"MYDEARBATHILDE:"It gives me great pleasure to say that I will be sponsor to the daughter whom God has given to you. But, my dear child, it is impossible for me to come to you at this moment, for the gout holds me fast to my easy-chair; and when it once has its grip upon me, it does not readily relax it."Obtain a substitute for me, then, for that solemn ceremony, which should never be long delayed. Let some worthy gentleman hold the child in my name, and let her receive the name of Blanche; it was my wife's. To me it will be a memory and a source of hope."As for the godmother, I believe that I shall anticipate your wishes by urging you to select for that agreeable post the excellent young girl who displays such loyal and devoted friendship for you."Adieu, my dear daughter. May heaven grant you long life to watch over the little angel, who, I doubt not, will cause you to forget all your past sufferings!"MARQUIS DEMARVEJOLS."
"MYDEARBATHILDE:
"It gives me great pleasure to say that I will be sponsor to the daughter whom God has given to you. But, my dear child, it is impossible for me to come to you at this moment, for the gout holds me fast to my easy-chair; and when it once has its grip upon me, it does not readily relax it.
"Obtain a substitute for me, then, for that solemn ceremony, which should never be long delayed. Let some worthy gentleman hold the child in my name, and let her receive the name of Blanche; it was my wife's. To me it will be a memory and a source of hope.
"As for the godmother, I believe that I shall anticipate your wishes by urging you to select for that agreeable post the excellent young girl who displays such loyal and devoted friendship for you.
"Adieu, my dear daughter. May heaven grant you long life to watch over the little angel, who, I doubt not, will cause you to forget all your past sufferings!
"MARQUIS DEMARVEJOLS."
The young countess put her lips to the letter written by her husband's father, saying:
"It shall be as you deign to permit, O venerable man, who read my heart so well.—Blanche! Blanche! that is your name, my darling, it is the name your grandfather gives you. Ah! how sweet it is to pronounce! How well it suits the purity of your soul!—Blanche! one would say that she understands me already, and that she thanks me for giving her that name!"
Ambroisine rarely passed a day without going to see Bathilde, especially since her friend had become a mother.
As soon as she reached the house, the young countess gave her the marquis's letter, saying:
"Read this; it concerns you too."
Ambroisine read the letter eagerly; her cheeks instantly flushed with joy and pleasure, and she threw her arms about her friend, crying:
"I shall be her godmother! he permits me to be your daughter's godmother!—What a noble old man!—Ah, yes! he knew right well that he would make us both happy by suggesting that!—And he gives her the name of Blanche—Blanche!"
Ambroisine stopped as if she had suddenly remembered something.
"What is it?" said Bathilde; "one would say that that name recalled some memory."
"No, no; I was reflecting."
"About whom I shall accord the honor of taking Monsieur de Marvejols's place, eh?—Mon Dieu! I confess thatthat embarrasses me considerably; for I do not know any nobleman. Nobody comes here but you."
"Oh! do not be embarrassed, do not think any more, for I have already thought of someone."
"You have? Of whom, pray?"
"Have you forgotten, dear Bathilde, that generous gentleman, who, when you were still at my father's house, authorized me to offer you his assistance, and promised to take care of your child—the Sire de Jarnonville?"
"Ah, yes! you are right, Ambroisine; I ought not to have forgotten him; forgive me. But, you see, I think of nothing but my daughter now!—Do you see him sometimes?"
"Yes, quite often, in fact; he comes to my father's, not to joke and talk nonsense with all those idle young noblemen who rendezvous there, but to ask me about you and your child. Ah! he was heartily glad of your good fortune."
"And do you think that he will be willing to hold my child over the font, in monsieur le marquis's place?"
"Oh! I am sure that he will accept the post with great pleasure—he is so fond of children! For he is a widower, and he once had a little girl whom he adored, and her name was Blanche, like your child's.—That was what came into my mind just now."
"And what you dared not tell me, because he lost his daughter!—Oh! don't be alarmed, dear Ambroisine, I am very far from seeing in that an omen of disaster for myBlanche. No, heaven has sent her to us to allay all our suffering. She has given me so much happiness, that I am sure that she will soften the Sire de Jarnonville's regrets in some degree. He will transfer to her the love that he had for his own child."
That same evening the Black Chevalier stopped in front of the barber's house, and, as always, looked through the window to see if Ambroisine was there.
The girl's frank and sprightly conversation had insensibly lightened the Sire de Jarnonville's sombre humor; and often, without a previously formed intention, he walked in the direction of Rue Saint-Jacques, to obtain that distraction which became more necessary to him every day, and which he had begun to prefer to the debauches and combats that had formerly been an essential part of his life.
That evening Ambroisine was on the watch for the chevalier; for she was eager to tell him what Bathilde expected from him.
She very soon told him the tenor of the old marquis's response, and added, lowering her eyes, that she had made bold to say that the Sire de Jarnonville would consent to take his place and to represent him.
"You were quite right to give that assurance," replied the chevalier, gently pressing Ambroisine's hand. "It will be an honor and a pleasure to me to act as godfather to the countess's child. Moreover, the Marquis de Marvejols is very old, and I am still young and strong. If thefirst godfather should die, it is only right that there should be one left to succeed him and to watch over the child, whose father seems determined to close his arms to her."
"The old marquis wishes the little girl to be named Blanche," said Ambroisine, hesitatingly.
"Blanche! Blanche!" murmured Jarnonville, letting his head droop on his breast. "Ah! that was the name of an angel!"
"Well! this is another angel, as you will see. You will be her protector, her second father. The little darling—she will love you dearly. She will not cause you to forget the other, but she will ask you to give her a little of the affection which you feel for all children, in memory of the child you have lost."
Jarnonville was too deeply moved to reply. He took leave of Ambroisine, saying:
"To-morrow I will go to pay my respects to madame la comtesse, and to receive her orders for the ceremony."
Two days after this conversation, the daughter of Léodgard and Bathilde was presented for baptism by the Sire de Jarnonville and Ambroisine.
An old gentleman who was a friend of the chevalier, Master Hugonnet, and a few faithful old retainers of the marquis, were the only witnesses of the ceremony, which Bathilde was too weak to attend.
When he carried little Blanche back to her mother and placed her in her arms, Jarnonville kissed the child's forehead. His emotion was most intense, for the littlegirl's features recalled the cherished darling whom he had lost. He could hardly articulate the words:
"Will you allow me, madame, to come occasionally to present my respects to you and to embrace this child?"
"Henceforth this house is open to you, seigneur," Bathilde replied. "You will honor me by coming here; you will make me happy by taking an interest in my daughter."
At first the Black Chevalier availed himself sparingly of the permission accorded him by the young mother. But as little Blanche developed, as her features became more individualized, as her eyes began to beam with something different from the vague expression of infancy, she became so lovely, there was so much sweetness and charm in her glance, that it was impossible not to feel the keenest interest in her, or to leave her without a secret determination to see her soon again.
As he gazed at little Blanche, Jarnonville tried to discover in her features some likeness to the child he had lost, and it rarely happened that he did not succeed; for in early childhood the little creatures almost always make use of the same cries, the same language, to express joy, grief, and pain.
Thus the chevalier's visits gradually became increasingly frequent, for with every day that passed his affection for little Blanche strengthened.
And then Ambroisine, who loved the little girl almost as dearly as her mother did, rarely let a day pass withoutcoming to see Bathilde's child; so that, when he went to the Hôtel de Marvejols, Jarnonville was almost certain to meet the fair godmother there; which was an additional motive for him to go thither often.
Bathilde saw with pride and rapture that her daughter became every day lovelier and sweeter; she was happy in the affection which everyone manifested for the child; but in the midst of her joy, surrounded by her faithful friends, with her child in her arms, she sometimes raised her eyes toward heaven and sighed, saying:
"Ah! if her father could see her, I am very sure that he too would love her!"
We left the Chevalier Passedix, dressed in his orange-colored costume, just as he parted from the two clerks who had sold him his second-hand clothes, intending to exhibit himself for admiration in the streets of Paris, and, above all, to try to fall in with Miretta, of whom he was still deeply enamored, and whose favor he flattered himself upon winning in his new costume.
But to no purpose did the Gascon chevalier scour the streets during the whole afternoon and a large part of the night; he did not see the woman whom he burned to meet.
By way of compensation for his bad luck, Passedix finished the night in a low resort which closely resembled a bawdy house; and there he became completely drunk by dint of treating all the habitués of the place who complimented him on his costume and on the noble way in which he wore it.
For some time Passedix continued to lead a jovial life, turning night into day, passing a great part of his time at the table, and parading through the streets during entire evenings; then betaking himself to the wine shop, treating his acquaintances and even perfect strangers, getting tipsy regularly every night, and returning at daybreak to the Hôtel du Sanglier, where, the next morning, old Popelinette, with the utmost zeal, administered tea or some other calming potion of the sort that is often necessary to a man who leads such a disorderly life.
But sometimes, on the morrow of a more highly spiced debauch than usual, our Gascon, as he drank the cup of tea prepared by Popelinette, would heave tremendous sighs, run his hands through his hair, and stare at the ceiling, crying:
"Sandis! I would never have believed it! Ah! Popelinette, so it is true that wealth does not bring happiness!"
"Bah! is it possible, monsieur le chevalier?"
"The fact that I say it proves that it is possible! Now I have my pockets full of gold; I can indulge myself with the most exquisite dishes, the rarest wines."
"And you don't stint yourself, I should say!"
"Of course I do not stint myself! I must needs make the crowns dance, and do myself credit with my wealth! I breakfast for four, I dine for six, I sup like the greatest epicure in France; I receive eloquent glances from all sides until I am fairly bewildered; I gamble; I often frequent tennis courts; I am very strong at tennis—I always lose, but I am very strong at it; you should see how I send back theesteuf! People flock to see me play at the courts in Rue de la Perle and Rue Cassette, and especially at the fine court in Rue Mazarine. In short, Popelinette, I lead what is called a joyous life."
"Oh! as to that, there's no doubt!"
"Well! I am not joyous at all; amid all these pleasures, I sigh, I languish.—Sandioux! your tea is devilishly insipid this morning; put some more sugar in it!—Yes, I would give all these parties, all these banquets, for a glance from my love!—Alas!"
"Aha! so you have a love who won't look at you, monsieur le chevalier?"
"What a blockhead you are, Popelinette!—She doesn't look at me, because I am not before her eyes. It is a century since I saw her; I cannot succeed in meeting her. In fact, she has not seen me since I have had this elegant costume, which all the women dote on, and thanks to which I make conquests at every step. Not a woman who does not turn to look at me!"
"Bless me! it's true enough, monsieur le chevalier, that you're very funny-looking in those orange-colored clothes!"
"Funny-looking! what do you mean by funny-looking, old woman?—Pray try to use more elegant language; you talk like a goose, Popelinette, and you serve me hot water instead of tea! Take away this drug, and prepare me an emollient not to be taken through the mouth—do you understand?—Go, old witch, and be careful not to call me funny-looking again, or I will bury Roland in your half-moons!"
The old woman withdrew, grumbling, and Passedix paced his room as if he were rehearsing a scene from a tragedy.
"O Miretta!" he cried; "caprice of my heart! Shouldst thou but see me now, I cannot believe that thou wouldst be so cruel; women love fine apparel upon themselves and upon those who pay court to them. I was infernally seedy when thou didst know me, and that must have done me much discredit in thy sight.—And to think that I cannot meet her! I have planted myself like a sentinel twenty times in front of the Hôtel de Mongarcin, but she has not come out. I cannot stand there all day long, especially as I attract too much attention—the women gather about me in flocks!—No matter! I will see my fascinating brunette again—I swear it by Roland!"
About midday Passedix issued forth once more, saying to himself:
"I will turn my steps in another direction; perhaps chance will be more favorable to me."
And for two hours the orange chevalier traversed the Saint-Honoré quarter and the Halles in all directions. Then he changed his route, and, turning toward the Cloister of Saint-Merri, entered Rue Brisemiche, then in very bad repute, being specially assigned for the residence of prostitutes. At the end of the fourteenth century, the Provost of Paris had, at the request of the curé of Saint-Merri, issued an edict expelling thegolden girdlesfrom Rue Brisemiche and Rue Tire-Boudin; but certain bourgeois resisted the execution of this edict and insisted upon maintaining the prostitutes in possession of those streets. And the Parliament, by a decree of January 21, 1388, ratified the opposition of the bourgeois!—What do you think of thegood old times?
Passedix had just passed a dark second-hand clothes shop of very grimy aspect, when a little man, advanced in years, but thickset and powerful, who was taking the air on the threshold of the shop in question, having scrutinized the chevalier for a moment, set up a screech worthy of a peacock, and, darting after the saunterer, overtook him and seized him by his cloak.
"Ah! I have him! here he is!—Oh! you won't get away from me, my buck!"
Surprised by this sudden attack, the Gascon turned, eyed the clothes dealer with a disdainful air, and tried to release his cloak, saying:
"Who in the devil are you seizing, my good man? You have certainly made a mistake; you should try wearing spectacles.—Let this cloak alone, cadédis! you will rumple it!"
But the dealer had strong hands; he did not release the cloak, and so detained Passedix, shouting all the while:
"Let you go, you thief, you brigand! Oh, no! you shall not get away from me! This is my merchandise: cloak, doublet, short-clothes, and even the girdle—nothing is missing!—What an impudent knave you must be, to walk about with it all on your body!—Help, friends, neighbors! Help! Watch! watch! Come and help me arrest a thief!"
"A thief!" the cry was echoed on all sides; people ran to the spot, and in a trice a compact crowd surrounded the two struggling men.
"He takes me for a thief!" exclaimed Passedix, addressing the witnesses of the scene. "I should find it very amusing, if I were not afraid that this clown would tear my cloak! Sandis! if he makes the slightest rent in it, I will make him pay for it!"
"He will make me pay for what is mine, what he stole from my own nephew!" exclaimed the shopkeeper. "Ah! you villain! you don't belie your reputation.—My friends, messieurs, mesdemoiselles, do you know who this man is? He is Giovanni! the celebrated Giovanni! the Italian robber who has been working Paris for along while, and whom the police can never catch! Well! I have caught him, I have! And I promise you that I won't let him go.—It's a great capture! Help me take him to the guardhouse at the Châtelet; we shall render a great service to society!"
"Giovanni! Giovanni!" cried the bystanders. And one and all pushed and crowded and stood on tiptoe, trying to obtain a better view of the famous brigand of whom everyone was talking, and of whom stories were told that made women and children, and often husbands and brothers too, quake with fear.
"What! is that the Italian brigand?" said a bourgeois; "I have heard that he has a horrible face. This tall fellow makes me more inclined to laugh."
"I was told he is a handsome young man," said a corpulent matron; "this man is very ugly and he isn't young."
"He hasn't a surly look at all, this cavalier," said a tradesman; "are you quite sure, neighbor, that you are not mistaken?"
"Am I sure!" cried the dealer in clothes; "why, it's very easy to explain.—I intrusted to my nephew Plumard, a solicitor's clerk, the complete costume, orange silk, slashed with lemon, which this man is wearing. My nephew Plumard came back and told me, with tears in his eyes, that he had been attacked and robbed in Rue des Bourdonnais by the brigand Giovanni, dressed in the costume in which he is always seen.—Now, then, as this man is wearing the complete outfit that I intrusted to mynephew, he must be the man who stole it; and he must have been very glad to put on this costume, because he knows that the police have his description in the other."
"Yes, yes, he's Giovanni, he's the robber!" cried the crowd, inclined, like all crowds, to find a culprit.
"We must take him to the Châtelet; we mustn't let him escape. Let's take away his long sword!"
"Sandioux! you are cowards all!" shouted Passedix, drawing Roland from the scabbard, and trying to force his way through the multitude. "This old clothes man is a fool—I don't know him! The clothes I have on I paid for in honest crowns—thirty pistoles, do you hear?"
"The proof that he lies," cried the second-hand dealer, "is that I asked only fifteen pistoles for the complete outfit, as it was second-hand."
"Ah! the blackguards! the reptiles! they cheated me!" rejoined the Gascon. "But I paid for the whole suit, none the less. Let the man who says I did not, come forward; I offer to fight him to the death—with dagger, sword, or partisan!"
But no one listened to the chevalier, because they were only too glad to be able to believe that they had Giovanni in their hands.
Meanwhile several soldiers and arquebusiers had forced their way into the crowd, and the unfortunate Passedix was speedily disarmed; they bound his hands behind his back and forced him to go with them to the Châtelet, while the crowd heaped insults upon him and beat himwith their fists. The little clothes dealer headed the procession, which increased in size every moment, because all the passers-by and shop clerks on the route they traversed, when they heard someone say: "It is Giovanni whom they have arrested," hastened to join the crowd, hoping to obtain a glimpse of the brigand who had caused them to tremble with dread for many months.
While these things were taking place, a scene of a different sort was being enacted in a superb mansion in Rue Sainte-Avoie, which mansion belonged to the Marquis de Santoval, who had become the husband of Valentine de Mongarcin several months earlier.
When she married, the heiress had been compelled to leave her abode on Rue Saint-Honoré, to follow the spouse whom she had chosen. She had parted from her aunt, Madame de Ravenelle, without any very poignant regret, for their temperaments were in no respect sympathetic; nor did the old lady display any deep emotion when her niece left her.
Selfish people are happy in that they refer all their sensations to themselves alone; they love themselves too much to waste any love on others.
Valentine had taken Miretta with her, whom she treated as a friend rather than as a lady's-maid, and with whom she would not willingly have parted for anything on earth. This arrangement had been made without any difficulty. Monsieur de Santoval, proud of the preference which Valentine had accorded him over his numerous rivals, displayed the greatest zeal in gratifying his lovely wife's lightest wish; and he had lavished diamonds and other valuable gifts upon her.
He left her entirely at liberty, feeling sure doubtless that she would not abuse the privilege; perhaps, too, he had reserved the means of satisfying himself whether she did abuse it or not.
The marquis had one of those faces which always make one shudder when they assume to express confidence in a person.
The young Marquise de Santoval was in her dressing room, standing before a large Venetian mirror, which, in those days, filled the place of the modern psyche. She was trying the effect against her hair of a new set of rubies which her husband had brought her that morning. And as the reddish gleam of the stones harmonized perfectly with the brilliant gloss of her raven locks, Valentine could not restrain a smile of satisfaction at finding herself so lovely.
"This is becoming to me, is it not, Miretta?" she asked, turning to her pretty maid, who stood behind her gazing at her with a sad expression.
"Yes, madame, it is admirable; it is perfectly suited to you. I do not think that it is possible to be more lovely."
"Aha! flatterer!—But it is possible to be less lovely and more attractive!"
"Monsieur le marquis is very gallant; his presents are magnificent!"
"He does no more than he should do! I think that he was much flattered by the preference I accorded him."
"Can it be that madame regrets it now?"
"Hush, Miretta, hush! there are some things that must never be said!—However, I have no regrets; I did what I was determined to do. It was not a caprice that guided my action. Nor, as you may imagine, was it love—although Monsieur de Santoval is still young, and a very handsome man. Indeed, there are some women who consider him superb. Not long ago, Madame de Grangeville whispered in my ear: 'I congratulate you on your choice! Monsieur de Santoval is one of the handsomest cavaliers at court!'"
"Did that flatter you, madame?"
"Flatter me? Bah! what difference do you think that it makes to me? When one has no love for a man, what does one care what people say about him?"
"Monsieur de Santoval seems to be very much in love, himself!"
"In love with me?—Hum! yes, perhaps he is; but he is very proud, very haughty, and, above all, very jealous of his honor!"
"And of madame too, probably?"
"Why, of course, as the two go together!—What a strange thing!"
"What is strange, madame?"
"Nothing! nothing!"
And Valentine smiled, as if she had had the thought which Beaumarchais many years later put into the mouth of Comte Almaviva inLe Mariage de Figaro.
"Has not Joseph returned, Miretta?"
"No, madame, not yet."
"How long a time that fellow takes to do such a simple errand! I sent him to Madame de Ligneulle's, only a few steps away, to ask if she expected to go to the Baronne de Beaumont's this evening; and it is more than an hour since he went! He amuses himself by the way, it seems."
"It surprises me, madame, for Joseph is usually very zealous and very prompt in the execution of madame's orders."
"I know it, and that is why I employ him. But Madame de Ligneulle's house is within five minutes' walk—and to take more than an hour in going there and returning!"
"They kept him waiting, no doubt."
"When a messenger comes from me, she never keeps him waiting."
"Does madame mean to go to Madame de Beaumont's this evening?"
"Yes, I shall go."
"Madame enjoys society since her marriage."
"You think so, because I go out a great deal. I have not yet found—what I am seeking; but it must happen sooner or later."
The portière of the dressing room was softly put aside, and a servant in rich livery showed his face, asking respectfully if he might enter.
"Ah! you have returned at last, Joseph!" cried Valentine. "Have you had an accident, pray, that you have been away so long?—Come in, and speak."
"Oh! yes, madame!" the valet replied, entering the room. "That is to say, I have not actually had an accident; but there was such a crowd in the street, so many people had collected to see him pass—they crowded and pushed——"
"What was the reason of the crowd? what was there to see that was so interesting?"
"Oh! can it be that madame does not know?—He is arrested, he is caught at last! It was high time, too!"
"Who is arrested at last?"
"The famous Italian brigand—the dreaded Giovanni!"
"Giovanni is arrested, you say?" cried Miretta, who had suddenly turned deathly pale; and she seized the valet's arm and pressed it violently. "Giovanni taken! Are you sure of it?"
"Certainly, mademoiselle; for they were taking him to the Petit Châtelet, and everybody crowded to see him."
"Ah! unhappy wretch that I am!"
And the girl, with a loud shriek, darted from the room, entirely forgetting her mistress and everything about her. In two or three seconds she had rushed through the salons, the vestibule, and the courtyard, and was hurrying along the street, roughly pushing aside everybody who came in her way.
But, as the orange chevalier drew near the Petit Châtelet, where many malefactors were then confined, three young noblemen, having just crossed the Petit Pont, noticed the crowd, and, hearing it said that Giovanni had been arrested, forced their way through the spectators until they reached the Gascon, at whom everybody was pointing, saying:
"That is the famous bandit!"
Thereupon, to the vast amazement of the multitude, the three young gentlemen roared with laughter; then they seized the malefactor's hands and pressed them cordially, while he exclaimed:
"Gad! this is very lucky! Sandis! here are some friends who know me, at last! It's Sénange and Monclair!—Can you believe, messieurs, that these people absolutely insist that I am the celebrated robber Giovanni?"
"You, Giovanni? Poor Passedix!"
"Poor! Deuce take it! he has not been poor since he inherited a fortune!"
"Who is it that is fool enough to take you for the Italian brigand?"
"That infamous little clothes dealer yonder! But, by Roland! I will have satisfaction for his insults!"
"Pardieu!" said Sénange, "it happens that Captain Raynold is on duty at the Châtelet, and he knows our friend Passedix."
A captain of archers came from the prison at that moment to inquire the cause of the commotion; when he saw Passedix, with whom he had more than once drunk and played cards at wine shops, he offered him his hand, which fully satisfied the crowd that they had made a mistake and that the prisoner was not Giovanni.
The captain administered a sharp rebuke to the men who had made the arrest, calling their attention to the fact that the orange chevalier's face and figure bore no resemblance whatever to the well-known description of Giovanni.
"But," cried the little dealer, in dire distress because of his error, "it is none the less true that those very noticeable garments came from my shop, and that they were stolen from my nephew, to whom I delivered them to be sold."
"One moment, old Jew," said Passedix; "what is your nephew's name?"
"Plumard; he is clerk to Maître Bourdinard, solicitor."
"Very good; now we are on the track; and he has a friend, another little villain, even smaller than you, whose name is Bahuchet?"
"That is true."
"And one of them has a plaster on his head, which makes him look like a sick cur?"
"It's my nephew who wears that plaster—in place of hair."
"Well, you damned clothes man, if you had listened to me, I would have told you that your nephew and his friend Bahuchet came to my Hôtel du Sanglier on Place aux Chats, and, knowing that I desired a complete new outfit and that I had inherited a large property, they brought me this orange costume, for which I paid them thirty pistoles in honest crowns."
"Is it possible? You gave them thirty pistoles?"
"I swear it on my honor! And these gentlemen will bear witness that I am to be believed."
"Yes, yes! palsambleu! Thirty pistoles—why, that is nothing to him now, for he doesn't know what to do with his doubloons."
"Pardon! a thousand pardons, monsieur le chevalier! Then it must be my nephew who robbed me."
"That is very probable. That little rascal, with his plaster, looked to me like a consummate knave, and I fancy that that Bahuchet is little better; but when I meet them, I will administer salutary chastisement to them. As for you, dealer in old clothes, I ought to shave your ears a trifle! You called the fine flower of chivalry a robber!"
As he spoke, Passedix seized the little man by one ear and shook him roughly. The young noblemen, who were highly amused by the scene, urged the chevalier toenforce all the rights of the victor; the terrified tradesman was beginning to whine and beg for mercy, when suddenly the Gascon's face became radiant, his eyes flashed fire, and he released the little man's ear, crying:
"There she is! it is she! I find her again at last!—Adieu, my noble friends! Do not follow me, I beg!"
It was indeed Miretta whom Passedix had espied; Miretta, who, after running hither and thither a long while, had succeeded at last in forcing her way through the crowd, and at the very moment when she expected to see her lover had heard people saying all about her:
"They have made a mistake."
"It isn't Giovanni that they caught."
"Oh! what a misfortune!"
"Who was it they arrested, then?"
"No one! Oh, yes! they arrested that tall, lank man dressed in orange; but it seems that he isn't a thief, as all those gentlemen know him, and the captain of the archers himself came up and shook hands with him."
"That old idiot of a second-hand clothes dealer is the cause of it all!"
"Down with the old clothes man!"
"To the gallows with the old clothes man!"
Miretta's heart swelled when she heard all these remarks, and, as she had run a long way, she leaned against a post and began to breathe more freely.
Then it was that Passedix appeared and struck an attitude in front of her, with a courteous bow, saying:
"At last, I see thee again! star of my soul, firmament of my heart, moon of my thoughts, planet——"
"Tell me, monsieur le chevalier, did they really take you for Giovanni?" said Miretta, breaking in upon her adorer's compliments.
"Yes, fascinating brunette! Can you understand such a thing?—I am not acquainted with the famous robber, but it is impossible that he should have this elegant figure, this noble carriage, in a word, this distinguished physique which I possess!"
"Oh! surely not! he does not resemble you!"
"What? Do you know him, siren?"
"No, but I have heard him described so often!"
"And Giovanni is not likely to have a costume like this, is he, my dear?—But we have said enough of this brigand. Pray tell me, adorable brunette, what has become of a certain Comte de Carvajal, whom you know rather intimately, I believe?"
Miretta was disturbed by the question, but she made haste to reply:
"I do not know what you mean, monsieur le chevalier; I know no one of that name."
"Really? But all those rustics, with the wrist of steel, with whom I have met you,—and notably the one who, I know not how, caused Roland to fall from my hand,—were devilishly like the foreigner who lodged at the Hôtel du Sanglier."
"What do you want with that foreigner?"
"What does it matter to you, if you do not know him? But you know that is not true, naughty wench!"
"Adieu, monsieur le chevalier! I can stay here no longer."
"What! deprive me of your company already! I will escort you to Rue Saint-Honoré."
"I no longer live there; since Mademoiselle Valentine de Mongarcin became Marquise de Santoval, we live on Rue Sainte-Avoie."
"Aha! so your lady is now Marquise de Santoval! And that is the reason why my vigils in front of the Hôtel de Mongarcin have led to nothing!"
"Take my advice, monsieur le chevalier, and make no further attempt to see me."
"Ah! I am rich now, Miretta; I will cover you with fine pearls!"
"You might offer me all the treasures of the Indies, and I would still say to you: 'You are wasting your time; I do not love you; I shall never love you.'"
"Then it must be that mysterious Carvajal whom you love. But, by death! if I ever meet him!"
"Ah, me! I would like right well to meet him!"
As she said these words, Miretta darted away so swiftly that she soon disappeared from the eyes of Passedix, who pulled his cap over his forehead, muttering angrily:
"Mordioux! she defies me still. I must forget her! I must show my dignity! Let us get tipsy!"
Miretta hurried back to the Hôtel de Santoval; she remembered how precipitately she had left the house, and she feared that her mistress would be displeased with her for absenting herself at a time when she required her services; so that Miretta was almost trembling when she returned to the house.
She had no sooner entered than a servant informed her that her mistress wished to see her.
Valentine was alone in her bedroom; her expression was not at all stern, but it denoted profound reflection.
When she saw Miretta, she motioned to her to lock all the doors with care, then beckoned her to a seat on a stool by her side.
Miretta walked toward her and began to falter some words of apology; but Valentine placed a finger on her lips and again pointed to the stool.
The girl seated herself, speechless with surprise, and waited anxiously to hear what her mistress could have to say to her that demanded so much mystery.
Valentine fastened her great velvety dark-gray eyes on those of her maid, who looked down at the floor; then she said to her, taking care to speak low:
"Miretta, swear that you will answer frankly the question I am about to ask you; swear that you will not lie to me!"
The girl looked up, glanced at her mistress, and, seeing nothing in her expression to indicate anger, answered:
"I swear, madame."
"That is well; now, listen to me. I have just discovered a secret of great importance to you, which we must not let anybody else discover! I know who your lover is—the man whom you love."
"You know, madame?"
"Yes, I tell you; and you are going to tell me if I am mistaken. The man whom you have not seen for so long a time, the man for whose sake you came to France, of whom you are constantly thinking, and who causes you so much anxiety—is Giovanni!"
"O madame! you think——"
"It is Giovanni! Contradict me if you dare!—Have no fear of me, Miretta; you should know me well. But remember your oath: the man you love is Giovanni, is he not? Answer—answer!"
Miretta fell on her knees before her mistress, clasping her hands, and murmured at last:
"Yes, madame, yes—it is Giovanni who is my lover.—Oh! forgive me!"
"Rise, rise, my child! Your frankness makes me more fond of you. Do you think, pray, that I asked you for your secret with the intention of reproaching you? You loved this Giovanni, doubtless, before he became a brigand?"
"Oh! yes, madame."
"And since you have known the trade he was plying, you have not ceased to love him!—I understand that. I understand all that love can lead one to do. Underthe sway of that passion, is it possible to reason, to reflect?—And then, this man must be very brave; the reputation he has made for himself, the very terror inseparable from his name—yes, there is something in all that which almost makes one forget his crimes."
"Oh! if you knew, madame, how earnestly I have begged, implored him to renounce his pursuit! And he promised to do it.—'Only a few months more,' he said, 'and we will return to Italy, and no one will recognize in me the dreaded bandit.'—But, alas! it is more than a year since he told me that, and I have not met him since."
"But he has not been arrested, as Joseph said.—Another servant, whom I sent out to make inquiries, has just returned and told me that they made a mistake, that the man who was arrested was not the famous robber."
"That is true, madame. Thank heaven, my fears were unfounded! Ah! if you knew what a feeling of despair took possession of me!"
"Do you think that I did not see it, poor girl? Do you think that I was not struck by your pallor, by your confusion, by that grief-stricken cry which you uttered, when Joseph said: 'Giovanni is arrested'?—It was that that revealed your secret to me. Luckily, the servants saw nothing but curiosity in your precipitate exit—nothing but the desire to see a man who spreads terror throughout Paris.—Now that you know that he is not arrested, you are calmer and happier. In future be more prudent; be careful not to betray yourself."
"Oh! you are right, madame; I will try to conceal my feelings."
"But, look you, Miretta—try more earnestly than ever to meet the man you love; and the first time that you see him, remember to tell him this: that I wish to see him and speak with him; that I have need of his services; that he can safely trust me; that I will go, alone with you, to whatever place of rendezvous he may appoint; and that I will reward him generously for what he does for me.—Will you tell him all that, Miretta? Do you promise?"
"Yes, madame, I will do whatever you command. But, alas! in order to tell Giovanni this, I must see him; and, as you know, I cannot succeed in that."
"Do not despair; you will see your lover again. Chance often serves us better than we serve ourselves, and our wishes are gratified at the moment when we least expect it.—Look at me: since I have been Marquise de Santoval, I have been to all sorts of festivities, balls, and receptions, and yet I have not met the man I seek. He avoids me doubtless, but it is useless; he will be obliged to see me again, for I am determined that he shall.—But I hear the Marquis de Santoval's step!—Go, take this secret door!—It is as well that he should not see you, for you are still perturbed, and he has eyes that read deeper than our faces.—Go."
The courtesan Camilla occupied a charming little house near Porte Saint-Honoré; it was in the city, and yet it was almost in the country.
A garden of lilacs, syringas, and roses was behind the wing of the house in which its mistress spent most of her time; and in summer it seemed a continuation of a delightful salon on the ground floor, the portières of which were drawn aside in graceful folds, affording a view of the flowering shrubs and the well-kept paths, where the dense foliage of numerous lovely sycamores made the air as cool by day as by night.
It was midsummer; a heavy, oppressively hot atmosphere had relaxed the nerves of the people of Paris.
Camilla had chosen that time to give an evening party; for evening was the only part of the day when one could breathe with any pleasure, when the air was made somewhat cooler by gentle breezes, and it was delicious to stroll in the garden and rest under the shrubbery.
The fascinating courtesan had chosen her time with most excellent judgment. What could be more voluptuous in summer than a garden intersected by vague gleams of light, beneath a sky thickly strewn with twinkling stars!
Not far from a brilliantly illuminated circle of velvety turf, a dark path wound among darker thickets.
The strains of the instruments, the perfume of the flowers, the bouquet of the wines and liqueurs of all sorts which were served to the guests, charmed and intoxicated the senses. Everyone was at liberty to do only what he pleased—constraint and etiquette were not admitted to Camilla's abode; and they who did the most extravagant things were considered the most agreeable.
But it was not solely to display her gardens, her flowers, the furniture of her salons, and the magnificence of her toilet, that Camilla was giving this fête. For some time past, Léodgard's favorite had observed a noticeable abatement in the ardor of the count's passion; her lover was still as generous, as magnificent as ever in his dealings with her, but he felt no pleasure in seeing her and left her without regret; and when he passed a few hours with her, those hours seemed interminable to him, for his eyes expressed ennui rather than enjoyment.
A woman seldom mistakes these symptoms; vanishing love is even more visible than dawning love; for the latter does at least observe the proprieties, while the other is sometimes most discourteous.
Camilla tried to keep her lover with her, in some slight degree from love perhaps, but largely for selfish reasons: a young and comely lover who throws money about lavishly is not always easily replaced.
In those days, as to-day, there were men who dealt magnificently with their mistresses, but they were for the most part old and ugly.
After employing many methods of seduction to rekindle a flame that was on the point of dying out, Camilla determined to resort to that final method, which sometimes succeeds, but which destroys all hope when it fails of its effect. She determined to try to make Léodgard jealous.
In that multitude of young noblemen, brilliant dandies, and confessed libertines whom she had invited to her evening party, it was inevitable that there should be more than one who made love to her and aspired to take her away from Léodgard, or at least to induce her to be unfaithful to him.
"I will be more fascinating, more coquettish than ever," said Camilla to the fair-haired Flavia, her friend and confidante. "I will accord a very marked preference to some of my adorers, so that Léodgard must notice it! He will be annoyed—he is so hot-blooded, so passionate! perhaps a scene will result—sword thrusts—a duel!—Oh! that would be delicious! for then he would come back to me, more in love than ever."
"And suppose he should be killed in the duel?" rejoined Flavia.
"So much the worse! What would you have? he who risks nothing obtains nothing.—But, no—Léodgard is as brave as he is skilful; he would be the victor."
"In that case, the other will be killed."
"Well, my dear! I shall have given him the sweetest of hopes all the evening! Will he be so very much to be pitied?"
That is how courtesans loved in those days; and even among thegrandes dames, there were some, you know, who cast their glove into an amphitheatre filled with lions and said to their lovers:
"If you really love me, you will go there and pick it up."
What affection, great God! What a melancholy idea of love that would give one!
Luckily, to comfort our hearts, we have Philemon and Baucis, Pyramus and Thisbe, Hero and Leander; but they are fabulous characters, and the others are historical.
It was midnight, and almost all Camilla's guests had arrived. The apartments were resplendent with light, the gardens exhaled the sweetest perfumes, and an orchestra, which certainly was not equal to those of our time, but which seemed very tuneful then, executed sarabands, chaconnes, and bransles.
There was card playing in one room, drinking in another; those who did not dance went out into the garden to chat and stroll. The heat was not insupportable, but the guests sought the outer air, the cool evening breeze; the ladies had been careful to wear the lightest of gowns, which did not conceal their charms, and whichgave them the aspect of nymphs or of hamadryads, at least, as they flitted about the garden paths.
Camilla wore a seductive costume of irresistible effect. She had donned a gown similar to those worn by the lovely Spanish girls who dance boleros and cachuchas with so much ardor and supple grace. The dress, which was of puce-colored satin, trimmed with rich black lace, and rather short, permitted the spectator to admire a shapely leg, a well-arched foot, and a charming figure; it left almost entirely bare a dazzlingly white breast and shoulders worthy to serve as models for a sculptor.
In her hair, which was dressed in an original fashion, were sprays of foliage, and long gold pins with pearls and diamonds for heads.
Beneath this fanciful costume, the courtesan, whose eyes flashed fire, and whose least movement, least pose, was full of voluptuous suggestion, could not fail to add to the number of her conquests; and even the women did her justice; to be sure, they were almost all pretty, and envy could hardly find a foothold among them.
Léodgard had arrived but a short time before. When he caught sight of Camilla, he simply smiled at her, but she stood in front of him and asked in a low tone:
"How do I look?"
"Beautiful, very beautiful, as always," the count replied, and walked into another room.
"As always!" muttered Camilla, biting her lips in vexation; "I look as I always do! Whereas all theseother young gentlemen do not tire of telling me that I have never been so beautiful, so seductive! Why, he did not even look at my hair, or notice this Spanish costume! He no longer loves me, and yet I do not think that he loves another."
"Of what are you dreaming, divine Manola?" said the Marquis de Sénange, as he approached Camilla, taking her hand and passing it through his arm.
"Why—of you, perhaps!" replied the courtesan, displaying a double row of teeth of irreproachable whiteness.
"Of me! of me! Ah! if I could believe it!—Look you, Camilla—your eyes and this costume were quite enough to turn my head; but the words you have uttered make me mad with love!"
"Well! what harm would it do, after all, if you were a little mad? It would not change you much, I should say."
"Camilla, I would gladly endure all possible tortures, pass through every conceivable trial, if you would reward me by allowing me to love you!"
"Love me! why, what prevents you? Have you not as much right to love me as another man?"
"But let us understand each other, adorable siren! It is not cheerful to love all by one's self! Love is increased twofold when it is shared."
"Indeed! What a pity that it is not so with everything! I would become very charitable!"
"Look you, Camilla, have you not been faithful to Léodgard long enough? Frankly, you cover yourselfwith ridicule! A woman with such a wealth of attractions is a flower; it is not fair that a single man should inhale all her perfume!"
"Ah! marquis, you wish to plunder your friend's garden!"
"There are no friends where a lovely woman is concerned! Besides, Léodgard is becoming very unamiable of late—you must agree to that."
"Why, he is married, poor dear! and that is quite enough to change a man's expression!"
"Oh! little he cares for all that! Moreover, you are well aware that, although he is married, he lives absolutely as if he were a bachelor! But, I say again, he is no longer the roué, the jovial scapegrace, of the old days; one would say that he had grown fifteen years older; his features are altered, his face is always careworn or gloomy, he has forgotten how to laugh and drink; he must also have forgotten how to love!"
"Ah! do you think so? You may be mistaken. Léodgard always was of a fantastic humor."
"I have known him only as a man who was always laughing and singing!—Give me some hope, Camilla."
"Well! we shall see. The night is young yet. But here are more people coming; I must go to receive them."
The young marquis left Camilla, but he deemed himself sure of his triumph, and his face expressed his delight.
Flavia went to her friend a moment later and whispered:
"So it is the fascinating Sénange whom you have chosen for your victim?"
"Why not he as well as another?"
"Rather he, for he is very agreeable, and it would be a pity if anything should happen to him!"
"Nothing will happen to him. See how indifferent Léodgard is to me! He passed us while I was on the marquis's arm, and did not even notice us!"
"Oh! do not torment yourself!—Think of nothing but your fête—it is simply delicious! There are great numbers of very attractive gentlemen here; you expect nobody else, I suppose?"
"I believe that everybody has come.—Oh, yes! I did also invite—but I suspected that it would be useless; he will not come."
"Who is it?"
"Do you remember that gentleman in black, whom we tried in vain to rouse one night, at a fête given by Léodgard?"
"The Sire de Jarnonville, was it not?"
"Precisely."
"Oh! what a pity that he is not here! I considered him very original. Why should he not come?"
"Because for some time past he has not been seen at any festivity; he no longer drinks, no longer gambles, no longer fights, even! In short, he is a lost man, so far as his friends are concerned! That is why I feel sure that he will not come."
At that moment a servant appeared at the door of the salon and announced:
"The Sire de Jarnonville!"
"Well, this is strange!" cried Flavia; "at the very moment when we despaired of seeing him!"
"He confers a great favor on me! And I am proud of it, I assure you!"
As she spoke, Camilla went to meet Jarnonville, who was just entering the salon. Everybody was impressed by the advantageous change that had taken place in his appearance; his face was expansive, amiable, almost smiling; even his costume had undergone some modification; although his doublet and short-clothes were still black, his girdle was pale blue, and his cloak was of velvet of the same color. In short, the chevalier's person no longer wore that stern and sombre aspect which caused pleasure and love to flee at his approach.
"It is most amiable of you, Sire de Jarnonville," said Camilla, "to accept my invitation. I am the more sensible of your kindness, because you are seen very seldom now in society, at our parties."
"Yours,belle dame, certainly deserved that I should make an exception in its favor."
"Can it be that you have renounced misanthropy, chevalier? Have you ceased to be the Chevalier de Verglas, as you used to be called?—So much the better! in that case, you are one of us once more."
"I have never renounced anything, not even the pleasure of telling you that you are ravishingly beautiful in this costume."
Having achieved this compliment, Jarnonville bowed to the courtesan and lost himself in the crowd that thronged the salons and gardens.
"Why, he is becoming a charming cavalier!" said Camilla; "he told me that I was ravishingly beautiful;henoticed my costume! He is more gallant than Léodgard.—I believe that we can make a conquest of him now, Flavia."
"Oh! I no longer care about it; I preferred him when he was all in black and looked like a bear."
While the two ladies exchanged their opinions concerning Jarnonville, the new-comer was being discussed also in a group of young gentlemen.
"Did you see Jarnonville, Monclair?"
"Yes, I have just bade him good-evening."
"Don't you think that he cuts an entirely different figure from what he used?"
"Why so? because he wears a blue cloak instead of a black one?"
"No, it is not that; but because he no longer has that gloomy, unhappy expression that he used to carry with him everywhere."
"That is true," said young La Valteline; "I noticed the change; it impressed me when Jarnonville entered the salon."
"Well, messieurs, what is there so surprising in that?" said Monclair; "after all, grief is not eternal! After the rain comes the sunshine! And Jarnonville's coming here proves that he is no longer a foe to pleasure."
"I tell you, messieurs," said the Baron de Montrevert, shaking his head with an air of importance, "that a change in humor, in disposition, never happens without a cause."
"Well! do you know what the cause is, Montrevert?" inquired Sénange.
"Oh! perhaps! perhaps!"
"He knows it, messieurs, he is going to tell us what it is. Speak, my dear fellow, speak, we will not lose a syllable!"
"I will tell you, messieurs, what someone told me—the reports that are current; I vouch for nothing, however."
"The preamble is perfect! Come down to the facts, advocate."
"Well! this is what people say: for several months past, Jarnonville has been a frequent visitor at the Hôtel de Marvejols, where the young countess lives."
"Oh! the deuce! is it so? And what does he go there for?"
"Why, it seems to me to be very easy to guess; he goes to see our friend Léodgard's wife."
"The bath keeper's daughter!"
"Hush! you wretch! Suppose Léodgard should hear you! He will not allow anyone to speak of his wife,either kindly or unkindly. Only a few days ago, the young Vicomte de Saunois ventured in his presence to jest about ill-assorted marriages; he threw his glove in his face, and the next morning he killed Saunois by running him through with his sword."
"What do we care for all that?—Let us return to Jarnonville; so he goes to pay court to the little countess, eh?"
"I cannot tell you absolutely why he goes to the Hôtel de Marvejols, but he goes there very often; and they say that, despite her low birth, this young countess is extremely pretty."
"Indeed!"
"And it is since Jarnonville has been going to see that young woman that his melancholy has vanished, that his eyes have lost their savage expression."
"And that he has worn a blue cloak! Ha! ha! this is delicious!—Pardieu! messeigneurs, I consider it most diverting that this ill-tamed ex-bear should hunt on Léodgard's preserves, who, by the way, has become far from agreeable since he became rich!"
"Oh! that would be a most excellent joke!"
"It is possible to hunt on another part of his domains," said Sénange, playing with his moustache; "but I take that task upon myself."
"Ah! is it so?" rejoined the young men, laughingly; "it is evident that the Comte de Marvejols is beset on all sides."
The two persons who were the subjects of this conversation were in the garden at the time. Léodgard, pausing beside a basin surrounded by flowers, with which lights of all colors were mingled, gazed gloomily at the reflection of the hyacinths and lilies in the water; it is probable that he did not appreciate the charm of that portion of the garden, where the water cooled the air, where the illuminations were not so brilliant as to tire the eye; yet he remained there, musing, lost in thought.
Jarnonville, after walking through the salons without meeting the Comte de Marvejols, had also stepped into the garden; for it was with no intention of taking part in the thousand and one amusements which Camilla's guests anticipated that the chevalier had accepted the courtesan's invitation. But since he had acquired the habit of visiting the young countess, since he had been able to admire and caress the charming little Blanche, who, while recalling the child he had lost, had transformed his sombre humor into a not ungracious melancholy, and had opened his heart to gentler sensations, Jarnonville had more than once heard Bathilde express her regret that Léodgard did not know his daughter. And the chevalier, who too believed that it was impossible to know Blanche without loving her, had said to himself:
"If Léodgard should see the child, he would long to see her again, and the little angel would bring him back to that young wife who is so worthy of his love."
But in order that Léodgard should wish to see his daughter, it was necessary to speak to him of her, to arouse in his heart a desire to know her; and for that it was necessary to see him.
Jarnonville had been several times to the little house in Rue de Bretonvilliers; but he had never succeeded in finding Léodgard, who was absent or was unwilling to receive him.
Then it was that Camilla's invitation reached the chevalier. He knew that Léodgard could not fail to attend a fête given by his mistress, and the reader will understand the purpose which had led the chevalier thither.
At the end of a path Jarnonville found himself in the circle of which the basin formed the centre. He saw before him the man he was seeking, and, as Léodgard did not see him, he went to him and touched his arm gently.
"You seem very pensive in the midst of so hilarious a gathering, Comte de Marvejols!"
Léodgard started; but on recognizing Jarnonville, he replied, with an air of surprise:
"Ah! is it you, Jarnonville? How does it happen that we see you at this fête? You have not been seen lately at any card party, or in any affray with the rabble. People say that you are becoming virtuous! that you are no longer the mischief-maker, the intrepid swordsman, of the old days! It is too bad, i' faith! it is too bad! and for my part, I regret the Black Chevalier, with his rough hand and his lusty blows with sword and dagger!"
"My sword and dagger will never fail to respond to a friend's call, and will strike, I trust, as lusty blows as of old! But I must needs know first whether the cause that I defend be just, or whether I am asked to fight to forward some despicable intrigue."
Léodgard drew his heavy eyebrows together, and said in an ironical tone:
"You see, chevalier, you are no longer the same man. You desire now to make inquiries before you fight! Whereas, formerly, you would throw yourself head foremost into the mêlée, without disturbing yourself concerning the motive of the quarrel, and sometimes dealing blows on both sides. You were admirable then."
"Perhaps so.—Yes, I do not deny that I am no longer the same. The hatred that I once felt for the whole human race has vanished and given place to gentler sentiments. When I felt my heart beat again, I realized that all sensibility had not died within me. I have found my heart anew, I have felt sensations which I never expected again to know. And the gloom and despair which consumed me are transformed into touching memories."
"What can have produced this miraculous change in you, I pray to know?"
"A child!"
"A child?"
"Yes. The loss of my daughter made me the man you described so well just now. Another child—anangel like the first—has restored me to myself. This child is not mine; but she is so affectionate, so lovable! Dear little one! she smiles at my caresses, she already manifests affection for me, and I imagine that my own daughter is given back to me!"
"Who is this marvellous child, pray?"
"Yours, count. I am speaking of your daughter, your little Blanche.—Ah! I am entitled to love her, to lavish my affection upon her, for I, representing your father, had the honor to act as her godfather. I tell you again, your daughter is an angel; it is not only the beauty of her features that people admire in her; young as she is, her eyes already have a sweet and gentle expression which charms, attracts one, while her pure and noble brow denotes unusual intelligence!—Do you not wish to see her, count? Will you never imprint a kiss on that angel's brow? You have no suspicion that you possess such a treasure; but I am convinced that to see her for an instant will suffice to make you love her?"
"Was it to tell me all this, to speak to me of that child, that you came hither, chevalier?" asked Léodgard, with a sombre expression.
"You have said it, count: it was for that purpose that I came to this festivity. I was anxious to see you; I had been to your house several times in vain; I thought that I should be more fortunate here."
"If that is so, I regret that you have taken so much trouble. You would have done better not to mix witha company of courtesans and rakes. Frankly, it is not becoming in a man who has renounced Satan."
"Is this the only reply that I can obtain from you, count? Will you not go once at least to see and embrace your daughter? Ah! if you had seen her! if her eyes had rested on yours! if her soft little voice had fallen on your ears! You would agree that all that I have said is far below the truth."
"Chevalier, do not recur to this subject. It is useless for you to attempt to lead me back to a person—whom I do not choose to see. For I understand that the little girl is only a pretext; you talk to me of the child, in order to reconcile me with the mother."
"And if that were true, count? The time is not so far away when I met you one night keeping watch under her windows. Oh! then she was an angel, you adored her, you could not live without her! and to-day——"
"Enough, Jarnonville, enough!"
Léodgard raised his voice as he uttered these last words in an angry tone; and several of the guests, who happened to be walking in that part of the garden, hurried to the spot, thinking that a quarrel was on.
"What is it, messieurs, what's the matter?" asked the Baron de Montrevert, who was one of the first to arrive. "Are you at odds here? What! two excellent friends—Léodgard and the Sire de Jarnonville!"
"No matter!" cried Sénange; "if you need seconds, here we are!"
"But first you must tell us the cause of your falling-out."
"You are mistaken, my masters!" rejoined Léodgard, calm once more. "There is neither quarrel nor falling-out between us; I was talking with the chevalier, and I may have become a little heated and have raised my voice. But we have no inclination to fight, for we have no reason to cease to be friends."
"Oh! that's a pity!" muttered Monclair, walking away. "It would have amused me to see them cross swords."
"He did not choose to tell us the truth," said Montrevert, leading his friends away. "But we are not his dupes. He probably has got wind of Jarnonville's visits to his wife, and he was saying two words to him on the subject."
"In that case, they will fight at the first opportunity."
"That is inevitable!"
"Ah! here is Flavia!"
"And pretty Nadina! Come with us for a stroll, enchantresses!"
The two courtesans to whom these words were addressed turned back toward the salons, saying:
"No, indeed, we will not walk in the gardens with you, seigneurs; you have too pronounced a penchant for the dark paths."
"Besides, I want to dance!" said little Nadina, who was rather stout for her short stature, but who carried her premature embonpoint with such graceful abandon andsuch a saucy expression that the men felt drawn toward theLittle Ball, a sobriquet which her female friends had given her.
"She wants to dance, in order to melt her fat!" whispered Flavia to one of the gentlemen.
"Why so? for my part, I think her very comely as she is."
"Bah! one cannot see any figure!"
"I assure you that one can see some very pretty things!"
"As if men knew anything about it!"
"Ah! that remark is characteristic of a woman! They try to captivate, to seduce men, and then they declare that men are not capable of judging them!"
"Messeigneurs," said Camilla, approaching a group of gentlemen, among whom she saw Léodgard and Sénange, "the supper is served under the great arbor of lilacs yonder. If it is your pleasure to serve us as cupbearers, we will take our places at the table.—Come, mesdames."
As she spoke, the fair courtesan led her friends away, and they ran like a swarm of butterflies in the direction of the supper table.
"On my honor, that Spanish costume is marvellously becoming to Camilla!" said Sénange, exalted to the seventh heaven by a smile which the courtesan had bestowed upon him. "I do not believe that it is possible to find a more fascinating woman.—I am going to supper."
"Camilla is certainly very good-looking; I do justice to her attractions," said Montrevert, remaining behind to chat with a number of young men. "But as for saying that there is no more fascinating woman—Sénange goes too far! What would he say if he had seen the young Marquise de Santoval? Ah! she is what I call a beauty that eclipses all others! And, with all Camilla's charms, I will bet that no one would notice her if she stood beside the marchioness!"
"Who is this Marquise de Santoval? where does she come from?" asked Monclair.
"It is plain that you spend all your time in wine shops, Monclair; otherwise, you would know that the Marquis de Santoval married Mademoiselle Valentine de Mongarcin, the daughter of an illustrious family."
"Oh, yes! I remember now.—And it is this young woman who is so beautiful, you say?"
"Montrevert does not exaggerate," said La Valteline. "A few days ago, I was at a ball at Madame de Beaumont's, and the young Marquise de Santoval was there. Her entrance caused a sensation; the whole salon joined in a cry of admiration!—That young woman turned everybody's head. In addition to her beauty, there is an expression on her face which it is impossible to describe—coquetry, pride, languor, irony—and the combination is simply ravishing!"
"Well, well! it would seem that this Santoval is a very lucky man!"