Volume 19 / Part 3 — PART III

XVIII FIRST APPEARANCE IN SOCIETY

In an elegant, brilliantly-lighted apartment on Rue Saint-Lazare, a fashionable company, already quite numerous, was engaged in conversation that was rarely of a private nature, but often piquant and satirical. At intervals, some witty person interjected a word or two, while the undaunted chatterers, who never had anything clever to say, persisted in holding the floor.

Madame Célival was just as Monfréville had described her: lovely, amiable, coquettish, glancing at a mirror from time to time, to be sure of the effect of her gown; paying due attention to all her guests, with the talent of a woman accustomed to society, but reserving softer and tenderer smiles for the men who were paying court to her.

Near the couch on which the mistress of the house had just taken her seat sat a young and pretty blonde, dressed in muslin and crêpe, and entangled in veils and scarfs that almost concealed her charming features; it was all pink and white and formed so becoming a frame for this lady that at a distance she resembled one of those engravings of a woman’s face surrounded by clouds.

Madame Célival thanked the pretty blonde for consenting to come to her reception, despite the torture caused by her nerves. A few steps away was a tall gentleman wearing a decoration; he was very thin and very ugly; his chin was surrounded by a sparse necklace of jet-black beard; moustaches no less glossy, and carefully waxed and twisted at the ends, made his face resemble a cat’s in some measure. He was addressed as colonel.

A young man whose hair was parted and curled with as much care as a woman could possibly take, and whose regular, but somewhat harsh features recalled the faces which our historical painters love to give to the heroes of ancient Rome, was standing by the fireplace; he rarely removed his eyes from the ladies who were talking on the divan, but he seemed not to be observing either of them more particularly than the other.

Near the piano, for there was necessarily a piano in the salon, several young persons were assembled, turning over the leaves of albums, or looking at the music; they were not all good-looking, but they were all dressed with so much taste, there was so much reserved grace in their manners, that even those who were not pretty were not without charm.

In another part of the room the mammas were chatting together; some were dressed with a coquetry which seemed to indicate a purpose to outshine their daughters; others displayed a simple but tasteful elegance, suited to their age, which made them the more attractive when they were still young enough to attract.

Some young men were fluttering about the younger ladies, while others contented themselves with standing very straight and stiff in order to call attention to the finished elegance of their clothes and the good taste with which their hair was arranged. Some had assumed a smile which remained as if stereotyped on their faces throughout the evening. Then there were men of uncertain age standing and talking in the middle of the room; among them a gentleman, whose gray hair, very scanty over his forehead, curled luxuriantly about his temples. He possessed a distinguished and intellectual face, but there was an over-curious, over-inquisitive expression in his little eyes, which gleamed with the vivacity of youth, although his face indicated that he was in the neighborhood of sixty. This gentleman talked incessantly, with much energy, and while carrying on a conversation in one part of the salon, managed to hear what was said elsewhere, and thus took part in most of the other conversations, sustaining his share of the discussion on several different subjects at the same time, with the same facility with which Caesar dictated several letters at once in different languages.

Another salon, smaller than that where the ladies were sitting, and reached by passing through a lovely little room furnished with the most delicious luxury, was set aside for those of the guests who wished to play cards. Whist and bouillotte tables were prepared, but there were as yet no players.

Monsieur de Monfréville and the Marquis Chérubin de Grandvilain were announced. All eyes were turned toward the door. The names Chérubin and Grandvilain formed such a strange contrast that everybody was curious to see the person who bore them.

“Monsieur de Grandvilain!” said one; “Gad! how ugly he must be! He must be an elderly man.”

“But the footman said Chérubin too; that’s a very pretty name.”

“They can’t belong to the same man.”

“Probably there’s a father and a son.”

While the guests indulged in these reflections, Madame Célival said to those who were nearest her, but speaking loud enough to be overheard by everybody:

“Monsieur de Monfréville did ask my permission to introduce a young man who has never been out at all; and I granted it the more willingly because this young man, who is the last of a noble family, deserves, so it is said, all the interest that Monsieur de Monfréville takes in him.”

“Ah! very well done!” murmured the gray-haired gentleman; “a little announcement preceding the introduction.”

At that moment Chérubin entered the salon with Monfréville. Despite all that his mentor had said to him, he was far from self-possessed, and the deep flush that covered his cheeks sufficiently betrayed his embarrassment. But his eyes were so lovely and soft, his features so refined, his face so interesting, that a flattering murmur greeted his entrance into the salon, and everyone felt prepossessed in his favor at once. The young men who were standing stiffly erect to display their fine points were the only ones who did not seem to share the general feeling.

“He has a very awkward manner,” said one.

“He carries himself badly,” said another.

“He looks like a woman in man’s clothes,” murmured a young dandy, bristling with beard, moustache and side-whiskers.

And Monsieur Trichet, the gray-haired gentleman, smiled maliciously and said:

“Chérubin! a most appropriate name. He is Comte Almaviva’s little page to the life! He still lacks the gallantry and self-assurance of his namesake; but those will soon come. The ladies will ask nothing better than to train him.”

Madame Célival greeted the young man with a charming smile when Monfréville presented him. She made several of those complimentary remarks which captivate instantly the person to whom they are addressed. Chérubin tried to reply to her compliments, but he went astray and tangled himself up in a sentence which he was unable to finish. Luckily Monfréville was at hand and interposed to relieve his embarrassment, and Madame Célival was too well-bred not to do her best to put him at his ease. So that, after a few moments, Chérubin began to venture to look about him.

“What a lot of pretty women there are here!” he whispered to his sponsor. “I say, my friend, do you mean to say that one can love them all?”

“You are perfectly at liberty to love them all, but I cannot promise that they will all love you.”

“The mistress of the house is very beautiful; she has eyes that—I don’t dare to say it.”

“Say on.”

“That dazzle one, intoxicate one—excuse me, but I can’t think of the right word.”

“Intoxicate isn’t at all bad; in fact, you have unwittingly hit upon the most apt expression; for if wine deprives us of our reason, a pretty woman’s eyes produce precisely the same effect. I am tempted to tell Madame Célival what you just said about her eyes; she will be flattered by it, I’ll wager.”

“Oh! my dear fellow, don’t do that—I shouldn’t dare to look at her again. But the lady opposite is very pretty too! That blonde almost hidden by pink and white muslin.”

“That is Madame la Comtesse Emma de Valdieri; she is a fascinating creature, in very truth; she has something of the sylph about her, something of a daughter of the air. She is perfectly proportioned: small feet, small hands, small mouth, small ears; only her eyes are large. She is the perfect type of tiny women. But she is exceedingly nervous and flighty, and, above all, capricious; to-day she will greet you with a tender glance, to-morrow she will act as if she did not know you; adulation has spoiled her. Comtesse Emma is French, but her husband is a Corsican. He is that stout gentleman with whiskers, who is singing at the piano. He has a superb bass voice, so that he is always anxious to sing; and, although he’s a Corsican, he seems to be very little disturbed by the homage paid to his wife.”

Monsieur Trichet, who was at some distance from Monfréville, succeeded none the less in overhearing what he said to Chérubin; and he approached the two friends, saying in a sarcastic tone:

“True, true. Valdieri, the handsome singer, is not at all jealous; but it isn’t safe to trust him! With these Corsicans, there is always the vendetta to guard against. Is your health good, Monsieur de Monfréville?”

“Very good, monsieur, I thank you.”

“It is some time since you have shown yourself in society.”

“I have been obliged to pay a long visit to my estate near Fontainebleau.”

“Oh, yes!—So you are introducing monsieur in society? He could not find a better guide.”

Chérubin bowed and attempted to say a few words in reply; but after a vain effort, he deemed it more prudent to hold his peace. Monsieur Trichet was about to continue the conversation, when he saw, at the other end of the room, three gentlemen talking with great earnestness; he instantly ran toward them, crying:

“That isn’t so—you’re wrong! I know the story better than you do, and I’ll tell it to you.”

Monfréville smiled at Chérubin and said:

“I need not tell you that that gentleman, whose name is Trichet, is the most inquisitive and loquacious mortal whom it is possible to meet. He can’t see two people talking together without joining their conversation, which is not always agreeable. However, as Monsieur Trichet is a very wealthy old bachelor, who gives very handsome fêtes, and as, aside from his curiosity, he doesn’t lack wit and tells a good story, he is made welcome everywhere, in salons and at the theatres.”

Chérubin was still engaged in looking about at the assembled company, when the door opened and the footman announced:

“Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle de Noirmont.”

A lady above middle height, but of dignified and refined bearing, entered first, with a girl of some fourteen or fifteen years. The lady, whose dress, although rich, was almost severe in its simplicity, seemed to be rather more than thirty years of age; her features were beautiful, but grave; her large dark eyes, surmounted by heavy eyebrows, wore a vague and thoughtful expression which might lead one to think that her thoughts were often busy with something different from what she was saying; her lips, somewhat too tightly closed, hardly ever parted in a smile. That cold and haughty face was framed by beautiful tresses of black hair, which fell very low.

The young lady had the winning charm of her age; although she was not very pretty, her features attracted one by their fascinating expression of playfulness and mischief, which was often moderated by her mother’s stern glances.

Monsieur de Noirmont, who came after them, was a man of fifty; he was very tall and stooped a little; his temples were shadowed by a few dark hairs, but the top of his head was entirely bald. His appearance was stern, supercilious and far from attractive; his regular features had probably been handsome, but his steely glance, his sharp voice and his shortness of speech inspired neither affection nor confidence.

The arrival of these three persons seemed to cause Monfréville profound emotion; his brow became wrinkled, his eyebrows drew together, and a veil of melancholy covered his eyes. But in a moment, surmounting his sensations, he succeeded in resuming the amiable and unruffled air which he wore on his arrival; indeed one would have said that he made it a point to seem more cheerful than before.

Monsieur Trichet, who had returned to Chérubin’s side, did not fail to comment on the new arrivals:

“That’s the Noirmont family; they have left their estate in Normandie, and they live in Paris now. They must have found it very dull in the country. They are not a very hilarious family. That De Noirmont is stiff and sour and overbearing! Just because he was once in the magistracy, you would think that he was always sitting in judgment on you. However, he’s a man of the strictest probity; he deserves his reputation, but he’s not an agreeable companion. As for his wife, she is a worthy mate to her husband—she talks very little and never smiles. I don’t know whether she has any wit, but at all events she never compromises it. As for her virtue—oh! that is intact, as far beyond reproach as her husband’s probity. And yet Madame de Noirmont, who is very handsome still, although she may be thirty-three or thirty-four years old—yes, she must be quite that—must have been an enchanting creature at eighteen, assuming that she deigned to smile occasionally then. Their daughter, young Ernestine, is a mere child still. She is a nice little thing, merry and playful—which proves that she takes after neither father nor mother. But that is often seen.—Stay, colonel, I knew the person you are talking about, and I will explain the matter under discussion.”

At that, Monsieur Trichet joined the tall gentleman with the waxed moustache, who was talking with two ladies; and Chérubin, turning his head, saw that Monfréville was no longer by his side.

Finding himself alone, in the midst of that numerous assemblage, the young man felt sorely perturbed and lost the assurance which he derived from his friend’s neighborhood. As he preferred not to stand there, awkward and embarrassed, by the fireplace, where he was exposed to every eye, he succeeded in extricating himself from the circle by slipping behind an easy-chair, and thence made his way to a window recess, where he was prevented from going farther by several persons who were seated there. He tried to retrace his steps, but Madame de Noirmont and her daughter had seated themselves in front of him and closed the way by which he had come; so that he was blockaded in a very confined space, which he could not leave except by compelling the ladies in front of him to rise. As he was incapable of such an audacious act, he decided to remain in the corner where he was, until it should please chance, or Monfréville, to release him from his prison.

The ladies who were seated in front of the recess in which Chérubin stood had no suspicion that there was anybody behind them. The conversation continued in the salon; the guests walked hither and thither, laughing and chatting. Chérubin alone could not stir, and he was at a loss what to do in his little corner. Several times Madame Célival passed the people who were blockading him, but she did not see him. He congratulated himself that she did not, for he would not have known what reply to make, if she had asked him what he was doing there. Monfréville too had reappeared in the salon, but he did not see the suppliant glances which his young friend cast at him, and, instead of approaching him, he seemed to avoid that part of the room in which Madame de Noirmont had seated herself.

Nearly an hour passed thus. Poor Chérubin was terribly fatigued by standing so long, and terribly bored in his little nook. He could hear what Madame de Noirmont said to her daughter; but that lady did not enter into any sustained conversation; she simply replied in few words to Ernestine’s questions.

“Mamma,” said the latter, after a young lady had sung a ballad, “don’t you want me to sing?”

“No, my child, you are too young to put yourself forward; besides, unless your father insists upon it, you will never sing in company.”

“Why not, mamma?”

“Because I prefer in a young lady the modesty which keeps itself concealed, to the vanity which makes itself conspicuous.”

“But in that case, mamma, why did you give me a music teacher?”

“Such accomplishments are more useful in solitude than in society.”

“Oh!—But, mamma——”

“That is enough, my child.”

A glance from Madame de Noirmont imposed silence on the girl; but, after a few moments, she returned to the charge.

“Don’t they dance here, mamma?”

“Of course not. Did I tell you that we were going to a ball?”

“Oh, no! but sometimes they dance at receptions; it’s much better fun then.”

“You think of nothing but pleasure and dancing!”

“Oh! I am so fond of it! Father told me that he would give a great ball next winter.”

“A great ball! Oh! I hope that he will change his mind.”

“Why don’t you want to give one, mamma?”

“No matter; hush!”

The girl held her peace, but indulged in a pretty little pout; whereupon her mother seized her hand and pressed it, and said in a gentler tone and with an expression of the deepest melancholy:

“I distress you, Ernestine; you don’t love your mother.”

The girl replied by putting her mother’s hand to her lips and murmuring:

“Oh! you know that I do!”

Suddenly, happening to turn her head, Mademoiselle de Noirmont caught sight of Chérubin, who did not know which leg to stand on. When she saw that young man standing behind her and cutting such an amusing figure, young Ernestine only half restrained her longing to laugh.

“What is the matter?” her mother asked her; “what has happened to you? You should not laugh so in company—it is not proper.”

The girl replied by nudging her mother gently and whispering:

“Look—behind us—there’s a young gentleman.”

Madame de Noirmont turned and saw Chérubin, who, having no idea which way to turn, bowed low to her. Amazed to see the young man in hiding in a window recess, Madame de Noirmont was about to move so that he might pass; but at that moment, Monfréville, having just discovered his young friend, for whom he had been searching the salons in vain, drew near to assist him in escaping from his prison.

When she saw Monfréville coming straight toward her, Madame de Noirmont seemed to experience a nervous convulsion; but her face changed very slightly.

“Pardon me, madame,” said Monfréville, “and permit me to release a young man who, I am sure, has stood here a long while, afraid to stir because he was unwilling to disturb you.”

Madame de Noirmont’s only reply was to motion to her daughter to rise, which she instantly did. Chérubin thereupon took advantage of the path thus opened, apologizing profusely to young Ernestine; then he walked quickly away with Monfréville, not remarking the extreme pallor that covered Madame de Noirmont’s face, and his friend’s forced gayety.

“I have been there for more than an hour,” whispered Chérubin to his mentor. “Oh! I was awfully uncomfortable! such torture!”

“Well, my dear fellow, why do you creep into little nooks like that? Did—did Madame de Noirmont speak to you?”

“That lady in front of me, who looked so stern? No, indeed; she had only just discovered me. Oh! I should never fall in love with her, although she is very handsome! I don’t think she looks at all agreeable. How different from Comtesse Valdieri, and Madame Célival, and that one, and that one.”

While Chérubin turned his amorous glances upon those ladies who attracted him, Monsieur de Noirmont, who was talking with Monsieur Trichet, left that gentleman and walked to meet the young marquis, to whom he made a solemn and ceremonious bow, saying:

“I have just been told that the son of the late Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain is here, and I wish to say to him that I am delighted to meet the son of a person whom I esteemed and honored in every respect. Yes, monsieur, I was well acquainted with monsieur your father; he was a most excellent man; I have no doubt that his son resembles him, and I trust that he will do me the honor to call at my house. Here is my card, monsieur; I look forward to the pleasure of a visit from you.”

Chérubin, bewildered by this unexpected invitation, bowed and muttered a few commonplace words; but Monsieur de Noirmont took his hand and led him away, saying:

“Allow me to present you to Madame de Noirmont.”

Chérubin made no resistance; he allowed himself to be led back, shuddering, to the little recess where he had stood so long; but that time he was not compelled to enter it. Monsieur de Noirmont introduced him to his wife, saying:

“Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, son of a man who honored me by calling me his friend.”

Madame de Noirmont, recognizing the young man who had been her prisoner, repressed a gesture of surprise, bowed coldly to Chérubin, and seemed to hesitate to look at him, as if she dreaded to see Monfréville with him again.

Little Ernestine bit her lips to keep from laughing, when she heard her father give the name of Grandvilain to the young man whom he presented.

At last Chérubin found himself at liberty once more, and returned to Monfréville, who said to him:

“You have been introduced to Madame de Noirmont?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing; indeed her greeting was decidedly cold.”

“Shall you go to her house?”

“Faith, I have no inclination to do so; it seems to me that it must be a horribly dull place. That Monsieur de Noirmont has a stiff sort of courtesy that turns one cold. After all, I am not obliged to visit all my father’s friends; they are hardly of my age.”

“You must leave your card at his door, that will be enough; I think with you that it will be as well for you not to go to that house. But Madame Célival is looking for you, she was asking just now what had become of you; I think that you have made a conquest of her.”

“Really! Oh! if that were true!”

“Look, there she is yonder. Go and say something to her.”

“What shall I say?”

“Whatever you choose; she will help you to keep up the conversation. Don’t be bashful, my dear fellow; that isn’t the way to get ahead in the world.”

Chérubin made an effort to overcome his diffidence, and resolved to join Madame Célival; she, when she saw him coming toward her, bestowed a charming smile on him and at once motioned him to a seat by her side. Encouraged by this greeting, Chérubin took his place beside the lovely brunette, faltering some words which it was impossible to hear, but to which Madame Célival replied as if she had heard them. A clever woman always finds a way, when she chooses, to impart assurance to the most bashful man, by taking upon herself substantially the whole burden of the conversation. Chérubin gradually felt bolder, better pleased with himself; he had almost reached the point of being entirely at ease with his companion, when the inevitable Trichet planted himself in front of them and exclaimed:

“I don’t know what you are talking about, and yet, I’ll wager that I can guess.”

Madame Célival, who appeared to be not at all pleased that Monsieur Trichet had interposed in her conversation with Chérubin, answered the old bachelor:

“You always try to guess what people are saying, but in this case you are quite likely to be mistaken. Tell me, what was monsieur saying to me?”

“That you are bewitching, adorable; for no man can say anything else to you.”

Madame Célival smiled, with a less irritated air, while Chérubin, blushing to the whites of his eyes, exclaimed:

“Why no, I didn’t tell madame that!”

“At all events, you thought it,” rejoined Monsieur Trichet, “and that amounts to the same thing.”

Chérubin did not know what to say; he lowered his eyes and made such a comical face that Madame Célival, taking pity on his embarrassment, rose and said:

“Nonsense, my dear Trichet; you are an old idiot! That is why we all have to forgive you.”

The old bachelor did not hear these last words; he had run off to join a gentleman who was declaiming at the other end of the salon, and whom it gave him great pleasure to interrupt. Madame Célival left Chérubin, saying, with a glance at once amiable and affectionate:

“I trust, monsieur, that you find my house agreeable; you will prove that you do if you come to see me often.”

“Well,” said Monfréville, as he joined Chérubin once more, “your business seems to be progressing.”

“Ah! my dear fellow, that woman is delightful! In her company, it seemed to me that I actually had some wit. I have never been so well pleased with myself.”

“It is always so!

“‘A great man’s friendship is a boon of the gods;’ but an agreeable woman’s love is the greatest blessing on earth! Come; you don’t play, nor I; it is time to go.”

They left the salon, which the Noirmont family had quitted just before.

XIX THE COMTESSE DE GLOBESKA

It was nine o’clock at night, and two men, who seemed to be waiting and watching for somebody, were walking back and forth on Rue Grenétat. One of them, whose beat was from the centre of the street almost to the fountain at the corner of Rue Saint-Denis, wore a long frockcoat which fitted his figure perfectly and was buttoned to the chin, together with straw-colored gloves and the general outfit of a dandy; but when he passed a lighted shop, one could see that his coat was worn and spotted in many places, and that his gloves were no longer perfectly fresh. This gentleman was smoking a cigar with all the grace of a regular customer at Tortoni’s.

The second individual, who was enveloped in an old nut-colored box-coat, with which we are already familiar, wore a round hat, with so broad a brim and so low a crown, that at a short distance he seemed to be arrayed in the headgear of a coal man. He walked only a few steps from a house with a dark passageway, the gate of which was open, to the second or third house on each side of it; but his eyes never lost sight of the passage.

In these two individuals the reader will already have recognized Daréna and his worthy friend Monsieur Poterne.

Since his agent had been unable to do business with the young Marquis de Grandvilain, Daréna had fallen off lamentably from his former magnificence; as his profits had been squandered in a very short time, he had fallen back into what is called noble indigence; “completely cleaned out,” was Monsieur Poterne’s way of stating it.

Daréna still had recourse to his young friend’s purse from time to time; but he was afraid of ruining himself entirely in Chérubin’s estimation, if he abused that method; for, despite his ingenuous candor, the young man was possessed of some natural common sense which enabled him to divine what was not in accordance with propriety; and Daréna did not wish the doors of the hôtel de Grandvilain to be closed to him.

“By God! is that beast of a Poterne making a fool of me?” said Daréna, stopping at the street corner to shake the ashes off his cigar. “The idea of doing sentry-go on Rue Grenétat, where it’s always muddy! It’s like the country! I ought to be in the foyer of the Opéra now! But I forget that my costume is a little seedy! What a beastly cigar! Pah! there’s nothing decent in this region!”

Daréna threw away the end of his cigar, retraced his steps, and, halting beside Poterne, who was leaning against a post, with his eyes fixed on the dark passageway facing him, nudged him with his elbow and said:

“Are we going to say here long, old tom-cat? Do you know that I am beginning to be deucedly bored?”

“When you want to carry an undertaking through to a good end, you must be patient,” rejoined Poterne, without turning his head.

“To a good end! I fancy that your end won’t be very good, you old rascal. But why does the damsel keep us waiting? Doesn’t she know that you are here? Come, Poterne, answer your friend.”

Poterne turned quickly and said in an undertone:

“Don’t call me by name, I beg you; there’s no need of the girl’s knowing my real name; she might repeat it by accident, or from stupidity, and my whole plan would be overboard.”

“You ought to be overboard yourself! But come, tell me what scheme you have thought up, and let me see if it has any sense; for I didn’t listen to you very carefully this morning.”

“It is very simple; we propose to try to make young Chérubin fall in love, in order to entangle him in an intrigue which may prove lucrative for us.”

“Alas, yes! for although ‘gold may be a mere chimera,’ all these rascally tailors refuse to make coats for me without some of that same chimera!”

“To make sure that our Adonis becomes deeply enamored, we must first of all find a pretty girl.”

“That is true; it’s the same way with jugged hare—first catch your hare.”

“Well, I have discovered what we need; here, in this house, on the third floor back, there is a rose, a genuine rose!”

“A rose in this vile hovel—and on the back! I am terribly afraid that your rose is only a hip!”

“You will be able to judge for yourself directly. This is the time when the work-girls leave their work; indeed, I am surprised that they haven’t come out yet.”

“And what does this blush rose do?”

“She makes Italian straw hats.”

“Very good; and she is virtuous?”

“Oh! I don’t hold her out as a prize-winner; but she makes a very modest appearance; she is very fond of a little pays[A] of hers, who was obliged to go into the army as a simple tourlourou,[B] and it would make her perfectly happy to be able to save up enough money to marry her little pays when he comes home. So she won’t listen to any of the young men who run after her every night, because she knows that they’re ne’er-do-wells, who won’t help her to set up housekeeping with her little pays.”

“Bravo! the young woman has excellent principles. How did you make her acquaintance? by treating her to chestnuts?”

“By defending her against a young wig-maker’s apprentice, who, when he pretended to take her arm, always took hold of something else.”

“Those wig-makers are sad villains. This is what the habit of making curls leads to!—What proposition have you made to this rose-bud?”

“In the first place, I represented myself as a Polish noble, the Comte de Globeski.”

“You sinner! to presume to take the title of count!—What next?”

“I told the girl that, if she chose, I would put her in the way of making a very neat little sum. As she thought at first that I was in love with her, she answered that I was too ugly.”

“That’s good, I like that outspokenness.”

“I reassured her by telling her that I wasn’t talking about myself, but about a very comely young man, whom, for family reasons, we desired to become amorous of her.”

“I adore family reasons! Go on.”

“My pretty working-girl did not seem to have a very alert imagination; however, she almost understood. She’s an Alsatian, and her name is Chichette Chichemann. She has a slight accent, but it is not at all disagreeable and will pass for a Polish accent, especially as Polish is very like German. I have an appointment with her for this evening; we will take her to a café, and there we will agree on our movements; you will see that she is extremely pretty, and that she has a little virginlike way about her that is most deceptive. When she is dressed as a Polish countess, the young marquis must inevitably fall madly in love with her.”

“We will hope so, and then we must act in all haste, for Monfréville is taking Chérubin into society now. Our real marchionesses and countesses will find the youngster very attractive; and he, in his turn, will fall in love with one of them; and if his heart is once fairly caught——”

“We should be our expenses out of pocket!”

“Bah! that won’t make any difference, if your damsel is really pretty; there’s always room for a new love in the human heart. At eighteen years and a half, I could have loved all four quarters of the globe.—Attention! I think the flock is coming out.”

As he spoke, several young women in little caps and modest aprons came from the dark passage; some of them were soon joined by young men who were waiting for them; others walked away alone. Daréna and Poterne, stationed on the other side of the street, let them all pass. The last of all leaped the gutter with agility and walked up to Poterne, who tried to impart an amiable tone to his voice as he said:

“Did you recognize me, Mademoiselle Chichette?”

“I should say so; you look like a coal man with your big hat.”

Daréna laughed aloud, and the girl stepped back, saying:

“Ah! there’s someone with you, Messié Globeski?”

“Yes, an intimate friend of mine, who is employed to manage the affair I spoke to you about. We will go somewhere and talk it over.”

“Yes, my dear child,” said Daréna, taking the girl’s arm and passing it through his, “we will go and have a chat and a glass of punch. Do you like punch?”

“Oh, yes! ever so much!” the Alsatian replied, looking at Daréna.

“Very good; I see that we shall be able to come to an understanding! I am not quite so ugly as monsieur; take my arm, I shall frighten you less than he will. Is there a decent café hereabout? Let us go to Rue Saint-Denis. I haven’t looked at you yet, but I am told that you are enchanting; however, I must satisfy myself. Here’s a drug store.”

Daréna led the little hat-maker in front of the drug store, and, placing her under one of those blue globes which cast a sickly light into the street, he scrutinized her, then exclaimed:

“Excellent! Very pretty, on my word! And if we are like this, seen through a colored bottle, what shall we be in a moment? Here’s a café, let’s go in.”

The gentlemen entered the café with Mademoiselle Chichette; they chose a table in the corner, so that they might talk with less constraint, and Daréna said to the waiter:

“A bowl of rum punch—the very best that can be made.”

Poterne made a wry face and whispered to Daréna:

“The little one would be perfectly satisfied with beer; it isn’t worth while to——”

“What’s that? We are growing stingy, are we? Poterne, my friend, you know that I don’t like that sort of thing.”

“Don’t call me Poterne, I tell you.”

“Then be quiet, and don’t annoy me with your foolish reflections.”

Mademoiselle Chichette had taken her place at the table, where she seemed to pay no heed at all to anything that was said by the gentlemen who were with her. The Alsatian seemed about twenty years of age; she was very small, but she had a very becoming measure of embonpoint; her face was round, with dark eyes, not very large, but well-shaped and surmounted by gracefully arched light eyebrows; a tiny mouth, pretty teeth, a plump little chin adorned by a faint dimple, chubby cheeks, and an extremely fresh complexion combined to form a charming village girl’s face; but there was no character to it, no expression in her eyes; always the same placidity and the same smile.

Daréna scrutinized the Alsatian anew, then said to Poterne under his breath:

“She’s very pretty, and as fresh as a rose. She looks respectable; in fact, she has rather a stupid air; but that will pass for innocence. Do you know, you have made a genuine find; when she is handsomely dressed, Chérubin cannot possibly help falling in love with her.—Ah! here’s the punch—let’s have a drink! Drink, young Chichette. Alsatians generally have a well-developed gullet.”

Mademoiselle Chichette smiled and took a glass, saying:

“Oh, yes! I don’t object.”

“The accent is a little pronounced,” muttered Daréna. “However, it doesn’t matter, it’s Polish—that’s understood.—Some macaroons, waiter! What! you see that we have a lady with us, and you forget the macaroons! Haven’t you any? If not, you should make some.”

“I have sent for some, monsieur.”

“That’s lucky for you. Meanwhile, give us some cakes, or gingersnaps—whatever you have.”

During this dialogue Poterne heaved a succession of stifled sighs. At last a dish was brought and placed by Daréna in front of the young work-girl, and he himself stuffed himself with cakes as if he had not dined. Whereupon Monsieur Poterne also decided to attack the plate, and to devour all the gingersnaps.

“You see, Comte de Globeski,” said Daréna, in a serio-comic tone, “that I did well to order these trifles. But now let us talk business, and come to the point.—Mademoiselle Chichette, you have one of the prettiest faces to be met with in Paris or the suburbs. We desire a young man to fall violently in love with you. That will be easy to bring about; but we wish his passion to encounter obstacles. Why? That does not concern you; the essential thing is that you should do exactly what you are told to do. In the first place, you are Monsieur le Comte de Globeski’s wife—consequently you are the Comtesse de Globeska. That is the usual custom in Poland: the man’s name ends in i and his wife’s in a.”

“Oh, no! I want to be my little pays’s wife! I’ve promised him.”

“Sacrebleu! this is only a joke; it’s part of the comedy we want you to play.”

“Oh, yes, yes! a joke! I’ll do it.”

“You are the Comtesse de Globeska, then, a Polish refugee; and your friend here—this gentleman who is so ugly—is horribly jealous; stuff all that in your head. We will give you a pretty costume; that can’t offend you; and you will live with monsieur for a few days, except at night; but with honorable intentions!”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“And when the young man is dead in love, you may love him too, if you please; in fact, he is well worth the trouble—he’s a charming fellow. You don’t dislike charming fellows, do you?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“And for all this you shall have twenty-five napoleons; in other words, five hundred francs.”

“That’s too much! it’s too much!” whispered Poterne, nudging Daréna, “she would have helped us for two or three louis.”

“Yes, you shall have five hundred francs,” continued Daréna, “six hundred, in fact, if the affair goes off well. I will guarantee you that amount, and monsieur here will pay it.—Isn’t that rather pleasant, eh?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“Sapristi!” said Daréna, turning to his companion, “she strikes me as being stupider than a flock of geese! However, it makes no difference; Love is blind, and he is entitled to be deaf too.—Let’s have a drink! Another bowl, waiter.”

“But—but——”

“Be quiet, Comte de Globeski! you are at liberty not to drink any more, but you will still have the privilege of paying.”

The second bowl was brought; the young Alsatian’s color became more brilliant than ever; even her eyes began to show some life and Daréna exclaimed:

“Fichtre! if only Chérubin could see her now! What a conflagration she would kindle! Comte de Globeski, see to it that Chichette has such eyes to-morrow evening; make her a little tipsy.”

“Yes, with brandy!” muttered Poterne, blowing his nose.

“Attention! as it is easier to become acquainted at the theatre than anywhere else, the Comte de Globeski will take his wife to the theatre to-morrow evening—to the Cirque; that is the favorite theatre of foreigners.”

“Very good,” said Poterne, “we will go to the Cirque; we will sit in the second amphitheatre.”

“And why not in paradise, at once? Hum! you make me blush for you, Globeski! You will take seats in the first balcony—in a box.”

“But——”

“No buts!—Madame must be dressed in perfect taste.”

“I will do my best.”

“And you, count, will look to it that you bear no resemblance to a certain hound named Poterne.”

“There’s no danger.”

“We will sit in your box, behind you; the Comtesse de Globeska will assassinate my young friend with her glances.—Do you understand, my girl?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“And above all things she must not seem to know me.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Comte de Globeski will go out during the entr’acte without his wife, who will answer the sweet speeches my young friend will make to her. She will not talk much, for fear of making a slip, but she will be loving and passionate.”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“After the play the count will take his wife away, and we will follow them. He will take a cab, we will do the like. The rest will go of itself. It’s all agreed and understood. There’s no more punch; pay the bill, count, and let’s be off.”

Poterne paid with a groan; Daréna even compelled him to give the waiter six sous; then they left the café. Mademoiselle Chichette lived on Rue Saint-Denis; they escorted her home and she promised not to go out on the following day, but to await Monsieur de Globeski’s coming. Then Daréna went to stroll in the Palais-Royal, and Poterne went home to bed.

Daréna had taken his measures in advance; he knew that Monfréville was to attend a large dinner on the following day, so that Chérubin would be free. He had seen him in the morning and had said to him:

“I want to pass the evening with you to-morrow; surely you will sacrifice your great ladies to me for one evening! You are always in the fashionable salons now—they monopolize you. Monfréville is never away from you; but my friendship demands its turn, and as I do not go into society—for the moment! I have such seasons—why, we will go to the theatre.”

Chérubin had agreed. But he was beginning to enjoy large parties; the pleasant welcome that he received everywhere gradually dispelled his shyness. Madame Célival was more amiable with him than with any other man; which fact seemed to annoy several gentlemen, among others, the colonel who resembled a cat, and the young dandy who had the look of a Roman.

Nor was this all: the fascinating Comtesse Valdieri, that fanciful, nervous, ethereal creature, who often received as if by special favor the homage that was addressed to her, had supposed at first that Marquis Chérubin would speedily help to swell the crowd of her adorers; but the young man had contented himself with admiring her at a distance, and in this case his shyness had served him well. The little countess was deeply offended by behavior which she attributed to indifference; for in these days it is not to be presumed that young men are bashful, and Madame Valdieri, seeing that Chérubin talked a great deal with Madame Célival, did her utmost to steal that new conquest from her. With women anger sometimes leads to love, and any other than Chérubin would already have taken advantage of the rivalry he had caused.

The pretty countess had invited the young marquis to come to her receptions. Monsieur Valdieri, like a complacent husband, had seconded his wife’s invitation; and Chérubin waited upon the flighty Emma, who was most affable to him and seemed to forget her nerves.

And then, in a street near the hôtel de Grandvilain, there was a rather pretentious linen-draper’s shop, and in that shop, among a number of young women who were always at work at the counter, there was one fair-haired damsel, somewhat red about the eyes, with a little turned-up nose à la Roxelane, and an extremely wide-awake air. When Chérubin passed, she always found a way to be at the door and smile at him; or to go out into the street for a moment on the most trivial pretext; and several times, as she passed the young man, she had said:

“I come out at nine o’clock every night; if you would like to speak with me, wait at the end of the street; my name is Célanire.”

And lastly Chérubin had met Mademoiselle Malvina several times, no longer dressed as a Swiss, but very alluring with her little pink tucker, her short skirt, and the black silk scarf, which was wound so lightly about her waist that it caused her hips to stand out in a very pronounced fashion. And Malvina had halted in front of the young man, shot a burning glance at him, and said:

“So you don’t mean to come to see me, Monsieur Chérubin? Do you know that that is very bad of you, and that you are an ungrateful wretch not to cultivate my acquaintance? You know my address—come and breakfast with me. I get up late, but I give you leave to come very early.”

Thus Chérubin was exposed to a rattling fire from a number of fair ones, when Daréna, who had found a way to freshen up his costume, called for him and took him to the Cirque, on Boulevard du Temple.

On the road the young man did not fail to tell Daréna all that had happened to him; and he, having listened attentively, said:

“It seems to me, my dear fellow, that you are a regular Faublas—all women adore you! And how is it with yourself?”

“Oh! I adore them too!”

“So you love Madame Célival, eh?”

“Why, yes, I think so; I find her very fascinating.”

“And the languishing Comtesse Valdieri?”

“Oh! I like her very much too.”

“And the grisette—otherwise called the linen-draper’s apprentice?”

“I think that she’s very nice.”

“And Malvina, who dances so well?”

“She is very much to my taste.”

“Well! if that is so, how do you stand with all these women? Men don’t make any secret of such things among themselves, parbleu!”

“How do I stand? Why, no farther ahead than I was.”

Daréna roared with laughter, to the great annoyance of Chérubin, and rejoined at last:

“Then, my dear fellow, it’s because the will was lacking! and, according to that, I am bound to think that all these ladies have made very little impression on your heart. However, I understand that: salon conquests—grisettes—lorettes—there’s nothing interesting in any of them! Sometimes chance brings us into contact with something better. But here we are at the Cirque.”

Chérubin purchased the tickets—Daréna always left that duty to him—and they entered the theatre.

“This is a very good place,” said Chérubin, stopping at the entrance to the balcony.

But Daréna, who had caught sight of the persons he was looking for in a box, answered:

“We shall be more comfortable in a box; besides, it’s better form. Come—let us go in here, for instance.”

And Daréna bade the box-opener admit them to the box in which he had recognized Poterne and Mademoiselle Chichette Chichemann.

One must have had Daréna’s keen sight to recognize those two individuals, and must have been certain that they were there, for they were perfectly disguised, especially Poterne, who was absolutely unrecognizable.

Daréna’s intimate friend had sacrificed the bristly hair that covered his head; he had been shaved, and so closely that he resembled a poodle returning from Pont Neuf. He wore on his nose green goggles, the sides of which were screened by silk of the same color; and he had stuffed something in his mouth, which transformed his hollow cheeks into chubby ones. The change was complete. The false Comte de Globeski was suitably attired in a blue frockcoat with frogs, buttoned to the chin, so that it almost made a cravat unnecessary.

Mademoiselle Chichette wore a silk dress of faded pink, a long cloak trimmed with fur, and a sort of little toque of green velvet, with silk tassels and bows of the same color, which fell over her left ear. Her costume was not new, but her plump face was prettier than ever under the velvet toque, and her astonishment at finding herself in such fine array gave an almost piquant expression to her eyes.

Daréna grasped all this at a glance.

“That miserable Poterne bought everything at the Temple!” he muttered. “However, the little one is very pretty, luckily, and if my young Cupid doesn’t take fire, I shall begin to believe that there’s something wrong in his make-up.”

Poterne nudged Mademoiselle Chichette with his knee, calling her attention with his eyes to the young man who had seated himself behind her. The supposititious Pole turned, and after eying Chérubin, she murmured:

“He’s very pretty—almost as pretty as my little pays!”

Chérubin, on his side, glanced at the lady in front of him, and whispered to Daréna:

“Pray look at that pretty creature, my dear fellow!”

Daréna put his head forward, pretended to be moved to admiration, and replied:

“Upon my word, I never saw anything so perfect! The freshness of the rose and the splendor of the lily! She’s a pearl! At your age I would have stormed the moon to possess that woman.”

Chérubin made no reply, but he paid much more attention to the young lady in the green cap than to the play that was being performed. For her part, Mademoiselle Chichette, faithful to her instructions, turned constantly to look at Chérubin. Her glances lasted so long sometimes that Poterne was compelled to pull her dress, and whisper:

“That’s enough, you’re going too far! Anyone would think that you did nothing else on the boulevards.”

After some time Daréna said to his young friend:

“It seems to me that you are making progress, and that your business with this rose-bud is in a fair way to end in a bargain.”

“Why, it is true, she does look at me rather often. I don’t know whether I ought to hope.”

“You don’t know! What in the devil more do you expect a woman to do at first sight than to return your glances—yes, and with big interest! You have made a conquest of her, that is evident.—Gad! what a lucky fellow you are! I have an idea that she’s a foreigner; that man isn’t a Frenchman; he must be her husband.”

“Do you think so?”

“However, he has a very respectable look.”

“Do you think so?”

“It seems to me that nobody can help seeing it.”

During the entr’acte Monsieur Poterne did not fail to leave the box, alone; Daréna followed him at once, saying to Chérubin:

“Here’s an excellent opportunity to start a conversation. Go at it boldly.”

“Do you think that I might?”

“I promise you that the lady wishes it too. You see it is hard to be more hideous than that man who was with her, and she would not be his wife if she did not deceive him.”

Chérubin, when he was left alone with the charming person with whom he felt that he was very much in love, wondered how he should begin the conversation. Meanwhile she was making eyes at him in a fashion which invited him to speak, with an accompaniment of the most melting smiles. The young man ventured at last.

“Is madame fond of the theatre?”

“Yes, messié.”

“Does madame come often?”

“No, messié. But I used to go ever so much with my cuisine.”[C]

Chérubin opened his ears, trying to understand.

“My cuisine liked the theatre ever so much.”

“Ah! you are speaking of a cousine, no doubt?”

“Yes, yes, my cuisine.”

“And this gentleman with you—is he your husband?”

“Yes; Comte Glo—Globe—Oh dear! I have forgot his name! I am stupid!”

“You are not French, madame?”

“Oh, no! I am from Alsa—No, no, I’m from some other place! I have forgot again; I am awful stupid!”

Mademoiselle Chichette said all this so comically, and rested her eyes on Chérubin so often, that the young man paid no heed to the incoherency of her speech, but became more and more enamored of the lovely stranger.

“Do you enjoy Paris, madame?”

“Oh yes! I enjoy it; but I am always thinking of my little pays!”

“Ah! you regret it?”

“Yes! I would like to see my little pays again!”

“You love your country—pays—that is perfectly natural.”

“Ah, yes! he’s a tourlourou now.”

Here Chérubin again failed to understand, but Poterne returned, luckily for Mademoiselle Chichette, who was beginning to forget her part and to talk at random.

Daréna soon returned also; he asked Chérubin whether he had carried forward his affair with his pretty neighbor.

“Yes, we talked; she seemed to ask nothing better. You were not mistaken; the gentleman is her husband; she’s a foreigner, she has a very strong accent.”

“They’re Poles; I found that out in the foyer.”

“She seems to be very much attached to her country—pays,—for she sighs for it and talks about it all the time!”

“Her country! oh, yes! Poland.—Did you make an appointment with her?”

“An appointment? Oh! we didn’t get so far as that!”

“How did you amuse yourselves then? A woman who is mad over you, who fairly eats you with her eyes!”

“Do you think so? What good fortune! She is so pretty, and her accent is so fascinating!”

“Yes, the Polish accent has much charm.”

“I am quite mad over her, my dear fellow.”

“And you are right. It would be downright murder not to carry that rose-bud away from that old caterpillar!”

“Carry her away! What! do you think that it will be necessary——”

“Hush! let me act; I will arrange the whole business.”

The play came to an end. Monsieur Poterne donned his umbrella-like hat, and gave the fair Chichette his arm. She, although sorely embarrassed in her costume, succeeded in holding her hand out straight behind her.

Daréna and his companion walked on the heels of the Poles, who took care not to turn around. Daréna almost compelled Chérubin to seize the hand which the lady obligingly held behind her back, and the young man turned crimson as he whispered in his friend’s ear:

“Ah! she squeezed my hand! she is squeezing it again! she keeps squeezing it!”

“Parbleu! what did I tell you?” rejoined Daréna. “Sympathy—I believe that you were made for each other.”

As he spoke, Daréna kicked Poterne’s legs viciously, to make him walk faster and force Mademoiselle Chichette to drop Chérubin’s hand, which she seemed to have resolved never to release.

The so-called foreigners entered a cab. Chérubin and Daréna took another and told the driver to follow the first, which stopped in front of a modest, furnished lodging house on Rue Vieille-du-Temple.

“Good,” said Daréna; “we know where they live, and that is enough for to-night. To-morrow you must write an impassioned letter to that Pole; I will undertake to see that she gets it without the knowledge of her husband, and I promise you that she will reply to it.”

Everything being agreed between them, Chérubin went home, where Daréna left him, congratulating himself on the success of his stratagem.

XX LOUISE IN PARIS

Although fairly launched in fashionable society, although he had become the object of the allurements of several women whose conquest was desired of all; despite the ogling of grisettes and the assignation proffered him by lorettes, Chérubin had not wholly forgotten the village of Gagny, and little Louise, with whom he had passed his earliest years.

He often spoke of going to Gagny to see and embrace his dear Nicole; he had several times despatched Monsieur Gérondif to bring him news of her, accompanying the commission with little gifts for the people of the village, and bidding him inquire concerning Louise’s position and prospects. The tutor always half performed his errand: he went to Gagny, delivered the presents, devoured with his eyes young Louise, who improved every day, then returned and told his pupil that his former playmate was still in Bretagne, where she was so happy that she did not intend ever to return to Nicole.

But on the day preceding his visit to the Cirque with Daréna, Chérubin had once more spoken about going to Gagny, and he had stated positively, in Monsieur Gérondif’s presence, that he should not allow the week to pass without going to see and embrace his old nurse.

At that the tutor was greatly disturbed.

“If monsieur le marquis goes to Gagny,” he said to himself, “he will find young Louise there, and consequently he will see that I have lied to him. He is quite capable of discharging me; for, notwithstanding his usual mildness of manner, there are times when he is extremely quick to take fire. I am not at all anxious to lose a place worth fifteen hundred francs, in a fine house where I am boarded, lodged and coddled; where my duties are confined to sleeping, eating and reciting poetry to the mammoth Turlurette. Moreover, if my pupil sees young Louise again, it is probable that his love for her will revive; and that would interfere with my plans, for that girl has kindled a conflagration in my insides. My designs are honorable, I propose to make her my wife, to raise her to the honor of my name. But, in order to marry, I must obtain some advance in my pay. If I stay with the marquis two years longer, I can save money, for I can put aside almost all that I earn; the only thing is to put little Louise in a safe place, so that she can’t be whisked away from me.”

Monsieur Gérondif mused upon this subject all day, and in the evening he went to pursue his meditations in the company of the kindhearted Turlurette, who fed him on brandied fruits which she prepared to perfection; and while the professor was smacking his lips over his third plum, old Jasmin, who became less active every day, but was sorely aggrieved because his master had hired a young groom, entered the housekeeper’s room and said to her:

“Do you happen to know a lady’s maid who is out of a place?”

“Why do you ask, Monsieur Jasmin?” queried Mademoiselle Turlurette.

“Because not long ago I was waiting for my master at some reception.—He always forbids me to do it, but that day his little groom was sick, and I seized the opportunity to drive his cabriolet in the evening. In fact, I ran into two booths; some people won’t get out of the way.”

“Well, Monsieur Jasmin?”

“Well, I was talking in the antechamber with the servants who happened to be there—and we had time enough to talk; people stay so late at these parties nowadays! To cut it short, one of them says to me: ‘We’re looking for a lady’s maid for mademoiselle. Her mother’s gone to the country for a while; monsieur insisted on keeping his daughter at home with him; and just at that moment they had to dismiss the lady’s maid, because she talked too much with a floor-washer. As monsieur is very strict, it didn’t take long; but we are looking for another maid.’—At that I proposed a person I know, who’s as intelligent as can be; but when I told them that she was sixty years old, they informed me that it wasn’t worth while to send her. It’s surprising the way people act nowadays; they want children to wait on them.”

“I don’t know anybody who wants a place,” Mademoiselle Turlurette replied.

Monsieur Gérondif, who had not lost a word of what Jasmin said, interposed at this point, with an affectation of indifference.

“Who were the people who wanted a lady’s maid? I might be able to oblige some acquaintance of mine in Paris by offering her the place; but before I do anything about it, you will understand that I want to be sure that it’s with respectable people.”

“Oh! as to that, you needn’t be at all afraid, Monsieur Gérondif,” replied Jasmin. “It’s in the most honorable family you can imagine. Monsieur de Noirmont, an ex-magistrate, a man who never laughs, and who wouldn’t wrong a bird. He was a friend of the late Monsieur de Grandvilain, our marquis’s father.”

“What does the family consist of?”

“Monsieur de Noirmont, his wife, their daughter, who is fifteen years old, a cook, monsieur’s servant, and the maid they are looking for.”

“Is the man-servant young?”

“Yes, he’s the one I talked with. He’s only fifty-six, but he seems to be a very sensible fellow.”

Monsieur Gérondif smiled as he inquired:

“Do they receive much company, give balls? Are they the sort of people who pass their life in varietate voluptas?”

“Never a ball, and no volupétas, as you call them. The lady doesn’t care for society, and Monsieur de Noirmont passes his life in his library. So our young marquis doesn’t care to go to the house, although he has been invited.”

“Ah! he has been invited there, has he?”

“Yes; but I’ve often heard him say when he’s dressing in the morning: ‘I’ve no desire to go to that house; it must be horribly dull there.’”

“Are you sure that Monsieur Chérubin said that?”

“Yes; and I’ve heard Monsieur de Monfréville answer: ‘You are very wise; it’s a house which has little to offer that is attractive to a man of your age.’”

Monsieur Gérondif rubbed his hands and asked no more questions. The next day, after procuring Monsieur de Noirmont’s address, he went to his house, asked to speak to his servant, introduced himself as coming from old Jasmin and as having to suggest a lady’s maid for Mademoiselle de Noirmont.

Jasmin was the Nestor of servants; his recommendation was most influential, and that of so serious-minded a man as Monsieur Gérondif seemed to be could only confirm the favorable opinion which was sure to be entertained of Jasmin’s protégée.

The young servant of fifty-six informed the tutor that madame was absent, and that, as monsieur never interfered in any domestic details, the choice of another lady’s maid was left to him; that he was perfectly content to accept the one whom the venerable Monsieur Jasmin was kind enough to send, and that his only wish was that she should arrive as soon as possible.

Sure of success in that direction, Monsieur Gérondif thanked the servant, promised to bring the girl soon, and set out at once for Gagny and Nicole’s house.

The tutor’s presence always brought joy to the humble abode of the villagers; for he brought news of Paris, and with him they talked constantly of Chérubin.

After answering the questions of Nicole and Louise, who inquired first of all for the health of the object of their affections, Monsieur Gérondif turned to the girl and said:

“My child, it is principally on your account that I have come to Gagny, for I am thinking about your future, your lot in life. You are seventeen years of age, you are tall, and well-developed physically as well as mentally; I mean by that that you have intelligence beyond your years; and you have profited by being present at the lessons which I gave to my pupil; you read and write very fairly and speak quite correctly. Moreover, you handle the needle with facility, and you seem to be apt at all the tasks suited to your sex; isn’t that so, Mère Nicole?”

“Why, yes, it’s all true,” replied the good woman, staring at the visitor. “What scheme have you got in your head for our Louise; do you mean to make a duchess of her too?”

“No, not exactly; but I tell you again, I mean to assure her future. What would it be if she remained in this village? She has no relations, no fortune; so she must think herself very lucky if some uneducated country clown should want to marry her.”

“Oh! never! never!” cried Louise; “I won’t marry!”

“Bless my soul, my dear child,” said Nicole, “you know very well that nobody’ll force you to, and that I’ll never turn you out of our house.”

“That is all very well,” rejoined Gérondif. “But if Louise should find a good place in Paris, in a respectable family, where she could lay by a little money, and then find a good match, it seems to me that that would be worth thinking about.”

“In Paris!” cried Louise, with a joyful exclamation; “go to Paris! Oh! what bliss! how glad I should be! Oh! yes, yes! you’ll let me go, won’t you, mother?”

“What, my child, do you want to leave me too?” said Nicole sadly.

But Louise kissed her again and again, crying:

“Why, just think that he is in Paris! If I live in the same city with him, it seems to me that I may see him, meet him sometimes; and that thought is the only thing that makes me want to go to Paris. Isn’t it true, Monsieur Gérondif, that people are sure to meet when they live in the same place, and that I should see him sometimes if I was in Paris?”

“See him? whom?”

“Why Chérubin—monsieur le marquis. Whom do you suppose I am talking about, if not him?”

The tutor realized that the hope of seeing Chérubin was the sole reason that led the girl to welcome his suggestion so joyously, and he was careful not to undeceive her.

“Certainly,” he replied, “when two people live in the same place, there is much more probability of their meeting than when one is at the north and the other at the south—or, if you prefer, when one is per fas and the other nefas.—Well, my interesting young friend Louise, I have found what I wanted to find for you; the place of lady’s maid is offered you in a first-rate family; and when I say ‘lady’s maid,’ it’s as if I said ‘companion;’ and when I say ‘companion,’ it’s as if I said ‘friend,’ to a young lady of fifteen who is said to be as amiable as she is kindhearted. You will assist her to dress, and she will not assist you; but we see that every day between friends: there’s one who does everything, while the other one strolls about. Lastly, you will be well dressed; the friend who strolls generally gives the gowns and fichus that she doesn’t want to the friend who dresses her. And then you will earn money, which is never a bad thing to have; for with money—silver—you get gold, which is the purest of metals, when there’s no alloy in it.—Well! what do you think of my proposition? tell me.”

“Oh! I ask nothing better—if my adopted mother consents!”

“Dear me! my child,” said Nicole, “if it will make you so happy to go to Paris, I won’t stand in your way; besides, I don’t think that Monsieur Gérondif, who’s been the village schoolmaster, could propose anything that wasn’t for your good.”

“You are as wise as Æsop, Dame Nicole, although you are not hunchbacked! My only desire is to assure a happy lot for this puella formosa,—and the future will prove it.”

“And—Monsieur Chérubin?” ventured Louise, who no longer dared to say “Chérubin” simply, when she spoke of the young man she loved; “does he know of this plan that you propose to me? does he want me to go to Paris?”

Monsieur Gérondif scratched his nose a moment, then replied with assurance:

“Does he know it? why, of course he does; and he is very anxious that my offer should please you.”

“Oh! in that case, there must be no hesitation; must there, dear mother?—I accept, monsieur; I will start whenever you choose; I am ready.”

“Then we will start at once.”

“What!” cried Nicole, “do you mean to say you’re going to take the dear child right away like this?”

“I must, Dame Frimousset; the place I have secured for her is wanted by a great many people; if we delay, it may be given to somebody else. We are not flooded with good places in Paris, so that I must introduce her and have her engaged to-day.”

“Oh, yes! let me go, mother! I know that it will make you unhappy not to have me with you, and it makes me unhappy too to leave you. But, on the other hand, I am so glad to be near—Monsieur Chérubin. Besides, he wants me to come to Paris, and we mustn’t vex him. But I will come to see you; oh! I won’t do as he did, I shall never forget the village and those who have taken the place of my parents.”

Nicole embraced the girl lovingly, and said at last:

“Go, my child; I am not your mother; I haven’t any rights over you, and even if I had, I wouldn’t stand in the way of your future good. But do at least come to see me sometimes. She’ll be allowed to, won’t she, Monsieur Gérondif?”

“Oh! certainly. She will enjoy a reasonable liberty, on condition that she doesn’t abuse it.—Come, sweet Louise, make a bundle of your belongings—only those that are most necessary. You needn’t carry your wooden shoes—you won’t wear that kind where you are going. Make haste; I will wait for you.”

Louise hastily made a bundle of her clothes; she was so surprised, so bewildered by what had happened to her, that it seemed to her that it must be a dream. Her heart leaped for joy at the thought of going to Paris. But the pleasures of the great city were not what she was thinking about, nor beautiful dresses, nor a less laborious life than she had led; in that journey she saw but one thing—that she was going to live in the same city with Chérubin.

While Louise was making her preparations for departure, Monsieur Gérondif took the nurse aside and said to her in a grave and imposing tone:

“Now, virtuous Nicole, I must disclose a secret to you. My main purpose in taking Louise to Paris is to remove her from the seductions which it is proposed to employ in order to triumph over her virtue and pluck the flower of her innocence. In two words, here are the facts: your foster-child Chérubin has become a great libertine in Paris; he will not endure resistance. Not long ago he remembered Louise, the playmate of his boyhood, and he exclaimed: ‘She must be a charming girl by now! I am going to make her my mistress.’”

“Great God! is it possible?” cried Nicole, opening her eyes to their fullest extent. “My little Chérubin has got to be such a rake as that?”

“It’s as I have the honor to tell you. In Paris, with lots of money, a man soon learns to be what they call a lion, and lion means seducer.”

“Chérubin, a lion! And he used to be a perfect lamb!”

“I tell you there are no lambs in Paris now. To make a long story short, I thought that you wouldn’t lend a hand to the ruin of your adopted daughter, and that you would approve my putting the child beyond the reach of any attempt at seduction.”

“Oh! you did just right, monsieur le professor, and I approve of it.”

“Now, when Chérubin comes to see Louise, you must tell him that she’s been in Bretagne a long while, with a relation of yours, and that she’s very happy there.”

“All right, I’ll tell him that! Great God! Chérubin a rake! so that’s why he’s forgotten the village altogether!”

Louise soon had her parcel ready. She put on the little hat of coarse straw, which she sometimes wore to walk about the neighborhood, and beneath which, although it was not of fashionable shape, her face was as lovely as possible.

She threw herself into Nicole’s arms and whispered in her ear:

“When I see him, I’ll tell him that it’s very wicked of him not to come to see you!”

Nicole covered Louise with kisses.

“If by any chance you should get sick of it, my child,” she said, “if you ain’t happy there, you know that there’s always a place for you here, and that we’ll be very happy if you conclude to come back.”

Monsieur Gérondif speedily put an end to these farewells by taking the girl’s arm. Jacquinot was at the wine-shop as usual. Louise cast a last glance at her adopted mother and went away with Monsieur Gérondif, who had incurred the expense of a cab by the hour, in order to take the girl to Paris more quickly.

On the way he said to her:

“I must give you some preliminary instructions, my lovely child, as to your behavior in the place you are to fill. In the first place, if they ask you what you know how to do, answer boldly: ‘everything!’”

“Everything! But that would not be true, monsieur, for I know how to do very few things.”

“You can learn the others; you are saturated with intelligence, therefore you will learn very rapidly; so that it’s the same as if you already knew. Do what I tell you—it is essential, to inspire confidence; in the world you must never act as if you were uncertain of yourself. Secondly, you must understand that you must not speak of the young Marquis Chérubin and say that you were brought up with him. The world is very unkind! people might think things; and you mustn’t trifle with your reputation.”

“What, monsieur? What could people think, pray? Is it wrong to love one’s foster-brother, then?”

“Foster-brother! foster-brother! as much as you please! I must make you understand me better: my noble pupil does not want it to be known now that he remained out at nurse until he was sixteen; that annoys him terribly. And then you must see that a marquis can’t be the friend of a—a—a lady’s maid; if you should talk about him, it might make him blush.”

“Blush!” cried Louise, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “What! monsieur le—Chérubin blush because of my friendship, my acquaintance? Oh! never fear, monsieur; I shall never speak of him, I shall never mention his name.”

“That is very well, O flavia!—No, you are not a blonde.—Come, come! don’t weep any more about that; what I say doesn’t prevent the marquis from still being interested in you, and myself as well. I will say no more now, young Louise, but be virtuous and prudent; do not joke with the young men; if anyone should presume to take any equivocal liberty with you, scratch the insolent knave’s face; for you must keep yourself free from stain, like the Paschal Lamb, until—But, mum’s the word! I will go no farther now.”

Louise had ceased to listen; she was thinking of Chérubin, who was ashamed of knowing her; and that idea destroyed all the pleasure she had enjoyed in the fact of going to Paris.

Meanwhile, the cab had entered the city; Monsieur Gérondif told the driver to take them to Faubourg Saint-Honoré, whereupon Louise exclaimed:

“Is it near Monsieur Chérubin’s house?”

“Not very far, my child; in fact there are no distances in Paris now; the six-sou carriages take you to all quarters of the city, and you don’t even need to know the way, which is very convenient for strangers.”

The carriage stopped in front of a handsome house which Monsieur Gérondif pointed out to the driver, very near Rue de la Concorde. The tutor helped Louise to alight and carried his gallantry so far as to offer to carry her bundle.

“Follow me,” he said; “it’s in this house, on the second floor; a magnificent apartment; they’re very swell people. See how this staircase is polished! It doesn’t look much like our village hovels, which are floored with mud.”

As he spoke, the professor slipped down two stairs and nearly broke his neck on the waxed staircase; perhaps it was a punishment from on high for his ingratitude to the village. But he clung to the rail, muttering: “Ne quid nimis! They put on too much wax.”

Louise followed Monsieur Gérondif; she was slightly tremulous and covered with confusion at the thought that she was about to appear before people whom she did not know, and that she must remain alone amid those surroundings which were so strange to her. She heaved a profound sigh and invoked the memory of Chérubin to sustain her courage.

It was Comtois—that was the name of Monsieur de Noirmont’s servant—who received Monsieur Gérondif when he introduced his protégée. Louise’s aspect could not fail to prepossess everybody in her favor, and the valet smiled with satisfaction as he said:

“Ah! mademoiselle seems to have every quality likely to give pleasure here: a gentle, unaffected manner. I am sure that she will please our young Mademoiselle Ernestine, who has said to me several times: ‘Above all things, Comtois, I want a young lady’s maid, because if I have an old one, I shall not dare to give her any orders, or to laugh in her presence!’—Mademoiselle is a very merry young person; a little quick-tempered, a little whimsical; but that is perfectly natural at her age, and she isn’t the least bit unkind with it all. When she loses her temper, she asks our pardon; that isn’t common with masters, I tell you!”

“This servant is very talkative!” thought Monsieur Gérondif, as he blew his nose.

Comtois, after looking at Louise again with a satisfied air, continued:

“I will present mademoiselle at once.—By the way, what is your name?”

“Louise, monsieur,” replied the girl timidly.

“Louise—very good; that is your Christian name. And your family name? sometimes one is very glad to know that.”

The girl blushed and lowered her eyes, without replying; but Monsieur Gérondif made haste to say:

“Louise Frimousset; Frimousset is the name of this young woman’s parents.”

Louise glanced at the tutor; but he had assumed a solemn air, which seemed to indicate that it would not be proper to contradict him, and that it was only after mature reflection that he had replied; so the girl said nothing.

“Frimou—Frimousse—Friquet,” said Comtois. “That’s a queer name; however, I only asked so that I might know it; for you understand of course that mademoiselle will always be called by her baptismal name here. As I was saying, I am going to present you now. If madame was here, I should naturally take you to her first; but madame has been absent a fortnight; she has gone to see an aunt of hers, who’s sick. She wanted to take her daughter, but monsieur insisted on keeping Mademoiselle Ernestine with him; for, although he looks very stern, monsieur is very fond of her—he never refuses her anything; and sometimes I’ve even known him to be angry with madame, because he claimed that she spoke to mademoiselle too sharply, and that she didn’t love her. But, to be just, I must say that monsieur is mistaken; I am sure that madame’s very fond of her daughter. However, it’s true that sometimes she hardly speaks to her, she responds coldly to her caresses; but we all have days when we’re in ill humor, more or less.”

Monsieur Gérondif blew his nose at great length, saying to himself:

“Is this never going to finish?—My worthy man,” he said to Comtois, “excuse me if I interrupt you; but it seems to me that it is not necessary for me to be present at the introduction of our young Louise, as you tell me that the business is settled. So I will take my leave, urging you to watch over this child, as if she were your niece.”

“Never fear, monsieur; mademoiselle is in a good family; I am quite sure that she won’t be unhappy here.”

“Adieu then, Louise, adieu! I shall come to inquire for you, to learn how you are getting on; in short, I shan’t lose sight of you; you will always be my guiding star, my object, my—my polygon!”

The girl offered her hand to Monsieur Gérondif, who seemed inclined to kiss her, and said in an undertone:

“You will tell him that I am in Paris; won’t you, monsieur? that I didn’t hesitate to come, as he wished it, but that it makes me very depressed not to see him, and that my only desire——”

“I shall say all that it is my duty to say,” replied the tutor, showing his teeth, although he had no desire to smile. Then, turning quickly on his heel, he saluted Comtois and went out.

The valet escorted him to the door, and Monsieur Gérondif said in his ear:

“This girl is very pretty, and the men in Paris are terribly licentious. I need not urge you to watch over her innocence and not allow her to converse with floor-washers.”

“Monsieur,” Comtois replied rather stiffly, “none but respectable people are received in this house, and no young girl will ever be ruined here. If the last lady’s maid was a giddy creature, it wasn’t our fault; and at all events she was discharged at once, as well as the floor-washer.”

“Your reply scatters all the clouds which might have obscured my firmament. Adieu, excellent Comtois, I repeat my assurances of esteem.”

Monsieur Gérondif took his leave, and Comtois returned to Louise, who was standing, lost in thought, in the hall; he motioned to her to follow him, led her through a salon, then opened the door of another room, and said, standing in the doorway:

“Mademoiselle, this is the lady’s maid I was expecting; she has just arrived.”

A voice replied at once from within the room:

“Oh! let her come in, show her in at once! I am waiting so impatiently for her!”

Comtois let Louise pass him; she stepped forward, trembling and afraid to raise her eyes; but she soon felt reassured when young Ernestine exclaimed:

“Oh! how pretty she is! I like her very much!—Come, mademoiselle; don’t be afraid of me; I am not a bit terrible, am I, Comtois? I am not stern, like mamma! But, for all that, mamma’s very kind, and papa too.—What is your name?”

“Louise, mademoiselle.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen, mademoiselle.”

“Seventeen! Why, how tall you are! and so strong! I am fifteen—I am rather small for fifteen, am I not?”

Louise could not help smiling; and as she looked at her who was to be her mistress, she felt a thrill of joy at the aspect of that dainty creature, so like a child, whose sparkling blue eyes were fixed on hers with a kindly expression that instantly dissipated the terror that she had felt on entering.

“Am I not very small for fifteen?” repeated Ernestine, after Louise had looked at her.

“You still have plenty of time to grow, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, yes! that is my only consolation. Have you been in service in Paris before?”

“No, mademoiselle, I am just from my village; I have never been in service anywhere, and I have no doubt that I shall be very awkward at first; but I promise to pay close attention to whatever you tell me, so that I may learn quickly and be able to satisfy you sooner.”

Young Ernestine began to leap and dance about the room; she seized Louise’s hand and pressed it, crying:

“Oh! I like to hear you talk like that! I feel that I shall love you dearly; indeed I love you already. I either like a person instantly, or never! You will like me too, won’t you?”

“That cannot be very difficult, mademoiselle, you seem so kind and sweet!”

“Ah! I am very happy, Comtois. But has Louise brought her bundle, all her clothes? Can she stay here now?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said Louise, “I have brought all my clothes and I can stay with you now, if you care to keep me.”

“Certainly; I don’t mean to let you go.—Comtois, see that her chamber is prepared—the little one behind mine, you know. Be sure that she has everything that she wants or needs.”

“Never fear, mademoiselle.”

“At all events, I will go myself to see if everything is all right.—You see,” continued Ernestine with comical gravity, “during mamma’s absence I have to look out for everything and take her place here.—Go, Comtois, and take Louise’s things to her room; meanwhile I will take her to my father. Is he in his study?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Come, Louise, don’t be afraid; he has rather a stern manner, but he isn’t unkind.”

“Suppose that monsieur your father should not like me?” murmured Louise timidly; “suppose he should think me too young to be in your service, mademoiselle?”

“Oh! don’t worry about that; as soon as I tell him that you suit me, father won’t think of sending you away.”

Ernestine led the way through her mother’s bedroom, then through another smaller room, and knocked at a door, saying:

“It’s I, papa.”

And Monsieur de Noirmont’s sharp voice replied:

“Well! what is it now?”

The pretty minx opened the door of her father’s study, passed her head only through the opening, and said:

“Are you busy? I have come to introduce someone.”

“Who is it?”

“A new lady’s maid who has been engaged for me, and who has just arrived.”

“The idea of disturbing me for a lady’s maid! What have I to do with such matters? Really, Ernestine, you wear out my patience.”

“Oh! don’t be cross with me, papa! But as mamma is away, you must see my new maid; I can’t manage the house all alone!”

“Well! bring her in,” rejoined Monsieur de Noirmont in a gentler tone; “where is she? let us have it over.”

Ernestine led Louise into the room; the girl cast down her eyes, and felt that she was trembling, for Monsieur de Noirmont’s voice was far from being as sweet as his daughter’s.

After scrutinizing for some time the village maid who stood before him, Monsieur de Noirmont asked her:

“How old are you?”

Before Louise could reply, little Ernestine exclaimed:

“She is seventeen; isn’t she very tall for her age, papa? and isn’t she lovely? I like her so much! Her name is Louise; she has never been in service, but I am glad of that, because I can train her according to my ideas.”

Monsieur de Noirmont with difficulty restrained a smile, provoked by his daughter’s speech.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that this girl is too much of a child to be in your service.”

“Why so, papa? On the contrary, see how sensible she is! Besides, I tell you that I will train her, and Comtois has had only the best reports of her.”

“All right, if she suits you.—What part of the country do you come from?”

“From Gagny, monsieur,” replied Louise tremulously.

“Gagny? Why, that is very near Paris. Your parents are laboring people, no doubt?”

“Yes—yes, monsieur,” faltered Louise, in an almost unintelligible voice.

“And instead of keeping their daughter at home, they send her out to service in Paris!—However, it seems to be the custom in the country! and still people extol the morals of the rural districts! But you seem modest and respectable, my girl, and I am glad to believe that your conduct will not belie the promise of your face. Besides, I know Comtois, and I rely upon his prudence. Go, go!”

Monsieur de Noirmont motioned to them to leave him; but his daughter ran to him and kissed him; then she hastened from the room with Louise, and closed the door, saying:

“That’s over; I was sure that it would come out all right.”

Young Ernestine next took Louise to a pretty little room which was to be her own. The sweet child made sure that her new maid was provided with everything that she needed, and displayed so much interest in her that Louise, who was deeply touched, thanked heaven for bringing her to that house.

The first day was employed by Ernestine in giving instructions to Louise, and she, not knowing how to lie, frankly confessed to her young mistress that she was entirely ignorant of the duties of her position, and that she must beg her to be as indulgent as possible. Ernestine repeated emphatically that she would have no difficulty in training her and that she need not worry.

In Monsieur de Noirmont’s family, the valet ordinarily waited at table, unless there were many guests at dinner; so that the duties of the lady’s maid were limited to waiting on the two ladies, assisting them to dress, and working almost all the time for them, or at some household work.

Louise could sew very well; she was active and clever, and she very soon learned what was expected of her; moreover, Ernestine taught her to embroider, to make tapestry, and to do innumerable little things that women do; things which are unknown in villages, but which it is essential to know in Paris.

Louise made rapid progress, and Ernestine said to her father:

“Oh! if you knew how much I like my maid!”

“Is she so very clever?” inquired Monsieur de Noirmont.

“Clever—yes; but she knew nothing at all; I have shown her everything.”

“What do you say? that girl knew nothing?”

“What difference does it make? When I show her anything, in two days she does it better than I do. Oh! I am sure that mamma will congratulate me for engaging her.”

Louise’s modest and serious manner eventually won Monsieur de Noirmont’s good-will as well as his daughter’s, and he spoke to her less coldly. Comtois was delighted with his new fellow-servant, and the cook was never tired of extolling her extreme sweetness of temper. As for Ernestine, although she sometimes lost her patience and cried out, when her maid was awkward about dressing her, the next moment she would run to her and kiss her, and beg her not to be offended by her quick temper. In fact, each day that passed increased her affection for Louise, and the latter would have been happy in her new position, had not the thought of Chérubin constantly filled her mind. But she was beginning to lose all hope of seeing him in Paris, for she very rarely left the house, and only to do errands for her young mistress in the shops nearby.

Louise had been in Ernestine’s service three weeks, when her mistress said to her one morning:

“Mamma is coming home at last! Papa has just told me that she will be here in three days. I am awfully glad, for she has been away nearly six weeks, and I long to see her. Oh! what joy! Then I shall have everything I want. And mamma will like you too; I am sure that she will be as pleased with you as I am.”

Louise made no reply, but she felt deeply moved; she could not understand her own perturbation when she learned that she was to see Madame de Noirmont.

XXI THE FIRST RENDEZVOUS.—THE PERFUMERY

Chérubin followed Daréna’s advice; he wrote a very amorous, but very timid, note for the young woman he had seen at the play. On the following day Daréna called upon his friend in good season and found him finishing his lovelorn espistle.

“Are you writing to the lovely foreigner?” asked Daréna, dropping into an easy-chair.

“Yes, my dear fellow, I have just finished my letter, which you have promised to forward to its destination.”

“Parbleu! cannot one do anything with money? Do not all obstacles vanish before it? Valets, maid-servants can be bribed, duennas and concierges corrupted. I will spend money in profusion.”

As he spoke, the count slapped his pockets, then exclaimed:

“But in order to spend it, I must have it, and I find that my pockets are empty.”

Chérubin went to his desk and took out several rouleaux of gold pieces, which he handed to Daréna, saying:

“Take this, my dear fellow, take this; don’t spare it. Reward generously all who help to forward my love.”

“You do not need to give me that injunction; I will play the magnificent, the Buckingham! After all, you are rich, and if you did not use your fortune to gratify your wishes, really it wouldn’t be worth while to have it. Is your note very ardent?”

“Why, I think that it is very honorable——”

“Honorable! that’s not what we want, my dear friend.—Come, read me what you have written, and let me see if it’s all right.”

Chérubin took up the letter and read:

“‘I ask your pardon, madame, for the liberty that I take in writing you, but——’”

Daréna’s roar of laughter interrupted Chérubin, who inquired:

“What are you laughing at? Isn’t it all right?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Your innocence is enchanting; one would think that it was a letter from a boy to his aunt on her birthday. Let’s hear the rest.”

Chérubin continued:

“‘But I should deem myself most fortunate if I might have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. My family is well known, I am received in the best society, and——’”

“Enough! enough!” cried Daréna, rising. “That won’t do, my dear fellow; you are on the wrong track!”

“Do you think that my letter is too bold?”

“On the contrary, it isn’t bold enough! She would laugh at you when she read it.”

“Remember that this is the first time I ever wrote a billet-doux, and I don’t know how they are usually expressed.”

“Take your pen again and write what I dictate.”

“All right, I prefer that.”

Chérubin seated himself at his desk again and Daréna dictated:

“O woman more than adored! I burn, I wither, I languish! Your eyes are the flame, your smile the brazier, my heart the conflagration! You have set fire to my whole being. A word of love, of hope, or I will not answer for the consequences—I will kill myself at your feet, before your eyes, in your arms! Derision! damnation! if you do not answer!”

Chérubin ceased to write.

“Great heaven, my dear count!” he exclaimed; “why, that is horrible!”

“It is what you need.”

“And then, I must admit that I don’t clearly understand the letter.”

“If you understood it, the charm would be destroyed.”

“Why not write simply, as one speaks?”

“Because three-fourths of the women, who are impervious to seduction by what is simple and natural, are delighted when a man seems to have lost his head for love of them. Trust me; this note will deliver the heart of the lovely Pole into your keeping. Sign that and give it to me.”

Chérubin did as he was told.

“By the way,” said Daréna, as he took the letter, “don’t mention this intrigue to your Monsieur de Monfréville.”