Volume 19 / Part 3 — PART III (continued 2)

“Why not?”

“In the first place, because an intrigue with such distinguished persons as these Poles requires to be conducted with the utmost secrecy. Monfréville is very inquisitive and very talkative; he would want to see the lovely foreigner and that would spoil everything.”

“But you are very much mistaken; Monsieur de Monfréville is neither inquisitive nor talkative; on the contrary, he is a most sensible man, and he gives me excellent advice.”

Daréna bit his lips, seeing that it was useless for him to try to destroy Chérubin’s good opinion of Monfréville.

“Monfréville, sensible, virtuous!” he retorted in a sarcastic tone. “At all events, he hasn’t always been; I remember a time when he was the greatest ne’er-do-well; nothing was talked about but his conquests. To be sure, it was fifteen or eighteen years ago. When the devil grows old, he turns hermit. For my part, I am not changed, at all events; as I always have been, so I propose to remain; I prefer that. However, my dear fellow, I tell you again that, if I consent to act for you in your love-affair with the young Pole, I do it solely on account of my friendship for you; but you understand that the slightest indiscretion would compromise me. I demand secrecy, or I will have nothing to do with it.”

Chérubin swore that he would not mention his new conquest to a soul, and Daréna left him, promising to return as soon as he should have anything to tell him.

Daréna had hardly left his young friend, when Jasmin entered his master’s presence. The old servant’s manner was important and mysterious, and at the same time showed much satisfaction with the errand he had to perform. He tried to walk on tiptoe, as if he was afraid of being overheard; he went close to his master, nearly falling upon him because he lost his balance trying to lean over him, and said, with an expression at once serious and comical:

“There’s a woman here, monsieur, who wishes to speak to us—that is to say, to you—if you are alone.”

Chérubin could not help laughing at his old servant’s expression and at the malicious meaning which he tried to impart to his message.

“Who is the woman, Jasmin? Do you know her?”

“Yes, monsieur, I recognized her from having seen her in her mistress’s antechamber; you go to the house sometimes.”

“What do you say?”

“Why, yes, she’s a lady’s maid. Oh! she doesn’t come on her own account, it’s her mistress who sends her—I know all about it. Many of them used to come to see monsieur le marquis, your father, before he was married. There was sometimes a line waiting in our little salon. Ha! ha! I used to toy with all the maids.”

“Well, from whom does this one come?”

“Didn’t I tell monsieur? From Madame de Valdieri.”

“The pretty countess! Show her in at once, Jasmin.”

Chérubin was very curious to know what Madame de Valdieri could possibly want of him. Jasmin went to call the maid, a tall, stoutly-built girl of some twenty years, with red cheeks and rather an attractive face, who seemed not at all abashed at calling at a gentleman’s apartments. After ushering her into his master’s room, the old servant, imagining doubtless that he had gone back to the time when they used to stand in line at Chérubin’s father’s door, essayed, as he left the room, to put his arms about the waist of the pretty lady’s maid; but his foot slipped, and, to avoid falling, he was obliged to cling tightly to her, whom he had intended simply to caress; luckily the girl was firm on her legs, and able to sustain the weight of the old fellow, and she merely laughed in his face as he slunk from the room in dire confusion.

As soon as Jasmin had gone, the maid took from the pocket of her apron a tiny scented note, which she handed to the young marquis, saying:

“Madame told me to hand this to monsieur, and to request an immediate answer.”

Chérubin quivered with pleasure as he took the note, and while the maid discreetly stepped back, he eagerly read the pretty countess’s missive, which contained these words:

“You are not agreeable; I have not seen you for several days. To make your peace with me, will you give me a moment this morning, and tell me your opinion of some verses which have been sent to me? I shall expect you at one o’clock.”

Chérubin was beside himself with joy; he read that pleasant epistle once more, then said to the maid:

“I accept your mistress’s invitation with great pleasure, mademoiselle; I will be with her at one o’clock; I shall not fail.”

“Then monsieur will not write his answer?” asked the maid.

Chérubin hesitated; he walked toward his desk, realizing that it would be better policy perhaps to seize the opportunity to write something agreeable to his charming friend; but he remembered that Daréna had just told him that he did not know how to write a love letter. Fearing that he might make some blunder, he tossed his pen aside, crying:

“No, I think not; I haven’t time to write. Besides, I have too many things to say to your mistress; I should not know where to begin; simply assure her that I will not keep her waiting.”

The maid smiled, made a pretty little curtsy, and seemed to be waiting for the young man to slip something into her pocket and take on her cheek an earnest of what he was to take from her mistress. But, finding that he did nothing of the sort, she shrugged her shoulders imperceptibly and left the room, taking pains, as she passed through the reception room, not to approach the old servant, who seemed inclined to try again to pull her over.

“The servant is terribly old,” she said to herself, “but the master is very young!”

Chérubin was in an ecstasy of delight. Madame de Valdieri’s note had caused him to forget the Polish lady altogether. At nineteen years it is common enough to think of present happiness only; the new love expels the old; it is not always necessary to be nineteen years old in order to experience that phenomenon; but can all these sentiments which are constantly replacing one another properly be called love?

Chérubin glanced at his clock; it was half after eleven; he was not to be at Madame de Valdieri’s until one, but he proposed to make an extremely careful toilet. He rang for Jasmin, he rang for his other servant, he ordered several suits to be brought, and could not determine which one to wear. He had his hair dressed, crimped and curled, rising constantly to look in a mirror. He told his old servant to perfume his handkerchief, upon which Jasmin emptied several phials, smiling cunningly, and murmuring: “What did I say? Our bonnes fortunes are about to begin. We are going to have some sport now! We are quite good-looking enough for that.”

As he dressed, Chérubin thought of the pretty woman with whom he was soon to be alone for the first time; he was not very composed in mind, for he was wondering what he should say to her. He was well pleased to have the assignation, but he regretted that Monfréville was not there to tell him how one should behave with a lady of the most fashionable set, who invites one to read poetry to her.

It was too late for him to consult Monfréville; the appointed hour was drawing nigh. Chérubin completed his toilet, but did not notice that Jasmin had saturated him with perfumery: his coat was scented with essence of rose, his waistcoat with patchouli, his handkerchief with Portugal water; and, in addition, all his other garments smelt of musk. He looked himself over, concluded that he was becomingly arrayed, stepped into his tilbury, and soon reached the countess’s abode.

He was admitted by the same maid, and instead of taking him to the salon, she led him through several secret passages to a delicious boudoir, where the light was so soft and mysterious that one could scarcely see. However, after a few seconds, Chérubin’s eyes became accustomed to that doubtful light, and he spied the pretty countess half-reclining on a couch at the back of a little curtained recess, which seemed intended to perform the functions of an alcove.

Chérubin made a low bow and said:

“I beg pardon, madame, but I did not see you at first, it is so dark here.”

“Do you think so?” rejoined the fair Emma affectedly. “I don’t like broad daylight, it tires my eyes.—It is very kind of you, Monsieur Chérubin, to consent to sacrifice a few moments to me—you are in such great demand everywhere!”

“It is a great pleasure to me, madame, and I—I—really I cannot promise to read poetry very well. I am not much used to it.”

The countess smiled and motioned him to a seat beside her. Chérubin was exceedingly perturbed in spirit as he entered the delicious little recess and seated himself on the couch, which was not very broad, so that he was necessarily very close to the other person upon it.

There was a moment’s silence. Emma, flattered by Chérubin’s evident emotion and embarrassment in her presence, decided to begin the conversation, which she was not accustomed to do.

“How do you like my boudoir?”

“Exceedingly pretty, madame; but it seems to me to be a little dark for reading poetry.”

The little lady arched her eyebrows slightly and rejoined:

“Do you like Madame Célival’s boudoir better?”

“Madame Célival’s boudoir? Why, I have never been in it, madame; I don’t know what it is like.”

“Oh! what a fib!”

“I assure you, madame——”

“You are lying!—However, I cannot blame you; discretion is the first condition one should exact in love.”

“Discretion——”

“Oh! you play the innocent to perfection; but I am not taken in by that ingenuous air. Mon Dieu! there is such a strong smell of perfumery here—a mixture of scents. Have you essence of rose about you?”

“Rose? I don’t know; it is possible. Does it affect you unpleasantly?”

“My nerves are so sensitive! but it will pass away.”

The pretty countess lay back a moment, put her handkerchief to her face, and drew a long breath.

Chérubin looked at her, and dared not stir. There was another long pause; the young man would have liked to say a multitude of things, but, as he did not know how to express himself, he inquired at last:

“Is your husband well, madame?”

The pretty creature burst into laughter which seemed a little forced, and replied:

“Yes, monsieur, my husband is singing! So long as he is making music, that is all that he wants.—Mon Dieu! there’s a smell of patchouli here, too, and musk. Ah! it gives me a sort of vertigo!”

And whether as a result of the vertigo, or for some other reason, the young woman half-reclined against Chérubin, so that her face almost touched his, and he would have had to move very little nearer to kiss her; but, deeply moved to find that lovely mouth so near to him that he could almost feel her breath, he dared not move a muscle, and finally he faltered:

“Madame, I believe that I was to read poetry to you.”

The little countess abruptly raised her head and rested it on the back of the couch, as she replied with a touch of spite in her voice:

“Mon Dieu! what a memory you have, monsieur!—Well, take that album in front of you and read.”

Chérubin took up an album that lay on a chair, opened it and saw a medley of drawings, poems, portraits—everything, in short, that one finds in a woman’s album; and, after turning the leaves a moment, he glanced at the countess and asked timidly:

“What do you want me to read to you, madame?”

“Mon Dieu! whatever you choose, it makes no difference to me!”

Chérubin opened the album again, at random, and read:

“Oh! that is that absurd Monsieur Dalbonne!” murmured Madame de Valdieri, twisting about impatiently on the couch. “He is forever writing such nonsense; he adores all women.—Are you like that, Monsieur Chérubin?”

“I, madame!” Chérubin replied in confusion; “oh, no! I—I—But I continue:

“‘STORY OF A MOUSE.’”

“Ah! this is much longer.”

The fair Emma, who evidently did not care to hear the story of a mouse read at length, and who thought that Chérubin was making sport of her, determined to resort to violent measures; she fell back on the couch, murmuring:

“Oh! I can’t stand it any longer! these different scents set my nerves on edge; I am fainting!”

Chérubin uttered a cry of alarm, dropped the album, and gazed at the lovely blonde, who had chosen the most bewitching attitude that a coquette could devise in which to faint, and whose half-closed eyes wore an expression which did not indicate any very serious danger. But instead of admiring it all, Chérubin rose and ran about the room, looking for smelling-bottles and crying:

“Great God! you are losing consciousness, and I am the cause of it! I am so distressed. I will call for help.”

“No, no, monsieur, just unlace me!” murmured the countess, with a sigh.

“Unlace you! Why, I don’t know how; still, if you think——”

And Chérubin returned to the pretty creature, to do what she suggested; and she, seeing him lean over her, closed her eyes altogether, presuming that that would give him more courage and that he would succeed at last in behaving himself more becomingly; but, when he saw that the countess had closed her eyes entirely, Chérubin jumped back, ran to a bell cord and jerked it violently, and cried:

“She has fainted completely! what a bungler I am! As it’s this perfumery that I have about me that has caused Madame de Valdieri’s illness, of course she won’t recover consciousness so long as I am here.”

The maid appeared, vastly surprised to be summoned so suddenly. Chérubin pointed to her mistress stretched out on the couch, and said:

“Come quickly and attend to madame la comtesse. I am going away; the perfumery I have about me is what made her feel faint, so of course I must not stay with her. Pray tell her that I am terribly distressed at what has happened.”

And Chérubin took his hat and hastened from the boudoir, leaving the lady’s maid in utter amazement and the pretty little countess with her eyes wide open.

Chérubin returned home, cursing Jasmin for turning him into a perfumery booth. He found Monfréville waiting for him, and told him what had happened.

When the young marquis had concluded, Monfréville looked at him with a curious expression, and said:

“My dear fellow, I have always been perfectly frank with you, and I must tell you therefore that in this whole business you acted like an idiot.”

“An idiot!” cried Chérubin.

“Yes, like the most idiotic of idiots! When a young and pretty woman deigns to receive you alone in her boudoir, it is with the purpose of having you make love to her, not to read. The poetry was only a pretext.”

“Do you think so? Mon Dieu! I had that idea, too, but I dared not venture to think—But if she had not fainted——”

“Why, that was the time above all others when victory was in your grasp. What! a lovely woman tells you to unlace her, and you ring for her maid! Ah! my poor Chérubin, if this adventure becomes known, it will do you a deal of harm in society.”

“Great heaven! you distress me! But I didn’t know—However, I will repair my blunder; in the first place, the next time that I go to see the lovely Emma in her boudoir, I will have no perfumery at all; and then—oh! I will be very enterprising.”

“I trust that you may be able to set yourself right with the countess, but I doubt it.”

“Why so?”

“Because with women, especially coquettes, a lost opportunity never recurs. So I will bet that Madame de Valdieri won’t speak to you again and won’t make any more appointments with you.”

“Do you think so? But what if I ask her for one?”

“She will refuse it.”

“Oh! I can’t believe that! What! just because I was afraid of making her ill by staying with her?”

“Poor Chérubin! what a child you are still!—But I’ll tell you—let us go to Madame Célival’s to-night; the little countess is usually there, and if she is, you will find out at once whether I am right.”

Chérubin accepted this suggestion; he waited impatiently for the evening, for he was burning to see Madame de Valdieri again. He was convinced that Monfréville was mistaken, and he could not believe that he would be ill received because he had hurriedly left her when he discovered that perfumery was unpleasant to her.

The hour to go to the reception arrived. Monfréville called for his young friend, and they went together to Madame Célival’s. The salons were already filled with people, but the young countess was not there, and Chérubin, who was on the watch for her and hoped to see her whenever the door of the salon opened, was restless and preoccupied to a degree that did not escape Madame Célival. The sprightly widow declared war on him and tried to keep him by her side; but at last Madame de Valdieri appeared with her husband.

Never had the little countess been dressed with better taste, with more grace and coquetry; never had she worn a costume which set off her charms to greater advantage; one would have said that the fascinating Emma had sworn to make more conquests than ever that evening, in order to be revenged for her discomfiture during the day.

All the men vied with one another in extolling the charms of the new arrival. Chérubin did not say a word; but he could not tire of gazing at Emma, and he said to himself:

“And I was sitting beside her this morning—and we were alone in her boudoir—and her head was almost on my shoulder—and—Gad! I believe that Monfréville is right; I was a great fool.”

Chérubin waited until the countess had received the homage which men hasten to lay at a pretty woman’s feet. When Madame de Valdieri was no longer surrounded, he seized an opportunity to go to her, and said in an almost familiar tone:

“Well, madame, are you better this evening? Your indisposition had no serious results?”

The little countess bestowed a contemptuous glance on Chérubin, and answered in an ironical tone:

“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur!”

“You don’t know what I mean? Why, this morning——”

The countess rose, as if she did not choose to listen to Chérubin, and seated herself beside a lady with whom she speedily began a very lively conversation, judging from the frequent bursts of laughter with which it was interspersed.

The young man was speechless with amazement.

“What a tone! what an expression!” he said to himself as he took a seat in a corner. “One would think that she did not know me.”

Monfréville, who had taken his place at a card table, was not at hand to console his friend, and Chérubin had been sitting by himself for quite a long time, when a hand was laid gently on his shoulder, and a penetrating voice said, almost in his ear:

“What are you doing here? sulking? Madame de Valdieri doesn’t seem to treat you very well this evening.”

“Ah! is it you, madame?”

“Haven’t I guessed right, that you are at odds with the countess?”

“Oh! I assure you that you are mistaken; I am not sufficiently intimate with that lady to——”

“You are discreet—that is right, and it will be a recommendation with the ladies.”

“Well, well!” thought Chérubin, “they all seem to be agreed on that point; Madame Célival says almost the same thing that the countess said.”

The lovely widow seated herself for a moment by Chérubin’s side, and said in a very low tone:

“You must have done something very bad, to be treated so—to be looked at like that?”

“I, madame? Why, I give you my word that I have done nothing at all.”

“Bless me! how innocently he answers! One would take him for a little saint.”

“Well, she asked me if your boudoir was prettier than—than hers. I told her that I knew nothing about it, and she told me that I lied; but you know that I told the truth.”

“Ah! so she asked you if my boudoir was prettier, did she?” said Madame Célival in an irritated tone. “You admit then that you go to her boudoir? Ah! that little countess! But, on my word, I consider it very inquisitive of her to ask you if you had seen mine!—And you said no?”

“Why, I don’t see how I could have said yes, madame; that would have been a lie.”

“Great heaven! what an astonishing creature you are with your scruples! As if people never lied in society! Why, you must know that one is driven to it sometimes, that it is absolutely necessary. However, I propose that you shall make the acquaintance of my boudoir, so that you can answer that lady when she questions you again.—Come to breakfast with me to-morrow.”

“Oh! how kind you are, madame!”

“Will you come? will you be allowed?”

“Will I be allowed! Am I not my own master, pray?”

“Perhaps.—I shall expect you then to-morrow, at twelve o’clock; and we will breakfast in my boudoir; so that you may have plenty of time to make its acquaintance, and to tell madame la comtesse what you think of it.”

“Oh! I am willing to bet in advance that it is prettier than hers, and not so dark.”

Madame Célival smiled, placed her hand softly in Chérubin’s, and walked away, murmuring almost inaudibly:

“Until to-morrow!”

Chérubin, enchanted with his new assignation, incontinently forgot Madame de Valdieri’s disdain; he recovered his spirits and his assurance, sought out Monfréville, who was at the card-table, and whispered:

“I have another, my friend.”

“Another what?”

“Why, another appointment, in a boudoir, for to-morrow.”

“With the same person?”

“No, with Madame Célival.”

“You are a lucky dog! Pray try to carry it off better than before.”

“Oh! make your mind easy! I shan’t put on any perfumery at all this time.—Are you going to play much longer?”

“Yes, we are just beginning a game of whist; I shall play two rubbers at least.”

“I will leave you then; I am going home to bed.”

“I don’t see why you should be tired.”

“Madame de Valdieri keeps looking at me with that contemptuous expression; I prefer to go.”

So Chérubin disappeared from the salons and went home, thinking exclusively of Madame Célival, and engrossed by the appointment she had made with him for the next day.

XXII THE PLUMS

One wakes early when one is in love and has an assignation with the object of one’s love. It is not absolutely certain that Chérubin loved Madame Célival; indeed, it is probable that he felt for all his conquests only those fleeting desires which all young men feel in the presence of a pretty woman; a form of disease with which we often continue to be afflicted when we have attained the age of maturity, and of which it is very pleasant to be unable to cure oneself as one grows old. But Chérubin was still too inexperienced to be able to draw distinctions in his sensations; he believed himself to be passionately in love with Madame Célival.

He was no sooner awake than he rang. Jasmin, despite his years, was always one of the first to answer his master’s bell; but Chérubin did not desire his services again to assist him to dress.

“You made a fine mess of it yesterday, Jasmin,” he said.

“What did I do, monsieur?” asked the old servant, dismayed by Chérubin’s irritated manner.

“Why, you drenched me with perfumery, Jasmin; you put it on all my clothes; I was a regular walking scent-bag.”

“Did not monsieur smell good?”

“Why, yes! I smelt too good—that is to say, too strong! In fact, I went to people’s heads. Nervous ladies can’t endure that sort of thing, and you are responsible for a lady’s fainting away. It was exceedingly unpleasant.”

Jasmin was in despair. To repair his blunder of the previous day, he suggested putting camphor in all his master’s pockets, because he had been told that that was very good for the nerves, and he supposed that it would cure the illnesses caused by perfumery. But Chérubin would not have it; he expressly forbade Jasmin to perfume him in any way, and he was obliged to lose his temper in order to deter his old servant from slipping lumps of camphor into his pockets.

When his toilet was completed, Chérubin assured himself that he did not smell of anything at all; and, while waiting for the hour at which he was to go to Madame Célival’s, he thought about the lovely widow and went over in his mind what he could say to her. The thing that worried him most was the breakfasting with her.

“When you breakfast with a lady you’re in love with,” he said to himself, “I wonder if you should eat, if you should satisfy your appetite? Mon Dieu! I forgot to ask Monfréville for instructions on that point. I’m afraid I shall make more stupid blunders.—But after all, what is it that I am always blamed for? For being too timid. If I don’t eat, I shall look like a fool; on the other hand, if I eat and drink freely, it will give me assurance and presumption. Yes, I certainly must eat.”

The breakfast hour arrived at last. Chérubin betook himself to Madame Célival’s; his heart throbbed violently as he followed the maid to the boudoir, but he said to himself:

“Well, I won’t be timid to-day, at all events, and I’ll eat a lot.”

The fair widow’s boudoir was a charming retreat, hung on all sides with violet velvet. A soft, thick carpet covered the floor, and the threefold curtains allowed very little light to enter.

“Evidently these ladies are very fond of the darkness,” thought Chérubin, as he entered the room; “but I am not to read poetry to-day, and I can see well enough to eat breakfast. And then, I understand—the darkness should make one bolder—that is the reason, no doubt, why these ladies expel the daylight from their rooms.”

Madame Célival was awaiting Chérubin; her dress was simple, but well adapted to display her good points to advantage: her lovely black hair fell in long curls on each side of her face, and the amaranthine bows that adorned the dainty little cap she wore gave even more animation to her eyes, which were full of fire.

The fascinating widow gave Chérubin such a pleasant welcome that any other than he would at once have felt at his ease. He did what he could to overcome his embarrassment, and the most judicious thing that he did was to stand in rapt contemplation of the charms of his hostess.

“Well, Monsieur Chérubin,” said Madame Célival, after a moment, “what do you think of my boudoir? not so pretty as the countess’s, I suppose?”

“Why, yes, madame, yes, I assure you, I like yours quite as well—in fact, I think it even prettier.”

“Oh! you say that to flatter me!”

“But they are equally dark.”

“A bright light makes my eyes ache; I detest it.”

“But, madame, you should not dread being seen; when one is so lovely——”

Chérubin dared not go on; he was tremendously surprised that he had said so much; but Madame Célival, to whom the compliment seemed quite natural, replied with a smile:

“Really! do you think me lovely? Oh! but it costs you men so little to say things that you don’t mean!”

And, as she spoke, Madame Célival leaned carelessly on the cushion of the violet velvet couch on which she was half-reclining, and her bosom rose and fell rapidly as she gazed at Chérubin, who was sitting on a chair by her side; he lowered his eyes, dared not look at her, and held his peace.

After a long pause, Madame Célival, finding that Chérubin did not speak, exclaimed:

“But I am forgetting our breakfast! Perhaps you are hungry?”

“Why yes, madame, I am very hungry,” Chérubin at once replied.

“And it seems that your appetite deprives you of the power of speech,” said Madame Célival with a smile. “Mon Dieu! why didn’t you remind me? I don’t want to see you fall dead from starvation. Please ring that bell.”

Chérubin pulled a cord and a maid appeared.

“Serve breakfast,” said Madame Célival.—”We will breakfast here,” she added, turning to Chérubin, “because then we shall not be disturbed by anybody; if any unwelcome visitor calls, they will say that I’m not at home. Do you think that I have done well?”

“Oh, yes, madame, it will be much pleasanter!”

Madame Célival smiled again; perhaps she thought that their tête-à-tête would become pleasanter; but this is mere conjecture.

The maid quickly laid the table with two covers. Chérubin noticed that she placed the dessert on a small table beside the large one, which was covered with dishes.

Then Madame Célival dismissed her, saying:

“If I want you, I will ring.—And now,” said the fascinating brunette, offering her hand to the young man, who continued to gaze at her admiringly, “take your seat, monsieur le marquis, and excuse me for treating you so unceremoniously; but this is not a formal breakfast.”

Madame Célival’s informal breakfast consisted of a terrine de Nérac, a stuffed partridge, small birds aux pistaches, and a superb dish of crabs; and on the small table were pastry, preserves, and a compote of plums, for dessert; lastly, several decanters of choice wines indicated that the hostess did not propose that her young guest should retain his self-possession unimpaired.

Chérubin was seated beside Madame Célival, who helped him to everything, but ate very little; by way of compensation, the young man ate for two. After he was at the table, he felt much less embarrassed, more inclined to talk; he concluded that he had guessed aright, and that to eat and drink freely would give him assurance; so he did honor to everything that was set before him and drank whatever was poured into his glass.

Madame Célival was very lively; she knew the art of keeping the conversation from flagging; and she seemed delighted by the way in which her companion did honor to the breakfast.

“Really,” she said laughingly, “I am not surprised that you didn’t say anything just now, that you seemed so taciturn! It was because you were dying of hunger.”

“It is true, madame, that I have an excellent appetite; and then, with you, it seems to me that one must needs always be hungry.”

“Oh! I don’t feel sure whether I ought to take that for a compliment or not! There is a proverb which would rather work against me.”

“What is the proverb, madame?”

“As you don’t know it, I won’t tell you.—Now, we will proceed to the dessert; I had it put within our reach, so that we need not ring; all we have to do is to change tables. Don’t you think that that is pleasanter?”

These last words were accompanied with such a tender glance that Chérubin was greatly confused; to recover his self-possession, he hastily pushed away the table on which they had breakfasted and replaced it by the smaller one on which the dessert was all set out.

Madame Célival, who was desirous that the breakfast should come to an end, made haste to serve her guest, and offered him everything. Chérubin scrutinized the compote of plums and asked:

“What is that?”

“Plums. Do you mean to say that you don’t know this dish?”

“Mon Dieu! no, I never saw it before. At my nurse’s we never ate it.”

Madame Célival laughed heartily.

“At your nurse’s!” she repeated; “that is lovely! an excellent joke! One would think, to hear you, that you had remained out at nurse to this day.”

Chérubin bit his lips; he thought that he had made a foolish speech, and was overjoyed to find that she took it for a good joke. He accepted the plums which Madame Célival offered him.

“Well!” said the lovely widow, after a moment, “how do you like what you never had at your nurse’s?”

“Very well! delicious!”

“Will you have some more?”

“With pleasure.”

Madame Célival served him again to plums, and he said, as he ate them:

“But you are eating nothing, madame.”

“Oh! I am not hungry.”

“Why not?”

“Why not! what a strange question! Because women aren’t like men, and when they have anything on their mind, they live on their thoughts and their feelings, and those are all they need.”

These last words were uttered in a tone of annoyance, for Madame Célival was beginning to think that Chérubin passed an unduly long time at the table; however, she continued to offer him the different dishes, like a woman of breeding, who knows how to do the honors of her house.

“Thanks,” said Chérubin, “but I like the plums better than anything.”

“Very well, take some more.”

“Really—if I dared——”

“You are not going to stand on ceremony, are you? I shall be offended.”

Chérubin remembered that he must not be timid, that it was that which had been so harmful to him. So he helped himself to plums; in a moment he took some more; and as Madame Célival laughed heartily over his passion for plums, and he was delighted to entertain her, he did not stop until the dish contained no more.

The lovely widow seemed very well pleased when the plums were exhausted, and the words: “That is very lucky!” escaped from her lips; but they were almost inaudible, and Chérubin did not hear them.

Meanwhile the pretty hostess had softly moved her chair away from the table; she drank a few spoonfuls of coffee, placed her cup on the mantel, then resumed her seat on her couch, saying to the young man, in a voice that went to his heart:

“Well! aren’t you coming to sit by me?”

Chérubin began to understand that the time had come when he must turn his attention to something besides plums; he left the table and walked about the salon, admiring divers lovely engravings, the subjects of which, while not too free, were well adapted to appeal to the passions. He went into ecstasies before Cupid and Psyche, the river Scamander, and an Odalisk lying on her couch; and finally he seated himself beside Madame Célival, who said to him:

“Do you like my engravings?”

“Yes, all those women are so lovely—especially the Odalisk!”

“The painter has hardly clothed her; but to enable us to admire her beauty, it was necessary to show her to us unclothed. That is allowed in painting; artists have privileges; we pardon everything in talent—or in love.”

These last words were accompanied by a sigh. Chérubin looked at the lovely widow, and she had never seemed to him more alluring; for her eyes shone with a fire that was at once intense and soft, and her half-closed lips seemed inclined to reply to many questions. The young man ventured to take a hand which was relinquished to him without reserve; he gazed fondly at that soft, plump, white hand, with its tapering fingers; he dared not put it to his lips as yet, but he pressed it tenderly, and not only was it not withdrawn, but a very warm pressure responded to his. Encouraged by that symptom, Chérubin was about to cover that hand with kisses, when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in the intestinal region.

Chérubin was thunderstruck.

“What’s the matter?” queried Madame Célival, amazed to find him holding her hand in the air, without kissing it.

“Nothing, oh! nothing, madame!”

And the young man tried to dissemble a wry face caused by a second pang, less sharp, it is true, but followed by internal rumblings which portended a violent tempest.

Meanwhile, being completely engrossed by his sensations, and disturbed by the thought of the possible sequel, Chérubin ceased to take any part in the conversation and dropped Madame Célival’s hand on the couch.

“In heaven’s name, what is the matter, monsieur?” murmured the pretty widow, in a half-reproachful, half-melting tone. “You seem distraught, absent-minded; you say nothing to me. Do you know that that is not agreeable on your part?”

“Mon Dieu, madame, I assure you that nothing is the matter; you are mistaken.”

And Chérubin did what he could to mask another contortion; he was attacked by gripes which fairly tortured him; he realized that he had the colic, and not for anything on earth would he have had Madame Célival guess what had happened to him.

However, it is not a crime to feel indisposed! But we weak mortals, who seek sometimes to exalt ourselves to the rank of gods, we blush because we are subject to all the infirmities of the simplest of God’s creatures; there are times when we are sorely embarrassed to be at once the man of the world and the natural man. Poor Chérubin found himself in that predicament; the plums were playing him a very treacherous trick.

Madame Célival could not misunderstand the young marquis’s tone. Piqued, too, because she could no longer read in his eyes either affection or desire, she exclaimed after a moment:

“Evidently, monsieur, you find it dull with me.”

“Why, madame, I swear to you that that is not true—far from it; but——”

“But you would prefer to be with Madame de Valdieri, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, no! that is not where I would like to be at this moment!”

“Indeed! where would you like to be at this moment, monsieur?”

Chérubin did not know what to reply; he endured with difficulty another sharp pain, and felt the cold perspiration standing on his forehead. He cut a very sad figure at that moment, and did not in the least resemble a lover.

Madame Célival looked at him; she compressed her lips angrily, and cried:

“Oh! what an extraordinary face you are making! Such a thing was never seen before—by me, at all events. Come, monsieur, speak, explain yourself; something is the matter, certainly.”

And the fair widow, still impelled by the tender sentiment which spoke in Chérubin’s favor, walked toward him and would have taken his hand; but he hastily drew back, faltering in a stifled voice:

“Oh! don’t touch me, madame, I implore you!”

“What does that mean, monsieur? I beg you to believe that I have not the slightest desire to touch you,” retorted Madame Célival, offended by the alarm depicted on the young man’s face. “But, monsieur, I am justified in being surprised by the ill humor that has suddenly taken possession of you; I did not expect that I should—er—frighten you by showing you what pleasure it gave me to entertain you.—Ha! ha! it is most amusing, on my word!”

Instead of replying to what she said, Chérubin abruptly sprang to his feet, muttering:

“Excuse me, madame, excuse me—but an appointment I had forgotten—I absolutely must go.”

“What, monsieur! you made an appointment when you knew that you were to breakfast with me! That is extremely courteous of you! You cannot make me believe that it is so urgent that you must go at once.”

“Oh! yes, madame, yes! it is horribly urgent; I cannot postpone it any longer. Adieu, madame, adieu!”

And Chérubin, after running madly about the boudoir three times, in search of his hat, spied it at last, seized it, rushed at the door, threw it open with such force that he nearly broke it, and fled through all the rooms of the suite, as if he were afraid of being pursued, leaving Madame Célival aghast at his manner of taking leave of her.

Chérubin reached home at last cursing the plums and the ill-fortune which seemed to pursue him in his love-affairs.

Toward evening Monfréville called upon his friend; he was curious to know if he acquitted himself more creditably at his last assignation than at the first. When he saw the young marquis, still pale and exhausted, he smiled and said:

“I see that your good fortune was complete this time, and that you won a grand victory.”

Chérubin looked at his friend with such a piteous expression that he did not know what to think. After carefully closing the door of his apartment, Chérubin told Monfréville what had happened in his second amorous tête-à-tête. Monfréville could not keep a sober face as he listened to the story; and although Chérubin did not share his merriment, it was a long time before he could restrain it.

“So you consider it very amusing, do you?” said Chérubin, with a sigh.

“Faith, my dear fellow, it is very hard not to laugh at the plight in which you found yourself.”

“Agree that I am very unlucky.”

“It is your own fault. When you breakfast tête-à-tête with a lady, you should not stuff yourself with plums, especially after you have already eaten heartily, as you seem to have done.”

“I did it to give myself courage, nerve!”

“What you did give yourself was very agreeable.”

“Well, no such accident will happen in my next tête-à-tête with Madame Célival; I shall have better luck next time.”

“Oh! don’t flatter yourself that you will obtain a second assignation from the fair widow. You are ruined in her esteem, as well as in the little countess’s. That makes another conquest that you must abandon.”

“Do you think so? How unfair! Does a woman cease to love us because we are suddenly taken ill?”

“Not for that reason, but because you behaved so clumsily.”

“What would you have done in my place?”

“I would have said frankly that my breakfast was disturbing me, that I was feeling very sick; then she would have understood and excused my departure.”

“Oh! I would have died of shame rather than say that!”

“That is very poor reasoning, my dear fellow; remember that a woman will forgive everything except contempt or indifference to her charms.”

Chérubin was very much cast down during the rest of the day; it seemed to him that there was a sort of fatality about his love-affairs, and he was afraid that it would continue to pursue him. But that same evening Daréna came to his house, to apprise him of the results of his negotiations with the charming woman he had seen at the Cirque.

“Victory!” cried Daréna, bringing his hand down on the young marquis’s shoulder; “it’s going on finely, my friend; your business is in good shape.”

“Well, have you obtained an appointment for me?” inquired Chérubin, with an almost frightened expression.

“Deuce take it! not yet; such things don’t go so fast as you think; the young Polish countess is closely watched, surrounded by duennas and Cerberuses.”

“Is she a Polish countess?”

“Yes, the Comtesse de Globeska, wife of the Comte de Globeski, a man of high social position who had to flee from his country because he was accused of high treason. He’s as jealous as a tiger! he’s the kind of fellow that talks of nothing but stabbing his wife if she should give so much as one hair to a man!”

“This is terrible!”

“It’s of no consequence at all! Women haven’t the slightest fear of daggers; on the contrary, they love to defy danger. I succeeded in getting your letter to the fair Globeska. It was a hard task; I had to scatter gold lavishly, and I did so; in fact, I borrowed some, as I had not enough. I know that you will make it up to me, and I thought that you would not blame me for being zealous in the service of your love.”

“Oh! far from it, my dear Daréna; I thank you. But did the pretty Pole write me a word in reply?”

“No, she didn’t write you; perhaps she doesn’t write French very well—that is excusable in a foreigner; but women abound in self-esteem; they are afraid of being laughed at if they make a mistake in grammar; in fact, the enchanting Globeska replied by word of mouth, and what she said is worth all the billets-doux that ever were written.”

“What did she say?”

“She said to her maid, whom I had seduced—I mean that I bribed her with money: ‘Say to this young Frenchman who has written me, that I share his passion. Since I saw him, I dream of him all the time, even when I am not asleep.’”

“Did she say that? Oh! what joy!”

“Let us finish: ‘I am bound to a tyrant whom I detest. Let this Frenchman devise some way to carry me off, and I am ready to go with him—I will throw myself into his arms.’—Well, what do you say to that, my lucky Lovelace? I should say that you had turned her head!”

“Yes, my friend, I am very glad; for I feel that I like that young woman better than all the rest. With her it seems to me that I shall be more at my ease than with the women in fashionable society, who always intimidate me.”

“You will be very much at your ease, I promise you; the Poles are very unceremonious.”

“But she talks about my carrying her off. Can that be done? Is it allowable to carry off a man’s wife?”

“Oh! what a child! In the first place, you don’t ask leave; and secondly, you see that she herself wants it done. Never fear, I will look after the abduction; I make that my business.”

“My dear Daréna, how much I am indebted to you!”

“But the main point is to know where I shall take your charmer. You will understand that it would be neither proper nor prudent to bring her to this house, where your servants will see her, and——”

“Oh! certainly not. But where can we take her then?”

“Nothing can be simpler. All that we have to do is to hire a little house near Paris, in the suburbs, in some lonely and quiet spot. Do you wish me to attend to that too?”

“Oh, yes! I beg that you will.”

“Very good, I will hire a house. If it isn’t furnished, I will send some furniture. Give me some money; I shall want quite a great deal.”

Chérubin ran to his desk, took out some bank-notes, and handed them to Daréna, saying:

“Here, here are two thousand, three thousand francs—is that enough?”

“Yes; but you may as well give me four thousand at once; I must not fall short. Now, let me manage the affair. I will make sure of a house, first of all, and have it arranged to receive your inamorata; then I will watch for a favorable opportunity; as soon as it comes, I will abduct the lady, then I will come here and tell you. All that you will have to do will be to pluck the fruit of the victory, and that will not be an unpleasant task.”

“It is delightful!”

“But, above all, not a word of this to Monfréville, or I will have nothing more to do with it.”

“Never fear, that is understood.”

“When your charmer has escaped from her tyrant’s hands, I will take care to order a dainty repast sent to your little retreat. It is always essential that a lady should find something to eat when she arrives.”

“Yes, my friend, order a supper. But no plums, I beg! No plums! I have a horror of them!”

Daréna stared at Chérubin in amazement as he replied:

“Never fear. I was not aware of your aversion for plums; they are said to be very healthful.”

“If I see any on the table, I shall run off at once.”

“All right—don’t get excited. I will see that none are served.”

And the count left his young friend, after pocketing the bank-notes.

“Well,” said Chérubin, “this conquest shall not escape me, and it will make up to me for all that I have lost.”

XXIII A FAMILY INTERIOR

As Ernestine had announced to Louise, Madame de Noirmont returned home on the day that she was expected. Her arrival was a festal occasion for Ernestine, who flew to meet her mother the instant that she caught sight of her, and threw herself into her arms. Madame de Noirmont responded lovingly to her daughter’s caresses; it was easy to see that she was touched by them, and that she was genuinely happy to be at home once more.

Monsieur de Noirmont did not rush to meet his wife; such tokens of affection were not in accordance with his nature; he feared that, by indulging in them, he should compromise his dignity. However, when he learned that she had returned, he went to her room and greeted her pleasantly, but did not kiss her.

“Did you have a pleasant journey, madame?”

“Yes, thanks, monsieur.”

“And how is your aunt, Madame Dufrénil?”

“She is much better, monsieur; her health is entirely restored. But it was time for me to return, or I should have been really ill with ennui, from being away from my daughter so long. I was very sorry that you did not allow me to take her with me, monsieur.”

“The result of that, madame, is that you have the greater pleasure in seeing her again, and I trust that it will make you love her dearly.”

With that, Monsieur de Noirmont saluted his wife and returned to his study.

When her husband had gone, Madame de Noirmont drew her daughter to her and pressed her to her heart again and again:

“Your father thinks that I do not love you,” she murmured. “Do you think so too, my love?”

“Oh, no! indeed I don’t, mamma,” cried Ernestine. “But papa doesn’t think so, either; I am sure of it. I know that you love me; and why shouldn’t you? am I not your daughter?”

Madame de Noirmont’s features contracted nervously; her brow darkened, and she hastily extricated herself from Ernestine’s arms. But the cloud soon vanished and she drew the girl to her again, saying in a melancholy tone:

“Oh, yes, yes! I love you dearly!”

“I have never doubted it, mamma, and if you have sometimes—as you had just now, for instance—moments when my caresses seem tiresome to you, I am sure that it’s just because you have a headache, or because you’re thinking about something else; but you don’t love me any less, do you?”

“No, of course I never love you any less. Did the time seem long to you while I was away?”

“Oh! yes, mamma! But luckily I have had a new maid for three weeks. Father must have written you that he discharged the other one, didn’t he?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh! I like the new one ever so much better! If you knew how nice she is! and not a bit stupid, nor vulgar! She speaks very correctly, and yet she came right from her village; she has never lived out, but she learned her duties instantly.”

“Who brought her here?”

“Comtois. He had excellent recommendations.”

Madame de Noirmont smiled at the serious tone in which her daughter spoke.

“My dear girl,” she replied, “I know that we may rely on Comtois.—What is your new maid’s name?”

“Louise—Louise Fré—Frénet—I never can remember her other name. But no matter, she’s a very nice girl, I tell you, mamma; I am sure that you will like her too. I am going to call her, to show her to you. She’s very shy, that is why she hasn’t come to pay her respects to you.”

“Mon Dieu! my dear love, I have plenty of time to see your maid; there is no hurry about it.”

“Oh, yes! I want you to see her right away, mamma.”

Ernestine rang a bell; in a moment the door opened and Louise appeared in the doorway, timid and with downcast eyes.

“Did madame ring for me?” she murmured.

Madame de Noirmont scrutinized the girl, whom she then saw for the first time; she was struck by her beauty, by the dignified expression of her features, by her modest and reserved demeanor, by her whole aspect, which was not what one ordinarily sees in a lady’s maid. She could not tire of looking at her.

Ernestine leaned toward her mother and whispered:

“Well! what do you think of her?”

“Lovely, my child, lovely; she has an air of distinction too; no one would think that she was a servant.”

“I didn’t flatter her, did I?—Mamma thinks that you are lovely, Louise,” continued the girl; “she likes you too. I told you that she would like you.”

Louise made a curtsy and murmured:

“Madame is very kind; I will do my best to satisfy her, and mademoiselle too.”

“I don’t doubt it, my child,” replied Madame de Noirmont; “everything prepossesses me in your favor, and I am convinced that my daughter is not mistaken in all the good that she has told me of you.”

While Ernestine’s mother was speaking, Louise raised her eyes and looked at her. At sight of that beautiful, noble and stern face, of that pale and haughty brow, of those great black eyes wherein one could always detect a melancholy expression, the girl felt deeply moved and impressed; her heart beat violently, whether with pleasure or fear she did not know; she could not define her feelings, but she did not speak or move. For some moments after Madame de Noirmont ceased speaking, she continued to listen; they motioned to her that she might retire, and she remained. At last Ernestine had to touch her arm and say: “You may leave us, Louise,” before she came to herself and left the room, casting a last furtive glance at Madame de Noirmont.

After a few more words concerning the new lady’s maid, Madame de Noirmont turned all her attention to taking up the threads of her usual domestic occupations, and to superintending her daughter’s education and her studies with the different teachers who came to the house to give her lessons.

Madame de Noirmont’s life was very regular; she rarely went out and received few visits; she devoted herself to her daughter, overlooked her studies and read a great deal: that was her greatest pleasure, her most agreeable means of distraction.

Monsieur de Noirmont passed the whole day in his study; his wife and daughter saw little of him before dinner. At that repast they met, and not infrequently some old friend of Monsieur de Noirmont dined with them, but they very rarely had more than one guest. During dinner Madame de Noirmont talked very little, while her husband discussed politics or economic matters with his guest. Ernestine alone did anything to enliven the party. She succeeded very well; her childish sallies and observations often made her mother smile; and even Monsieur de Noirmont, despite his gravity, could not always keep a sober face. In the evening, the ladies worked, made tapestry, or sang, and the men played chess or backgammon. When there were no guests at dinner, Monsieur de Noirmont often went out in the evening to some party or reception; sometimes his wife and daughter accompanied him, but rarely. Madame de Noirmont preferred to remain at home with Ernestine; and when her husband was not there, she seemed less serious, less pensive, and she manifested her affection for Ernestine more freely.

Louise’s duties were very pleasant in that family, where the ladies did not go to balls and received very little company. Comtois alone waited at table. The young lady’s maid assisted the ladies to dress; then, during almost all the remainder of the day, she worked in her room, making dresses for mademoiselle or keeping the linen of the household in order. In the evening, she served at tea, then looked to it that her mistresses had everything in their room that they required. This was not very wearisome, and Louise sometimes told Ernestine that they did not give her enough work to do; but the girl would reply, with a smile:

“What makes you work so fast? We no sooner give you a piece of sewing to do than it is done. Mamma says that your activity and skill are most unusual. Other lady’s maids don’t work so fast, I promise you!”

Louise felt a thrill of pleasure whenever she was told that Madame de Noirmont was pleased with her. And although that lady always preserved a grave and serious manner with her servants, which made the slightest approach to familiarity impossible, she felt drawn to love her, and it seemed to her that it would be a source of deep grief to her if she should now be compelled to leave her.

Meanwhile three months had passed since she came to Paris, and she had not once seen Chérubin. But since Madame de Noirmont’s return, Louise, engrossed by the desire to please her, had felt her love-pangs less sharply; although she still loved her old playmate as dearly as ever, another sentiment had glided into her heart, to distract her thoughts from her troubles.

Monsieur Gérondif had called several times to inquire of Comtois what Louise’s employers thought of her, and each time the old servant put forth all his eloquence in praise of the young lady’s maid and begged the professor to thank old Jasmin for the present he had sent them. Monsieur Gérondif went away overjoyed that he had brought Louise to Paris, although Chérubin, entirely absorbed by his bonnes fortunes, had forgotten about going to see Nicole.

One morning, when Monsieur Gérondif called at Monsieur de Noirmont’s to ask Comtois if they were still content with Louise, the valet replied:

“Yes, indeed; Mademoiselle Louise is a model of virtue and industry. If you would like to see her, monsieur, she is alone at this moment; the ladies have gone out to do some shopping. She is working in her room, and there is no reason why you should not go up and bid her good-morning.”

Monsieur Gérondif joyfully accepted the proposition; he followed Comtois, who led him to Louise’s chamber and left him with her.

Louise manifested the keenest delight at sight of the tutor, for she would have an opportunity to talk with him about all those who were dear to her. Monsieur Gérondif, who was, like most pedants, a conceited fool, took to himself a pleasure of which he was the pretext simply; he believed that he had kindled a tender sentiment in the breast of the pretty lady’s maid, and he smiled as if he would dislocate his jaw as he took his seat beside her.

Louise began by inquiring for her adopted mother.

“She is perfectly well, and she is overjoyed that you are in such a fine position in Paris,” replied the tutor, lying with imperturbable coolness; for he had not been to the village since Louise left it.

“And Monsieur Chérubin?” continued Louise, “is he pleased to know that I am in Paris as he wished? Hasn’t he any desire to see me? Doesn’t he ever speak to you about me? Did he send you here to-day?”

The tutor scratched his nose, coughed, spat, wiped his forehead, all of which operations required much time with him, during which he considered what he should say. Having made up his mind at last, he said to Louise:

“My dear child, it rarely happens that childish loves come to a good end. I might cite Paul and Virginie and a thousand other examples ad hoc; I prefer to tell you ex abrupto—which means, without preamble—that you are making a mistake to give any further thought to Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, because that young man never gives a thought to you. In the first place, when you came to see him at his house—when you came to Paris with Nicole——”

“Well, monsieur?”

“Well, the young marquis was at home; but as he didn’t want to see you, he gave his concierge orders to tell you that he was away.”

“O mon Dieu! is it possible?”

“Amid the debauchery in which he is plunged, how do you expect him to remember a young country girl with whom he used to play puss-in-the-corner, and other more or less innocent games? He has become a great rake, has my pupil; he has a lot of mistresses. It isn’t my fault. He receives so many billets-doux that it’s perfectly scandalous, and I should have left his house before this if my financial interests did not oblige me to close my eyes,—which however, does not prevent my seeing whatever happens.”

Louise put her handkerchief to her eyes and faltered:

“So it’s all over—he doesn’t love me at all! Who would have believed it of Chérubin?”

“One must believe everything, expect everything from a beardless youth,” replied the tutor.

Then, drawing his chair close to the girl’s, and laying his hand on her knee, Monsieur Gérondif tried to assume a mellifluous voice and began, weighing his words:

“I have made the wound, and it is for me to apply the balsam, otherwise called the remedy.—Lovely Louise, although young Chérubin has not been true to your charms, there are others who will be too happy to offer incense to them, to cultivate them. I go straight to the point: I love you, divine maiden! and I am not fickle, because, thank heaven, I am a grown man. I have not come to make any base propositions to you—retro, Satanas! which means: I have only honorable views. I offer you my hand, my heart, my name, my rank and my title; but we will wait two years before we marry. I will try to restrain my passions for that length of time, which I require in order to amass a tidy sum of money. You will contribute your wages, your savings; they are much pleased with you here, and it is probable that you will receive a handsome present at New Year’s. We will put it all together and buy a little house in the outskirts of Paris; I will take a few pupils to keep my hand in; we will have a dog, a cat, chickens, all the pleasant things of life, and our days will be blended of honey and hippocras.”

During this harangue, Louise had pushed away the hand that Monsieur Gérondif had laid on her knee, and had moved her chair away; and as soon as he had finished speaking, she rose and said to him in a courteous but determined tone:

“I thank you, monsieur, for condescending to offer me, a poor village girl, without name or family, the title of your wife; but I cannot accept it. Monsieur Chérubin no longer loves me; I can understand that, monsieur, and indeed I was mad to imagine that, in Paris, in the midst of pleasures, living in the whirl of society, he would remember me. But it is altogether different with me! I have not become a great lady, and the image of the man I love can never be effaced from my heart. I love Chérubin; I feel that I shall never love anybody else! So, monsieur, it would be very wicked of me to marry another man, as I could not give that other my love.”

Monsieur Gérondif was greatly surprised by this speech; he recovered himself, however, and replied:

“My sweet Louise, varium et mutabile semper femina; or, if you prefer: 'souvent femme varie, bien fol est qui s’y fie.’—Woman changes ever; he is a great fool who trusts her.—The latter lines are by François I; I prefer Beranger’s.—Tiresias declares that men have only three ounces of love, while women have nine, which enables them to change oftener than we do; and yet, with only three ounces, we do pretty well.”

“What does all this mean, monsieur?”

“It means, my dear love, that you will do like the others: you will change; your love will pass away.”

“Never, monsieur.”

“Never is a word that means nothing at all in love. However, you will have plenty of time to think about it, as I give you two years for reflection. Until then, allow me to hope.”

“Oh! it is useless, monsieur.”

“I beg pardon; by hoping one lives content, and I cling to my hope. Adieu, fair Louise; continue to behave becomingly; your remuneration will be increased doubtless, and I shall continue to put mine aside; and, as a very trivial but very shrewd popular proverb says: ‘Let’s let the mutton boil!’—I lay my homage at your feet.”

Monsieur Gérondif took his leave, and Louise was at liberty to weep without restraint. She did not bestow a thought on the tutor’s offers, she thought only of Chérubin, who no longer loved her, who had ceased to think of her, and who had mistresses. She had been afraid for a long time that he had forgotten her; but now she was certain of it, and it is a far cry from fear to certainty, in love.

The return of Madame de Noirmont and her daughter forced Louise to conceal her tears. She hastily wiped her eyes and tried to dissemble her depression, for she felt that she must not betray the secret of her heart.

On that day Monsieur de Noirmont went out after dinner. Ernestine remained with her mother, to whom, as they worked, she said whatever came into her head, especially as she saw that it was one of her moments of good humor. When Madame de Noirmont smiled at her daughter’s speeches, the latter was so delighted that she often laid her work aside to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, who sometimes held her lovingly to her heart for some moments.

Louise, for whom they rang to order tea, entered the salon at one of the times when Madame de Noirmont’s arms were about her daughter; and the sweet child, in her joy at being so fondled, cried out:

“See how happy I am, Louise! see what a dear, good mother I have!”

Louise stood still in the middle of the salon; she was glad for Ernestine’s happiness, and yet, in the touching picture before her eyes, there was something that hurt her, she did not understand why. Two great tears escaped from her eyes; but she turned quickly, so that they might not see her weeping.

Meanwhile Madame de Noirmont had resumed her grave demeanor, and Ernestine had had to return to her seat. Louise served the tea as quickly as possible, then left the room, fearing that her sadness would be noticed.

Despite all her efforts to be calm, Louise was still crying when Ernestine entered her room to ask her some question, before going to bed. Seeing that Louise’s face was wet with tears, her young mistress ran to her, and said with the most touching interest:

“Mon Dieu! crying, Louise! What’s the matter?”

“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle. I know that I should not weep here, where everyone is so kind to me; but I could not help it!”

“Have you some reason for being unhappy? You would not cry like this for nothing. Louise, I insist on knowing why you were crying.”

“Well, mademoiselle, it is because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, the picture of the happiness you enjoy made me feel more keenly than ever the misery of my position. Oh! mademoiselle, it isn’t envy that makes me say it! I bless Heaven for making you so happy; but I could not help crying when I remembered that my mother never kissed me, that I shall never be able to throw my arms about her!”

“What’s that you say, my poor Louise? Doesn’t your mother love you?”

“It isn’t that, mademoiselle. But listen, I am going to tell you the truth, for I don’t know how to lie. And then, I don’t understand why I should make a mystery of it; you won’t be any less kind to me when you know that I am a poor girl, abandoned by her parents.”

“Is it possible? you haven’t any parents?”

“At all events, mademoiselle, I don’t know them.”

Thereupon Louise proceeded to tell Ernestine the story of how Nicole had been employed to take care of her, and of the kindness of the village people, who had kept her and treated her like their daughter, when they found that she was abandoned by her mother.

Ernestine listened to the story with the deepest interest. When Louise had ceased to speak, she kissed her affectionately, saying:

“Poor Louise! Oh! how glad I am you have told me that! It seems to me that I love you even more since I know that your parents have abandoned you. And that dear, good Nicole! those kind peasants! Ah! what splendid people they are! I will tell mamma all about it to-morrow! I am sure that it will interest her too.”

“Oh! that isn’t worth while, mademoiselle; Madame de Noirmont may not like it because I have told you about my troubles.”

“I assure you, on the contrary, that, for all her serious manner, mamma is kind and good; and, besides, she likes you very much. She has said to me several times that your manners were just what they should be, and that is great praise from her, I tell you!—Well, good-night, Louise, sleep soundly, and don’t cry any more. If you haven’t any parents, you have some people here who love you dearly and who will take good care of you.”

Ernestine left Louise, to go to bed, and the latter felt less unhappy when she saw her young mistress’s affection for her—an affection which she shared with all the sincerity of her soul.

The next morning the Noirmont family met at the breakfast table. Ernestine had not seen her mother since the preceding night, because a headache had kept Madame de Noirmont in bed later than usual; but her father, who rarely appeared at breakfast, had just taken his seat, when Ernestine, after kissing her mother, said in a mysterious tone:

“I have something very interesting to tell you this morning, and I am glad papa came to breakfast, to hear what I am going to say.”

“Really?” said Monsieur de Noirmont, smiling, and in a tone of mild raillery. “From the way in which you say that, I imagine that it must really be something most serious.”

“Why, yes, papa, it’s very serious! Oh! you look as if you were laughing at me, but when you know what it is, I’ll bet that you will be as touched as I was last night when I found poor Louise crying!”

“What! is it something about Louise?” asked Madame de Noirmont, with an air of deep interest; “can it be that anything has gone wrong with her? I should be extremely sorry, for the girl is a very good girl indeed, and seems to deserve our kindness.”

“This is what it is; listen. Louise didn’t want me to tell you; but I am very sure that you won’t blame her for it; it isn’t her fault.”

Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said impatiently:

“Come, my child, go on, explain yourself.”

“Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the tea, she found me in mamma’s arms, and we were kissing each other.”

“That is well, my daughter; what next?”

“At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn’t find a fichu that I wanted, I went to Louise’s room to ask her where she had put it. I found her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied, sobbing: ‘Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.’”

“An abandoned child!” murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly became deathly pale.

“But,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, “if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us that the girl’s parents lived in the outskirts of Paris—I don’t remember in what village.”

“Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here; but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise thought it was better to tell the truth.”

“She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you, madame—are not you curious to hear this girl’s story?”

Madame de Noirmont replied with a few almost unintelligible words; it was as if she were oppressed by some secret suffering, which she was doing her utmost to conceal.

Meanwhile, Ernestine had not waited for her father to repeat his request; she had run off to call Louise, who soon appeared before the assembled family.

Monsieur de Noirmont looked at her with more interest than he had previously displayed; Ernestine smiled at her affectionately; Madame de Noirmont lowered her eyes and became paler than ever. From the disquietude that had taken possession of her, from the anxiety that could be read upon her features, one would have taken her for a criminal awaiting judgment.

“Come, Louise, come nearer,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, motioning to her; “my daughter has told us of what you told her last evening. Do not tremble, my child; we shall not reproach you for telling us what was not true when you entered our service.”

“Oh! it was not I, monsieur!” murmured Louise.

“I know it, it was the person who obtained the situation for you, who thought it his duty to tell that falsehood.—So you do not know your parents, my poor girl?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Where were you brought up?”

“At Gagny, monsieur.”

“At Gagny. Ah! that’s it; I had forgotten the name of the village that you told me when you came here.—And the people who brought you up?”

“A kindhearted peasant woman, Nicole Frimousset. She was nursing Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain at the time.”

“Indeed! so this woman was the young Marquis de Grandvilain’s nurse?”

“Yes, monsieur, he is my foster-brother, and in my childhood we played together all the time.”

“Very good! But that doesn’t tell us how you went to Gagny.”

“Mon Dieu! monsieur, it was a lady—my mother, I suppose—who carried me to dear Nicole’s, and begged her to take me to nurse. I was then a year old; she left some money with Nicole and went away, saying that she would come again. The next year she sent a little more money by a messenger from Paris; but she didn’t come to see me, and no one ever after came to inquire for me.”

“But what was the lady’s name; where did she live?”

“Nicole didn’t think to ask her any of those questions; for she could not dream that she would abandon me, that she would never come again. The messenger from Paris did not know who the lady was who hired him on the street, he could not tell my good nurse anything.”

“But was no paper, no mark found on you or on your clothing?”

“Nothing, monsieur, absolutely nothing.”

“That is very strange.—Don’t you agree with me, madame?”

As he asked this question Monsieur de Noirmont turned to his wife, whom he had not looked at while questioning Louise; Ernestine, whose eyes followed her father’s, uttered a piercing shriek.

“Oh dear!” she cried, “mamma has fainted!”

Madame de Noirmont’s head had fallen against the back of her chair; she had in fact lost consciousness, and the livid pallor of her face made her condition seem most alarming.

They hastened to her assistance; Ernestine wept and lamented as she kissed her mother again and again. Louise shared her distress; she lost her head, did not know what to do, and did not hear what was said to her. But Monsieur de Noirmont, who retained all his presence of mind, called Comtois, and, with his assistance, carried his wife to her room and laid her on her bed.

After some time, Madame de Noirmont came to herself; but there was a look of gloom and anxiety in her eyes, which indicated that the cause of her trouble still existed. She turned her eyes slowly on her husband and her daughter; then, as she caught sight of Louise, who was a little farther away and who seemed to share the general anxiety, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow.

“Mamma, dear mamma, how do you feel now?” cried Ernestine, squeezing her mother’s hand.

“Better, my dear, I feel better.”

“What was the cause of your sudden illness, madame?” asked Monsieur de Noirmont with interest. “You gave us a terrible fright.”

“Why, I have no idea, monsieur. I had a sudden feeling of suffocation; then a cold perspiration broke out all over me, and I lost the use of my senses.”

“You didn’t feel well this morning, you had a headache,” said Ernestine.

“Yes, that is true,” replied Madame de Noirmont hastily. “I felt poorly this morning, and that is the cause, no doubt——”

“And then Louise’s story must have grieved you, made your heart ache. That probably made you worse.”

“Do you wish me to send for the doctor, madame?”

“No, monsieur, it is not necessary; I need nothing but rest and quiet—and a little sleep, perhaps.”

“We will leave you, then.”

“But I shall be close by,” said Ernestine, “and I will come at the slightest sound.”

Madame de Noirmont seemed most desirous to be left alone. All the others went away, Ernestine still deeply moved because she had seen her mother in a swoon, and Louise very much cast down because she feared that the story of her misfortunes had touched her mistress too deeply.

Madame de Noirmont passed the rest of the day in her room; she kept her bed and expressed a wish to be alone. The next day passed in the same way; and for several days she did not leave her bed.

She refused to see a doctor, however, and declared that her trouble required no other remedy than rest.

But from the first moment of her illness, it was evident that Madame de Noirmont’s humor had changed: she hardly spoke; sometimes her daughter’s presence seemed irksome to her; she answered her curtly and received her caresses without warmth. As for Louise, while her mistress kept her room, she persistently declined her services on the pretext that she did not require them.

Poor Louise was greatly distressed.

“Madame your mother,” she said to Ernestine, “will not let me wait on her, or even go into her room. I am afraid that I have displeased her, mademoiselle; perhaps she does not like to have in her house a girl whose parents are not known.”

Ernestine tried to comfort her, saying:

“You are wrong. Why should you think that mamma has anything against you? No, it is this trouble of hers, it’s her nerves that make her depressed and irritable. Why, she even pushes me away now when I kiss her, and she doesn’t kiss me; that makes me unhappy too, but I am sure that mamma still loves me.”

As she spoke, the sweet child shed tears, and Louise mingled hers with them, for she could think of no other consolation to give her.

Madame de Noirmont made up her mind at last to leave her room, and she went down to the salon. The first time that Louise saw her, she longed to ask about her health, but she dared not; her mistress’s eyes seemed to avoid hers, and she did not display her former kindliness to her. For the merest trifle, Madame de Noirmont lost patience, scolded and became angry; sometimes she gave Louise ten contradictory orders in the same minute. The poor girl lost her head, was bewildered, did not know what to do, while Ernestine gazed at her mother with a surprised and grieved expression, when she saw her treat her protégée so harshly.

Sometimes, however, a violent change seemed to take place in that strange creature; after speaking sharply and severely to Louise, Madame de Noirmont, remarking the poor girl’s heartbroken expression, would suddenly change her tone; her eyes would fill with tears and follow Louise’s every movement; then she would call her in a gentle, affectionate, even tender voice, and the girl would return instantly, joyous and eager; but her mistress’s face would already have resumed its stern expression, and she would motion her away, muttering curtly:

“What do you want? I didn’t call you.”

Several weeks passed in this way. One morning, Madame de Noirmont, who seemed even more thoughtful than usual, said to her daughter when she came to kiss her:

“Really, I don’t propose to keep your maid; the girl is good for nothing; we must dismiss her. We will pay her two or three months’ wages more than is due her. Tell her, and advise her to return to her village; I think that she made a great mistake in coming to Paris to seek employment. Do not try to change my decision, it would do no good.”

Ernestine was in despair; she was very fond of Louise, and it would be a real sorrow to her to part with her; but her mother had spoken in such a stern and decided tone that the poor child dared not reply. She said nothing, but lowered her eyes with a sigh, and left the room to perform the distressing duty with which her mother had entrusted her. As she left her mother’s apartment, Ernestine met Monsieur de Noirmont, who came up to her and kissed her, and said, observing her sorrowful air:

“What is it, my child? You look as if you had been crying!”

“It’s nothing, papa.”

“You know, Ernestine, that I do not like evasions or mysteries; I insist upon knowing at once what makes you unhappy this morning.”

“Well, papa, it’s because mamma is going to send Louise away, poor Louise, our maid, who is so sweet, and whom I love so dearly. But mamma doesn’t like her any more; she says that Louise isn’t good for anything; but Louise works just as much as she ever did, and she sews like an angel. But as mamma insists, I am going to tell Louise, so that she——”

“Don’t go to her, my child, it is not necessary; Louise will stay in this house.”

“But, papa, when mamma told me——”

“I tell you the opposite, my child, and I am the only master here.”

Ernestine said no more, for her father had assumed a severe expression which in him denoted that he had formed a resolution which no one could change. Monsieur de Noirmont then went to his wife and said to her in a cold and impressive tone:

“Your humor is very capricious, madame, as anyone may see by the way in which you treat your daughter sometimes; but you extend it to defenceless servants also, and that is what I cannot endure. This young Louise, who came here to wait upon Ernestine, is honest and virtuous; her appearance is as becoming as her manners; I think that it would be difficult to find another so satisfactory; and yet you propose to dismiss her, madame—you expect me to turn a good girl out of my house, because, for some unknown reason, she has ceased to please you; because your fanciful humor makes you more difficult than ever to serve!—No, madame, that shall not be; I propose to be just before everything, and this girl shall remain in my house, because it would be unjust to send her away.”

Madame de Noirmont had not a word to say in reply; she hung her head and seemed completely crushed.