But Passedix did not seem to hear these words; he was so thunderstruck when he counted his opponent's points, that he stood like one turned to stone, with his eyes fixed on the six, the five, and the four.
"Come, monsieur le chevalier, give me the rose crown you were so anxious to lose. Quickly, if you please! I ought to have gone long ago!"
"I, pay you!" cried Passedix, drawing himself up to his full height, and with the back of his hand giving a tilt over one ear to the sort of cap he wore; "pay you! No, indeed! for the throw was not fair; it doesn't count!"
"Doesn't count! that throw of mine! I suppose that you say that in jest,beau sire, but I don't like that sort of pleasantry, I warn you. Pay me quickly, and let us have done with it!"
"Once more I tell you, I will not pay! The throw was bad. You threw the dice with your left hand. I don't play with a left-handed——"
"Chevalier, you are trying to find a pretext for not paying. In the first place, I did not throw with my lefthand; and in the second place, if I did, the throw would be perfectly fair."
"No; in that case, you are bound to notify your opponent."
"I did not play with my left hand!"
"Then I lie, do I?"
"Yes; and you are nothing but a blackleg!"
"Ah! by Roland! you shall pay dearly for that insult—you vile clodhopper!"
"Meanwhile, you are going to get what you deserve, you long-legged sharper who wanted to sup at our expense!"
As he spoke, that one of the tradesmen who had played with the Gascon put out his arm and rushed forward to strike him with his fist. But his opponent had anticipated the blow and jumped back quickly. As ill luck would have it, Cédrille had risen when he saw that the quarrel had become serious, and muttering: "I want to go away; I am not enjoying myself at all here!" received full in the face the blow intended for his friend. He uttered a cry of pain. Instantly Passedix whipped out his sword, and Roland's blade was directed at the shopkeeper, who had seized the pewter pot with which to defend himself.
But a new personage had entered the café and forced his way through the crowd that already surrounded the combatants.
The man who had entered the wine shop wore a long cloak of dark-colored cloth, which reached almost to his feet and was caught in at the waist by a striped red and black belt adorned with a fringe. On his head was a sort of pointed cap trimmed with fur. Cloak and cap alike were soiled and in wretched condition.
This was the type of costume worn at that period by those persons who undertook to draw horoscopes, and who were commonly called Bohemians. They were very different from the Bohemians of our day, who dress well and have not a sou, for they wore shabby clothes and often had gold hidden in the pockets or the lining of their shabby garments.
Gray hair and an almost snow-white beard indicated a man of advanced years. However, he seemed to be robust still, for he easily put aside the bystanders and forced a passage for himself through the crowd.
Reaching the Gascon's side, he seized the arm that held Roland; and his pressure must have been very powerful, for the chevalier made a horrible grimace and slowly lowered his sword, crying:
"Zounds! what an iron grip!"
"What does this mean?" cried the Bohemian, in a cracked but piercing voice. "Do people draw their swords in a wine shop? Fie! seigneur chevalier, this is not a battlefield worthy of you! accustomed as you are to conquer in single combat and to excel in jousting!—And you, Master Bougard, you are out very late; the curfew rang long ago; your shopboys pay little heed to it when their master is not there. And God knows whether your shop is not at the mercy of cutpurses and footpads to-night!—As for you, neighbor Dupont, you have a pretty young wife, and it seems to me that you do not watch her very closely. Beware! gallants abound in your neighborhood; they know that you come to this wine shop every night and stay late. That makes it very convenient for them to go sparking your wife."
The two tradesmen listened to nothing more; they hurriedly pushed aside those who stood in their way, and rushed from the shop, paying no further heed to the Gascon and abandoning the idea of following up their quarrel.
Meanwhile, Passedix, flattered by the words that the Bohemian had addressed to him, replaced Roland in his sheath, saying:
"After all, this old man is right. And then, those two clowns are not foemen worthy of my wrath. But still——"
And the Gascon glanced languishingly at the superb omelet, which Poussinet was preparing to carry away,when the Bohemian stopped him and said, putting a piece of money in his hand:
"Do not carry that away; put the supper on the table—before these two gallant fellows, who will permit me to entertain them and to sup with them. Fetch also a piece of your best cheese and another full pint of your oldest wine, so that we may drink longer."
The waiter, being paid, made haste to execute the orders he had received. Meanwhile, Passedix, who could hardly believe his ears, gazed at the Bohemian as the Incas gazed at the sun, then opened his long arms and threw himself into those of the man with the gray beard, crying:
"By the shades of my ancestors! you are a noble old man! I do not know you; but it would seem that you know me; for your behavior toward me is that of an old friend!"
"Oh! who has not heard of the valiant Chevalier Passedix, godson of the worthy Chaudoreille!—of his exploits, of his prowess, and of his triumphs with the ladies! I am only a poor Bohemian, but, by virtue of my profession, I know very well what is happening in Paris. So do not be surprised, seigneur chevalier, that I am so well informed with respect to your affairs."
"Capédébious! this old man talks better than our ediles!—Don't you think so, friend Cédrille, eh? Why do you refuse to speak, and keep your hand over your left eye?"
Cédrille took his hand from his face and showed his left eye, which had received the full force of the shopkeeper'sblow, and which was surrounded by a black and blue circle and weeping profusely.
"Bigre! what is all this, my boy? Did you fall on something unhealthy?"
"Yes, I fell on the fisticuff that was intended for you; and it was well directed, as you see; that miserable man didn't strike with a light hand!"
"Ah! poor fellow! can it be? I am sorry now that I didn't run that clown through!"
"Come, come! to table, and let us forget about all that!" said the Bohemian, seating himself and filling the glasses. "After all is said, life is always a mixture of battles and pleasures, of strife and feasting; we must forget the former and make the most of the latter."
"Yes, that is so; to table! the old Bohemian talks like Nostradamus, from whom he is probably descended."
"Not in a direct line, but that makes no difference; I try to walk in his footsteps by reading the future as best I may. Let us drink, messeigneurs, and let us attack this omelet."
"Ah, yes! let us attack the omelet and give it no quarter."
Passedix took his place in front of the supper, the Bohemian being opposite; Cédrille was still standing, and seemed undecided as to what he should do.
"Well, young man, is my company not agreeable to you, that you do not take a seat with us?" said the old man, glancing at the Béarnais peasant.
"Your company cannot help flattering him!" cried Passedix, stuffing enormous slices of omelet into his mouth, and pieces of bread of equal dimensions. "Sandioux! who wouldn't be happy to drink with such a venerable old man, who has the grip of a Hercules?—Come, comrade Cédrille, sit you down there."
"Oh! I'll tell you what," replied Cédrille, as he seated himself; "I don't feel a bit hungry, and that blow made me sick!"
"The idea of a man of your age paying any attention to that little tap! you are strong enough to stand harder knocks than that!—Come! drink, as you are not hungry, and we will eat for you."
"Well said, venerable Bohemian! He need have no fear, I will eat his share; but let us drink; one can always drink, even when one is not thirsty."
The Bohemian was careful not to leave the glasses of his guests empty; and Cédrille, led on by the example set him, finally decided to partake of the omelet.
"All the same," he muttered, "I haven't enjoyed myself much here!"
"Bigre! my boy, you are hard to please! You see before you a delicious supper—with two jovial companions; this venerable Bohemian fills your glass every instant; this wine is very good—and you are not satisfied. Is it because we had a quarrel with two boors? But in Paris it rarely happens that one passes a day without an affair, more or less serious. Why, I myself, as you seeme, when I return home at night without having drawn my sword, am not content with my day; I feel that something is lacking.—You must know, respected Bohemian, that this young man has been in Paris only since this morning; he cannot as yet be acquainted with our customs; but I have undertaken his education, and I will push him!"
"Thanks!" said Cédrille to himself; "if he pushes me the way he has this evening, I shall risk nothing by keeping on my guard."
"Yes, yes," said the old man, caressing his beard, "I know that this young man arrived in Paris to-day, with his cousin, a very pretty young woman—a fascinating brunette."
"I say! you know that?" exclaimed Cédrille, staring at the old man in amazement. "You're a sorcerer, are you?"
"That is my profession."
"And I bow before your magic power!" cried Passedix, emptying his glass at a draught.
"But they burn sorcerers!" muttered the peasant, moving his chair away from the table and looking at the Bohemian with a distrustful expression.
"And so I fully expect to be roasted some day! But meanwhile I must make merry during the time I still have to pass on this earth.—Waiter, eau-de-vie—a large measure!"
Passedix grasped the Bohemian's hand and shook it effusively, saying:
"If anyone should ever be so ill-advised as to touch a hair of your head!—You know that I am devoted to you and that I am fearless?—I will undertake to deliver you, even from the Bastille, if they should imprison you there!"
Poussinet brought the eau-de-vie, for which the old man paid on the spot.
Meanwhile, most of the drinkers and habitués of the establishment had gone; and the proprietor, approaching our three friends, bowed to them, very respectfully this time, and said:
"Messeigneurs, the curfew has rung; I must warn you that I shall soon be obliged, to my regret, to send you away; for if the watch should see a light in my shop, I——"
"Very good, very good, my man!" replied the Bohemian; "we are drinking quietly, we are making no disturbance, and we have some time before us still. Moreover, there are ways of arranging matters with the watch."
As he spoke, the old man slipped into the cabaretier's hand a piece of silver which he took from his belt.
The proprietor of the Loup de Mer bowed again, saying:
"Well, messeigneurs, do as you please; my first duty is to satisfy my customers."
"Sandis! let the watch come!" cried Passedix, drinking eau-de-vie as if it were wine. "We will give them a warm reception; they'll find someone to talk to, eh!friend Cédrille?—Let us take a drink! this young new-comer hangs back!"
"No, I don't; but my eye pains me!"
"An additional reason for drinking! this eau-de-vie is nectar.—Here's the health of the man who treats us so courteously! Our host is a sly rascal! he pretends to be afraid of the watch, but the watch isn't so strict, so severe, as formerly. It doesn't date from yesterday, you know; as long ago as the time of Clotaire II, every large town in the kingdom had a night watch. In 595, an edict was issued, of which the principal provisions were:
"When a robbery is committed at night, those who are of the watch in the quarter will be held responsible if they do not arrest the robber; if the robber, fleeing from them, is seen in another quarter, and the guard of that other quarter, being forthwith notified, fail to arrest him, the loss occasioned by the robbery shall fall upon them, and they will be condemned in addition to pay a fine of five sous; and in like manner from quarter to quarter.—Peste! there was no joking about such matters in those days!"
"What I admire most of all, monsieur le chevalier," said the Bohemian, filling the glasses, "is your profound erudition; you know everything—yes, everything! I will wager that you are able to quote theCapitulairesof Charlemagne."
"In truth, I am rather well informed; and but for this infernal vocation for the sword and for fighting, I believe that I should have become a troubadour, a trouvère,of the first rank; I should have contended for the palm with Clémence Isaure and all her supporters!—Delicious eau-de-vie! it is like whey!"
"Come, come, Seigneur Cédrille; you do not drink, you do not follow your gallant companion's example!"
"Oh! you see, I am not empty, like the chevalier; I had a good lot to drink at the hôtel."
"At the hôtel where you lodge?"
"No; at the Hôtel de Mongarcin, where I took my cousin Miretta and left her."
"Ah! so your pretty cousin is at the Hôtel de Mongarcin?"
"Yes, on Rue Saint-Honoré—close by."
"On this same street, eh?"
"She has a fine place there with the young lady of the house; and I—they are kind enough to keep me too, as long as I stay in Paris. But I shall not stay long; I have no desire to enjoy myself every evening the way I have this evening."
The Bohemian seemed to reflect; Passedix, whose eyes were beginning to close and his utterance to thicken, heaved a profound sigh and muttered:
"Look you, comrade Cédrille, I am going to tell you something in confidence: you can't be in love with your cousin, as you leave her here in Paris and go back to your mountains!"
"You think I ain't in love with her, do you? Well, that is where you are mistaken! On the contrary, I loveMiretta with all my heart, and I'd have liked right well to marry her! But she won't have me! So all I can do is make the best of it! She refused me flat, and she's a girl with a very strong will! When she says no, that's the end of it; she never changes her mind."
"Since she has refused you, we are friends once more; for you are no longer my rival."
"Your rival?"
"Sandis! yes! I do not choose to dissemble any longer. I am in love with your enchanting cousin! Ah! so much in love that it would make me an idiot if that were possible! And with me, I venture to think that she will not sayno!"
Cédrille rubbed his uninjured eye, and stared for several seconds at the long, lank, yellow chevalier, who had declared his love for his pretty cousin; then, without replying, he began to laugh heartily.
This outburst of hilarity seemed to displease Passedix, who said:
"What are you laughing at, young countryman? I am not fond of having anyone laugh at me without telling me why, capédébious! I am your friend, but you must not presume upon the rights which that title gives you."
"Seigneur chevalier," said the Bohemian, "you seem to me to forget at this moment that this young man is the kinsman of the woman you love."
"You are right, venerable old man.—Your hand, Cédrille; no quarrel between us! I drink to your health!"
"Ah! jarni!" cried the Béarnais peasant, putting his hand to his brow. "I remember now—and it had gone entirely out of my head!"
"What, my fine fellow?"
"My cousin told me that she would look for me this evening, at dusk, to take her to Rue Saint-Jacques, to Master Hugonnet's bath keeper, whose daughter came to our assistance this morning during that infernal battle."
"What, little cousin! pretty Miretta makes an appointment with you, and you forget it!—Mordioux! if she had said that to me! But perhaps it is not too late; let us go there."
Passedix tried to rise, as did Cédrille, but neither of them was able to stand on his legs, and they fell back heavily on their chairs.
Meanwhile, the Bohemian had taken from beneath his cloak a small phial filled with a reddish liquid, from which he poured into his companions' goblets, pretended to put some into his own glass, and took it up, saying:
"Can you think of such a thing,beaux sires? it is too late now, a young girl cannot go out at this time of night; the fair Miretta must have abandoned her walk, and you will take her some other time. Meanwhile, taste thisrozolio, of which my lucky star enabled me to obtain a flask, and which I could not drink in better company!"
Passedix hastened to drink the liqueur which had been put before him, not, however, without pausing now and then to smack his lips; Cédrille did the same, stammering:
"Ah! jarnigué! that's good! That smacks of all sorts of things; I never drank anything so sweet. What do you call this?"
"Our venerable friend has just told you," hiccoughed Passedix, resting his arms on the table. "It'sro—ro—rozo——"
He was unable to finish the word. In a moment, his head sank on his arms and he fell asleep; Cédrille soon followed his example.
Thereupon the Bohemian rose, left the table, and walked hastily from the wine shop.
As soon as he was in the street, the pretended Bohemian walked at a gait which did not resemble that of an old man; he went hastily along Rue Saint-Honoré toward the Hôtel de Mongarcin. There he stopped, looked about in all directions, and listened for sounds inside the house, where some windows were still lighted; then he tried to pierce the darkness that prevailed in the street; for at that time Paris was very poorly lighted, or, rather, was not lighted at all.
Toward the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Parisians had been ordered to place lighted lanterns infront of their houses, but the order had never been strictly complied with. And even when a lantern was placed before a door, it contained only a candle; so that you can judge how much light it was likely to give and how long it would burn. From time to time, one spied a bright light in the distance, but it did not remain in one place; and when it happened to come toward you, you discovered that it was a torchbearer. In most cases, that industry was carried on by children; there was a bureau on the Estrapade, where boys were supplied with torches to provide light for persons using the streets at night.
After a few moments' reflection, our Bohemian suddenly walked on; he continued up the street, and took what seemed to him the shortest road to Rue Saint-Jacques. But, as he walked, he scrutinized carefully every woman whom he met; to be sure, his curiosity found few subjects to investigate, for it was nearly ten o'clock, which was very late at that period; so that but few people were abroad; and a woman who appeared in the street alone, at that time of night, might well expect that people would form a very poor opinion of her and treat her accordingly.
But as he drew near the fortress called the Grand Châtelet, the Bohemian stopped; he had espied a woman, alone, who was looking about her and seemed not to know which way to turn.
She made up her mind at last, and was starting toward the Petit-Pont, when a voice called to her:
"Where are you going, Miretta? You are wrong; that is not your road."
At the first sound of that voice, Miretta—for it was she—stopped as if paralyzed by surprise; but it had no sooner ceased to speak than she cried out, with a delight which she could not hold in check:
"That voice—oh! it is his! I cannot be mistaken! Where are you, Giova——"
Before the girl could finish the name, the pretended Bohemian had taken her in his arms and strained her to his heart, saying in an undertone:
"Hush! hush! never utter that name! for it would be my destruction! it would be condemning me to death!"
"To death! Oh! forgive me, forgive me! but I am so happy, you see, at this moment! I see you once more, I find you the very first day that I am in Paris. Ah! I did not hope for so much good fortune! My dearest friend, my only love! oh! tell me that you still love me, and I will forget all the tears I have shed since you abandoned me. Tell me that you are still my lover, my beloved, my Giova——"
"Again! Ah! Miretta, you will cause my ruin!"
"Oh! forgive me! but the pleasure, the joy of seeing you after such a long separation—— I am mad, you see; I do not know what I say! Here, feel how my heart beats! it is you, it is you, who are the cause! Oh! speak to me, let me hear your loved voice again; let me be quite certain that I am not the plaything of an illusion; for this costume,this gray beard—— Oh! but it makes no difference! I see your eyes, I am sure that I am not mistaken!"
"Come, come!" said Giovanni, passing the girl's arm through his; "let us go away, first of all, from this fortress; the neighborhood of the Grand Châtelet is not healthy for me."
The girl allowed her lover to lead her away; it mattered little to her whither he took her; she was with the man to whom she had given her heart and had sworn to devote her life. That great city which she did not know, the darkness that encompassed her, the distant outcries that reached her ears from time to time—thenceforth none of those things frightened her, for she held Giovanni's arm.
The false Bohemian kept the girl walking for some time, pressing her arm as soon as she attempted to speak, and motioning to her to maintain the most profound silence. But Miretta's conductor seemed to know Paris perfectly, and its most crooked, most deserted streets. After leading her through several dark and narrow lanes, he came out on a small square, stopped in front of a house, took a key from his pocket, opened the door, and led his companion into the hall, saying:
"This is the hôtel where I live; give me your hand and let me lead you. Don't be afraid; in a moment we shall be able to see; make no noise."
"Afraid! afraid! when I am with you! ah! you know me very little! See, here is my hand! does it tremble?I am with you; what does it matter to me where you take me? I shall always be happy with you."
A slight pressure of the hand replied to these words from Miretta; then her guide led her up a staircase, stopped on the first floor, softly opened a door, and ushered the girl into an apartment, where, by means of a lamp burning at the back of the hearth, he speedily lighted several candles. Giovanni then laid aside his cap, his wig, his great cloak, and revealed a young man with a refined Italian face, whom we have already seen in the plumed hat of thesoi-disantComte de Carvajal, a guest at the Hôtel du Sanglier, to which he had taken Miretta.
When she saw her lover stripped of all that paraphernalia which disguised him, the girl ran to him and threw herself into his arms, crying:
"Ah! now you are as I knew you at Milan; as you were when you invited me to dance, the first time we met at the Balestrino. How gladly I accepted! How happy I felt even then to be dancing with you! for, you know, I fell in love with you on the spot. That sentiment which was destined to bind me to you struck me to the heart like thought, like lightning. It is always like that when love is genuine, when it is destined to last forever. Isn't it so, my beloved? And you loved me at once, too, did you not?"
As Giovanni listened to Miretta, his eyes assumed an expression of tender melancholy. He had thrown himselfon a sofa; he drew the young girl to a seat by his side, took one of her hands, which he put to his lips from time to time, and said in an undertone:
"Speak, speak on; you recall a very happy time!"
"Very happy, do you say? But in that case, my love, why not have prolonged it? I was free, my own mistress, and, listening only to my heart, I gave myself to you; Giovanni was my idol, my god! How impatiently I awaited your coming at night, under the shade of the orange trees where you used to meet me! I asked nothing of you but to love me and to tell me so. Ah! you know, Giovanni, how little I envied the jewels and fine dresses of other girls! I had no desire for those costly pleasures which one enjoys in cities! I wanted only you—only your love! But after a few short months of that happiness, which I believed was to last forever, you grew sad and anxious, you began to fail frequently to keep our appointments. When I reproached you, you lost your temper instead of apologizing. At last, one evening you told me that you were going to start for Paris. 'With me?' I instantly asked. But you turned your head away. All my entreaties were useless. I wept a long while at your feet; you said to me simply: 'I will return!'"
"Yes," Giovanni replied, looking the girl in the face; "and I forbade you to follow me."
"And so I did not follow you."
"But why have you come to Paris, then?"
"And why have you not returned? It is six months since you went away—six months! Cannot you understand that that is a fearfully long time when one loves, when one is waiting, when one lives only on hope?"
"I would have returned."
"Oh! don't tell me that, Giovanni! No, you would not have returned—or else you would have come too late and would have found me dead! Clearly, you do not understand how much I love you; you know not that to me this love is above and beyond the whole world, that it makes me capable of defying everything, of undertaking any enterprise.—But why do I disturb the happiness that is mine now that I have found you?—Why these clouds on your brow? I will not utter one word of reproach—I will not ask a question. Let me live in the same city with you, let me see you, speak to you sometimes, and I shall be happy; and I will not even ask you what you are doing in Paris, or why you are afraid to have me mention your name!"
"But I propose to tell you!" muttered Giovanni, in a gloomy voice, dropping the girl's hand, so that she shuddered, although she did not yet know why her heart was turned to ice. "Since you have chosen to come to Paris despite my prohibition, you must know what your lover is doing; otherwise, you might unsuspectingly compromise his safety every day."
The young man rose and walked about the room, with a sinister expression, saying:
"Ah! why did you come to Paris, Miretta?"
"Mon Dieu! in what a tone you say that! You would make me tremble if I did not love you so dearly!"
"Your love will not resist, I will swear, the confidence I am about to make to you."
"My love is stronger than everything! You may put it to the test!"
"But if your lover were—a man banished from society—a—a criminal, in short?"
Miretta ran to Giovanni and threw herself into his arms, crying in a tone of savage joy:
"Ah! I was afraid that you were going to say that you loved someone else! I breathe again, since it is not that."
Giovanni kept his eyes fixed for some moments on the girl's, then said, shaking his head:
"Ah! it is the truth! she loves me truly!"
Thereupon he resumed his seat and continued, but more calmly:
"Listen, Miretta: there has been in Paris, for several months past, a man who spreads terror through all classes of society, but especially among the wealthiest; this man—this robber, for I am talking of a robber—attacks every night those people whose purses he knows to be well lined. Adroit, active, fearless, he intimidates his victims by his audacity, he inspires terror by his mere presence, and never, up to the present moment, has he been obliged to shed blood in order to accomplish his ends. When—which rarely happens—he falls in with a gentleman whois brave enough to defend himself, he easily disarms him, and then contents himself with taking his gold. You may imagine that the police are straining every nerve to capture this brigand; but thus far all their efforts have been fruitless. And yet his description, or rather his costume, is known everywhere; for the robber always wears the same dress when he performs his exploits. An ample olive-green cloak envelops his body, a red cap with a fringe of boar's hair covers his head and comes down to his eyes, and a long black beard conceals the lower part of his face."
"Mon Dieu!" said Miretta; "the man must present a terrifying appearance, in very truth! But what have I to do with this robber? I am not afraid that he will take my gold. And why do you tell me of all his doughty deeds?"
Giovanni rose without replying; he went to an old chest secured by a stout padlock, opened it, and took out the olive-green cloak, the cap with the boar's hair, and the enormous black beard. He threw them all at the girl's feet, saying:
"See! here is the costume that this redoubtable brigand assumes every night; for this man whom the police seek and pursue to no purpose, this man who spreads terror and dismay throughout Paris—is I—your lover—Giovanni!"
Miretta covered her face with her hands.
"You!" she murmured; "you! Oh! it is impossible!"
"I have told you the truth, Miretta; indeed, why should I tell you this story, if it were untrue?"
"O mon Dieu! But what can have induced you to take up this horrible trade?"
"Oh! it goes back a long way! Alas! in life, one thing leads to another, all things are connected. The child who refuses to study, the youth who leads a vagabond life, the young man who seeks only to enjoy himself and to gratify his passions—all these are insensibly marching on to the goal which I have reached. They approach it less openly, perhaps! Some become swindlers, others Greeks—that is to say, they cheat at cards in fashionable society. I consider myself as good as they are; I run greater risks, that is all the difference! Yes, the man who seeks nothing but pleasure comes to this, unless he has the strength, the common sense, to stop in time. But I did not stop. I determined to indulge myself with all the forms of pleasure which the favorites of fortune enjoy—or those men whose talents raise them to the highest positions, to the greatest honors. But I had neither fortune nor talent. I might tell you that it was the decree of fate, that my destiny was written in advance, that I could not avoid it. I will not say that, because I do not believe it; because, on the contrary, everything tends to prove that men make themselves what they are.—Besides, why should I seek to excuse myself? I had a momentary respite from my passions—a moment of calm and almost unalloyed happiness; that was when I knew you, Miretta! Your sincere love made me think, for a brief period, that to love was all that was necessary to be happy.But soon those passions, which you had had the art to lull to sleep, reawoke in my being; it was impossible for me to resist them. You yourself unsuspectingly aroused them sometimes; for when I saw you dressed so simply, so shabbily, I would say to myself:
"'Ah! how lovely she would be in a handsome silk dress! in the jewels with which so many old and ugly women bedeck themselves! What joy to drive with her in a fine carriage! to see everyone admire her and envy my good fortune!'"
"Ah! did I need fine clothes to love you, Giovanni?"
"No, not you; but I—I wanted to give them to you, to see you dressed in them.—Well, Miretta, that desire I am able to satisfy now. Come, look!"
Giovanni took Miretta's hand, led her to the chest, opened a false bottom, and showed her a heap of gold pieces, jewels, and diamonds, which half filled the great box.
"Do you see that gold? do you see all those treasures? A few more months in Paris, and I shall have twice as much! Then I will return to Italy; and if you will go with me, you shall be the most fashionable, the most coquettish, the most richly dressed of women!"
Miretta turned away from the chest with a gesture of horror.
"I! array myself in jewels that you have stolen! Oh! never! never! That gold makes me ill! Look you, Giovanni—I must needs love you very dearly to be stillin the room with you after the confession you have made to me! And yet, I am grateful to you for having confided this terrible secret to me; I thank you for having such confidence in me.—Ah! you know full well that I will not betray it!—Yes, my love is so great that I can forgive everything, forget everything! But, in pity's name! for the love of God! renounce this ghastly career; leave this path of crime in which, sooner or later, you will meet your punishment! You wanted wealth—well, have you not enough? Take what you have acquired by such evil means, since you have the courage to make use of it without remorse. But come with me; let us leave Paris, and France, to-morrow—nay, this very night! I will stay with you, to watch over your safety, to turn aside the dangers that may threaten you. When all danger is at an end, then I will leave you, if my presence annoys you; but, near or far, I will watch over you, and every morning and every evening I will pray God to forgive your crimes and open your heart to repentance.—Giovanni, my Giovanni, do not spurn my entreaties; trust a secret voice which tells me that death awaits you in the frightful trade you ply. I beg you on my knees—abandon it, and let us fly—far, far from Paris—to the end of the world—so far that you will be in no danger.—Oh! I was mad just now when I preferred to know that you were a criminal rather than in love with another woman; heaven is punishing me for that blasphemy.—Giovanni, I give you back your liberty, youroaths; I will forgive you if you do love another woman. But, in the name of the Madonna who presided over your birth, tell me, oh! tell me that you will abandon this career, which will surely lead you to the scaffold!"
The girl had thrown herself at her lover's feet, she held his hands, she raised to his face her eyes wet with tears; and at that moment there was something sublime in the expression of her features.
But Giovanni had listened to her with no outward evidence of emotion. When she ceased to speak, he raised her, seated her on the sofa, took his seat beside her, and said with perfect tranquillity:
"My dear love, I forbade you to follow me, to come to France. I was wise to do so; I anticipated some such scene as this. If you will take my advice, you will return instantly to Milan."
"With you?"
"No; without me."
"Never! My mind is made up: I shall remain where you are. I have nothing left to lose! I have sacrificed to you a maiden's most precious treasure, and it is easy for me to give you now my repose and my life."
"But I do not ask you for either. You are too excitable, my poor Miretta! you have an ardent imagination. Now, I am thoroughly practical. You choose to remain in Paris—very good! But you must understand that it is impossible for you to live with me; you would embarrass me; in this trade of mine, a woman is always inthe way; when she thinks that she is helping us, she ruins us!"
"So you are not willing to abandon this—this infamous trade?"
Giovanni darted a glance at the girl which almost made her shudder, as he replied:
"No woman will ever change my resolutions; when it pleases me to enjoy my wealth, to return to Italy, the robber will vanish, and Giovanni, favored of fortune, assuming a stately name and title, will make a brilliant appearance in the world, where everyone will cringe to him without trying to ascertain the source of his fortune.—You have heard me, Miretta; so never recur to this subject, or you will see me no more."
Miretta made no other reply than to let her head sink sadly on her breast.
"You have a place in Paris, I am told: you are in the service of Mademoiselle Valentine de Mongarcin?"
"Yes; how do you know that?"
"I know much more! It was Cédrille, your cousin, who brought you to Paris?"
"Yes; and I had arranged to meet him in front of the house this evening, at dusk; I thought that he would be my escort and would take me to see a young girl who lives on Rue Saint-Jacques, where her father keeps baths; for that girl rendered us a great service this morning, when we arrived in Paris. You do not know that——"
"I know all! the miserable jests, the jibes that they discharged at your travelling companion, poor Cédrille; and the compliments they paid to the pretty foreigner; and the quarrel and the battle that followed!—Oh! I recognized in all that the untamed highborn youth, which is determined to be master in France—more master than the king, in truth! But let them beware! There is at the head of the government a certain Cardinal de Richelieu, who, I fancy, will straighten all this out! He will be called a tyrant, for every man is so called who attempts to put down abuses, to put a curb on license and disorder, to give power to the laws, and, above all, to have them executed, whatever the name, the rank, or the exalted position of the person whom they strike!—But the man of genius, the strong man, is not at all disturbed by the clamor which he stirs up about him; he goes his way and reaches his goal, often calumniated by his contemporaries; it is posterity that takes it upon itself to do him justice!—Well! it seems to me, Miretta, that I reason rather well for a robber, eh? You see that, even though one lives at war with society, that does not prevent one from doing justice to those who are able to protect it.—But let us return to yourself: you waited in vain for Cédrille, for I was plying him with drink at a wine shop, with a certain Gascon chevalier, as long and lean as a beanpole, who claims also to be your liberator."
"Oh, yes! I remember; a tall man, and very thin; he almost knelt in front of our horse; he insisted on kissingmy hand and on my accepting him for my knight! But he is horribly ugly!"
"That is true; but that does not prevent him from being in love with you. Ah! Seigneur Passedix—that is this hero's name—is not discreet in his love affairs. Beware, Miretta! he has sworn to triumph over your rigor."
"He is not dangerous! But even if he were the handsomest, most fascinating man in the kingdom of France, you well know that my heart is no longer mine to give!"
Giovanni bestowed an affectionate glance on the girl and pressed her hand lovingly, murmuring:
"Poor girl! I know well that that is true! You are not like other women!"
But soon, as if regretting that momentary weakness, the Italian resumed his indifferent air and began to pace the floor.
"Well," he said, "have you been to see the bath keeper's daughter on Rue Saint-Jacques?"
"Mon Dieu! no; in the first place, I waited for Cédrille a long while; and when he did not come, I decided to go alone, for I am not timid, as you know. But when I found myself all alone, at night, in the streets of this great city, of which I have heard so many terrible things, I felt troubled, my heart beat fast; however, I walked on, thinking that I knew my road. At last, as I was afraid of going astray, I spoke to a gentleman who was passing, and asked him to direct me to MasterHugonnet's baths, on Rue Saint-Jacques.—Ah! how I regretted speaking to that man! If you knew how he treated me!—'Aha! you wanton!' he said; 'going to the baths so late? then the assignation must be very important!'—And he added a lot of insulting remarks, and tried to put his arm about my waist and to detain me by force. But anger gave me strength; I pushed the man away so violently that he seemed dazed, and I fled, running at random; then it was that I lost my way altogether. I walked a long, long while, trying to find my way back to the Hôtel de Mongarcin; but I would have passed the whole night in the street rather than ask my way again! Then you met me."
"This should serve you as a lesson, Miretta; you must not venture out alone in Paris at night; it is dangerous for a man, much more so for a pretty young girl; and if the watch had fallen in with you, they would have taken you to the Filles Repenties. But the clock struck ten long ago; I will take you back to the Hôtel de Mongarcin. Do you know that they will form a strange opinion of you there? On the very day of your arrival, you disappear for a large part of the evening."
"I shall tell my young mistress what happened to me; I shall tell her the whole truth; Mademoiselle Valentine will forgive me, for I will promise to be more prudent hereafter."
"You will tell her thewholetruth?" repeated Giovanni, fastening his eyes on the girl's face.
"Yes, but without naming you. Oh! never fear: I will not tell—your secret."
"I rely upon it; come! But wait a moment."
Giovanni took the horrible hairy cap, the huge beard, and the olive-green cloak, and held them all up before Miretta, saying:
"Look at these carefully; if you should ever see a man dressed in these clothes, fly, fly at once—do not go near that man!—Do you swear, Miretta?"
"I swear," faltered the girl, in a trembling voice.
"On that condition, you will see me again sometimes, now as a wealthy gentleman, now as a simple artisan, or a bourgeois; but I will speak first to you."
With that, the Italian hastily resumed the costume of an old Bohemian; when that was done, he said:
"Come, now, let us make haste; but, above all things, make no noise."
Giovanni quickly extinguished the candles and replaced in its corner the smoking lamp, which but dimly lighted the apartment. Then he took Miretta's hand and led her from the room and the house with the same precautions and without meeting anybody. Once in the street, he drew his companion's arm through his and forced her to walk rapidly.
They walked the whole distance in silence; the girl was oppressed by grief and alarm; when they met anyone, she pressed her guide's arm tight, for she imagined that he would be recognized and arrested. But Giovanniknew Paris and its most crooked streets perfectly; in a very short time he and his companion stopped in front of a large house, and he said to her:
"This is the place; here is the Hôtel de Mongarcin; you are at home."
"Already!"
"You sayalready, and you are trembling like a leaf, my poor girl!"
"Oh! not for myself! For now I must leave you; but when shall I see you again?"
Giovanni made a movement with his head which seemed to indicate that he did not himself know. Then, before Miretta had had time to detain him, he disappeared, and she soon ceased to hear his footsteps.
Thereupon Miretta gave free vent to her sobs and went into the house, murmuring:
"Ah! the unhappy man!"
Long before the reign of King Louis XIII, the sheriffs of Paris were wont, on Saint-Jean's Eve, to cause huge piles of sticks of all dimensions, with thorn bushes and small twigs quick to ignite, to be constructed on Place de Grève, whither the king would come, in solemn state, to set fire to that enormous mass with his own hand.
In 1471, Louis XI followed the example of his predecessors and presided at that ceremony, which eventually came to be attended with fêtes and entertainments to which the good people of Paris always looked forward with impatience.
The Fire of Saint-Jean in 1573 was a magnificent ceremony, so it is said. A mast about sixty feet in height had been erected on Place de Grève, with many wooden crossbars, to which an enormous quantity of fagots and bundles of brushwood was attached. A number of loads of wood and countless bundles of straw were heaped about the base of this structure. The whole was decorated, or rather disguised, by wreaths and garlands. Bouquets were distributed to the king and his suite, to the notables of the city, and to the magistrates. Fireworksalso were placed under the fagots. A hundred and twenty archers from the city, a hundred bowmen, and a hundred arquebusiers kept order. Lastly, they hung on the mast a large basket containing two dozen cats and a fox. This last then was, no doubt, thene plus ultraof the fête. Poor cats! poor foxes! We leave you in peace now when we have public rejoicings; and to say the truth, I am persuaded that they are none the less attractive for that reason.
Under Cardinal de Richelieu, the ceremony of the Fire of Saint-Jean had lost much of its brilliancy; cats were no longer burned, as it was natural that they should not be, the first minister having a deep affection for those animals, by which he loved to be surrounded.
However, the ceremony continued to take place, and still attracted a goodly number of sightseers, idlers, students, young girls, and even young gentlemen, who came thither in search of adventures, or to play tricks on rustics.
A few weeks after the events we have narrated, the Place de Grève was adorned by a pile of combustibles, which, while it could not be compared with those which we have described, was very presentable none the less.
When the night began to fall, there was a large number of people assembled on the square; but that was a mere nothing, for every moment thereafter the quays or the narrow streets leading into the square poured forth aconstant stream of bourgeois parties, bands of young clerks of the Basoche, young men arm in arm, people of the lower classes, esquires, pages, and elegant young gentlemen carefully enveloped in their cloaks, beneath which they tried to conceal the richness of their costumes, but always betrayed it by the too gorgeous plumes that adorned their hats or the magnificence of the spurs attached to their boots.
By the time that it was quite dark, the square was crowded, and one could not move without difficulty, especially in the direction of the pile. But what life! what animation! what a fusillade of voices! what a din of remarks and questions bandied about in all directions! It was an incessant humming sound.
Many people reflected aloud, in order to be overheard by everybody within earshot; for at all times there have been plenty of those fine talkers, those pretentious personages who deem themselves called upon to declaim, to put themselves forward, and who often put forward nothing but their folly or their conceit!
"This way, father; let us go this way; I promise you that we shall have a much better place to see the fire!" said a tall, fine-looking girl, in whom we meet once more a pleasant acquaintance from Rue Saint-Jacques.
It was Ambroisine, whose right arm was passed through the arm of a girl even prettier than herself, but with a shy, timid air, who was evidently surprised beyond measure to find herself in the midst of that tumult. That girlwas Bathilde, the daughter of Landry the bath keeper of Rue Dauphine.
How did it happen that she was so far from home, and without her mother, in the midst of that bold and curious crowd, where beauty and youth were the objective point of the glances of most of the sightseers? How did it happen that she was arm in arm with Ambroisine, upon whom Dame Ragonde had looked coldly for so long a time, and with whom she seemed afraid to allow her daughter to talk?
The reason was that Bathilde's mother had an old kinswoman in Normandie, who had always manifested much affection for her, and had refrained from marrying, with the intention of leaving all her property to Ragonde some day. That property consisted of a few acres of land and a wretched house—the whole being worth, perhaps, fifteen hundred livres; but we must remember that in those days fifteen hundred livres was equal to six thousand to-day; that Landry had no other property than his business; and lastly, that in Ragonde's eyes that fifteen hundred livres would be a sufficient dowry to obtain for Bathilde the hand of some respectable Parisian tradesman.
It happened that one fine day a message arrived from Caudebec, the old kinswoman's residence. A neighbor of hers wrote to Dame Landry, to inform her that her cousin was very ill, and was most anxious to have her by her side, to close her eyes. He added that haste wasimportant, because the old maid seemed to have only a short time to live.
On receipt of this message, Dame Ragonde instantly made preparations for her journey; the famous inheritance being at stake, she felt that she must not hesitate! But as she was about to start, she thought of Bathilde, whom in her absorption she had forgotten. Should she take her or leave her with her father? To trust the old trooper of Henri IV to watch over a young girl was imprudent, perhaps. But, on the other hand, to take on a journey the child whom she had guarded so carefully up to that time was to expose her to the risk of listening to the chatter of every comer; of being the object of gallant attentions, perhaps even of bold enterprises, on the part of their fellow travellers. For Dame Ragonde had not the means to travel in a litter; and in those days travel was so slow, the means of transport so difficult, that one was obliged to pass a long time in a coach or other vehicle, even when one had not a long distance to travel. And then there was the matter of expense, which was of great importance to the bath keeper's wife. It cost a great deal to travel; and the expense would be doubled if she should take her daughter.
The result of her reflections was that Dame Ragonde set out alone, but not without saying to her husband many times:
"Keep a sharp eye on your daughter! Don't let her leave the house or receive any visits; make no change inthe order which I have established in our household, so that no one may notice that I am absent! And always tell everyone that I am coming back in the course of the day."
If the person who goes away knew how soon her injunctions are forgotten, she would not take the trouble to repeat them so many times. It is not always disinclination to comply with them on the part of those whom you leave in your place; but when you give your instructions, you cannot at the same time impart your habits, your intelligence, your rigidity, your searching glance, your observant mind—in a word, your nature; and everyone acts according to his nature.
Landry, despite his moustaches and his surly manner, had a softer heart than his wife; and then, too, this persistent watching, this making one's self a spy upon one's daughter, is much more consonant with a woman's habit than with a man's. Moreover, as the old soldier had not the slightest doubt of his child's virtue, he did not understand why he must be incessantly on his guard, as with a prisoner who is always trying to escape.
The first days that followed Dame Ragonde's departure brought about no change in Bathilde's usual mode of life, for it did not occur to her to ask leave to go out, and no one came to divert her.
But one morning Ambroisine came to Landry's establishment, and was much surprised to be able to reach Bathilde's room without meeting her mother's sour face and hearing her say:
"My daughter is busy; don't stay long, for it disturbs her."
When she learned that her friend's mother was away from Paris, Ambroisine uttered a cry of joy, and said to Bathilde:
"What! you have been free for several days, and you haven't sent me word or come to see me?"
"You know very well that I never go out."
"Because your mother is not willing; but when she is away——"
"Oh! father wouldn't let me go out, either; mother is sure to have told him not to!"
"Well, I will bet that he would; I will bet that your father will not be so strict, that he will understand that you have no pleasure, no distraction at all, and that it is not fair that a poor girl should pass her best days shut up in her room. Look you, I have a godmother, a nice old woman, a farmer's wife, who lives in the village of Vincennes. I never have time to go there, nor does my father; and yet Mère Moulineau—that is my godmother—often sends us little cheeses and cream, and begs us to come to see her. The poor woman is old and infirm and can't come to Paris. Every day, I say to father: 'To-morrow I will go to see my godmother Moulineau;' and he says: 'Go, my child.'—Well, Bathilde, if you like, I will take you with me, and we will sleep at godmother's. Ah! she will give us a warm welcome; she will be so glad to see me!"
"Oh! father wouldn't allow me to sleep away from our house."
"After all, perhaps you would find it tiresome at my godmother's.—By the way, it just occurs to me—the day after to-morrow is the day for the Fire of Saint-Jean on Place de Grève. Father has promised to take me there; I have never seen it, and they say it's beautiful; will you come with us?"
"Will I! Why, you know very well that I should be overjoyed—I who know nothing and have never seen anything. But I shall never dare to ask father to let me go; he would refuse."
"Perhaps so, if you asked him; but if my father, his friend, his comrade, should undertake the mission——"
"Your father! do you think that he would be willing to ask him that?"
"Why not? Father is kind-hearted, he loves me dearly, he sees no harm in his daughter having a little enjoyment sometimes. When it is a respectable kind of pleasure, where is the harm? Because one enjoys one's self a little, does that prevent one from behaving decently. Never fear—I will send him here, to your father, to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow you will come with us."
"Oh! if it might be true!"
"I have made up my mind, and it shall be. I have a will of my own, you see!"
And in fact, on the day following this interview, Master Hugonnet, to gratify his daughter's wish, betook himselfto his confrère Landry's shop, and, while emptying a jug of wine with him, said:
"I have a request to make of you, comrade."
"Speak; you know that if I can be of service to you in any way, I am at your disposal—I and my old blade, which is still serviceable at need!"
"Oh! I know the worth of your blade and the strength of your arm, but there is no question of them in what I have to ask.—You know that my girl is a friend of yours, that it is her greatest joy to be with her—for they have known each other a number of years; they were children when their acquaintance began; but now they are big girls, and their friendship has grown like their bodies!"
While Master Hugonnet was speaking, Landry played with his moustache, but did not frown.
"I know all that," he said at last, when his friend paused to take a drink. "Well! what then?"
"Well! I myself seize every opportunity that presents itself to provide my daughter with a little pleasure; for Ambroisine deserves it! The wench keeps my house in fine shape! she has brains and activity and character! She's a good girl, I tell you, and doesn't let the coxcombs and gallants, no, nor the grands seigneurs themselves,—and many of them come to my shop, God knows!—talk nonsense to her. When they try to be too free in their manners with Ambroisine—jernidié! she has a tongue and nails, and a stout fist. You should see how she makes them dance!"
"She does well. But what then?"
"Why, to-morrow is the ceremony of the Fire of Saint-Jean on Place de Grève; Ambroisine has never seen it, so she asked me to take her there, and I promised; but she told me, too, that she would be much happier if her young friend Bathilde could come with us, because she knew it would be a great pleasure for your daughter, who—who—who has none too many! You see, comrade, it isn't right to work all the time and never have any amusement; on the contrary, when one is young is when one should enjoy one's self. We old fellows still make merry once in a way, when we have an opportunity; and then, after all, where's the harm in a young girl having a little amusement, when it's with the knowledge of her parents and under their eyes? To cut it short, comrade, the purpose of all this is to ask you to confide your daughter Bathilde to me to-morrow, in the latter part of the afternoon, so that I may take her with Ambroisine to see the Fire of Saint-Jean; unless you will come with us, which would be much better."
As he listened to this request from his old friend, the ex-trooper's brow became clouded, and he caressed his gray moustache for a long while before replying:
"But, you see, I promised Ragonde not to let Bathilde go out."
"Alone! I understand that; but won't she be as safe with me and my daughter as with you? Come, come! jernidié! let us not be so strict with our children; if ourparents had always been so with us, it wouldn't have tended to make us worship them."
"Well!" Landry said at last, after a moment's hesitation; "come to-morrow and fetch Bathilde; I will try to join you later."
You know now by what concatenation of circumstances Bathilde found herself on Ambroisine's arm on the square where the Fire of Saint-Jean was to be celebrated.
"I say, Bahuchet! come this way; we can see the show explode much better!"
"Just wait, Plumard; before I can pass, this lady in front of me will have to move; and her equilibrium is stable, I tell you! Once planted, she's like the tower of Notre-Dame! there's no way of moving her."
"What's that you say, blackguards, ne'er-do-wells, miserable little Basochians! You come here to insult ladies! you're good for nothing else! The idea of moving for such gentry!"
"Oh! mon Dieu! madame seems to be getting excited! because she has a fine new petticoat with fal-lals on it, and a silver buckle on her belt!—I say, Plumard, Ithought there was an edict providing that only strumpets and pickpockets might wear gold or silver on their clothes?"
"Oh, yes! an edict of Henri IV. But perhaps this stout lady is within her rights!"
"Ah! you little villains, if the watch was passing, I'd have you apprehended!"
"Oho! the watch!"
"Aha! apprehended! she must be an attorney's wife."
"Don't push me, or I'll box your ears!"
"If you don't choose to be pushed here, you should come in a sedan chair."
"Or on your husband's mule."
"With his junior clerk.—Well! I must pass, all the same."
"You are treading on my foot, monsieur!"
"Why do you put your feet on the ground? in a crowd like this, you should stand on the air or perch on your neighbors."
"Oh! look yonder, Bahuchet! there's a lady with a mask!"
"Because she is ugly; that is why she doesn't choose to show her face."
"Or else she is here on the sly."
"Look you! I prefer to look at the faces of those two little hussies in blue caps."
"Yes, they are very pretty; but I know them by sight; they come here to meet a couple of pages; I oftenmeet them walking with their lovers on the Pré-aux-Clercs."
"I say, Plumard, do you know whether they are going to broil any cats in the fire to-night?"
"Why, no; don't you see that there isn't a single basket hung on the great tree?"
"Well, if they have stopped burning cats, there's no more sport! That's the way that all our noblest customs are being allowed to fall into decay! If I had known that, I'd have brought a bag of mice!"
"Do you sell mice?"
"No; but my landlord is very fond of them, for his house is always full; I believe he eats them."
The two young blades who were conversing thus in the midst of the crowd as unconcernedly as if they were alone were two attorney's clerks, but of the class that one meets more frequently in the streets, in front of shops and open-air theatres, than in the employer's office; genuine idlers, who, in the excitement of playing a joke on some passer-by, entirely forget the errand on which they have been sent, important though it may be, and who always remain under clerks, unless their parents have the means to buy them an office.
Bahuchet was very short—less than four feet nine; he had a wretched figure, in addition to his shortness, and an ugly face as well; his forehead was low, his too retroussé nose displayed two nostrils of enormous size, which played a very important rôle in his countenance;his mouth was too wide and his eyes too narrow; but in those small eyes there was an intelligent and mocking expression, which his cunning smile intensified.
Monsieur Bahuchet, albeit he was always disposed to laugh at other people, took in very bad part the jests that were aimed at his person; he lost his temper very easily. As a general rule, short men are much more choleric than tall ones; why? Rabelais will give you the explanation, which I dare not quote here.
Plumard, Bahuchet's friend and usual companion, measured just the five feet necessary for military service; but beside his comrade he considered himself a fine figure of a man, and ostentatiously looked down on him.
Monsieur Plumard, while he was not handsome, was less ugly than Bahuchet; he had a nose of respectable appearance; an ordinary mouth, but of modest dimensions; and his eyes, level with his face, might have attracted attention by their size had it not been that they did so first of all by the utter idiocy of their expression. But all that did not prevent Monsieur Plumard from esteeming himself a very good-looking youth.
There was something, however, that poisoned the enjoyment of this diminutive Apollo; his hair did not correspond with his other physical advantages. At the age of twenty-seven, the young clerk of the Basoche, who had never possessed more than a few scanty locks, saw with dismay that that scant supply was diminishing; an affection of the skin had already caused three-fourthsof it to drop out. He had for a long time flattered himself that it would grow again, but he found that even the little that remained was growing less.
In vain did the clerk rub himself—in default of pomades, which were then very expensive—with all the greasy substances that he thought capable of restoring the fertility of his scalp; the fatal round spot, having appeared on the summit of his head, had grown so much larger, and the brow had so extended its limits, that Monsieur Plumard was almost bald.
The result was that he wore almost always the small cap, in the shape of a hood, which the clerks of the Basoche then affected, and removed it only when he was absolutely obliged to do so.
Bahuchet, who knew his comrade from top to toe, and knew that his hair was the subject on which his self-esteem was most sensitive, often amused himself by attacking him at that point. It was not very manly; but Plumard retaliated by jeering at his comrade's small stature and his nose. Thus the two friends were quits, if we may call two persons friends who continually make fun of each other. But I am inclined to think that we may, for those who call themselves friends nowadays behave in much the same way.
"Are you in a good place, Bathilde? Can you see the pile?" Ambroisine asked her young friend, who had not eyes enough to look about the square, which was lighted by a vast number of torches which the shopkeepers hadplaced in front of their shops, and by lanterns which had been brought there by order of the lieutenant of police.
"Yes, yes, my dear Ambroisine, I am all right; I can see enough. I see so many things! all these people, all these costumes—it all seems so strange to me! Oh! but it is amusing!"
"If you like, children," said Master Hugonnet, "we might go somewhere and sit at a table? At one of yonder wine shops, we should have a very comfortable place to wait for the fire, and you would be sitting down, at all events, instead of standing all the time."
"Oh, no! my dear father, I see what you are aiming at—you would like something to drink. Upon my word! that would be very nice! When you have two girls to take care of, you don't drink, father—do you hear?"
"Ah! you would have me catch the pip, then?—And to think that devil of a Landry promised to join us! To be sure, he may be on the square; I should like to see anyone find an acquaintance in a mob like this! If we could find him, he would relieve me for a while. This crowd causes a heat that—that makes one thirsty."
"Ah! sandis! what a pleasant meeting! 'Tis the haughty Ambroisine, with her worthy father, whom I see before me!"
"Oho! it is Monsieur le Chevalier Passedix!" replied Ambroisine, as the long, lean gentleman planted himself in front of her. "Have you also come to see the Fire of Saint-Jean?"
"Ah! little do I care for these celebrations. The fire that burns in the depths of my heart would eclipse all possible Saint-Jeans. Do not be alarmed, cruel girl! it is no longer to you that those words are addressed. You spurned me, and I have carried elsewhere my sighs and my prayers!"
"Oh! I know it, monsieur le chevalier, and I congratulate you."
"You know it? Ah, yes! I remember; you even know for whom I sigh. You know Miretta?"
"Do I know her! Oh! she is my friend, too. I am very fond of her! She has shown such gratitude to me for the trivial service I rendered! She comes to see me now and then."
"Pardieu! I know it. The little one doesn't take a step without my knowledge, without having me at her heels!"
"She told me so, monsieur le chevalier, and I warn you that she dislikes it extremely. She has said to me several times: 'If that tall, thin, yellow man continues to follow me as soon as I set foot in the street, I shall be obliged to tell him that he is wasting his time and his steps.'"
"Ha! ha! ha! First of all, I will wager that Miretta did not say: 'that tall, thin, yellow man'; those are your own words, cruel tongue! Oh! I know women! They complain when we follow them; but they would be sorely disappointed if we did not follow them!"
"Well! try to disappoint Miretta; that will gratify her."
"I hoped to meet her here.—Bigre! I had not noticed; you have a most charming young lady on your arm!"
"Is she not? This is Bathilde, my closest friend. I suppose, of course, that you will at once fall in love with her too?"
"Oh, no! it is all over with me! You judge me ill, fair Ambroisine; I have given my heart to Miretta! For her alone do I propose henceforth to perform doughty deeds.—Sandis! what in the devil is this slipping between my legs like a lizard? Is it a man? is it an eel?"
"Don't disturb yourself, seigneur," replied Bahuchet; "I have got through. You must understand that I couldn't remain behind you; you are as tall as a giant!"
"And you are a dwarf, apparently! Ought atoms to be allowed in the crowd? Someone will crush you without noticing it, my little fellow!"
"Ouiche! I won't allow myself to be flattened out without sayingbeware!—I say, Plumard! do you hear this long asparagus stalk, who thinks that I am to be crushed like a grain of salt?"
Plumard was a few feet away, gazing at Bathilde, and apparently speechless with admiration.
"Plumard! Plumard!ubi es?—Ah! there he is!—Why don't you answer? What's the matter with you, pray? One would say that you were changed into a wooden man!"
Plumard simply motioned with his head, calling his comrade's attention to the fascinating girl. Whereupon Bahuchet looked at Bathilde and said, with a wink:
"Ah! famous! that's famous!—You see, Plumard, when I see such an attractive young woman, I begin by saluting her, to show my respect. Do as I do."
And Monsieur Bahuchet took off his cap to Bathilde, who paid no attention to him.
But Plumard, who did not choose to uncover his head, made an impatient gesture and moved a little farther away, muttering: