Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

"What a funny man that is!" said Nicette, as I entered the room with a light. "When I saw that figure, in his shirt, that neckerchief tied with a lover's knot, that big nose, and those surprised eyes, I couldn't keep from laughing."

"I must confess, Mademoiselle Nicette, that you cause me a lot of trouble!"

"Do I, monsieur? Oh! I am so sorry!"

"But here we are in my rooms at last, God be praised! I don't quite know, though, how you are to go out!"

"Pardine! through the door, as I came."

"That's easy for you to say! However, we will see, when to-morrow comes."

Nicette looked about her. She examined my apartment, my furniture; she followed me into each room; I had only three, by the way: a small reception room, a bedroom, and a study where I worked, or read, or played the piano, or did whatever else I chose.

"Sit down and rest," I said.

"Oh! in a moment, monsieur; you see----"

She glanced at my couch and my easy-chairs; she seemed to be afraid to go near them. I could not help smiling at her embarrassment.

"Doesn't the apartment please you?" I inquired.

"Oh! yes, indeed, monsieur! but it's all so fine and so shiny! I'm afraid of spoiling something."

"You need not be afraid."

I led her to the couch, and almost forced her to sit down by my side.

"I am alone, you see, Nicette; you have come to a bachelor's quarters."

"Oh! I don't care about that, monsieur; at any rate, I didn't have any choice."

"Then you're not afraid to pass the night with me?"

"No, monsieur; I see that you're an honorable man, and that I needn't be afraid of anything in your rooms."

"Oho! she sees that I am an honorable man!" said I to myself; "in that case, I must have a very captivating countenance. However, I am not ill-looking; some women say that I am rather handsome; and this girl isn't afraid to pass the night with a good-looking bachelor! Perhaps she thinks me ugly."

These reflections annoyed me; while making them, I looked at Nicette more closely than I had hitherto been able to do. She was really very good-looking; a face at once piquant and sweet, and with some character--absolutely unlike what we ordinarily find in a flower girl: she had the freshness and charm of her flowers, and she was the daughter of a fruit peddler, of Mother Jérôme! There are such odd contrasts in nature; however, I could but acknowledge that chance had been very favorable to me this time. I began to be quite reconciled to my evening's entertainment; I forgot the grisette and the _petite-maîtresse_, to think solely of the charming face at my side.

As I gazed at the girl, I had moved nearer to her; I softly passed my arm about her waist; and the more favorable the examination, the more tightly I pressed the red gown.

Nicette did not speak, but she seemed agitated; her bosom rose and fell more frequently, her respiration became shorter; she kept her eyes on the floor. Suddenly she extricated herself from my embrace, rose, and asked me, in a trembling voice, where she was to pass the night.

That question embarrassed me; I admit that I had not yet thought of that. I glanced at Nicette; her lovely eyes were still fastened on the floor. Was she afraid to meet mine? Did she love me already? and---- Nonsense! that infernal self-esteem of mine was off at a gallop!

"We have time enough to think about that, Nicette. Do you feel sleepy?"

"Oh, no! it ain't that, monsieur."

"Ah! so there's another reason, is there?"

"I don't want to be in your way; you told me you was tired, too."

"That has all passed away; I have forgotten it."

"Never mind, monsieur; show me where I can pass the night. I'll go into one of the other rooms. I shall be very comfortable on a chair, and----"

"Pass the night on a chair! Nonsense! you mustn't think of such a thing!"

"Oh, yes! I ain't hard to suit, monsieur."

"No matter; I shan't consent to that. But sit down, Nicette, there's no hurry now. Come and sit down. Are you afraid to sit beside me?"

"No, monsieur."

But she took her seat at the other end of the couch. Her blushing face and her confusion betrayed a part of her sensations. I myself was embarrassed--think of it! with a flower girl! Indeed, it was just because she was a flower girl that I didn't know where to begin. I give you my word, reader, that I should have made much more rapid progress with a _grande dame_ or a grisette.

"Do you know, Nicette, that you are charming?"

"I have been told so, monsieur."

"You must have many men making love to you?"

"Oh! there's some that try to fool me when they come to buy flowers of me; but I don't listen to 'em."

"Why do you think that they are trying to fool you?"

"Oh! because they're swells--like you."

"So, if I should mention the word _love_ to you, you would think----"

"That you was making fun of me. Pardi! that's plain enough!"

That beginning was not of good augury. No matter, I continued the attack, moving gradually nearer the girl.

"I swear to you, Nicette, that I never make fun of anyone!"

"All men say that!"

"Besides, you are quite pretty enough to arouse a genuine passion."

"Yes, a passion of a fortnight! Oh! I ain't to be caught in that trap."

"On my honor, you are too pretty for a flower girl."

"Bah! you are joking."

"If you chose, Nicette, you could find something better to do than that."

"No, monsieur, no; I don't want to sell anything but bouquets. Oh! I ain't vain. I refused Beauvisage, who's got money, and who'd have given me calico dresses, caps _à la glaneuse_, and gilt chains; but all those things didn't tempt me. When I don't like a person, nothing can make me change my mind."

She was not covetous; so that it was necessary to win her regard in order to obtain anything from her. I determined to win her regard. But I have this disadvantage when I try to make myself agreeable: I never know what I am saying; that was why I sat for ten minutes without speaking a word to Nicette, contenting myself with frequent profound sighs and an occasional cough, to revive the conversation. But Nicette was very innocent, or perhaps she meant to laugh at me when she said with great sang-froid:

"Have you got a bad cold, monsieur?"

I blushed at my idiocy; the idea of being so doltish and timid with a flower seller! Really, I hardly recognized myself.

And the better to recognize myself, I put my arms about Nicette and tried to draw her into my lap.

"Let go of me, monsieur; let go, I beg you!"

"Why, what harm are we doing, Nicette?"

"I don't want you to squeeze me so tight."

"One kiss, and I'll let you go."

"Just one, all right."

Her consent was necessary, for she was very well able to defend herself; she was strong and could make a skilful use of her hands and knees; and as I was not accustomed to contests of that sort, in which our society ladies give us little practice, I began to think that I should find it difficult to triumph over the girl.

She gave me permission to kiss her, and I made the most of it; trusting in my promise, she allowed me to take that coveted kiss, and offered me her fresh, rosy cheek, still graced with the down of youth and innocence.

But I desired a still greater privilege; I longed to steal from a lovely pair of lips a far sweeter kiss. Nicette tried, but too late, to prevent me. I took one, I took a thousand. Ah! how sweet were those kisses that I imprinted on Nicette's lips! Saint-Preux found Julie's bitter; but I have never detected a trace of bitterness in a pretty woman's kisses; to be sure, I am no Saint-Preux, thank heaven!

A consuming flame coursed through my veins. Nicette shared my emotion; I could tell by the expression of her eyes, by the quivering of her whole frame. I sought to take advantage of her confusion to venture still further; but she repulsed me, she tore herself from my arms, rushed to the door, and was already on the landing, when I overtook her and caught her by her skirt.

"Where in heaven's name are you going, Nicette?"

"I am going away, monsieur."

"What's that?"

"Yes, monsieur, I am going away; I see now that I mustn't pass the night here in your rooms; I wouldn't have believed that you'd take advantage of my trouble to---- But since I made a mistake, I'm going away."

"Stop, for heaven's sake! Where would you go?"

"Oh! I don't know about that; but it don't make any difference! I see that I'd be safer in the street than alone here with you."

I felt that I deserved that reproach. The girl was virtuous; she had placed herself under my protection without distrust; she had asked me for hospitality, and I was about to take advantage of her helpless plight, to seduce her! That was contemptible behavior. But I may say, in my own justification, that I did not know Nicette, and that, for all the artless simplicity of her language, a young girl who suggests to a man that she pass the night under his roof certainly lays herself open to suspicion, especially in Paris, where innocent young maids are so rare.

She still held the door ajar, and I did not relax my grasp of her skirt. I looked in her face, and saw great tears rolling down her cheeks. Poor child! it was I who caused them to fall! She seemed prettier to me than ever; I was tempted to throw myself at her feet and beg her to forgive me. But what! I, on my knees before a street peddler! Do not be alarmed: I did not offend the proprieties to that extent.

"I beg you to remain, Nicette," I said, at last.

"No, monsieur; I made a mistake about you; I must go."

"Listen to me; in the first place, you can't go away from the house alone; at this time of night the concierge opens the door only to those who give their names."

"Oh! but I remember your name; it's Dorsan."

"It isn't enough to give my name; she would know that it wasn't my voice."

"All right; then I'll stay in the courtyard till morning."

"Excellent; everybody will see you; and think of the remarks and tittle-tattle of all the cooks of the quarter! It's bad enough that that infernal Raymond should have seen you. Come back to my rooms, Nicette; I promise, yes, I swear, to behave myself and not to torment you."

She hesitated; she looked into my face, and doubtless my eyes told her all that was taking place in my mind; for she closed the door of the landing, and smiled at me, saying:

"I believe you, and I'll stay."

In my joy I was going to kiss her again; but I checked myself, and I did well: oaths amount to so little!

"But, monsieur," she said, "we can't pass the night sitting in your big easy-chair."

She was quite right; that would have been too dangerous.

"You will sleep in my bed," I replied, "and I will pass the night on the sofa in my study. No objections, mademoiselle; I insist upon it. You will be at liberty to double-lock my study door; you can go to sleep without the slightest fear. Does that suit you?"

"Yes, monsieur."

We went back into my bedroom; I lighted another candle, and carried the couch into my study, with Nicette's assistance. I confess that that operation was a painful one to me. However, it was done at last.

"Now you may go to bed and sleep in peace. Good-night, Nicette!"

"Good-night, monsieur!"

I took my candle and retired to my study, closing the door behind me. There we were, in our respective quarters. I blew out the candle and threw myself on the couch. If only I could sleep; time passes so quickly then! And yet, we sleep about a third part of our lives! and we are always glad to plunge into that oblivion, albeit we stand in fear of death, which is simply a never-ending sleep, during which it is certain that one is not disturbed by bad dreams!

Sleep, indeed! In vain did I stretch myself out, and twist and turn in every direction. I could not sleep; it was impossible. I concluded to resign myself to the inevitable, and I began to recall the incidents of my extraordinary evening; I thought of Caroline, of the charming woman at the theatre, of that infernal cabman. I tried to put Nicette out of my thoughts; but she constantly returned; I strove in vain to banish her. The idea that she was close at hand, within a few feet of me, that only a thin partition separated me from her--that idea haunted me! When I thought that I might be beside her, that I might hold her in my arms and give her her first lessons in love and pleasure--then I lost my head, my blood boiled. Only Nicette's consent was needed to make us happy, and she would not give it! To be sure, that same happiness might have results most embarrassing to her.

I had the fidgets in my legs. I rose and paced the floor, but very softly; perhaps she was asleep, and I would not wake her. Poor child! she had had trouble enough during the evening, and I was afraid that still greater trouble was in store for her; for if her mother persisted in her refusal to take her in, what would she do? Until that moment, I had not given a thought to her future.

But I had not heard the key turn in the lock; therefore, she had not locked herself in. That was strange; evidently she relied on my oath. What imprudence, to believe in a young man's promises!

Was she asleep or not? that was what tormented me. For half an hour I stood close against the door, turning first one ear, then the other, and listening intently; but I could hear nothing. I looked through the keyhole; there was a light in the room; was it from caution, or forgetfulness?

But she had not locked the door. Ah! perhaps she had locked it without my hearing it. It was very easy to satisfy myself on that point. I turned the knob very gently, and the door opened. I stopped, fearing that I had made a noise. But I heard nothing. If I could see her for a moment asleep, see her in bed--for there, and only there can one judge a woman's beauty fairly. I leaned forward; the candle stood on the commode, at some little distance from the bed. I stepped into the room, holding my breath, and stood by her side. She was not undressed; I might have guessed as much. I turned to walk away. Ah! those miserable shoes! they squeaked, and Nicette awoke. I determined to change my shoemaker.

"Do you want anything, monsieur?" she asked.

"No; that is to say, yes, I--I was looking for a book; but I have found it."

I returned quickly to my study, feeling that I must have cut a sorry figure. The door was closed, and I was not tempted to open it again. Ah! how long that night seemed to me! The day came at last!

VI

MADEMOISELLE AGATHE

It was long after daybreak. People were already going and coming in the house, and I had not yet ventured to wake Nicette. She was sleeping so soundly! and the preceding day had been a day of tempest, after which rest was essential. But I heard a movement at last; she rose, opened the door, and came toward me, smiling.

"Monsieur, will you allow me to kiss you?"

I understood: that was my reward for my continence during the night, and it was well worth it. She kissed me with evident pleasure, and I began to feel the enjoyment that one is likely to feel when one has no occasion for self-reproach.

"Now, Nicette, let us talk seriously; but, no, let us breakfast first of all; we can talk quite as well at table. You must feel the need of something to eat, do you not?"

"Yes, monsieur, I should like some breakfast right well."

"I always keep something on hand for unexpected guests."

"Tell me where everything is, monsieur, and I'll set the table."

"On the sideboard yonder, and in the drawers."

"All right, all right!"

She ran to fetch what we required. In two minutes the table was set. I admired Nicette's grace and activity; a little maid-servant like that, I thought, would suit me infinitely better than my concierge, Madame Dupont, who took care of my rooms. But, apropos of Madame Dupont, suppose she should appear? We had time enough, however; for it was only seven o'clock, and the concierge, knowing that I was a little inclined to be lazy, never came up before eight. So that we could breakfast at our ease.

"Let us talk a little, Nicette. I am interested in your future; you cannot doubt that."

"You have proved it, monsieur."

"What are you going to do when you leave me?"

"Go back to my mother."

"That is quite right; but suppose she still refuses to let you in?"

"I will try to find work; I will go out to service, if I must; perhaps I shall be able to get in somewhere."

"Undoubtedly; but who can say what sort of people you will encounter, and what hands you will fall into? Young and pretty as you are, you will find it harder than others might to get a suitable place, if, as I assume, you mean to remain virtuous."

"Oh! indeed I do mean to remain virtuous, monsieur."

"I know what men are; they are almost all libertines; marriage puts no curb on their passions. Wherever you take service, your masters will make you some unequivocal proposals, and will maltreat you if you reject them."

"Then I will leave the house; I'll hire myself out to a single lady."

"Old maids are exacting, and keep their young servants in close confinement, for fear that they may walk the streets and make acquaintances. Young women receive much company, and will set you a dangerous example."

"How good you talk this morning!"

"Don't wonder at that; a drunkard is a connoisseur in wine, a welcher in horses, a painter in pictures, a libertine in methods of seduction. For the very reason that I am not virtuous, I am better able than another to warn you of the risks you are about to run. Experience teaches. You did not yield to me, and I desire to preserve you for the future. Don't be grateful to me for it; very likely, it is simply a matter of self-esteem on my part, for I feel that it would be distressing to me to see the profanation of a flower that I have failed to pluck. You understand me, don't you, Nicette?"

"Yes, yes, monsieur! I'm no prude, and I know what you mean! But don't be afraid! How could I give another what I refused you?"

She said this with evident feeling and sincerity. Clearly she liked me; I could not doubt it; she was all the more praiseworthy for having resisted me.

"After all, my dear girl, I don't see why you shouldn't continue to sell flowers; it is better suited to you than domestic service."

"That is true, monsieur, but----"

"I understand you. Here, Nicette, take this purse; you may accept it without a blush, for it is not the price of your dishonor. I am simply doing you a favor, lending you a little money, if you like that better."

"Oh! monsieur, money--from a young man! What will people think of that?"

"You must not say from whom you got it."

"When a girl suddenly has money in her possession, people think, they imagine that----"

"Let the gossips chatter, and force them to hold their tongues by the way you behave."

"My mother----"

"A mother who refuses to support her child has no right to demand an account of her actions."

"But this purse--you are giving me too much, monsieur."

"The purse contains only three hundred francs; I won it two days ago at écarté. Really, Nicette, if you knew how easily money is lost at cards, you would be less grateful to me for this trifle."

"A trifle! three hundred francs! enough to set me up in business! Why, monsieur, it's a treasure!"

"Yes, to you who know the full value of money, and use it judiciously. But things are valuable only so long as they are in their proper place."

"All this means, I suppose, that you are very rich?"

"It means that, having been brought up in affluence, accustomed to gratify all my whims, I am not familiar enough with the value of money. This three hundred francs that I offer you, I should probably lose at cards without a pang; so take the money, Nicette; you can give it back to me, if the day ever comes when I need it."

"Oh, yes! whenever you want it, monsieur; everything I have will always be at your service."

"I don't doubt it, my dear friend; so that business is settled."

"Yes, monsieur; if my mother sends me away, I'll hire a small room, I'll buy flowers; I'll be saving and orderly, and perhaps some day I'll get where I can have a nice little shop of my own."

"Then you will marry according to your taste, and you'll be happy."

"Perhaps so! but let's not talk about that, monsieur."

"Well! time flies; it's nearly eight o'clock, and you must go, Nicette."

"Yes, monsieur, that is true; whenever you say the word. But I--is----"

"What do you want to say?"

"Shan't I see you again?"

"Yes, indeed; I hope to see you often. If you move to another quarter, you must leave your new address with my concierge."

"Very well, monsieur; I won't fail."

The child was in evident distress; she turned her face away to conceal her tears. Could it be that she was sorry to leave me? What nonsense! We had known each other only since the night before! And yet, I too was unhappy at parting from her.

She was certain to meet one or more servants on the stairs; but what was she to do? there was no other way out. She promised to go down very rapidly, and to hurry under the porte cochère.

I kissed her affectionately--too affectionately for a man who had given her three hundred francs; it was too much like taking compensation for the gift.

I opened the door leading to the landing, and stood aside to let Nicette go out first, when a roar of laughter made me look up. That fiendish Raymond's door was open, and he stood inside with a young woman; that young woman was Agathe!

It was a contemptible trick. I recognized Raymond's prying curiosity and Agathe's spirit of mischief. They were on the watch for me, no doubt; possibly they had been on sentry-go since daybreak. But how did it happen that Agathe was there? She had never spoken to Raymond. I swore that he should pay me for his perfidy.

Nicette looked at me, trying to read in my eyes whether she should go forward or back. It was useless to pretend any longer; perhaps, indeed, if there were any further delay, Monsieur Raymond would succeed in collecting a large part of the household on my landing. So I pushed Nicette toward the stairs.

"Adieu, Monsieur Dorsan!" she said sadly.

"Adieu, adieu, my child! I hope that your mother---- I will see--you shall hear--perhaps we may--adieu!"

I had no idea what I was saying; anger and vexation impeded my utterance. But Nicette, who was moved by but one sentiment,--regret at leaving me,--wiped the tears from her eyes with a corner of her apron.

"Ha! ha! this is really sentimental!" laughed Mademoiselle Agathe, as she watched the girl go downstairs; "what! tears and sighs! Ha! ha! it's enough to make one die of laughing! But I should be much obliged to you, monsieur, if you would tell me how it happened that I was at a ball with you last night, and disguised, without knowing anything about it. Well! why don't you speak? don't you hear me?"

My attention was engrossed by another object. My eyes were fastened on my neighbor, and my steadfast gaze evidently embarrassed him; for, in a moment, I saw that he turned as red as fire; he began to shift about in his confusion, tried to smile, and at last returned to his own room, taking care to lock the door.

"Ah! Monsieur Raymond, I owe you one for this! we shall meet again!" I said, walking toward his door. Then I turned to answer Mademoiselle Agathe, but she had entered my apartment; and as she was perfectly familiar with the locality, I found her in my little study, nonchalantly reclining on the sofa.

"Do tell me, Eugène, what all this means? Mon Dieu! how things are changed about! the couch in the study; the bed partly tumbled; the remains of a breakfast. What happened here last night?"

"Nothing, I assure you."

"Oh! nothing out of the ordinary course, I understand that. But this couch puzzles me. Tell me about it, Eugène, my little Eugène. Because you are no longer my lover is no reason why we shouldn't be friends."

You are aware, reader, that Mademoiselle Agathe is the milliner with whom I had fallen out because I discovered that she was unfaithful to me. In fact, it was my vexation on her account that had led me to indulge in those melancholy reflections during my stroll along the boulevard on the preceding evening. But since then my susceptible heart had experienced so many new sensations, that the memory of Agathe's treachery had vanished altogether; I had ceased to regret her, consequently I was no longer angry with her. I realized that she was justified in joking me about my serious air, which was not at all consistent with our former liaison, and which might have led one to think that I expected to find a Penelope in a young milliner. So I assumed a more cheerful demeanor, and questioned her in my turn.

"How did you happen to be there on my landing, talking with Raymond, whom you could never endure?"

"But this couch--this couch here in the study?"

"You shall know all about it, but answer me first."

"Oh! I've no objection; I went into the country yesterday with Gerville--you know, the young government clerk who lives on the floor below."

"Yes, my successor, in fact."

"Your successor, call him so. We returned late; I was very tired, and----"

"You passed the night with him; that's a matter of course, and perfectly natural, in my opinion. Well?"

"Why, I had to go away this morning. At half-past six, I crept softly downstairs and was just passing through the porte cochère, when I saw Raymond standing guard at the corner. He scrutinized me, and smiled slyly.--'On my word,' he said, 'I didn't believe it was you; you were perfectly disguised; the fishwoman's costume is very becoming to you, and yet it changes you amazingly. I'd have sworn that Monsieur Dorsan was lying to me.'--I listened, without understanding a word; but your name and what he said aroused my curiosity. I suspected some mistake, so I forced Raymond to tell me all he knew; I haven't stopped laughing at it yet. Raymond was delighted when he found out that it wasn't I who was with you. I asked him if he was certain that your new victim was still in the house. He said he was; for he had passed most of the night on the landing, and had gone on duty at the porte cochère at daybreak. So I came up with him, to make the tableau more interesting; and we waited at least an hour, until it was your good pleasure to open your door. We would have stayed there till night, I assure you, rather than not satisfy our mutual curiosity."

"Gad! what a fellow that Raymond is! An old woman couldn't have done better."

"Well, I've told my story; now it's your turn."

"What do you want me to tell you? You saw a girl leave my rooms, eh?"

"Yes, she was very pretty; a face that takes your eye; rather a large mouth. But that costume! What, Monsieur Eugène! you, a dandy of dandies, caught by a round cap! Why, I no longer recognize you!"

"For what I propose to do, mademoiselle, the question of cap or hat is of no consequence at all."

"Of course, you don't propose to do anything, because you have done enough."

"You are mistaken, Agathe. That is an honest, virtuous girl; she is nothing to me, and never will be."

"What's that? Oh! it's as plain as a pikestaff: she came here to sleep, so as not to be afraid of the dark; that's all!--

"'Go and see if they're coming, Jean!'"

"I realize that appearances are against us; and yet nothing can be more true than what I tell you. The explanation as to the couch being in the study is that she slept in my bedroom, and I slept here."

"For ten minutes, very likely; but after that you joined her."

"No; I swear that I did not."

"You'd never have been donkey enough to stay here."

"I understand that, in your eyes, virtue and innocence are the merest folly."

"Ah! you are not polite, monsieur. But as I have never known you to be either virtuous or innocent, I may be permitted to express surprise at your virtuous qualities, which are entirely unfamiliar to me."

"I am not trying to make myself out any better than I am, and I confess to you frankly that I attempted to triumph over this girl; but her resistance was so natural, her tears so genuine, her entreaties so touching, that I was really deeply moved and almost repented of what I had tried to do."

"That is magnificent; and I presume that the virtuous and innocent orange girl came to your rooms in order that her resistance might be the better appreciated.--Ha! ha! what a fairy tale!"

"You may believe what you choose. It is none the less true that Nicette is virtuous and that she isn't an orange girl."

"Oh! pardon me, monsieur, if I have unintentionally slighted your charmer. Mademoiselle Nicette probably sells herring at the Marché des Innocents?"

"No, mademoiselle; she sells nothing but flowers."

"Flowers! Why, that is superb! Ah! so she's a flower girl! I am no longer surprised at your consideration for her."

"She certainly deserves more consideration than many women who wear fashionable bonnets."

"Or who make them, eh?"

"The argument is even stronger as to them."

"Monsieur is vexed because I venture to doubt the virtuous morals of a girl who comes, very innocently no doubt, to sleep with a young man, who has himself turned Cato in twenty-four hours! Look you, Eugène, I don't care what you say, it isn't possible."

"I shall say nothing more, because I attach no value to your opinion."

"Again! No matter, let's make peace; and I will believe, if it will give you pleasure, that your friend was the Maid of Orleans."

Mademoiselle Agathe came to me and kissed me; she was almost on my knees; she embraced me very lovingly, and I believe that it rested with me to betray my successor, but I had no desire so to do. My mind was still full of Nicette; I was angry with the woman who refused to believe in her innocence and virtue, and who made sport of my heroic behavior. When one has had to make such a mighty effort to do a good deed, the person who seeks to rob us of our satisfaction therein is always unwelcome. So that I received Mademoiselle Agathe's caress very coolly.

At that, the young milliner took offence in her turn, although she loved me no more than I loved her; probably she had never loved me; but in many people self-esteem takes the place of love and, of itself alone, gives birth to jealousy. Agathe put on her shawl, which she had laid aside when she came in, tied her bonnet strings, and gave me a courtesy accompanied by a smile in which she tried to cast an expression of irony, but in which anger and vexation were clearly marked.

"Adieu, monsieur! I understand that the events of last night must have fatigued you; you need rest, and a little solitude; I leave you to dream at your leisure of the brilliant conquest which will furnish you with constant enjoyment from this time on! I beg you to be good enough to give my address to Mademoiselle _de_ Nicette; I shall be delighted to have her custom, in case she should think of changing her style of dress; unless, however, you intend to take her under your protection in that modest gown. I can understand that, to a sensitive and loving heart, the round cap of virtue is preferable to the toque of frivolity."

And Mademoiselle Agathe took her leave, humming:

"'When one knows how to love and please,
What else need one desire?'"

VII

A WORD ABOUT MYSELF

Agathe had been gone for a long while, and I was still in my study, thinking of the past evening and night. Somebody opened the door of my apartment: it was my concierge, Madame Dupont, coming to put my room to rights, as usual. As she came in, the good soul did not fail to glance at everything within range; and a woman will see more at a glance than we men can see in fifteen minutes.

Fool that I was! I had forgotten to put the couch where it belonged! that wretched Agathe was responsible for that! But when all was said and done, I was master in my own apartment; I could arrange my furniture as I pleased. I was not in the habit of talking with my concierge, and Madame Dupont knew it. Nevertheless, I noticed that she hovered about me and tried to enter into conversation.

"It looks as though 'twill be a lovely day; that's very lucky, seeing it's Sunday; there are so many people who don't have any other day for an outing!"

"Yes," I assented, "it is very fortunate."

"Ah! monsieur has moved his furniture, I see. Does monsieur mean to leave this couch in his study?"

"No; you may put it back where it belongs; I'll help you."

"I see; monsieur has been trying an experiment?"

"Yes, it was an experiment."

"That's like my daughter, who's forever moving her son's cradle from one place to another. Last night, she put it beside the bed; but my son-in-law wouldn't have it there, because the child's nearly four years old, and it is embarrassing for a husband and wife, when---- Why, your bed's hardly tumbled at all, monsieur!"

"I suppose that I didn't move much."

"Monsieur has already breakfasted, apparently? Monsieur was hungry earlier to-day than usual."

I made no reply, but dressed to go out, being impatient to leave the house. Madame Dupont stooped and picked up something, which she brought to me with a mischievous air.

"Here's a little cross _à la_ Jeannette, monsieur, that I just found beside your bed."

"Ah! give it to me, Madame Dupont, give it to me; I know what it is, I bought it yesterday. I have got to send it to someone; it's to go into the country, to our farmer's daughter."

"It's a pretty little cross; but I shouldn't think it was new."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Madame Dupont."

And I hastily put the cross in my pocket, to hide it from the glances of that accursed concierge, who, finding that I no longer replied to her, talked on all alone, in order to keep the conversation alive.

"They say the girl was very pretty, and that she was crying! That's a strange thing."

"What girl are you talking about?"

"A little thing--a sort of--faith! I don't know just what she was, for I didn't see her. To be sure, she passed my lodge, but she went by so quick! brrr! like a bomb!"

"Who told you anything about her?"

"Madame Martin, Madame Bertin's cook, who saw her when she went downstairs to get her milk."

"Where did the girl come from?"

"Oh!--I--they--that is--I don't know anything about it, monsieur."

The tone in which Madame Dupont told me that she knew nothing satisfied me that she did know a great deal. Raymond had probably tattled to Madame Martin, and she to the concierge. And then the couch, and the gilt cross: I had certainly become the byword of the whole house! Madame Bertin would undoubtedly be the first one to hear about it, and Madame Bertin was the mother of two pretty daughters, whose esteem I was most anxious to retain. And yet it was a generous action, a sublime action when performed by a young man, which was likely to injure me in the opinion of many people. Ah! how untrustworthy are appearances!

I was about to put an end to the chatter of my concierge by leaving my lodgings, when she detained me.

"By the way, monsieur, I beg your pardon--I quite forgot--I have something for you."

"What is it, pray?"

"I had entirely forgotten it; that girl is on my brain. It's a letter."

"A letter! who gave it to you?"

"The postman, monsieur; he brought it last night; you'd gone out, and when you came home it was very late and I was in bed; for I couldn't even see you, and that's how it was that----"

"Morbleu! Madame Dupont, give me the letter, and spare me your reflections!"

"Here it is, monsieur."

I recognized the postmark and the handwriting: it was from my sister, my dear Amélie. But that reminds me that I ought to have told you before this who I am, where I come from, and what my business is. I confess that it never occurred to me; indeed, I should have been quite capable of going on to the end without giving you any further information, and my adventures would have been none the less simple in your eyes; for as I have not to tell of mysteries, murders, abductions, substitution of children,--which always produces an excellent effect,--promenades in the galleries of the West, visits to subterranean caverns, moonlight visions, encounters in murky caves, etc., etc., I shall have nothing to explain or disentangle for my dénouement, and shall be constrained, in all probability, to end as simply as I began.

"But," you will say, "it is always well to know with whom one is dealing; in fact, it is customary to begin with that."--That is true; but I care little about doing as others do, and, moreover, it seems to me that these never-ending stories of births and family anecdotes are not adapted to afford you much amusement; for that reason, I shall be very brief.

My name is Eugène Dorsan; I am of a Parisian family; my father was a king's attorney [_procureur_]; they say _avoué_ now, a title which lends itself less readily to pleasantry. However, my father was a very honorable man, so I have always been told, and I have never doubted it. He earned a great deal of money, to his credit be it said; but he died young, wherein he made a mistake; especially as his death was the result of overwork. My mother was left a widow with two children: my sister Amélie, my senior by a year, and your humble servant. Madame Dorsan was rich; she was in a position to marry again, but she preferred to retain her freedom; she was wise both on her own account and on ours; for, in my opinion, marriage, while a most excellent thing, should be used in moderation.

My sister and I received a good education. We made the most of it, especially my sister, who is naturally amiable, kindly, and gentle, and whose only aim was to satisfy her teachers, and to demonstrate to her mother her affection and her obedience. For my part, I am no phoenix, but I have no glaring faults. My predominant passion is the love which women arouse in me; but as that passion could not develop in my childhood, it did not impede my progress.

My mother had bought a beautiful country estate near Melun, and we spent the summer there. Our childhood and youth passed away without accident or trouble, without any important occurrences, and, I may say also, without sorrow or tribulation. Indeed, what sources of affliction can one encounter before the age of fifteen, when one is surrounded by wealthy and generous kindred?

How I pity the poor wretches reared in poverty by parents whom misfortune often makes stern and unfeeling! Even in the days of innocence, they know the afflictions of maturity; what a pitiable apprenticeship to life!

At the age of sixteen my sister married a young man of twenty-four, a steady, orderly youth and a tremendous worker, who owned a cotton mill at Melun. Three years after the wedding, our mother died. She had economized in the interest of her children, and she left us ten thousand a year each. Amélie, now Madame Déneterre, and her husband took up their abode in our country house; and I returned to Paris, partly to seek diversion from my grief at my mother's death, and partly to complete my acquaintance with the world.

Six years had passed since then, and I had become so attached to the seductive capital that I spent only six weeks, in the summer, with my sister. I had not yet been to her that year, and I assumed that that was why she was writing to me. That dear sister of mine, knowing that I was not over-virtuous, was exceedingly anxious that I should marry, in the hope that that would put an end to my follies; and every summer I found at her house a new young woman, very pretty and sweet and well bred, possessed of abundant talents and attractions and a very respectable dowry. She was presented to me without affectation, but I knew what was in the air. But, despite the attentions of her parents, the eloquent sermons from my sister on the joys of wedded life, and the sighs and sidelong glances of the young lady herself, I took my leave at the end of six weeks without making a declaration.

"Patience!" my sister would say to her husband; "next year, I'll find one who will turn his head, I'll wager."

"So be it!" Déneterre would reply tranquilly; "we'll put it off till next year."

Now, let us read my sister's letter:

"MY DEAR EUGÈNE:

"It is the last of July, and you haven't come to see us yet; can it
be that life in Paris has made you entirely forgetful of the
relations who love you and think constantly of you and your
future?----"

My future! Oh, yes! that means another marriage on the carpet. What a mania it is of Amélie's! always trying to induce me to marry! It is worse than the conventional guardian of comedy. But let us go on:

"It seems to me that you must be tired of those numerous conquests,
of those gallant adventures, of those women who have no other guide
than pleasure, and who forget you as quickly as they adore
you.----"

Aha! sarcasm! You are mistaken, my dear sister; I am not tired of making conquests; those that I make are not all so simple as you think, said I to myself. But in the provinces people are even more spiteful, more evil-tongued than in Paris; and since my sister has left the capital, she takes it upon herself to lecture me. But at heart she is kindness itself! I cannot be angry with her for constantly thinking of me. But where was I?

"As quickly as they adore you. I often hear of you from people who
come here from Paris; I know that you are more heedless than ever,
that you think of nothing but your pleasures, that you deceive all
your mistresses, that they pay you back in your own coin.----"

How well she divines the truth! it is astonishing!

"We never hear of any sensible action on your part.----"

Ah! my dear sister, if you had known the story of the night I had just passed! And people slander me, and call me a libertine!--But you were very, very pretty, Nicette! and I was really entitled to great credit for my self-restraint.

"I trust, however, that you are not incorrigible. Come to us very
soon. We have pretty women here, too; they are modest and virtuous,
and I should suppose that that would give them an additional
attraction.----"

Oh, of course! very pretty women! stiff, affected, prudish, or simpering! And such costumes! In a word, genuine provincials--I need say no more. As for their virtue, it is possible that--but it is not safe to trust to appearances, as I know better than most; for I would have sworn that Nicette was a little wanton.

"My husband sends a memorandum of a few errands he would like you
to do for him. He is organizing grand fishing parties for your
visit, and I look forward with delight to the prospect of embracing
you.

"AMÉLIE DÉNETERRE."

I determined to go to Melun--in a few days. There were several business matters that I must first attend to. Moreover, I should be very glad to know what Nicette was going to do; I was deeply interested in that young woman, and I did not propose to lose sight of her.

I left my apartment and was going downstairs; but I could not resist my desire to speak to my neighbor Raymond. I wished to thank him for his discretion. I rang at his door; no one answered, but I heard a noise within. I rang again, and that time the bellrope remained in my hand. He did not open the door. I felt sure that he had bored a hole in his door and had seen that it was I. No matter: he could not always avoid me; meanwhile, that he might know that it was I who had broken his bellrope, I tied it to my own.

I went downstairs at last; and on the first floor I met Madame Bertin and her two daughters, going to mass.

I bowed; they returned my bow, but with a frigid air very different from the amiable greeting they were accustomed to bestow on me. The two young ladies stood aside without raising their eyes, and the mother's face wore a glacial expression that made me afraid to speak to her.

"This is the result of the infernal chatter of Raymond and Madame Martin and the concierge," I thought; "these ladies know that Nicette passed the night in my rooms; that is to say, the mamma knows it, and that is why she ordered her daughters to pass me without raising their eyes, without smiling, and, above all, without speaking to me."

But you will tell me, the milliner also used to pass the night in your rooms. Ah! that was very different. Agathe was dressed like everybody else, and nobody noticed her; moreover, there were several people in the house for whom she made hats; and no one ever knew certainly whom she was going to see. So that I was able to retain Madame Bertin's good graces, and was admitted to her society, when Mademoiselle Agathe honored me with her favors. And now I was tabooed because Nicette, the pretty flower girl, had passed the night in my rooms. And you know how it all came about. But the world is made that way; it judges by the exterior before it knows what is within. Be whatever you choose, but observe the proprieties; save appearances, and you will be received everywhere.

These reflections made me angry. I left the house, cursing those people who see everything in the same light and refuse to depart from the narrow circle that custom has marked out. I paced the streets angrily, I dined angrily, I drank my coffee angrily, and my frame of mind had not changed when, finding myself at the foot of the Champs-Élysées, I sat down in a chair, the back of which was against a large tree.

VIII

THE MAGIC LANTERN

I had been sitting against the tree for some time; the darkness had dispersed some of the saunterers; and those who remained plunged deeper into the cross paths, seeking, as it seemed, by preference the darkest and least-frequented spots. Doubtless they had their reasons for that. I do not know precisely what I was thinking about, when I heard heavy steps approach and stop behind me. I turned and saw a man carrying what we call a magic lantern. He set his apparatus down against the tree; he had not seen me, or did not notice me. He lighted his lantern to exhibit his pictures, whereupon I at once thought of Florian's monkey; the reminiscence made me laugh, and I prepared to listen to the owner of the lantern, although I feared that the comparison would be unfavorable to him.

I heard him mutter between his teeth as he arranged his lights:

"Ah! the hussy! the rascal! where has she been these three hours, since she left me on the pretext of going to feed the brat? She's playing some game on me. If it wasn't a show day, how quickly I'd drop the whole business!--Never mind, Madame Trousquin, I'll find a way to solve my doubts; and if I see anything crooked, there'll be a sharp and effective reckoning!"

The poor man was evidently jealous; he swore and stamped and glared from side to side, but Madame Trousquin did not appear. By way of compensation, the gleam of the magic lantern attracted a girl and a young soldier, the latter of whom took his seat close beside the former, bidding the showman to close the curtain around them. He enveloped them in an old blue or gray sheet,--it was impossible to distinguish the color,--and I could not help thinking that a magic lantern may be at times a very great convenience.

Père Trousquin began his performance, interrupting himself frequently to swear at his wife, who did not return; and I listened attentively, although I could see nothing, not being under the curtain; but I had an idea that the spectators for whom the pictures were being explained were not looking at them.

"First of all, messieurs and mesdames, you see the sun, the moon, the stars, and the little fishes. Farther on, the products of the soil, such as trees, vegetables, animals, caves, waterfalls, rattlesnakes. Pray examine Monsieur Sun, whom you can't look at because he's so bright; and Madame Moon, who is full because she's in her first quarter. See those stars, how fast they travel, as if the devil was carrying 'em off!--Three hours to put Fifi to bed! Ah! the slut! how I'll make her dance to-night!--See Venus, glistening like a pinchbeck pin! See the shepherd's star! The shepherd Tircis, I suppose, seeing what his reputation is. And there's the Three Kings, who are always together. And the Chariot, that travels like those you see in the mountains of Russia. And Mercury and Jupiter. And the Virgin and the Twins. And the Bull and the Goat. Anybody can understand about them. Do you see the Scales? Do you see the Scorpion?--a wicked beast he is! All these, messieurs and mesdames, are planets that determine the nervous _infections_ of the people born under their _affluence_. The planet Venus is for wanton women, the Shepherd for good-looking youths, the Three Kings for heroes, the Chariot for coachmen, Jupiter for roistering blades, Mercury for apothecaries, the Virgin for little girls, and the Goat for many worthy gentlemen whom you know. Observe, messieurs and mesdames, in the middle of that great black cloud, full of stars, between the Bear and the Ram, you'll see a big, hairy comet, with a tail longer than a fox's. That brilliant meteor has in all ages announced the end of the world; with its tail or its head it is capable of overturning our globe, which is held in place only by a thread, and broiling us all like chestnuts."

At this point, a movement under the curtain led me to surmise that the comet had aroused great curiosity.

"One moment, messieurs and mesdames, and you'll see what you will see."