my dear Nicole and Louise to be turned away? It was you who arranged matters so that the people who brought me up must inevitably think me proud and unfeeling and ungrateful!—Ah! that was very ill done of you—and I don’t recognize your kind heart in that business.”
Jasmin drew his handkerchief and wept.
“You are right, monsieur!” he cried; “it was a shame, it was downright folly, but it wasn’t my idea; I should never have thought of it. It was your tutor who told me that we must prevent your seeing Nicole and little Louise, because it would be very dangerous for you. As Monsieur Gérondif is a scholar, I thought that he must be right, and I did what he told me.”
While the old valet was speaking, Monsieur Gérondif scratched his nose with all his might, as if to prepare for the attack that he was about to undergo; and in fact it was to him that Chérubin turned after listening to Jasmin, and there was the ring of righteous anger in his voice as he cried:
“So all this comes from you, monsieur? I should have suspected as much.—So it was dangerous for me to see the people from the village, who love me like their own child!”
Monsieur Gérondif threw one of his legs back, puffed out his chest, raised his head, and began with abundant assurance:
“Well, yes, my illustrious pupil! and I consider that I was right.Non est discipulus super magistrum.—Listen to my reasons: You left the village and the fields with great regret; you might have been tempted to return thither, and it was necessary to remove that temptation—always in your interest. TheSadder, abridged from theZend, which contains all the tenets of the religion founded by Zoroaster, ordains that every man must make a strict examination of his conscience at the end of each day; and mine——”
“Oh! I am not talking about Zoroaster, monsieur! Was it in my interest too, that, at the time of your last visit to the village, you told Nicole that I had become arake and a seducer in Paris; that I intended to make Louise my mistress; and that it was absolutely necessary to find a place for her in Paris, and to make me believe that she was in Bretagne?”
Monsieur Gérondif was petrified; he could think of no quotations to make; he hung his head and did not know which leg to stand on; while Jasmin, when he heard what the tutor had said of his young master, ran to the fireplace, seized the tongs, and prepared to strike Monsieur Gérondif:
“You dare to tell such infamous lies about my master!” he exclaimed; “to slander him like that! Let me thrash him, monsieur! I believe that I can do that with as much force as I had at twenty years.”
But Chérubin stopped Jasmin, and said to the tutor:
“What were your reasons for lying so, monsieur?”
“To tell the truth, my noble pupil, I do not know;—a temporary aberration, a——”
“Well, I shall find out later. But, first of all, where is Louise?”
“The young and interesting foundling?”
“Come, come, monsieur, answer me, and no more lies; where is Louise?”
“In an honorable family, I venture to flatter myself; I obtained her a situation as lady’s maid with Madame de Noirmont.”
“A lady’s maid! my foster-sister! You have made my old playmate a lady’s maid!—Ah! that’s an outrage!”
“The wages are good, and I thought that, as she has no fortune——”
“Hold your peace! Poor Louise! so this is the reward of your sworn attachment to me!—But she shall not remain another day in that position. Jasmin, call a cab at once, and you, monsieur, come with me.”
Monsieur Gérondif did not wait for the order to be repeated; he followed Chérubin, who took his hat and hastened downstairs. Jasmin called a cab, the young marquis stepped in, ordered Monsieur Gérondif to take his place beside him and to give the driver Madame de Noirmont’s address. The tutor obeyed and they drove away.
Chérubin did not open his mouth during the drive, and Gérondif did not dare even to blow his nose. When the cab stopped in front of the Noirmont mansion, Chérubin said to his tutor:
“It was you who brought Louise to this house; go now and find her. Say to the persons in whose service she is that she is not to work any more, that she has found a friend and protector; say whatever you choose, but remember that you must bring me my friend and sister. As for her, simply say to her that I am here, waiting for her, and I am perfectly sure that she will instantly make her preparations to come to me. Go, monsieur; I will stay here and wait.”
Monsieur Gérondif jumped out of the cab, blew his nose when he was on the sidewalk, and entered the house at last, saying to himself:
“Let us do it, as there is no way to avoid it! The little one will not be mine—unless, perhaps, later—no one knows. Perhaps he will endow her, and I will imagine that she’s a widow.”
Chérubin counted the minutes after the tutor entered the house; he leaned out of the cab door and did not take his eyes from the porte cochère; for he momentarily expected Louise to appear, and that hope was constantly disappointed. At last two persons left the house and came toward him; they were Monsieur Gérondif and Comtois. The professor’s face wore a most woebegoneexpression; he rolled his eyes wildly about as he approached Chérubin: but the latter did not wait for him to speak.
“Louise!” he cried, “Louise! why hasn’t she come with you? Didn’t you tell her that I was here?”
“No, my noble pupil,” replied Gérondif, with an air of desperation, “I did not tell her, for I could not. If you knew!”
“I don’t want to know; I want Louise—I came here to get her. Why doesn’t she come down? Do they refuse to let her go? In that case I will go up myself——”
“Oh, no! nobody refuses anything; but she has gone already, and that is why she doesn’t come down with us.”
“What do you say? Louise——”
“Has not been at Monsieur de Noirmont’s for four days; she went off one morning, very early, before anyone in the house was up.”
“Ah! you are deceiving me!”
“No, my noble pupil; but as I thought that perhaps you would not believe me, I requested Comtois, Monsieur de Noirmont’s confidential valet, to come with me and confirm my story.—Speak, incorruptible Comtois; tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Comtois stepped toward Chérubin, and said, saluting him respectfully:
“Since Mademoiselle Louise has been in our family, we had never had anything but praise for her behavior. Her modest manner, her sweetness of disposition, won all our hearts. Mademoiselle Ernestine de Noirmont treated her more as her friend than as her maid; madame was the only one who, for some unknown reason, was a trifle harsh with Mademoiselle Louise.—Well, last Friday, the day after a large dinner-party that we gavehere, the girl went away. She took nothing with her but a little bundle containing her clothes—not another thing. Mademoiselle Ernestine was terribly unhappy over her going; but we supposed that Louise had decided to return to her province because she was disappointed that she had not been able to win madame’s favor. That is the exact truth, monsieur. However, if you will take the trouble to go upstairs, you can see Mademoiselle Ernestine, or my master and mistress, who will tell you just what I have told you.”
Chérubin did not deem it necessary to question Monsieur or Madame de Noirmont; Comtois had no motive for lying to him, and in his eyes could be read his personal regret for Louise’s departure.
“She must have returned to Gagny, beyond any question,” cried Gérondif, scratching his nose.
“To Gagny!” exclaimed Chérubin, in despair; “why, I have just come from there! You forget that I have been there this morning, that I am just from Nicole’s house, and that Louise has not been seen there.”
“Perhaps you may have passed each other on the road.”
“Why, he says that it was four days ago that she left the house!—four days, do you understand? What has become of her during all that time? Does it take four days to travel four leagues?”
“Not usually—but, if she stopped often on the way.”
“Ah! it was you who induced Louise to leave the village, where she was safe from all harm. It was you, monsieur, who brought her to Paris. But remember that you must find Louise, that I must know where she is, what has happened to her in the four days since she left this house; and if she has met with any misfortune—then all my wrath will fall on you!”
Chérubin leaped into the cab, gave the driver Monfréville’s address, and hastened to his friend. He longed to confide his troubles to him, for he knew that his friendship would not fail him when he went to him to claim his aid and support.
Monfréville was at home; when his young friend appeared, deeply moved and intensely excited, he instantly questioned him concerning the cause of his agitation. Chérubin told him all that he had done since morning: his visit to the village, his conversation with Nicole and her disclosures of Monsieur Gérondif’s conduct regarding Louise, and finally the girl’s disappearance from the house in which she had taken service. When he had finished his narrative, he cried:
“I must find Louise, my friend, I must find her, for I know now how dearly I love her. Poor Louise, it was to be near me, it was in the hope of seeing me, that she accepted that place in Paris. Nicole told me all, for Louise still thought of me, she never let a day pass without speaking of me, and I, like an ingrate, let three years pass without a sign that I remembered her!”
“That is true,” said Monfréville, “and to-day you are in the depths of despair because you don’t know what has become of her! But from all that you tell me, it seems to me that this girl is worthy of your love, and that it would be a great pity that she should fall into some trap, that she should be victimized by some miserable villain. Is she pretty, did you say?”
“She was lovely at fifteen, and Nicole told me that she had improved every day.”
“The deuce! poor child! If she is very pretty and has lost her way in Paris, it’s very dangerous. As for your tutor, there is a very natural explanation of his conduct: he was in love with Louise, no doubt, anddeemed it prudent to keep you from seeing her, which was sure to happen sooner or later. For a pedagogue, that was rather clever.”
“In love with Louise! the insolent old idiot!—But where shall I look for poor Louise—where can I hope to find her now?”
“That will be rather difficult, perhaps; but rely upon me to help you, to guide you in your search. You must set your servants at work; we will not spare money, and that is a powerful auxiliary in all the emergencies of life.”
Chérubin thanked his friend warmly for lending him his assistance, and they began their search the same day.
While these things were taking place at Monfréville’s apartment, Monsieur Gérondif stood in the street, as if turned to stone by his pupil’s anger and threats. Comtois had long since returned to his duties and the tutor was still in front of the porte cochère. He decided at last to go his way, saying to himself:
“The Scripture says: ‘Seek and ye shall find.’ I am going to seek you, Louise, but I probably shall not find you.”
We left Louise at the moment when, in compliance with Madame de Noirmont’s wishes, she left the house before anybody had risen.
Thus Louise found herself in the street at a very early hour. She had her bundle of clothes under her arm, and in her breast that letter, of such inestimable value, which would perhaps enable her to find her father.
When she was at a sufficient distance from the house that she had left, her first thought was to learn the name of the person to whom Madame de Noirmont had sent her. She took out the letter and read this address:
“For Monsieur Edouard de Monfréville. To be delivered to him in person.”
“Monsieur de Monfréville,” said Louise; “I have never heard of that gentleman. But Madame de Noirmont said that he was a great friend of Chérubin, and that they would give me his address at Chérubin’s house. So I will go there. Oh! I shall not ask to see him! I know that he no longer cares for me, that he doesn’t choose to know me any more; and besides, as he has three or four mistresses at once, why, I haven’t any desire to see him either.”
The girl heaved a sigh as she spoke, for her heart was by no means in accord with her words; but she started toward Faubourg Saint-Germain, saying to herself:
“I must not think any more about my old playfellow; I will think only of what Madame de Noirmont said to me last night.”
Louise at last reached the street on which the hôtel de Grandvilain stood. When she realized that she was so near Chérubin’s abode, she stopped and began to tremble:
“As Chérubin wouldn’t admit us,” she thought, “when I came with his dear old nurse, perhaps they’ll shut the door in my face. They will think that it is he whom I wish to see, and that will make him even more angry with me. Oh dear! what am I to do?”
And instead of going toward the house, Louise retraced her steps, walking very slowly. But in a moment she stopped again and said to herself:
“But I must ascertain this Monsieur de Monfréville’s address! Suppose I should wait until someone comes out of the house? Yes, I think that that will be the better way. I shall not be so afraid to speak to someone in the street. But it is still very early; people don’t get up at this time in these fine houses. I will walk back and forth, and wait; there’s no law against that, and, besides, not many people are passing yet. If I should see him come out, I would hide so that he might not see me. But I could look at him, at all events—and it is so long since I saw him!”
Louise had been walking the street for some time, looking in vain for somebody to leave the house, when two persons came toward her from a street near by. They were not arm in arm; indeed, one of them allowed his companion to keep always a few steps in advance, as if a certain residuum of respect kept him from putting himself on a level with the other. The first wore a long coat lined with fur, very stylish and sadly soiled, and ahat which was almost new, but which seemed to have received a number of blows; he had a cigar in his mouth; the second wore his huge umbrella hat and nut-colored box-coat, a pair of shockingly dirty trousers, and boots which were not made for him and in which his feet and legs seemed fairly to dance. In addition, he had a black eye and a bruised nose.
Daréna and Poterne had passed the night at a party where they had played cards until daylight, and had indulged in a fight before separating. Daréna had chosen to pass through Chérubin’s street on his way home; he always took that road by preference, a fancy which did not please Poterne, who muttered as he followed him:
“If your former friend the young marquis should meet us, he might pay me a few more compliments behind, and I can do without them.”
“Bah!” retorted Daréna, “you always look at the dark side. For my part, I would like to meet Chérubin. I would go up to him with a laugh, and I would say: ‘Who ever heard of friends falling out for a jest? I obtained your introduction to a charming girl; instead of being a Pole, she was an Alsatian, but what’s the difference? And, faith, it isn’t my fault that you went to sleep in her company!’—I’ll bet that he would shake hands with me, and all would be forgotten.”
“Hum! I don’t think it! If you knew how his friend Monfréville gave it to you!”
“Ta! ta! mere empty words! nonsense! I am above all that!”
The two worthies were walking on when Poterne, spying Louise standing a few steps from the hôtel de Grandvilain, upon which her eyes seemed to be fixed, put his hand on Daréna’s arm, saying:
“Look—yonder, at the right.”
“Bigre! what a pretty girl! What in the devil is she doing there, in rapt contemplation, before the door of Chérubin’s house? Do you know, Poterne, that girl is perfectly bewitching! The more one looks at her, the more charms one discovers.”
“Yes, and it’s not Parisian style; however, she’s something more than a peasant. She has a bundle under her arm—do you suppose she has just arrived from the provinces?”
“She is still staring at the house. I certainly must find out what she is doing here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet, but I am a Frenchman, and a lady’s man before everything; and I am bound to aid and protect the fair sex. Forward, and you will see. Walk beside me, idiot!”
Daréna and Poterne crossed the street and walked toward Louise; when they were near her, Daréna stopped and said in a loud tone:
“Monsieur Poterne, as we are passing through this street, suppose we stop and bid our good friend, Marquis Chérubin de Grandvilain good-morning? this is his house. You know that he is constantly asking us to breakfast with him.”
Poterne enveloped himself closely in his box-coat and replied:
“It’s too early as yet; no one is up in the marquis’s house.”
These words were not lost on Louise, who started at the name of Chérubin. She approached Daréna and said to him timidly:
“Excuse me, monsieur, but as you are a friend of Monsieur de Grandvilain, who lives in this house, perhaps you know Monsieur de Monfréville also?”
At that name Poterne made a wry face; but Daréna replied as amiably as possible:
“Yes, my lovely maiden, I know Monfréville; indeed, I am intimately acquainted with him. Have you business with him?”
“I have a letter for him, but I do not know his address, and I was told that I could learn it at Monsieur Chérubin’s; but, although I know Monsieur Chérubin, I dared not go into his house.”
“Ah! so you know my friend Chérubin, mademoiselle? In that case he must have spoken to me about you, for I was his most intimate confidant.”
“Oh, no, monsieur!” replied Louise sadly, “he would never have spoken to you about me, for he has forgotten me; he doesn’t want to see us again. I am Louise, Monsieur Chérubin’s friend in childhood.”
“Young Louise!” cried Daréna; “who was with Chérubin, at his nurse Nicole’s, at Gagny?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You see that I am well informed, mademoiselle, that I did not deceive you when I said that I was the marquis’s friend.”
“Oh, yes! I see that, monsieur.”
During this dialogue, Poterne sauntered up to Daréna and whispered:
“There’s a chance to make a turn here.”
Daréna retorted with a blow of his elbow in the ribs, muttering:
“So I see, you fool!”
Then, turning to Louise, he continued:
“Mademoiselle, if you do not wish to call at my friend Chérubin’s, it does not seem to me fitting that you should remain in the street. In Paris, you see, there are certain proprieties that one must alwaysobserve. Young and pretty as you are, you must not expose yourself to the risk of being insulted by some scoundrel. Take my arm; you are my friend’s foster-sister, his playmate, and I naturally declare myself your protector. Pray take my arm.”
“Oh! how kind you are, monsieur!” replied Louise, timidly putting her arm through Daréna’s. “Are you really going to take the trouble to take me to Monsieur de Monfréville’s?”
“I will take you wherever you choose—to the king if you have anything to say to him.—Poterne, why don’t you take mademoiselle’s bundle?”
“You are too kind, monsieur, but it does not trouble me.”
“No matter; I will not allow my friend Chérubin’s foster-sister to carry a bundle when she has my arm.”
Poterne had already taken the bundle from Louise’s hands; and she, confused by so much courtesy, walked on with her arm through Daréna’s, while Poterne followed, feeling the bundle to find out what there was in it.
As they walked along, the girl told Daréna how she had left Gagny to enter Madame de Noirmont’s service, and her grief because Chérubin had forgotten her; in fact, she omitted nothing save the visit Madame de Noirmont had paid to her during the night.
“And what do you propose to do at Monfréville’s?” asked Daréna, fixing his eyes on Louise’s lovely ones.
“I am going to give him a letter which was given to me for him.”
“To induce him to reconcile you and your dear friend Chérubin, no doubt?”
“Oh! no, monsieur! it’s about something that he alone knows about.”
Louise said no more, deeming it improper to admit a third person to the secret of what Madame de Noirmont had said to her. Daréna paid little heed to that matter; he was thinking what he should do with Louise. Suddenly he remembered the little house on the outer boulevard, which he had hired for the Polish intrigue, and which was still in his possession, as he had been obliged to take it for six months. Turning to Poterne, he said with a wink:
“Monsieur de Poterne, my friend Monfréville is still living in hispetite maisonon the boulevards, outside the wall, is he not?”
“He is, monsieur le comte,” replied Poterne innocently. “But Monsieur de Monfréville often goes away on short journeys about the neighborhood; I can’t vouch for it that he is at home now.”
“At all events, we will take mademoiselle there. If he is absent, we will consider what Mademoiselle Louise, my friend Chérubin’s foster-sister, can do until his return. Ah! there’s a cab; let us take it, for it’s a long way from here to Monfréville’s.”
Poterne summoned a cab, and Louise entered it with her two chance acquaintances; the girl was entirely unsuspicious; she was convinced that the gentleman who had offered her his arm was a friend of Chérubin, and in her eyes that title was enough to banish suspicion.
The cab stopped in front of the house near Barrière de la Chopinette, which had been occupied since the abortive Chichemann affair by little Bruno alone, whom they left in charge. Daréna whispered a word in Poterne’s ear, and that gentleman took pains to enter first. Louise remained with Daréna, who wasted a long time paying the cab-driver. At last he ushered the girl into the house, the boy having received his instructions.
“We wish to speak with Monsieur de Monfréville,” Daréna said to Bruno. “Here is a young lady, my intimate friend Marquis Chérubin’s foster-sister, who is most anxious to see him.”
Bruno eyed Louise impertinently as he replied: