[D]Ris, meaninglaughter, has the same pronunciation asriz(rice).
[D]Ris, meaninglaughter, has the same pronunciation asriz(rice).
“I mean to imply, madame, that there are remarks at which modesty takes offence, and that, when telling stories, you should touch very lightly upon certain subjects, for
“‘Le Latin dans les mots brave l’honnêteté,Mais l’auditeur Français veut être respecté!Du moindre sens impur la liberté l’outrageSi la pudeur des mots n’en adoucit l’image.’”[E]
“‘Le Latin dans les mots brave l’honnêteté,Mais l’auditeur Français veut être respecté!Du moindre sens impur la liberté l’outrageSi la pudeur des mots n’en adoucit l’image.’”[E]
[E]The Latin tongue defies decency, but the French listener insists on being treated with respect. He is offended by the faintest touch of impurity of sense unless the image is softened by the decency of the words.
[E]The Latin tongue defies decency, but the French listener insists on being treated with respect. He is offended by the faintest touch of impurity of sense unless the image is softened by the decency of the words.
Mère Thomas roared with laughter, and, turning to her neighbor with the pigeon’s wings, who was dipping a macaroon in champagne, his face still wearing a scowl, she said:
“Do you understand that, old fox? That fellow says he’s got impure senses; it ain’t decent to make a confession like that at dessert.”
“Ah! madame!” cried the poet, flushing with wrath, “no one ever dared——”
“What’s up, Biribi? Bah! you’re losing your temper, my lad, you’re red as a turkey-cock; I see that; but I’m a good-natured fool, and I ain’t got no more gall ‘n a flea. Let’s drink together; that’s better’n talking about your fat women—grasses, Graces—and your thin women, what I don’t know nothing about. Some wine, marquis—that nice little wine as foams. Oh! I know what this is; it’s champagne, that’s what it is; it ain’t no fraud, like your madeira! Your health, my little duckies; yours, Thomas. Whatever’s the matter with you, my son? You don’t say nothing, and you look as queer as queer; be you going to go off the hooks, like your wife? We must have a song, children; that’s always the thing at dessert. Come! who’s going to be the one to begin? Thomas, you used to know lots o’ songs; I’m going to sing you the one Chahû’s wife sung to my wedding:
“‘J’entre en train quand il entre en train,J’entre en train quand il entre—’”
“‘J’entre en train quand il entre en train,J’entre en train quand il entre—’”
You must sing the chorus, children.”
“One moment, one moment, madame,” said the marquis; “pray wait for the coffee and liqueurs.”
“Oh, yes! that’s so, my friend; they’ll clear my voice.”
“This is getting worse and worse!” said the marquis to his host in an undertone.
“Oh! monsieur le marquis, I am in utter despair; I am overwhelmed with confusion; I am afraid to turn my head!”
“Why, my dear fellow, I am not in the least offended; a great many people have mothers who are—who are not precisely noble. That does not prevent your being a man whom I esteem beyond measure, nor does it make your dinner any the less delicious. But there are people insociety who are not so sensible as I am, and in whose estimation this may do you an injury. To say nothing of the fact that our dear mamma is getting tipsy, and I don’t know what she may not sing us before she is through.”
“And to think that I expect more than eighty people to-night for the ball—the most fashionable and most distinguished people in Paris! Save me, monsieur le marquis; I lay my purse, my cash-box, my credit, at your feet!”
“My dear La Thomassinière, my friendship for you is an sufficient motive to—However, I believe that I have a note for six thousand francs to meet to-morrow.”
“You will allow me to attend to that, monsieur le marquis.”
“We must devise some way to make everybody leave the house.”
“Yes, and as soon as possible.”
“Wait—I have an idea—Yes, on my word, it’s an excellent idea.”
“Ah! monsieur le marquis! my gratitude——”
“It may cost you rather dear, but I see no other resource.”
“I am ready to make every possible sacrifice.”
“Very good; let me set to work. Go back to the table as if nothing were in the wind. Tell your servants to carry out my orders, and await their effect.”
“Lafleur, Jasmin, Comtois, obey monsieur le marquis rather than myself.”
The marquis left the dining-room, followed by the servants, and La Thomassinière returned to the table. Coffee and liqueurs were served. The marquis soon reappeared and resumed his seat beside Madame Thomas, reassuring his host with a glance.
Mère Thomas hummed as she drank her coffee.
“My children,” she said, “we must have a dance to-night; I feel twenty year younger. Thomas, you’ll take a turn, I hope? Give me a glass, marquis; but none of that sugary stuff that sticks in your gullet. Give me something stiff and strong, my friend; that’s the only kind that makes you feel good.”
Madame Thomas had taken two petits verres of brandy, one of rum and one of kirsch; she was declaring that they were very refreshing, and seemed disposed to go on drinking, when a cloud of smoke arose in the courtyard and found its way into the rooms. The guests looked at each other uneasily.
“Seems to me there’s a bit of a fog,” said Mère Thomas; “it smells like something burning; be any of you sitting on a foot-warmer?”
The servants rushed into the room, shouting in dismay:
“The house is on fire!”
“Fire!” cried all the guests, springing from their chairs. Mère Thomas alone remained seated.
“Well! all you got to do is fling water on it!” she said.
“My house on fire!” said Monsieur de la Thomassinière, glancing at the marquis. “How can it have happened? Ah! there was a pile of straw—somebody must have dropped a match on it. Look, monsieur, see what a smoke there is in the courtyard!”
As it was about nine o’clock in the evening, the flame made by a number of bunches of straw, which the marquis had fired, made the courtyard as light as day. The cry offire! soon arose on all sides; it reached the salon, and the ladies who had taken refuge there from the society of Madame Thomas, rushed out shrieking, and calling their fathers or their husbands.
The gentlemen tried to allay their fears, saying: “It’s nothing, it won’t amount to anything; but we must go as soon as possible. Get your bonnets and shawls; make haste, for ladies should never stay where everything is in confusion. We will go with you.”
Meanwhile the fire which the marquis had kindled, in order to put the guests to flight, and which the servants did not think of putting out, because they knew that it was a ruse on their master’s part,—the fire actually attacked the carriage-house and spread from that to the stable. While the ladies went to get their shawls and the men their hats, and while the servants ran through the rooms shoutingfire! the danger had become real, and no one discovered it until a large part of the courtyard was already wrapped in flames.
Thereupon tumult and confusion held full sway; the ladies fled into the street; one lost her turban, another her cap, and several fainted. Auguste took Athalie in his arms and carried her to a stone bench in the next street. Amid the general upheaval, Mère Thomas decided at last to leave the table; she raised her skirts above her knees and began to run, crying out:
“Just look at all them friends of Thomas’s! the cowardly skunks are running away instead of forming a line! and they’d leave me here to roast just like a chestnut!”
The results of the marquis’s little ruse were one wing of the house burned, four horses burned, three firemen injured, ten shawls lost, fifteen hats stolen, six locks of hair scorched, three bracelets lost, and two combs broken; but Monsieur de la Thomassinière made himself whole with twenty thousand francs, and at all events his worthy mother did not exhibit herself to the numerous guests who were invited for the evening.
On the morrow of the scene at his house, Monsieur de la Thomassinière and Athalie started for England, where they determined to remain until Paris had forgotten the scandal caused by the stout countrywoman. As for the latter, they had sent her back post haste to her village, expressly forbidding her ever to leave it again, on pain of withdrawal of the allowance of two hundred francs which her generous son deigned to pay her.
The absurd false shame of La Thomassinière, who blushed for his mother after he became wealthy, and the petty baseness of Athalie, who had pretended to faint in order to avoid embracing Mère Thomas, made Auguste quite indifferent to their departure; but their house was the only place where he saw Monsieur de Cligneval, and Bertrand said more than once:
“Seems to me, lieutenant, that we don’t hear much about that marquis who owes you a hundred louis.”
“Perhaps I shall hear from him to-day.”
“And the little milkmaid, when are we going to see her again, and thank her for what she brought you? The chickens were fine! I had to eat them while you were dining out.”
“I don’t think that Denise gives very much thought to us. Hasn’t she a lover? Isn’t she to be married?”
“Is that a reason for not thanking her for her chickens, lieutenant?”
“Perhaps she came to Paris to invite me to her wedding.”
“I don’t know what she came for; but she seemed unhappy when she went away. She said she wouldn’t trouble you any more, and I saw tears in her eyes. That touched me, I admit; the child is so sweet and pretty, and anyone can see that her tears ain’t make-believe.”
Auguste was apparently reflecting on what the ex-corporal had said, when there was a violent ring at the door, and Bertrand announced that an old gentleman whose face denoted intense excitement, wished to see Monsieur Dalville. Auguste was surprised to recognize Monsieur Monin, whose eyes, even more staring than usual, seemed to indicate that something of grave importance had happened.
“Is it you, Monsieur Monin?” said Auguste, offering a chair to the ex-druggist, who, despite his excitement, inquired as he seated himself:
“How’s the state of your health?”
“I ought rather to ask you that, Monsieur Monin. You look as if you were in some trouble; may I know what it is?”
“Yes, monsieur; I have less than I had! that’s why I’ve come.”
“What do you say? less than you had? I don’t understand.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t know it?”
“Know what, Monsieur Monin?”
“What I just told you.”
“Not yet; but if you would be good enough to explain——”
“The fact is, monsieur, it gave me such a blow!”
“Indeed, you seem to be a little confused.”
“Didn’t it have the same effect on you?”
“I don’t know as yet what effect it will have on me, Monsieur Monin, or how I am interested in what you came to tell me.”
“Oh! Monsieur Dalville, if we could have guessed; if we could have foreseen! But, bless my soul! we aren’t sorcerers; that’s what I told Bichette this morning when she insisted on taking my snuff-box away.”
“I never supposed that you were a sorcerer, Monsieur Monin; but I confess that at this moment I find you rather incomprehensible.”
“That’s because I haven’t recovered yet, monsieur.”
“Recovered from what?”
“And Bichette declares that he’s taken you in, too.”
Dalville lost patience, and glanced at Bertrand, who was pacing the floor, muttering:
“If I had a squad of men like him to drill, I’d begin by fastening ‘em to horses’ tails and driving the horses at a gallop.”
Monin took out his snuff-box, stuffed his nostrils, and continued:
“I have come to you, Monsieur Dalville, to see if by chance you have discovered which way he has gone.”
“Who on earth do you mean, Monsieur Monin? For heaven’s sake, explain yourself more fully! You have been talking to me for an hour, and I haven’t understood a word that you’ve said. What is it that someone has been doing to you?”
“Someone has robbed me, monsieur!”
“Robbed you?”
“That is to say, carried off twenty-five thousand francs.”
“Who, pray?”
“Monsieur Destival.”
“Destival!”
“Yes, monsieur; he’s gone away, left France, so I am told. That is what I had the honor to come to tell you.”
Auguste understood now too well; he was overwhelmed. Bertrand walked up to Monin, shouting:
“What’s that you say? Damnation! Is it possible that that Monsieur Destival——”
“Ah! Monsieur Bertrand! How’s the state of your health?”
“He has gone—with our two hundred and fifty thousand francs!”
“Just so. You know you taught him to drill.”
“Ah! the double-dyed villain!—We are ruined, lieutenant!”
“Don’t get excited, Bertrand; perhaps this intelligence is false. I can’t believe that Destival——”
“That’s what I told Bichette; I couldn’t believe it either.”
“But how do you know? Who told you that Destival has gone?”
“I’ll tell you, monsieur: he sold my shop for me not long ago, and kept the money to invest; and I gave him six thousand francs more a week ago, because he said that the more he had, the better investments he could make. And yet Bichette wasn’t very much inclined to leave our money with him. But Monsieur Bisbis advised her to leave it, so—Do you take snuff?”
“I must go at once to Destival’s,” said Auguste, interrupting Monin in the middle of his speech.
“Yes, lieutenant,” said Bertrand, “that will be much better than listening to monsieur. Go, don’t lose any time; and meanwhile I’ll go and try to find out something about which way the villain has gone. Perhaps he ain’t far away yet, and if we have to founder ten horses, we’ll catch him!”
“If you do catch him, Monsieur Bertrand, remember that I’m in for twenty-five thousand francs,” said Monin. But nobody was listening to him; Auguste was already on the staircase and the corporal lost no time in following him. Monin, finding that he was left alone with the little groom, decided to leave Dalville’s abode and to return to his own.
“At the rate they’re going,” he thought, “there’s no doubt that those gentlemen will succeed in catching our man; so I’ll go home and encourage Bichette.”
Auguste betook himself to the business agent’s abode. He inquired for Destival of the concierge, who replied:
“Monsieur Destival hasn’t been seen for three days, and nobody knows what’s become of him; he didn’t say where he was going. The negro and Baptiste have gone, too; but madame and her maid stayed behind. She’s at home now.”
Auguste went upstairs and was admitted by Julie. The young man noticed no change in the apartments, where it simply seemed more quiet than before. He was ushered into the presence of madame, who seemed a little embarrassed at sight of him.
“Can it be that the current report is true, madame?” Auguste asked. “I am told that your husband has gone away, that he has left France!”
“Alas! it is only too true, monsieur,” replied Emilie, sinking into an easy-chair.
“What, madame! has he gone, not to return?”
“I think so, monsieur. He has abandoned me; he is an abominable man!”
“And do you know what he has taken with him, madame?”
“No, monsieur; I knew absolutely nothing about his business.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand francs! It is almost all that I possessed.”
“Oh! that was shocking on his part!”
“Say rather that it is robbery, infernal rascality!” cried Auguste, angered by Madame Destival’s indifference. “And you don’t know, madame, where he has gone?”
“I know nothing at all about it, monsieur; I am overwhelmed, stunned, like yourself!”
“Your husband has ruined me, madame.”
“I am terribly distressed, monsieur; but what do you expect me to do?”
“It seems to me, madame, that this occurrence is likely to involve you in some unpleasantness.”
“I have no responsibility whatever to Monsieur Destival’s creditors, monsieur; we had each our own property; this house is hired in my name, and everything in it is mine. Is it my fault that Monsieur Destival has been unfortunate in his speculations? Is it the first time that such a thing ever happened? Am I not more to be pitied than anybody else? He has carried off my marriage portion, monsieur, and the furniture that is left here is certainly not worth the amount of that.—However, monsieur, do whatever you choose; proceed against me; turn me into the street if such is your desire!”
Auguste made no reply, but left Madame Destival’s presence abruptly, cursing the business agent’s rascality.
Bertrand returned, having failed to discover any traces of the fugitive. He continued his efforts in that direction for three days, while Auguste on his side did all that he could; but it seemed certain that Destival was already outside of France; that was the utmost that he could learn about him.
Auguste tried to recover his cheerfulness and to endure the blow philosophically. Bertrand was very careful not to offer his master any counsel at that moment, for he realized that the time would be ill-chosen. But when all hope was abandoned of discovering the tracks of the swindler who had carried off Dalville’s fortune, Bertrand bethought himself of the Marquis de Cligneval’s little debt; and Auguste consented that the corporal should call upon him.
Bertrand hastened to the address given him and asked for monsieur le marquis.
“He don’t live here now,” said the concierge.
“Where does he live?”
“He’s gone to take the waters.”
“What waters, morbleu?”
“Faith, he didn’t tell me, monsieur.”
Bertrand was furious; he returned, cursing, to tell Auguste, who received the news calmly enough.
“What! lieutenant, you are robbed of a hundred louis more, and it doesn’t make you angry!” said Bertrand.
“Faith, my friend, when a fellow is ruined, a hundred louis more or less aren’t worth worrying about.”
“Still, they’d tide over for some time. That cursed marquis! I had a presentiment of this.”
“I shall find him somewhere.”
“He won’t pay you.”
“Bertrand, you must look into the condition of my cash-box and see how much I have left.”
“That won’t take long, lieutenant.”
Bertrand walked sadly toward the desk; then returned and presented with a sigh a statement of their finances.
“Eighteen thousand six hundred and forty francs,” said Auguste, reading the total; “Gad! I didn’t think that I was still so rich as this.”
“I haven’t counted the marquis’s hundred louis, nor what several of your friends owe you.”
“I am inclined to think that that is wise. But I must know what I owe also; send to my tailor and boot-maker and harness-maker, and pay their bills. When I was rich I could afford to owe; but when one’s money is gone, one should not think of running into debt.”
“You speak like the great Turenne, lieutenant. All the bills shall be paid to-morrow.”
After the bills were paid, Auguste possessed sixteen thousand four hundred francs.
“Add to that our handsome furniture and the wine in the cellar, and by leading an orderly, economical life, you can wait to see what will turn up,” Bertrand observed.
“We must subtract from the total, Bertrand, three hundred francs that I have promised to pay for a pretty mercer’s apprentice, whose furniture a heartless bailiff proposed to seize; two hundred francs which I am lending to Virginie, and ten louis for some bracelets that I am going to buy to-night.”
Bertrand nearly swallowed the pen that he had in his mouth.
“You can’t mean it, lieutenant!” he cried; “before long you won’t have anything left.”
“Look you, my friend, I promised all these things when I was still rich; shall I break my promises just because a villain has ruined me? You wouldn’t do it yourself. But I swear that these shall be my last follies. Henceforth I propose to be virtue itself; besides, you must remember that we shall also have the proceeds of the sale of my two horses and my cabriolet, for I can no longer indulge in a carriage! I must cut down my establishment, dismiss Tony, and go on foot.—Does that make you feel sad, Bertrand?”
“For your sake, lieutenant!”
“Oh! very likely I shall be all the better for it, my friend. Exercise is essential to good health—I’ve heard you say that a thousand times. Do you think that people who go on foot aren’t just as good as those who ride in carriages?”
“Oh! you don’t think I’m such a fool as that, lieutenant!”
“Well then, why regret a thing one can do so well without! With money, hasn’t one always a cab at his command, without having horses and a groom to keep? Upon my word, I can’t understand now why I ever had a cabriolet.”
“But all those grisettes who come to tell you about their little troubles, to have you comfort them, and the great ladies whose heads you turned—don’t you think, lieutenant, that your cabriolet had something to do with their display of affection for you?”
“That would be an additional reason for not regretting it. Henceforth I shall know the hearts of the women to whom I make love; I shall be sure of being loved for myself; and if I triumph over a youthful beauty, if I carry the day over a rival, I shall have no reason to fear that I owe the preference accorded me to my fortune and to that alone.”
“You will soon find out, lieutenant, that it was for your advantage that that villain carried off your money!”
“Faith! who knows? Tell me, am I wrong to look at the bright side?”
“No, indeed; there are lots of people who couldn’t find a bright side to such a thing; but still—excuse my fears, monsieur—what you have left won’t last forever, no matter how much we may economize; and what willyou do then, lieutenant? for a man can’t live on his cheerfulness alone.”
“Why, then—we’ll see, my dear Bertrand; I have some talents—well, I’ll turn them to account, I’ll work.”
“You work, monsieur!” said Bertrand, turning his back, to wipe away a tear.
“Why not, my friend?”
“Because you’re not used to it—because it would be too hard for you—because I wouldn’t allow it, in fact,—and—But let’s not say any more about that. You’re right; it’s better to forget ourselves. Who knows? perhaps we shall find your thief!”
“That’s the talk, my dear Bertrand; we must always hope; it makes us none the poorer and it does us good.”
Auguste went out to seek distraction with a mercer’s apprentice, and Bertrand went downstairs to read the life of the great Turenne to Schtrack.
The cabriolet was sold, the little groom found another place. When Madame Saint-Edmond observed that her neighbor was cutting down his establishment, she no longer deigned to look at him, but passed him without even bowing to him. Bertrand was indignant at her discourtesy, but Auguste laughed at it, saying:
“I am certain now that that woman never loved me, and it is always pleasant to know whom one is dealing with.”
But Bertrand muttered:
“Just let her lose her poodle again; and if I find him I’ll make him do a turn of sentry duty that he’ll never be relieved from.”
Auguste continued to seek distraction in society, and as distraction is ordinarily expensive, he spent much more than he should have done, although he had determined to be virtuous and orderly. He considered himself very prudent, because, instead of losing fifty louis at an evening party, he lost only fifty crowns; because, instead of hiring a box at the theatre, he contented himself with buying seat tickets at the office; and because he rode in cabs instead of keeping a cabriolet. But even this outlay was too large for a person who had only a small capital and no income. Bertrand saw with dismay that their funds would not last as long as he had hoped; he dared not remonstrate with Auguste, but he often said to him:
“Let’s go see the pretty milkmaid, monsieur, and that little Coco that you’re so fond of; that will divert you. We can pass a few days at the village, and amusements don’t cost so much there as they do in Paris.”
Auguste constantly postponed visiting Montfermeil. He did not tell Bertrand the reason that he dreaded to go there; but he was pained to think that he was no longer able to do all that he had hoped to do for the child; he supposed that the money which he had left for him had been used; and, being accustomed to follow nothing but the impulses of his heart and give money away with a lavish hand, he sighed at the idea of being obliged to reckon the extent of his benefactions. That pang was the keenest that the loss of his fortune had as yet caused him.
After an absence of six weeks, Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière returned to Paris. Theirmansion became once more the rendezvous of the people who love good dinners, evening parties and balls; and the old chevalier of the pigeon’s wings was not the last to return thither, although at their last dinner-party he had sworn that they would never catch him there again. The marquises and dandies, the women of fashion, the poets and bankers were very careful not to mention Madame Thomas to Monsieur de la Thomassinière; and he said to himself, rubbing his hands:
“It’s all forgotten, nobody thinks about it now, it hasn’t injured me in the least. For all that, I did well to pass six weeks in England; that sufficed to forget it.”
Monsieur de la Thomassinière was mistaken; Madame Thomas’s visit was not forgotten; but so long as he was rich and continued to give gorgeous parties and grand dinners, people would continue to go to his house and to welcome him warmly. Let him but lose his money, and everybody would very soon discover what he was—a very stupid, vulgar individual. So that it was not necessary for him to make the journey to England. To be sure, he did not say all this to himself.
Destival’s flight caused a sensation. When it was mentioned to La Thomassinière, he cried:
“I was certain that that man would turn out ill! He fancied that he was as well equipped as I; he had the assurance to dream of making a fortune like mine! As if my talents were given to everybody! He gave wretched dinners: poor food and poor wine! And he had an idea that he gave dinners like mine! I have said a hundred times: ‘That man will go under!’ and he hasn’t failed to do it.”
“His wife was too much of a flirt,” said Athalie; “she insisted on following all the fashions and wearing cashmere shawls; she had taken my dressmaker.”
“Taken your dressmaker, madame!” cried her husband; “you must agree that that was utterly absurd! Those people had lost their senses! The idea of taking your dressmaker! the wife of a miserable little business agent!”
“But she’s still in Paris,” said the Marquis de Cligneval, who was present at this conversation. “I saw her in a buggy a few days ago, more stylishly dressed than ever.”
“Really?” said the speculator; “you say that she was dressed in style? It’s a fact that she had much more wit than her husband! It seems that her skirts are entirely clear of his business; she must have taken measures beforehand, and she did well; certainly no one can blame her.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Dalville, who had not been at the Thomassinière’s since their return from England.
“Ah! Monsieur Dalville!” said the speculator, hurrying to meet the young man with an air of great cordiality, while the marquis seized Auguste’s hand and cried:
“How delighted I am to see you, my amiable friend! Gad! I intended to come to see you one of these days.—‘Nobody ever sees him now,’ I said to myself; ‘what in the deuce has become of him?’”
“It is a fact, monsieur,” said Athalie, with a gracious smile to Auguste, “you have been in no hurry, monsieur, to come to see us since we returned more than ten days ago; it’s very unkind, for you know how fond of you we are.”
“You are too kind, madame,” said Auguste, taking a seat beside the petite-maîtresse; “but I have been very much occupied. You have learned no doubt that Destival——”
“We were speaking about him a moment ago,” said La Thomassinière, “and I was saying to monsieur le marquis, my good friend, that his performance did not surprise me in the least! Indeed, I believe that I anticipated it!”
“That is true—you did say that to me,” the marquis replied; “but I admit that such things always pass my comprehension. To fail—to run away with other people’s money—why, it’s shocking! Let a man go off with his own all he pleases; but the idea of deceiving people who have confidence in one’s good faith! who place their property in one’s hands to administer! who leave everything to one’s honesty! Ah! I could never forgive that!”
“Nor I,” cried La Thomassinière; “I could never forgive anyone for not succeeding in business. I will say more—I won’t receive such a man in my house. The minute your credit begins to sink, why, good-evening; you’d better stay at home! That’s all I know! For we must have honesty first of all, as monsieur le marquis observed; and with rich people a man is never in any danger.”
Dalville smiled at the warmth with which the two worthies emphasized their love of honesty, and after a moment he rejoined:
“Do you know how much of my money Destival has taken away with him?”
“No,” said La Thomassinière; “is it possible that he cheated you too? I thought that you were too shrewd to allow yourself to be taken in, Monsieur Dalville!”
“Oh! in money matters, monsieur, the shrewdest are likely to be the stupidest. A man doesn’t need intelligence to grow rich; that’s a truth of which the world presents us with proofs every day.”
“Monsieur Dalville is forever joking,” Athalie said, laughingly; while La Thomassinière said to the marquis in an undertone:
“This young man knows nothing whatever about business. I feel sorry for him.”
“How much did the scoundrel rob you of?” queried the marquis.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“The deuce!” cried La Thomassinière; “but that’s quite a sum of money! Two hundred and fifty thousand francs! You must have stout loins to stand such a loss!”
“Oh well! I stand it as best I can. This is the time to be philosophical.”
“I understand; that means that you are still very rich.”
“Not at all; on the contrary, I have nothing left. Destival has carried off my capital, and in a few months I shall have to turn my attention to earning my living.”
Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s face grew long and the marquis’s anxious. Athalie alone seemed to take any interest in Auguste’s situation.
“What!” she exclaimed; “do you really mean, Monsieur Dalville, that that wretched man has ruined you?”
“Yes, madame, the fact is only too certain.”
“And you take it as calmly as this?”
“If I should rage and tear my hair, that would not give me back my money.”
“Philosophy is a fine thing, that is sure,” said the marquis. “It helps us to take things as they come, it makes us superior to adversity, and—But it occurs to me that I am invited out to dinner, to eat a truffled turkey. I promised to be on hand at the overture, and a man of honor has only his word. Au revoir, my dear friends.”
The marquis rose and was about to leave the room, when Dalville ran after him and stopped him.
“I beg your pardon, my dear Monsieur de Cligneval,” he said under his breath, “but you probably have forgotten a little debt of a hundred louis. If I venture to remind you of it, you will understand that just at this time I am in need of whatever I possess.”
“My dear friend, what do you say? Pardieu! it had slipped my mind entirely.”
“You were to repay it that same week, and as it was two months ago, I thought you had forgotten that trifle.”
“Entirely, my dear friend, entirely; I have no memory except for important things, and a hundred louis, you will agree, is the merest bagatelle. Send to my house.”
“They could not give me your address at your former residence.”
“True, I am on the wing. I will send the money to you—that will be the better way. But they are waiting for me; the turkey is probably served. It’s a party of gentlemen only, and I promised to be prompt. I am very particular about keeping my word.”
“I can rely, then, upon——”
“Yes, you shall hear from me to-morrow at the latest. Adieu; pardon me for leaving you so abruptly, but a truffled turkey admits of no postponement.”
And Monsieur de Cligneval, who was in truth very particular about keeping his word when a dinner or luncheon was concerned, shook off his creditor and escaped from the salon. But as he was by no means anxious to meet Dalville frequently at his friend La Thomassinière’s, monsieur le marquis, when he reached the reception-room, told a servant to go to his master and tell him privately that Monsieur de Cligneval had something to impart to him in confidence.
The servant did the errand and La Thomassinière hastily left the salon and joined the marquis, whose obsequious servant he deemed himself very fortunate to be.
“What is it, my dear marquis? I am at your service,” cried the parvenu.
“Sh! let us go into your study, my friend. Dalville thinks that I have gone, and I don’t want him to meet me when he goes away.”
They went into Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s study, and there the marquis seemed to hesitate, as if he did not know whether he ought to speak.
“I am dreadfully perplexed,” he said at last to La Thomassinière, who was waiting humbly to hear what he had to tell him.
“Perplexed!—you! Is it possible that a marquis can ever be perplexed? Nonsense, you are joking!”
“No, my friend, no. Mon Dieu! because one happens to have been born in an exalted sphere, because one enjoys some consideration and has some little power, do you suppose that one is not human just the same, and subject to all the weaknesses that nature has allotted to us?”
“Surely not, monsieur le marquis! and——”
“Bless my soul! we are all very much alike! In the eyes of men of intelligence what does a little more or a little less nobility amount to?—For my own part, I give you my word that, if you were a duke, I should esteem you no more highly!”
“You are too kind, monsieur le marquis!”
“No, I am frank, that’s all.”
La Thomassinière was wondering how this discussion would take the marquis to the truffled turkey that awaited him, when Monsieur de Cligneval resumed:
“It was about Dalville that I wanted to speak to you in private. That young man allowed himself to be taken in like an idiot.”
“Like an absolute idiot, monsieur le marquis.”
“And he was so conceited, so self-sufficient! He wouldn’t take anybody’s advice; he thought that he knew how to manage his business. It was a pitiable thing!”
“It was, as you say, pitiable.”
“The idea of entrusting all his money to Destival! He must have lost his senses.”
“However that may be, monsieur le marquis, I always come back to my principle—I never forgive a man for allowing himself to be robbed.”
“And you are quite right. Let him rob others—that is to say, make sport of others—and I’ve not a word to say; that is cleverness, tact!—However, this Dalville is in a most infernal position!”
“That’s what I thought as soon as he told me he had nothing left.”
“If he even had any social rank—a title—any of those things that may lead to everything.”
“In short, if he were noble.”
“Oh! in that case he might get out of it—but when a man isn’t noble it’s essential that he should be rich!”
“To be sure—that’s another of my principles.”
“And it’s all a part of the system of equality and philosophy that I was describing to you just now. I was interested in this Dalville; but my friendship for you takes precedence of everything; that is why I conceive it to be my duty not to conceal anything from you.”
“Conceal nothing, I pray, monsieur le marquis!”
“Do you know what he said to me just now when I was leaving the salon?”
“No, I haven’t any idea.”
“Didn’t you overhear a word?”
“Not a single word.”
“Well, my dear fellow, he was asking me to lend him money.”
“Asking you to lend him money?”
“Yes, my dear fellow; on my word, that did seem a little bit hasty on his part, I admit.”
“Hasty! you are very generous, monsieur le marquis! It was much worse than that.”
“In the first place, I don’t know him well enough to——”
“And even if you did know him very well—whoever heard of lending money to a man who is ruined, and who has just told you so?—I know him better than you do, and I wouldn’t lend him.”
“In the second place, it’s the very worst form to borrow money at a third person’s house.”
“It’s shocking form!”
“As if he couldn’t have come to my house like a man—or waited till another time! But no—he attacks me in your salon! I had to promise to make him a loan—otherwise he wouldn’t have let me go.”
“That is true, I noticed that; and yet you had told him that a truffled turkey was awaiting you, and it seems to me that such a consideration should have imposed silence on him.”
“You must realize that if he sets about borrowing money in this way from everybody he meets at your house, you will be placed in a false position, and a great many of your acquaintances will be kept away from here; for I don’t know of anything that people dread more in society than to be asked to lend money.”
“Great heaven!” cried La Thomassinière, pacing the floor excitedly. “Why, a man like that would be averitable scourge, worse than the plague! I believe that I should prefer to see Madame Thomas appear!”
“I assure you, my friend, that that would do you less harm.”
“Never fear, I will attend to his case. And I won’t beat about the bush either. To-morrow my concierge will receive my orders: we shall never be at home to Monsieur Dalville. You hear—never!”
“Do just what you think best, my friend. I am very sorry for the young man, for I liked him much. Still, I felt bound to let you know.”
“Oh! you have done me a very great service, monsieur le marquis! A service that I shall never forget as long as I live! Think of receiving under my roof a man who tries to borrow money from my friends! who might end by trying to borrow from me! Remember that he has only been ruined a few days, and if he is borrowing already, what will he do after a little while? Can anyone tell where it will stop?”
“I have warned you, I have done what honor demanded, and now I will go and say a word to the turkey I have mentioned. Adieu, my friend.”
“I hope that you will dine with us to-morrow, monsieur le marquis. You will not meet Dalville in my house, I assure you.”
“In that case, I will join you. You will understand that it is painful to close one’s purse to misfortune; but with the best will in the world, one can give only what one has. Until to-morrow then, my dear La Thomassinière.”
“Your very humble servant, monsieur le marquis.”
When the marquis had gone, La Thomassinière considered whether he should return to the salon. He decided to join Dalville—indeed he considered it his dutyto begin to treat him coolly, so that the young man would not be tempted to disregard the orders which he proposed to give to his concierge.
Dalville had remained with Athalie. That young lady, after compassionating the young man, and assuring him that she was grieved by his misfortune, remembered that a new play was to be given at the Français that evening, and she exclaimed:
“I must not fail to be there. Have you hired a box, Monsieur Auguste?”
“I no longer hire boxes, madame,” was the reply; “I purchase my ticket modestly at the box-office. Sometimes I even stand in the line, and do not indulge myself with a seat in the resplendent orchestra.”
“Stand in the line!” said Athalie; and her smile became less expansive. “Oh! how shocking!”
A minute or two later the young coquette noticed that there were several spots of mud on Dalville’s boots.
“How is this, monsieur? You, who are always so exquisitely shod—you must have been splashed to-day! I can hardly believe it is you.”
“Still another result of my penury, madame. When I had a cabriolet, it was a simple matter for me always to have my boots spotlessly clean; but when one goes on foot, one must expect to be more open to criticism in one’s dress.”
“What! you no longer have a cabriolet?”
“No, madame, I have mustered it out of service, as well as my groom, and I have kept only my faithful Bertrand; for he is a friend rather than a servant, and one doesn’t part with a friend just because one is unfortunate.”
“What’s that? why, what you say is very true,” replied Athalie, going to a mirror to arrange her curls.“Bless my soul! how pale I am to-day! It frightens me! I am going to have one of my nervous attacks, I feel sure.”
It was at that moment that Monsieur de la Thomassinière entered the salon, assuming a more self-important air, a heavier tread than usual, and with a frown already prepared, lest his visitor should ask him for a loan.
“Who on earth was it who desired to see you, monsieur?” queried Athalie, still looking at herself in the mirror.
“A person who had some very important information to communicate, madame, and who preferred not to come in, knowing that I had company; indeed, it is a nuisance to have company all the time, and I propose to adopt the plan of not receiving visitors when I am at home.”
“Parbleu! you can do better than that, Monsieur de la Thomassinière,” said Auguste, laughingly. “You should imitate a lady of my acquaintance, who, when she had not put on her red paint and white paint and blue paint—in a word, when she had not finished beautifying herself—used to go to the door herself and say: ‘I am not at home.’”
“Ha! ha! that is very good!” said Athalie; “but I feel rather uncomfortable, and I believe that I will go and lie down.”
The petite-maîtresse left the room with a slight nod to Auguste, while La Thomassinière continued to pace the floor, frowning ominously.
“Well, Monsieur de la Thomassinière, how’s business?” said the young man, leaning back in his chair, while the parvenu seemed not to know what to do with himself.
“Business, monsieur? Oh! you mean speculation.”
“Are you still making money fast?”
“Yes, monsieur; a man ought to make money, it’s a duty, it’s what we were made for.”
“Parbleu! then you must teach me your secret, for I have never known how to do anything but spend it. But I must mend my ways; I must turn my attention to making my living, and for that purpose it seems to me that I cannot apply to a better man than you.”
La Thomassinière, convinced that Auguste was leading up to a request for a loan, pretended that he had not heard, and said, with a glance at his wallet:
“I lack thirty thousand francs of the amount necessary to buy some notes that have just been offered me—a splendid chance. I know that I can obtain that amount easily enough, that I have only to open my mouth and mention my name; but it annoys me, because I can’t endure to have recourse to anyone, even though it is only for an hour.”
Auguste was diverted by this comedy, and said after a while:
“By the way, Monsieur de la Thomassinière, how is your good mother, the excellent Madame Thomas, whose unexpected arrival caused you so much pleasure the last time that I dined with you?”
The parvenu blushed, bit his lips and stammered:
“She’s—she’s very well, monsieur; that is to say, I presume she’s very well; but since I returned from England—why,—why, of course I’ve had other things to think about. And—Great heaven! it just occurs to me—I’ve three letters to write to London—to noblemen who are expecting to hear from me—thoughtless creature that I am! I cannot stay with you any longer, Monsieur Dalville; my business calls me away—and business before everything.”
With that, La Thomassinière abruptly left the salon, without saluting Auguste, whom he left there alone.
“The stupid ass!” said Dalville, as he took his hat; “does he suppose that I didn’t notice the change in his manner as soon as he knew that I was a ruined man? And Athalie! I thought that she had more feeling! But what can one expect from a woman to whom dress and pleasure are everything? And such is this ‘society,’ where everyone seeks to shine, whose suffrage is eagerly sought, and in which we pass a great part of our lives! Are all these people worth the trouble of wasting a regret on them, I wonder?”
And Dalville left La Thomassinière’s house, vowing that he would never go there again.
“Lieutenant,” said Bertrand to Dalville, one morning, “we have forgotten something in our reformation, but the approach of rent-day reminds me of it: it’s the matter of lodgings. You must agree, lieutenant, that a fifteen-hundred franc suite is rather too heavy for our budget, in which the expense account is always lengthening, while the receipt account is a blank page.”
“You are right, Bertrand, we must give notice.”
“When I mentioned the subject to Schtrack yesterday, he told me that there’s an Englishman who will take the apartments at any time if we want to leave them; it seems to me, lieutenant, that it would be the wisest plan to move right away.”
“Do what you choose, Bertrand.”
“Especially as there’s a small bachelor’s apartment on the fifth floor, that might suit us: two rooms and a large dressing-room. It’s vacant, and if it won’t be unpleasant for you to stay in this house——”
“Why should it? Have I any reason to blush because of my changed fortune? I am the dupe of villains, but I have made no dupes. We will go up four flights. Hire the bachelor’s apartment.”
“Very good, lieutenant. We will be all settled there to-morrow. No wagons to pay for moving—that’s another saving.”
Bertrand was well pleased to stay in the house with his friend Schtrack; and the next morning, as soon as Dalville had gone out, he and the concierge carried the furniture from the first floor to the fifth. But as two small rooms would not contain the furniture that filled six large ones, he left in the old apartment all that he considered superfluous, and the new tenant purchased it, the proceeds serving to restock Bertrand’s cash-box at an opportune moment.
On returning home, Auguste, from long habit, stopped on the first floor. He rang, and waited in vain for Bertrand to admit him; then he remembered that he no longer lived there, and went on upstairs; but, in spite of himself, a sigh escaped him as he left his former apartment behind; and when he entered his new abode, the cramped space and the prospect of roofs from all the windows, extorted another sigh from his breast. We are men before we are philosophers, and the knowledge that we owe to the arguments of reason does not win an easy victory over our natural inclinations.
However, Auguste did his best to smile when Bertrand said to him:
“We shall be very comfortable here, lieutenant; shan’t we? The rooms are small, but we have everything under our hand. And what’s the use of having so many useless rooms? For, now that we’re not rich any more, almost nobody comes to see us. If we want to exercise, we can go out. But the air’s better here than it is on the first floor. And the view! Why, we overlook all the houses round.”
“Yes, this is all that we need,” Dalville replied; and Bertrand, observing that his master’s smile was a little forced, made haste to add:
“I have already noticed, at that window in the roof over there, a very good-looking young girl.”
“Where? where?” cried Auguste, running to the window.
“See, close by us, where the window is open. We can look right into her room, which is very convenient. And there’s the girl I saw just now. She has evidently noticed that she has a new neighbor, and she isn’t sorry to be looked at.”
“She is really very good-looking: a good figure, and a saucy expression, eh, Bertrand?”
“So it seems to me, lieutenant.”
“She’s working with a frame; she must be a lace-maker.”
“Oh! you can hardly expect to find duchesses living in chambers under the eaves.”
“Somebody’s opening a window just beyond her—do you see—where there are clothes hanging on a line?”
“Yes, lieutenant.”
“Oh! what a lovely blonde, Bertrand! Do you see her?”
“I can’t see so well as you, but I should say that she’s young, too.”
“She is lovely, I give you my word; much more so, in fact, than the first one, who is still looking at us. Gad! Bertrand, we shall do excellently well here, and I like the rooms very much.”
“They’re very nice, aren’t they, lieutenant?”
“The view alone is enough for me; I couldn’t see all these sweet creatures from downstairs, could I?”
“It would have been rather hard.”
“I am delighted to live on the fifth floor.”
“And I’m overjoyed to have you satisfied, lieutenant.”
Bertrand rubbed his hands, because he had restored Auguste’s good spirits by flattering his weakness; and Auguste, whom the sight of all those roofs had depressed at first, could not tear himself away from his window, because from it he could look into the rooms of his two charming neighbors.
The one with the mischievous eye and free-and-easy manner did not keep her eyes fixed on her frame, but glanced often at the young dandy who had taken up his abode under the eaves. Although in less affluent circumstances, Auguste had made no change in his dress; for the dress of a man of fashion never changes, whether his income is larger or smaller. Moreover, Auguste was a very good-looking fellow, with distinguished manners, and that fact seemed to arouse the young working girl’s curiosity, for she had not always such good company opposite her.
The young woman soon laid aside her work altogether; she walked about her room, arranged her bureau drawers, lighted her fire, looked at herself in the mirror, adjusted her neckerchief and prepared her dinner; each of her actions being accompanied by a glance at the opposite window. Auguste, who saw all that went on in her room, kept at his post, saying from time to time:
“Upon my word, Bertrand, it’s very amusing to live on the fifth floor.”
He looked also at the window where he had seen a pretty blonde; but she had simply taken in some of the linen that was drying, then closed the window without glancing at her neighbors.
Meanwhile, it had grown dark and the dinner hour had arrived. Auguste left his window and went blithely down the five flights. He returned home earlier than usual that evening and opened his window, although it was midwinter. He saw that there was a light in both of his neighbors’ rooms. The lace-maker had little curtains that covered only the lower sash; and as her window was on a lower level than Dalville’s, he could look over the little curtains into the room, which was brightly lighted, and see the girl going to and fro between the mirror and the fireplace, and apparently engrossed by her little cap, and a saucepan that was on the fire.
“For heaven’s sake, doesn’t that girl think about anything but her cooking?” said Auguste to himself; “this afternoon she was getting her dinner, and now I suppose she’s getting her supper. There seems to be no lack of appetite under the eaves. True, Bertrand did tell me that the air was sharper. Ah! now she’s going back to her mirror. She is a flirt, I noticed that this afternoon; her hair is dressed with more care than it was. Can she be expecting company? Why not? Isn’t one at liberty to enjoy oneself in an attic as well as elsewhere? Are the rich alone privileged to receive their friends? Their friends! what do I say? One is much more likely to receive them on the fifth floor; and flatterers and parasites and parvenus don’t disturb one here. It really is most delightful to room on the fifth floor.—Ah! what do I see?”
Auguste saw the young lace-maker, who, after adjusting her cap to her satisfaction, removed her jacket and short skirt, and donned a white chemise; while the young man, his eyes glued upon her little room, exclaimed excitedly:
“Very pretty! very pretty, on my word! I never saw anything better on the first floor! Ah! this apartment of mine is beyond price!”
Her toilet completed, the young woman set out her supper on a small table; she laid two covers.
“The deuce!” muttered Auguste; “the company that she expects consists of but one person; the party will be no larger than those in the private rooms at the Tournebride. But no matter! let us wait and see what happens.”
A young man in a blouse and otter-skin cap arrived and was received with a joyful exclamation, to which he replied by a kiss so heartily bestowed that Dalville fancied that he heard the report; and he scratched his ear, muttering:
“The devil! the devil! shall I keep on looking? Why not? I shall at least know what to expect.”
The supper was on the table; but the gallant in the otter-skin cap had more love than appetite. He continued to snatch kisses, dallying the while with the girl, whom he seemed inclined to lead away from the table rather than toward it.
“The deuce!” said Auguste, “it’s evident that people make love under the eaves no less than on first floors. This fellow in a jacket seems to know as much about it as the most skilful boudoir seducer. The deuce! the deuce!”
And Auguste finally left the window in a pet, exclaiming:
“I don’t need to see any more; these young women who invite their best friends to supper ought to have their curtains so arranged as to reach to the top of the window.”
Auguste walked about his apartment for a moment or two, but he soon made the circuit of it. Bertrand was in bed and asleep. As he scrutinized his new abode, Auguste noticed the absence of several articles of furniture to which he had become accustomed, but which had not been taken up to the fifth floor, where they had retained only what was absolutely necessary. Dalville realized that that sacrifice was indispensable; but his brow darkened, he threw himself into a chair, and unpleasant thoughts assailed him. It was very late, when, in an effort to dispel those thoughts, he returned to his window. There was no longer a light in the young lace-maker’s window, and Auguste was not sorry, for he had seen enough in that direction. He looked toward the window where he had seen an attractive blonde; and there, although he could see a glimmer of light, a dilapidated curtain, torn in several places, prevented him from looking into the room.
After looking about at the other houses nearby, thinking ofLe Diable Boiteux, of which that picture reminded him, Auguste, having no Asmodeus to assist him to see what was taking place under the roofs, was about to leave his window. Twelve o’clock had struck long before, the most profound silence reigned in the street; the place that is resplendent with light and movement at nine o’clock is often dark and gloomy a few hours later.
But, as he cast a last glance at the house opposite, Auguste saw the window opened, of which the torn curtain had prevented a view of the interior. A not unnatural curiosity led the young man to continue to look;and, his light having gone out, he did not turn to relight it, although it did not occur to him that he was able thus to see without being seen.
The room, which he could now see quite plainly, presented a melancholy appearance: bare walls, a wretched sack of straw in one corner, a table, and a chair or two—nothing else was to be seen in that poor abode, where want and misfortune seemed to dwell. The room was dimly lighted by a flickering lamp.
An elderly man was alone in the room; his dress, although shabby, was not that of a workman; his hair was white and his face looked worn and haggard; everything about his person and in his manner denoted an ominous and desperate agitation.
Auguste’s heart swelled with pity as he gazed at that old man; curiosity gave place at once to profound interest, and it was a secret apprehension that led him to follow his every movement.
After opening the window, the old man went to the back of the room, walking with care and apparently listening. He opened softly the door of a small dressing-room, in which Auguste caught sight of a bed. Doubtless the bed had an occupant, for the old man stopped, and stood for some moments gazing at the person who was sleeping there; then he wiped away with his hand the tears that flowed from his eyes.
After a few moments he stepped forward, taking care to make no noise, and imprinted a kiss on the brow of the person in the bed; he seemed unable to tear himself away and to give over his silent contemplation. He fell on his knees and raised his hands as if praying to God for the person from whom it was so hard for him to part. Then he rose and sank into a chair, as if overwhelmed by grief. At that moment Auguste coulddistinguish nothing clearly; his eyes were filled with tears, which rolled unnoticed down his cheeks.
But suddenly the old man, as if he had ceased to listen to aught save his despair, sprang to his feet and ran to the window, cast a last glance about him, and climbed out. His foot was already on the edge when a cry of horror arose.—“Stop! stop!” Those were the only words that Auguste was able to articulate. His own body was half out of the window; he wished to save the unfortunate man, but was afraid to leave his post lest he should accomplish his deadly purpose before he could go downstairs and up again.
Auguste’s cry startled the poor fellow; he stopped and turned his head toward the little room, thinking that the tones that had gone to his heart had come from there. His strength abandoned him, the gloomy frenzy which impelled him gave place to weakness, to the prostration which always succeeds paroxysms of nervous excitement. He sank into a chair, a woman’s name issued from his mouth, and his tears flowed afresh.
“I can go down,” thought Auguste; “I have time enough now to go to him.”
Running hurriedly to his desk, Auguste seized his wallet, then rushed downstairs four at a time. He woke Schtrack, who opened the door for him; then ran across the street and knocked at the door of the old man’s house. The shower of blows led the concierge to think that the house was on fire, and that some obliging passer-by had stopped to inform him. He rose hastily, ran to the door in his shirt, and exclaimed, still half asleep:
“Which chimney? Where’s it coming out? Has it got much headway?—Wife! wife!—Where’s the firemen?”
“Don’t get excited; there’s nothing wrong,” said Auguste; “but I absolutely must speak to the old man who lives on the fifth floor. Here.”
And Auguste put a hundred-sou piece in the concierge’s hand and hurried upstairs, leaving that worthy rubbing his eyes, as he stared at the coin in his hand, and finally went out into the street to make sure that there was no smoke to be seen anywhere.
When Auguste reached the top floor, the lamplight shining under the ill-fitting door guided his steps.
“Who’s there?” asked the old man, surprised that anyone should call at his room so late.
“Open, in heaven’s name!” Auguste replied; “it’s a friend, it is one who wishes to dry your tears.”
The word “friend” seemed to confound the unfortunate man. However, he made up his mind at last to open the door, and gazed in surprise at the young man, whose features were entirely unknown to him, and who came at one o’clock in the morning to offer his services. But Auguste’s face was gentle and kindly, and his eyes expressed the tenderest interest in the old man, who allowed him to enter his bare room.
“What do you want, monsieur?” he asked in a faltering tone.
“To comfort you—to save you from despair.”
“But, monsieur, who told you——”
“I saw you just now. You were on the point of carrying out a ghastly plan.”
“Ah! so it was your voice, monsieur!—Poor Anna! I thought it was yours!—But she was asleep; she is sleeping still. Oh! monsieur, I implore you, never let her know. And yet what am I to do here on earth, penniless, without food? She is killing herself to support me! She deprives herself of everything for my sake!”
The unhappy wretch, abandoning himself to his grief, did not notice that he was raising his voice.
“Hush!” said Auguste; “you’ll wake her. Let us not talk so loud. Tell me your troubles; I tell you again, I propose to put an end to them.”
Auguste’s tone and his pleasant voice inspired confidence in the unhappy father; he sat down beside the young man, as far as possible from the small dressing-room, and began his story in an undertone.
“I was not born in poverty, monsieur, and perhaps that is my misfortune. My family was highly considered; my name——”
“I do not ask it, monsieur; I do not need to know your name, to make me wish to be of use to you; I wish to know your misfortunes only.”
The old man’s amazement redoubled. With another glance at Auguste, he began once more:
“I received a superficial education; but I was to have twenty thousand francs a year, and I was assured that I knew quite enough. I was left my own master altogether too early in life. I was passionately fond of pleasure; I was especially addicted to that charming sex which—of which I must say no evil, since it is my Anna’s. But I abandoned myself blindly to my passions, and I squandered my fortune with mistresses who deceived me, and with false friends who helped me ruin myself.”
Here Auguste could not restrain a sigh, but he motioned to the old man to go on.
“Sometimes I determined to reform, but I was never able to listen to the counsel of reason. When I was thirty-nine, I had spent all my properly and I was entirely unused to work.
“Thereupon a generous woman, who loved me for myself alone, determined to throw in her lot with mine.She possessed a competence; she married me and gave me my Anna. I might have been happy, but I had become so accustomed to fashionable life that I had a craving for spending money. I longed to supply my wife with the beautiful things that I saw on other women; it angered me to see women who were not her equals wearing cashmere shawls. In vain did she tell me that my love alone was enough for her. I persuaded myself that she was concealing her wishes from me, and that she suffered all sorts of privations. Endeavoring to add to our means, I did the wildest things: I gambled, I mortgaged our property, and I reduced to want the woman who had entrusted her destiny to me. Thereupon, realizing the error of my ways, I tried to find employment, but I was no longer young, and I could not succeed in obtaining it. Regret tore my heart, and blanched my hair prematurely; I look to you like a very old man, and I am not yet sixty. My wife did not reproach me; she died commending our daughter, then eight years old, to my care. I tried to utilize what little talent I had, but it was very little, and as I grew older I rarely found anything to do. Meanwhile my Anna was growing, and she began very early to work to support her unhappy father. If you knew, monsieur, all that I owe her! How many nights she has worked, in order to add to her earnings! Never any rest, never any pleasure for her; and yet, not a word of complaint; it is she who comforts me when she sees that I am more than ordinarily depressed, when I reproach myself for my misconduct. Oh! I do not try to conceal my wrong-doing, monsieur. It was my folly alone that led me to lose my own fortune and squander that of my wife. My daughter might be happy, and yet for ten years past, only toil and tears have been her lot! And I alone amthe cause! Do you still think that I am deserving of your pity?”