Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

But the shrill sounds had ceased; the tall young lady was no longer singing. The little chubby-faced man took her place; he was determined to sing his air from _Jean de Paris_, and we had to resign ourselves. While he struggled to hold out his notes, coughing at every ritornelle to make us believe that he had a cold, I saw the other singers look at each other, make signs, yawn, and compress their lips. In truth, amateurs are more unkind than professionals, and they who are in great need of indulgence for themselves are always ready to tear others to tatters. They think to conceal their own mediocrity by calling attention to their neighbor's lack of talent; self-esteem, which blinds us to our own defects, impels us to seek out with avidity the faults of others, as if we were the gainers thereby! What folly! Because Monsieur So-and-So sings false, does that give you a fine voice? because he plays the violin badly, are you the better performer on the piano? because another is ugly, awkward, and ridiculous, are you any handsomer, more graceful, and more agreeable? Of course not; but it is always pleasant to see people at whom one can poke fun, and whom we believe to be less abundantly endowed by Nature than we. Remember that Roquelaure joyously threw himself on the neck of a man who seemed to him even uglier than himself. But, monsieur, what a difference! Roquelaure sacrificed his self-esteem; but you, had you been in his place, would have made sport of the man he embraced, and, turning to look in a mirror, would have deemed yourself handsome, I vow.

The _Princesse de Navarre_ being duly executed, the little man made the circuit of the salon, trying to pick up a word of praise, even from those whom he had so recently declared to be ignorant of music; for praise is always pleasant. Everybody told him that he had sung very well; that was inevitable; we were well bred, which means that we had ceased to be frank. I alone ventured to observe that he seemed to have a cold; he turned as red as a turkey cock, and his nose vanished completely.

"That is so," he said at last; "I have a very bad cold; it embarrassed me a great deal."

"Why did you sing, then?"

"Oh! people urged me so hard!"

And I had seen him dispute with Raymond for the opportunity! What strange creatures men are! But, hush! my neighbor was going to sing; that deserved attention. But, no; two other men anticipated him; they sang an Italian duet, I believe; but it was difficult to understand the veritable hotchpotch they made at the piano: one shook his head to mark time, as a bear dances behind the bars of his cage; the other, who was evidently very short-sighted, kept his nose glued to the music. The young man who acted as accompanist tried in vain to make them sing together: it was impossible.

"You're behind," said one.

"That's because I skipped a line."

"Well, go on!"

"You go too fast; you hurry me. I never saw the music before, and to sing Italian at sight is devilish hard."

I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung.

"We will sing it the next time," said Monsieur Chamonin; "we shall be surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied. Rossini is very chromatic."

"That's so," said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which remained on his shirt front; "it's a pity you didn't finish it, for I thought it was very pretty."

"We'll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons."

"They had better stay there," said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted by their misadventure.

"For my part, I don't care for Italian," said Madame Vauvert. "I never can hear anything but _tchi and tcha_; and it doesn't amuse me in the least."

"Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!"

"Who's Rossini, uncle?" inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into the salon. "Seems to me I've seen that name, in _Don Quixote_."

"The idiot, to mistake _Rosinante for Rossini_! Go and wash the glasses, booby, and don't mix in the conversation again."

At last my neighbor was at the piano, and had opened his mouth to an enormous width to inform us that he had "long wandered o'er the world." But at that moment we heard the notes of a 'cello, and Vauvert appeared with a music stand, which he placed in the centre of the salon.

"What on earth are you doing there?" shouted Raymond; "don't you see that I am singing?"

"Madame Witcheritche is going to play her solo on the 'cello."

"In a few minutes; I am singing now, I tell you. Madame Witcheritche can play afterward."

"No, she wants to play now, because it's getting late."

And paying no heed to the mutterings of Raymond, who, in his wrath, overturned the candlestick on the piano, Vauvert arranged the music stand, then went to usher in the German virtuoso, whom I had not previously noticed. She was a very handsome woman, very fair and somewhat insipid, like most German women, but well built and graceful; she held the 'cello between her legs with astonishing ease, and seemed not at all abashed. She played easily and with excellent taste; and I saw by the long faces of the members of the quartette that they had not expected to encounter in one of the other sex a musical talent in presence of which they could no longer hope to shine.

I heard a voice at my ear incessantly repeating:

"Gut, gut, sehr gut; tudge lidely, holt te pow firm; lidely on te shtrings!"

I turned and saw a hideous face looking first at the performer, then at the company, making grimaces for tokens of approval, and rolling about a pair of eyes that reminded me of Brunet's in the _Désespoir de Jocrisse_. The owner of that extraordinary countenance was a tall man in a threadbare green coat, of vulgar aspect, and with pretentious airs which made him even more ridiculous.

"Who is that individual?" I asked one of my neighbors.

"That's the husband of the lady playing the 'cello."

"What! such a disgusting face approach that charming head! What an outrage! It reminds me of a Satyr beside a Hebe."

"Still, the lady seems to be fond of her husband."

"It's easy to see that she's a foreigner. What does this husband of hers do?"

"Nothing; he's a baron."

"A baron! I should never have suspected it; he looks more like a cobbler. But in Germany everybody's a baron, just as in Russia all the soldiers have decorations; it doesn't mean anything."

Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, who, as he rolled his eyes about, had doubtless observed that I was looking at him, came to me as soon as his wife had finished, and began to converse with a smiling face. I have observed that the Germans smile a great deal when they are talking. I regretted that it was not courteous to laugh in a person's face, for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche was very amusing to look at, especially when he wished to make himself agreeable. I wondered what he wanted of me.

"I'll pet tat monsir is ein egsberd on te 'cello. Monsir is ein much gut blayer himself, hein?"

"I, monsieur? you are mistaken; I do not play at all."

"Oh! you vish not to admit it; I can tivine all at once te innermost toughts of bersons py tare faces."

"The deuce! you are very fortunate, Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche!"

"I haf shtudy te human heard; I am most egsberd in physsionomique."

"What do you say, monsieur le baron?"

"I say I am ein egsberd in physsionomique."

"I don't understand at all."

"In physsionomique."

"Oh! you mean physiognomy."

Monsieur le baron turned on his heel, without a smile. The best way to rid one's self of a foreigner is to pretend not to understand him.

Meanwhile my little dialogue with Monsieur de Witcheritche had caused me to miss Monsieur Crachini's romanza. I was sorry, for he always combined with his singing an expressive pantomime which made it doubly interesting. While various other amateurs entertained the company, I looked about for Raymond; for being unable to find a seat beside Madame de Marsan, I was anxious to obtain some information concerning her, and my neighbor was the very man to give me that.

He was not in the salon. I went into the smaller room, where my entrance brought to an abrupt close a whispered conversation between Vauvert and a fair-haired lady who had been in the dining room an hour, looking for her shawl amid a multitude of bonnets, mantles, and shawls which were tossed pell-mell on the bed of the host and hostess.

"Are you leaving us already?" said Vauvert, in a melting voice, glancing behind him to see if his wife was coming.

"Yes, it's very late; I must go home."

"My nephew will escort you.--Friquet! Friquet!"

Friquet appeared, and swore between his teeth at having to escort the blonde lady; he spent an interminable time looking for his hat and exclaiming in the lady's ears that it was a nuisance to go out so late and go home with everybody. His uncle pulled his ears, and I joined Raymond, who was exhaling his vexation at the dressing room window.

"Aren't you going to sing, neighbor?"

"Is it possible to do anything here, I should like to know? Did you ever see such confusion? such disorder? I don't know where I am! I've told Vauvert a hundred times to draw up a programme and paste it on a mirror; then everything would go off in an orderly way. But, no; he won't listen to anything! he amuses himself pinching and squeezing such little girls as he can find in the corners, instead of attending to his concert."

"It is certainly true that it might be managed better."

"The idea of giving us a concerto for the 'cello that there's no end to; just to grate on our ears! And then, I don't care what you may say, a woman who plays the 'cello is always absurd! It reminds me of a man darning stockings; and madame la baronne would do much better to stay at home and darn hers than execute _staccatos_ and _arpeggios_."

"What do you say? a baroness darn stockings?"

"Oh! nonsense! a pretty baron he makes! I saw him the other day on Boulevard du Temple, buying apples at a sou a bag; and he was haggling too! He bought sausage by the yard for his dinner; and someone who's been at his house told me that they gave him gooseberries for refreshment! But this Vauvert's a star! he tries to make us believe that he entertains princes, ambassadors perhaps! whereas his house is a veritable Noah's Ark."

"By the way, you seem to know Madame de Marsan?"

"Madame de Marsan? yes, to be sure; I go to her parties. She's a fine woman, rather a flirt, as you must have seen; but she has wit and good breeding and style; she's a woman who calls herself twenty-eight, and is really thirty-two. She is known to have had several passions; but as she doesn't advertise them and is always regardful of decorum, there's nothing to say: morals before everything. The husband is a good sort of fellow, very sharp, they say, when his own interests are concerned. He's in business; but he's not one of those poor devils who run about for a fortnight to discount a note which will be worth a commission of seven or eight francs to them; or one of those who offer you with an air of mystery houses that are advertised in the _Petits-Affiches_. This fellow knows what he's about, and makes a lot of money. He has a fine country house, beyond Saint-Denis, in which madame has had a pretty little theatre arranged; in fact, I am to act there very soon. She's a valuable acquaintance; for there's lots of fun at her house. I myself have been there twice, and I know that they think a great deal of me. If you choose, my dear fellow, I'll take you there; if introduced by me, you will be warmly welcomed."

"Thanks; but, as you know, I don't like to be presented in that way."

Raymond left me, to return to the piano; he had not lost all hope of getting himself heard. I knew all that I wanted to know concerning Madame de Marsan. I returned to the salon. I had reason to believe that the lady was questioning my neighbor about me, and I knew that I need not be afraid of losing her good opinion through Raymond's description of me, for he was one of those men who like to pretend that they have none but the most desirable acquaintances. I was in comfortable circumstances, and he had probably represented me as very wealthy; I was born of respectable parents, and he had probably placed me in one of the oldest families in France; and so on. To be sure, Madame de Marsan might have been told that I was fickle, inconstant, treacherous; but those failings never do a man any harm with the ladies.

A selection had just been performed on the harp; the performer had made but one mistake, had had to tune her instrument but twice, and had broken but four strings; we had no cause of complaint. Raymond had left Madame de Marsan, to find an accompanist, and threatened, if he failed in his quest, to accompany himself; by dint of hunting, urging, and entreating, he succeeded in bringing young Martin to the piano; he began to cough and expectorate, changed the position of the candles, ordered the windows to be closed, and struck an attitude supposed to represent Joconde. But a murmur arose on all sides; the young women ran to Monsieur Vauvert, the young men surrounded his wife; they had been promised a contradance; it was almost twelve o'clock, and if it was postponed any longer there would be no dancing. The hosts acceded to the prayers of their younger guests.

"We are going to dance!" shouted Vauvert, as the court bailiff cries: "Silence, please!"

Instantly everything was in a ferment in the salon; the young men hastened to engage partners, the chairs were moved away to make room, and the guests who did not dance were requested to retire to the corners.

Raymond stood at the piano with his mouth open; he thought that he must be mistaken; he could not believe his eyes; I believe that he was actually going to begin his aria; but instead of the prelude from _Joconde_, young Martin struck up a figure of Pantalon. My neighbor could not digest this final blow; he seized his music in a hand which shook with wrath, and, thrusting it under his arm, rushed across the salon like a madman, colliding with the dancers, and receiving kicks from the young men who were in the act of balancing to partners; I am convinced, however, that he did not feel them.

"Monsieur Raymond is going away in a rage," observed a lady to Madame Vauvert, with a laugh; a lady whose hair was dressed _à la_ Ninon, but had lost its curl and was floating in the air in long wisps, although she had taken the precaution not to remove her curl papers until she was on the staircase.

"Bah! I don't care for that," replied Madame Vauvert; "he bores us to death with his songs, and with the poetry he insists on reading to us; it's always the same thing!"

At that moment, Raymond, whom I supposed to have left the house, appeared at the door of the salon and called out angrily:

"My hat, Madame Vauvert, I want my hat, where is it? It's a lamentable fact that one can never find one's things in your house."

"Pardi! your hat isn't lost.--Mon Dieu! I don't see my cat! I put her on a chair by the fireplace. Why did anyone move her--poor Moumoute? The door of the landing is often open; she's gone out, and she'll be stolen!--Moumoute! Moumoute!"

The dancing continued, no heed being paid to Madame Vauvert's lamentations and Raymond's demands; the dancers were determined to compensate themselves, by a moment's enjoyment, for several hours of ennui; and those who were afraid that their turn might not come took the precaution to move back the hands of the clock while Vauvert's back was turned and his wife was looking for her cat.

I invited Madame de Marsan, and after much ceremony she consented to dance with me.

"What an extraordinary house!" she said to me.

"I find it delightful, since I have met you here."

"But as it is probable that you will not meet me here again, and as I desire to see you again, I trust, monsieur, that you will do me the honor of coming to listen to a little music at my house."

I accepted, as may be imagined; and after the dance was over, I prowled about the husband, with whom I entered into conversation. I talked of speculation, houses, châteaux, and the stock market with him; I took pains, without ostentation, to mention my name, to speak of my family and my means. In any other house, I should not have done so; but in such a mixed assemblage, I was not anxious that he should place me on a level with people, who, although very estimable no doubt, were nothing more than that; and in the opinion of many men that is not sufficient distinction. On the whole, I was satisfied that Monsieur de Marsan found me rather agreeable; it is so easy to catch people by the sensitive spot--that is to say, when they have one.

When young women begin to dance, it is much the same as when a poet begins to recite his verses: there is no reason why they should ever stop. But Madame Vauvert, thinking that they were making too much noise, and afraid of angering her landlord, had already said several times:

"This will be the last."

But the last never came to an end.

Friquet, who had returned in high dudgeon because he had been obliged to escort a lady home, stole behind the dancers and looked at the clock; then he hastened to inform his uncle that the hands had been set back, so that they marked only twelve o'clock when it was nearly one. Vauvert consulted his watch, saw that his nephew was right, and concluded that it was incumbent on him to show some resolution, and that his dignity required him to turn his guests out of doors at once.

He immediately extinguished the lamps in the four corners of the salon, leaving only a few candles lighted; and the young men were about to extinguish them as well, and thus make the scene more amusing, when Vauvert took possession of them and harangued the company thus:

"I have already told you that it is time to go; my wife is indisposed, and I am surprised that anyone should continue to dance against our wishes."

This courteous speech made everybody laugh, and they hurried into the dressing room to prepare for departure. But there the confusion and disorder reached their climax. The ladies called for their shawls, mantles, bonnets, and slippers; the singers demanded their music or their instruments; they made mistakes, and many could not find what they wanted; the young men hovered about the ladies, on the pretext of assisting them, but really because such crushes are most propitious to lovers and amateurs. One tied a ribbon, another put on an overshoe, another held a little foot while the slipper was being removed. Amid the tumult, mothers called their daughters, husbands their wives, brothers their sisters. But those ladies were far too busy to answer. They were whispering, squeezing hands, making appointments, arranging other meetings; in truth, the moment of departure is not that at which the guests enjoy themselves least.

I tried to save Madame de Marsan the trouble of looking for her shawl in that crowd; I went into the bedroom, and succeeded, not without difficulty, in reaching the bed, on which the bonnets and wraps were piled; my hand, seeking a shawl, came in contact with a firm and well-rounded form, which I was not seeking, but which I embraced as a matter of habit, and because I thought that it belonged to a lady with whom I was very intimate. But the lady, who was stooping over the bed, and whose back only could I see, turned suddenly. Horror! it was not she whom I thought! I proceeded to entangle myself in apologies, but she gave me a most tender and amiable smile, which seemed to invite me to continue. Faith! I admit that I should not have expected it on the part of the lady in question, who, in the salon, played the prude, the straitlaced, stern moralist. Trust appearances, who will! I have already said that I never would; but a great many people say that, and still allow themselves to be deceived.

At last everyone had succeeded in finding what he or she sought. Friquet, who was anxious to go to bed, had been standing a long while on the landing, candle in hand, ready to light us downstairs. As for the master and mistress of the house, they had manifested clearly enough their desire to see the last of us; so we started down. It was quite a little procession; everyone took the hand of his favorite and descended the stairs, laughing heartily over the evening's entertainment. The young men were very noisy, because Vauvert had urged them to be silent on account of his neighbors. On the second floor, a young man upset the candlestick that Friquet carried, and we found ourselves in utter darkness.

We all roared with laughter. The mammas scolded the perpetrator of the mischief, the young ladies did the same, but I have reason to believe that many of them were not very angry.

"Idiot! he's always doing such things!" Vauvert shouted at his nephew from the top of the stairs.

"I didn't do it, uncle," replied the clerk; "somebody knocked my candle out of my hand on purpose."

"I not untershtand vy tay do amuse temselfs py making us near fall town and may pe hurt ourselfs," muttered the Baron de Witcheritche, whom I believed to be very jealous of his wife, and who was made uneasy by the darkness.

"Holt tidt to te rail, my tear," said the baroness, in a flutelike little voice, "and tague care ov my Shtradifarius."

"Your Shtradifarius is chust te ting tat makes me frighted."

We went down carefully and very softly. I held Madame de Marsan's hand, and I did not complain of the darkness; but the little clerk, who had relighted his candle at the porter's lodge, returned with his light just as we reached the lowest stair. I noticed then some changes in the order of departure; some mantles awry, some faces very much excited, and many eyes fastened on the ground, doubtless because the light made them smart; but I do not mean to suggest any implications unfavorable to the virtue of the ladies in question, married or single.

The moment to say farewell had arrived. I saw diverse poor fellows who lived near the Palais-Royal doomed to act as escort to feminine families from the heart of the Marais. I saw young ladies manoeuvre to take the arms of their chosen friends; I saw many a wife sigh as she took her husband's arm. I should have seen much else, no doubt, if it had not been dark. But Madame de Marsan and her husband were in their carriage; and he, learning that I lived on Rue Saint-Florentin, obligingly offered me a seat. I accepted without hesitation. Decidedly Monsieur de Marsan was a most agreeable man.

"There's no one else!" Friquet shouted to the concierge, as he closed the porte cochère.

"That's very lucky," replied the concierge, closing his door. "Past one o'clock. Your uncle will have notice to quit, I promise you. He makes a great show, gives evening parties, and keeps people up all night, and all for nothing! When a man wants to cut such capers, he should have a house to himself."

XIV

THE BOUQUET

In the carriage we talked of Monsieur Vauvert's soirée musicale. Madame de Marsan laughed about it a good deal; Monsieur de Marsan shrugged his shoulders, and said that the mania for making a show was pervading all classes of society; that it seemed to be no longer possible for people to enjoy themselves _en famille_; that everybody was struggling to leave the sphere in which destiny had placed him; that men were becoming more eager for dissipation every day; that, to satisfy this imperious craving, the mechanic sacrificed his week's wages, the workingman his savings, the tradesman his stock in trade, the clerk three-fourths of his salary; hence embarrassment, borrowing, debts, failures. His conclusion was that a man should reckon up his income before giving dinners, receptions, and balls.

"I should not suppose that Monsieur Vauvert's receptions were likely to ruin him," said Madame de Marsan.

"It seems so to you, madame, because you have noticed simply the general effect of the affair, which, I agree, was not very splendid at first glance; but for an under clerk those lamps, the candles on the music stands, the hired piano, the music and the instruments that they sent out for, and, lastly, the modest refreshments--all those things, madame, are as extravagant for a government clerk at eighteen hundred francs, as a magnificent function, where everything is provided in profusion, is for a wealthy banker. The difference between the banker and the clerk is that people go about praising the former's party, which they are proud of having attended, while they make fun of the clerk's soirée, to which they go for the sole purpose of sneering at those who put themselves out to make people laugh at their expense."

Monsieur de Marsan was right; there was a husband who spoke with profound wisdom. I approved what he said: first, because I agreed with him; secondly, because I had my reasons for always being of his opinion.

Monsieur de Marsan lived near the beginning of Faubourg Saint-Honoré; I could not repress my desire to laugh when I learned his address, because it reminded me of that infernal cabman who had taken me to the farther end of Faubourg Montmartre on the night when I attempted to follow the carriage; but I instantly attributed my merriment to a memory of the concert, and, as we all retained some very comical ones, that seemed perfectly natural. They set me down on Rue Saint-Florentin, after inviting me to their house to listen, not to a concert, but to a little music; there is a great difference between the two, for I had to admit that I had heard no music at Monsieur Vauvert's concert of amateurs.

Standing at my door, I thought of my new acquaintance; I dared not as yet say my conquest, but I secretly flattered myself that she soon would be. Meanwhile, I had not forgotten the charming Caroline, who had given me an appointment for the next day. My imagination had abundant food for reverie: what a wellspring of pleasure the future had in store for me! I could see nothing but roses, and my mind, enchanted, sought to communicate its enthusiasm to my heart, which did what it could to find something for itself in all that was going on. I went upstairs without a light; for it was very late, and Madame Dupont extinguished her lamp at midnight. I started to open my door; but as I was putting the key in the lock, my hand came in contact with something--leaves--flowers--why, someone had put a bouquet there! Ah! I knew who had done it!--I entered my room; I soon procured a light and could look at my bouquet. It was beautiful! orange blossoms, a rose or two, some carnations, and all surrounded by pansies; the bouquet was tied with a small white bow.--"Dear Nicette!" I thought; "so you still think of me! you are not ungrateful! Ah, no! you have a warm heart and you are virtuous! What a pity that, with those two priceless qualities, you were born in obscure station! Not that I believe that your equals are incapable of appreciating your virtues, but that I can do no more than admire them. You will be a treasure to others, but you can be nothing to me; I must seek such a treasure in high life; there are some there, no doubt, but they are not all so seductive as you."

How had she succeeded in leaving that bouquet at my keyhole? If it had not been so late, I should have gone down and questioned my concierge; but I had no choice but to wait till morning. Raymond, who saw everything, had undoubtedly seen the bouquet; but perhaps--he was so engrossed by his aria from _Joconde_!

I longed for the morning to come, that I might question Madame Dupont. I could not tire of smelling Nicette's bouquet and gazing at it in admiration. I looked at the pansies.--"Ah!" I said to myself; "I understand: it was gratitude that prompted the gift. Poor child! she loves her benefactor; that is natural enough; but she is so pretty that she will soon be besieged by lovers, her heart will speak, and she will forget me. That is the way such affairs always end."--I carefully placed my bouquet in water and went to bed. I passed in review the events of the day. Madame de Marsan and Caroline played a large part therein; they were both coquettes--in a different way, to be sure, but it was coquetry all the same. Alas! all the women I had known were coquettes, and I did not honestly believe that any one of them had loved me; at all events, it had been only for a moment. What does a sentiment amount to that has the duration of a mere caprice, and that does not resist the slightest trial? And my sister insisted that I should marry! Why should I hope to find in a wife what I had failed to find in a mistress? Of course, the indissoluble bond, children, duties, the opinion of society, might prevent my wife from being unfaithful to me; but all those things would not revive her love when it was once extinct.

"I will not marry," said I to myself; "I will make the most of life."--And yet it had seemed to me for some time, amid all my follies, that I was not perfectly happy. Although fickle, I was sentimental; my heart was constantly looking about for something to attach itself to; it was not its fault that it did not find a heart to respond to it. Of late, I had met none but perfidious, unfaithful women; I used always to take the initiative in the inevitable separation, but the later ones had not given me time; to be sure, I had been foolish enough to put them to the test. I determined to be wiser in future, to take women for what they were, and to thank fortune when I chanced to fall on my feet.

Who could say? Perhaps Caroline would love me; perhaps Madame de Marsan would be less coquettish in due time; perhaps the young flowermaker was really virtuous. As for the adventures which Raymond attributed to Madame de Marsan, my neighbor was so evil-tongued that I could not place any reliance on what he said.

I lulled myself to sleep with thoughts of my various inamoratas; but, for some unknown reason, the memory of Nicette was always involved in my schemes and my hopes. I concluded that it was the smell of her bouquet that kept her so constantly in my thoughts; but the orange blossoms were so sweet, that I was unwilling to take them out of my bedroom. What a charming little attention, to bring me that bouquet and to place it so that I could not enter my room without taking hold of it! Ah! if women are coquettish and deceitful, they alone are capable of such forethought, such amiable attentions, of that delicacy of feeling which enables them to discover, even in the most trifling circumstance, a means of giving an additional proof of their love or their friendship. I went to sleep; but how did it happen that I dreamed neither of Caroline nor of Madame de Marsan? It was Nicette whom I saw in my dreams, it was she who engaged all my thoughts. Doubtless the odor of the orange blossoms continued to remind me of her, even in my sleep.

XV

THE DINNER PARTY

I was still sleeping when Madame Dupont came to arrange my room. I began at once to question her, for I was anxious to know if she had seen Nicette.

"Did anyone call to see me last evening, Madame Dupont?"

"No, monsieur; no one."

"You saw no one come upstairs to my rooms?"

"You know very well, monsieur, that I wouldn't have let anybody come up, knowing that you were out."

It was very strange! how had she succeeded in eluding the concierge's eyes? She was determined that no one should see her bringing the nosegay; she thought that it might offend me, and her gift acquired the greater value in my eyes on that account. To divert my mind from such thoughts, I recalled the errands my brother-in-law desired me to do. I went out, leaving Madame Dupont to place in a box all the artificial flowers that were strewn about my floor; but I told her not to touch the bouquet, which was on the mantel. It was a fertile source of conjectures for my concierge.

My day was fully occupied by the commissions to be executed in various government offices, whence Déneterre, who was about to build and desired to consummate various enterprises, hoped to obtain information and support. I was not sorry to have something to do; the time passed more rapidly. Do not believe, however, that I was accustomed to spend my days in absolute idleness; no, I was devoted to the fine arts, especially poetry and music; and I turned my attention to them with ardor, when my love-making folly left me the requisite leisure; but I admit that I had neglected them shamefully for some time past.

It was time to think about dinner. I did not forget that I had an appointment for the evening on Boulevard Bondy, near the Château d'Eau. In order to be in the neighborhood, I thought that, instead of dining at the Palais-Royal as usual, it would be an excellent idea to dine on the boulevards, where the small theatres are; then I should be close at hand for the evening. I bent my steps, therefore, toward the Marais.

When I was on Boulevard du Temple, I had only too great a number of restaurants to choose from. I knew them all; I was not _en partie fine_; so that I had no occasion to think of anything except which was the best, without looking about for the most convenient and most secluded private dining rooms. I decided in favor of the Cadran-Bleu; the prices were high there, but ordinarily one could get a good dinner. I walked in that direction and was just passing the Jardin Turc, when I saw a gentleman in front of me with a lady on his arm. Raymond's figure was too easily recognizable for me to mistake it. It was certainly he: his gait, his huge calves, his gestures--yes, it was he. As for the lady, her face was hidden under an enormous bonnet; but it seemed to me that I knew her as well. My neighbor was talking with great earnestness, and I noticed that he pressed her arm to his side; he had every appearance of being _en bonne fortune_. I was curious to know where they were going; and I was determined to obtain a glimpse, if possible, of the charmer's face, unseen by Raymond; for, as I have said, her figure was not unfamiliar to me. But they crossed the boulevard and entered a restaurant on the corner of Rue d'Angoulême--the Méridien; I remembered that the waiters there were young women, and that it was a very comfortable place; at least, it was so some years before. Why should I not follow my neighbor? Perhaps chance would give me a glimpse of his companion; and Raymond does so much boasting about his mistresses, who, according to him, are always princesses and of rare beauty, that I was not sorry to have an opportunity to see one of those marvels of creation.

I left the Cadran-Bleu at my right, and, resigned to the prospect of dining less satisfactorily, entered the Méridien and asked for a private room. I was taken to it by a waitress. We passed a room where I heard Raymond's voice, and I told my conductress to give me the adjoining one. The partition between me and the room which Raymond and his flame occupied was so thin that I could hear their voices when they did not speak in undertones. I left my door open, too; and as theirs was not closed, for their table was being laid, I could catch from time to time a portion of what my neighbor said; for he had the unfortunate habit of speaking very loud--a habit contracted in order to attract attention to himself, and retained even in his incognito. Judging from what I heard, he was putting himself out to please his guest, whose tastes he constantly consulted in ordering the dinner. I heard him read the bill of fare to her three times; she had much difficulty in making up her mind; she didn't like anything; she wasn't hungry; it made no difference to her; but she asked for a thousand things that were not on the bill. I readily concluded, from her affectations and fussing, that my neighbor had not made a very distinguished conquest; indeed, one would have said that she was making fun of him and that it amused her to annoy him. I was convinced that he would have nothing to show for his dinner.

Every time that I heard the woman's voice it recalled confused memories. Yes, I was sure that I knew her, but I could not tell who she was; I had known so many that I might be pardoned for confusing them in my memory; and then, I caught only a few detached words. No matter! I was determined to see her, and I would find a way!

It seemed that Raymond decided at last to order the dinner himself, for I heard nothing more from him. The lady hummed a comic-opera air; that voice was certainly familiar to me.

I heard the bell, and the waitress appeared. Raymond gave her the card and ordered dinner at once, and the girl went downstairs. The lady expressed a wish for some fromage fouetté, which my neighbor had not ordered, and he ran after the girl to add it to his order. As he passed my room, the door of which I had been careful to leave ajar, he glanced in and saw me.

"What do I see? my dear friend Dorsan!"

"Himself, Monsieur Raymond. What on earth are you doing here?"

He entered the room with an air of mystery, walking on tiptoe, and pointed, with a smile, to the adjoining room.

"I am in there," he said, trying to speak in an undertone; "next door."

"Oho!"

"With--someone."

"Ah! I understand! an amourette, a _partie fine_!"

"Exactly."

"You're a terrible fellow. They accuse me of being fickle, a deceiver, but I am sure that you're a hundred times worse than I."

"I won't deny that I'm rather given to changing!"

"And the lady?"

"Oh! charming, delicious! a regular swell, with her carriage and livery! We are here incog."

"So I imagine."

"She has granted me to-day a favor she has refused a thousand other men."

"What a lucky dog you are! You arouse my curiosity; might I not see her?"

"Oh! impossible, my dear fellow, impossible! she's a woman who is most particular about her reputation. If she knew that I had talked about her to one of my friends, she would be deadly angry with me and would never forgive me."

"Very good, I'll say no more about it; I see that it would be no kindness to you. I congratulate you, none the less, on such a brilliant conquest."

"It's worth what it costs, that's true. You know that in the matter of women I am rather particular; I don't take up with the first comer; I insist on good form and style."

I thought that Monsieur Raymond was trying to be sarcastic.

"Above all things, I like to subdue those who are cruel," he continued; "with them there are at least some merit and firmness--you understand. But I wager that my charmer is getting impatient; adieu, neighbor! love and pleasure call me."

"Don't keep them waiting."

Raymond left my room, his bosom swelling with delight at being seen _en bonne fortune_, and returned to his own, closing the door behind him. All that he had said increased my curiosity; I was convinced that he had been telling me fables, as usual. I gave no credit to his tales of great ladies; and I could see him cudgelling his brains for lies while he was talking to me; indeed, he seemed to go more into detail than his custom was, the better to pull the wool over my eyes.--You were not sly enough to catch me, my dear Raymond! it was because you had happened to see me with a flower girl that you put on so many airs and hurled epigrams at me; but I had a shrewd idea that your great swell was not worth my humble Nicette.

My window looked on the boulevard, and, while I waited for my soup, I opened the sash to enjoy the prospect. I was not _en partie fine_, consequently had no desire for a subdued light. I observed that my neighbor's blinds were not lowered, and my conclusion was strengthened that Raymond's affairs had not progressed very far.

As I watched the passers-by, I saw a young man whom I knew stop in front of our restaurant. It was the same Gerville who lived in our house, and with whom Mademoiselle Agathe passed the memorable night when I offered hospitality to Nicette. What was he doing there? He stopped and looked this way and that, as if he were expecting or seeking someone.

The window in my neighbors' Good! perhaps the lady would come there for a breath of air and I could see her face. But what was the matter? I heard an exclamation, and the window was suddenly closed; something extraordinary must have happened. In truth, I seemed to be becoming almost as inquisitive as Raymond.

I walked away from the window; a warm discussion was in progress in the next room. Faith! they could do what they chose! I proposed to dine, for I was hungry. At that very moment the waitress appeared with my soup. But what a racket! Raymond suddenly rushed out of his room and into mine, pale, haggard, trembling, and in his haste jostled the servant and caused her to spill my soup on the floor.

"Oh! mon Dieu! what a mess, monsieur!" exclaimed the girl, picking up her tureen. "You have made me burn myself awfully--all that hot soup on my foot! I know that I shall have big blisters there!"

"It's all right, my girl; I'll pay for your soup."

"And what about my apron, which is ruined, and my leg?"

"I'll pay you for everything!" Raymond replied, with no idea what he was saying; and he pushed the girl out of the room and carefully closed the door.

"Well, well! what in the devil's the matter with you, Monsieur Raymond? you look as if you'd had a fright!"

"Ah! my dear friend, I have good reason to!--something has happened--a circumstance--I am in a terrible plight. Wait till I look out of the window; but first be good enough to draw the curtain so that he can't see me."

"Are you going mad, neighbor?"

Raymond did not answer me; he went to the window and looked out, taking care to conceal himself behind the curtain, and putting his head out with the utmost precaution. I saw that he became paler than ever.

"He's there," he said at last.

"Who, pray?"

"Gerville."

"Oh, yes! so he is. But what difference does that make to you?"

"It makes a great difference to me. Don't you know that he is horribly jealous and quite capable of going to terrible lengths?"

"What of it?"

"Understand that he's here on my account. I am sure that he is watching for me; and he has some reason to, for I am with his mistress."

"What! can it possibly be Mademoiselle Agathe whom you chose to transform into a lady with a carriage and livery of her own?"

"What would you have, my dear fellow? I did it in order to disguise her better, to spare her reputation."

"Oh! so far as that goes, you may take my word that she has nothing to fear. Ha! ha! ha! Monsieur Raymond, what you must have are cruel creatures, women of a certain style!"

"You may jest about it later, my friend, but save me now, I implore you; my only hope is in you to extricate me from the frightful position I am in."

"For heaven's sake, explain yourself!"

"Gerville will come into this house, I am perfectly sure. Somebody must have told him that I am here. Be obliging enough to take my place for a moment, and give me yours in this room; I will leave my door open, he will see that I am alone, and his suspicions will vanish."

"But why don't you lock yourself in with your inamorata? he won't break down your door."

"He is quite capable of it! or else he would wait for me on the boulevard; and if I should go out with Agathe, you can judge for yourself what a scandalous scene there would be. Furthermore, we live in the same house, you know; and if he has discovered anything, how shall I ever dare to go home? He's just the man to lie in wait for me on the stairs at night."

"Then why in the devil did you meddle with his mistress?"

"What can you expect? a moment of folly. It was that morning I waited with her on our landing that it took me."

"Ah, yes! the morning you both played the spy on me."

"Oh! great God! he has come in!" cried Raymond, who had glanced out on the boulevard; "save me, my friend--in pity's name! Go--I'll join you later."

Giving me no time to reply, Raymond jammed my hat over my ears, dragged and pushed me out of my private room, and locked himself in. I made no resistance, and without any idea as yet as to what I proposed to do for my neighbor, whose most distinctive quality courage certainly was not, I entered the room where Agathe was. She uttered a cry of surprise when she saw me.

"Mon Dieu! it's Eugène! Is it you? is it really you?"

"Why, to be sure it's I, sacrificing myself to save poor Raymond, who's in such a fright that it will make him ill."

"Ha! ha! ha! I can't get over it!"

"Hush! he's in there; he can hear you laugh, and I fancy that he would take it ill of you just at this moment."

"Really! what do I care for that? Ha! ha! ha! Do you think that I'm in love with Raymond, I should like to know? Oh! he is much too stupid, really! and he tries to play the Lovelace! I couldn't stand it any longer! When I opened the window and saw Gerville on the boulevard, I gave a shriek and stepped back into the room as quick as I could; for I don't want Gerville to see me with Raymond. Not that he's jealous, but he might not like it. Do you know what I did? It came into my head to tell my old idiot that Gerville is fiendishly jealous, and that he had been suspicious of him ever since he learned that we spent two hours together on the landing, and that I was certain that he was on the boulevard for the sole purpose of watching us. The more I said, the more frightened my adorer became, for he has even more affection for his own person than for mine. And when I added that Gerville was quite capable of stabbing him,--ha! ha! the poor man took his hat, and is running still, I fancy. Ha! ha! ha! but it's very kind of him to send me such an agreeable companion. Meanwhile, I would like to know what has become of Gerville; I think that he was just waiting for one of his friends."

"Hush! somebody is coming upstairs. Raymond is opening his door; let's listen. Gerville is speaking."

We put our ears close to the door, which we very softly opened an inch or two, and overheard the following conversation:

"Ah! it's neighbor Raymond."

"Himself, at your service. How are you?"

"Very well. How's this? are you dining alone in a private room?"

"Yes; I have something on my mind, some important business, and I was glad not to be disturbed."

"In that case, I'll leave you. I am waiting for somebody who agreed to meet me on the boulevard here; but he's late, and I am going to dine. Good-day, neighbor; and a good appetite!"

"Your servant!"

Gerville closed the door of Raymond's room and went into another, passing ours as he did so.

"Well, mademoiselle," I said to Agathe, "choose; to which of these gentlemen will you give the preference?"

"Oh! I have a delicious idea!"

"Some crazy scheme, I'll be bound, for you think of no other kind."

"This will be unique. Help me, my dear Eugène, I beg you."

Without another word to me, Agathe began to stride up and down the room; she pushed the chairs about, threw some of them down, and, amid the uproar, cried out from time to time:

"Don't be angry with me, my friend! I assure you that you are mistaken. I give you my word that I haven't seen Raymond; that I don't care for him! Ask Dorsan; he invited me to dinner, because he was expecting a lady."

I began to understand Agathe's plan; she proposed to make Raymond think that Gerville was with us. To second her, I also made noise enough for two, and attempted now and then to imitate Gerville's voice. We stopped at last, tired out by our comedy; Agathe made me a sign which I understood; I left the room, the door of which she locked behind me, and stole on tiptoe into Raymond's, where I found him shivering and half dead with terror in front of a beefsteak with potatoes. I locked the door before approaching him, and put a finger to my lips; we had the aspect of two conspirators. Raymond spoke so low at this time that I could hardly hear him.

"He's in there," I said, pointing to the next room.

"Oh! I know it only too well; I heard him. But how did it happen?"

"We thought he had gone downstairs, and we opened our door; but he was on the watch; he saw Agathe and came in. Then there was a terrible scene, for he suspected that she came here with you; I'm not the one of whom he is jealous."

"Parbleu! I know only too well that it's I. I saw plainly enough just now that he didn't believe what I told him. He had doubts; perhaps he saw us coming along the boulevard."

"That is quite possible; you are so infernally imprudent! When you arrange such a party as this, you should take a cab, and enter the restaurant by the rear door."

"That's so; you are right; we ought to have come in from behind! but I promise you that I'll go out that way."

"He thought at first that I was in your confidence, that I was here solely to help you. In fact, I am exposing myself to some risk in your behalf."

"Ah! my dear Dorsan! never while I live shall I forget what I owe to you!"

"However, things are beginning to calm down. Agathe has succeeded in making him listen to reason; she told him that she came here for no other purpose than to watch him; she's playing the jealous lover now."

"Oh! that's delicious! charming! these women always find a way out of everything!"