Chapter VIII: Front Matter (8)

"I am dead!" cried Raymond, as he fell. Before making sure of that fact, I tried to cut my way out of my prison, for the front of the cabriolet was blocked by vine poles. I succeeded at last in getting out. I was not hurt, not even a bruise. I thought myself very lucky to escape with nothing worse than a fright. Since it was written that I should not attend Madame de Marsan's entertainment, I made the best of it and decided to endure as philosophically as possible the further misadventures into which Raymond was sure to lead me. I went to inquire into my companion's condition. He was groaning pitifully; was he really hurt? If so, that would make our plight decidedly serious. I walked up to Raymond, who had fallen half out of the cabriolet, with his face against the ground. I shook his arm, and succeeded, not without difficulty, in making him raise his head. The rain had already formed pools, and the plowed earth had stuck to Raymond's face. He told me in a feeble voice that he could hardly see.

"That's nothing; turn your face toward the sky, and I'll answer for it that the rain will very soon wash off the mud that covers your eyes."

"You are right, my dear friend; I am well washed now, and I begin to see more distinctly. Ah! I breathe again!"

"Are you really hurt?"

"Wait till I feel myself; I'm sore all over, but I believe that I haven't any serious wound."

"That's very fortunate!"

"Ah! my friend! what a terrible accident!"

"Whose fault is it?"

"Look you--I lashed the horse, because you were in a hurry to get there."

"I advise you to put your crazy performances on my back!"

"Here we are in a pretty plight! and the rain coming down in sheets! It seems as if everything was in a conspiracy against us. Look! I even smashed my hat when I fell."

"Parbleu! what do I care for your hat!"

"Look you, perhaps you care for my head, which is entirely unprotected. I am wet through, covered with mud, battered and crushed. What a cold I shall have! And my clothes! It was well worth while to dress! Open-work stockings; and see, there's my shirt frill on that pole. Mon Dieu! it wouldn't take much to knock me over!"

"Come, come, Raymond! damnation! be a man! You're worse than a baby. We must get out of this somehow."

"Where's our groom?"

"I'm afraid the poor devil hurt himself when he jumped down, and I should be very much at a loss to know where to look for him."

"If we could raise the carriage!"

"But one wheel came off when it went over."

"The devil himself took a hand in the job."

"I'm afraid the horse has hurt himself on these poles.--This pleasure party is like to cost us dear, neighbor."

"Oh! you're very lucky to be able to take it so calmly! For my part, I am crushed and furious at the same time!"

"Come with me; let's try to find a house, some place of shelter at least; but let us notice carefully what direction we take. Are you coming?"

"Wait a minute, till I make a cap of my handkerchief, to protect me a little."

We left the vineyard. I was obliged to take Raymond by the arm to get him to move along; he was trembling so that he was afraid of falling at every step. We walked for some ten minutes, constantly floundering in holes filled with water, which it was too dark for us to see. I swore and Raymond whined, anticipating an attack of pneumonia. At last we discovered a little cottage, and the light that shone through the windows indicated that the occupants were not in bed; for peasants are not in the habit of keeping candles lighted while they are asleep.

"We are saved!" cried Raymond; and he recovered the use of his legs to run toward the house. But I held him back, fearing that he would announce our presence in such a way as to prevent our being admitted. I myself knocked at the door of the cottage.

Peasants are rarely distrustful; the occupants of the cottage, being very poor, had no fear of thieves. They opened the door, and I saw a peasant woman in a large living room, surrounded by half a dozen children. I explained our mishap, while Raymond, who had already entered the room, peered into a great kettle to see what the peasants had for supper, then came back to me and informed me that we shouldn't find much of anything in that house.

"What can I do for you, messieurs?" said the peasant, as she watched Raymond prying into every corner.

"Are we far from Montmorency?"

"No; a fourth of a league at most."

"We don't know the roads about here; be good enough to let us have your biggest boy for a guide; we will pay you."

As I spoke, I gave the woman three francs, which instantly disposed her to make herself useful to us.

"That's easy enough," she said; "Julien, go with these gentlemen.--If you're tired, I can let you have some donkeys."

"We shall be very glad of them, for, first of all, we must find our groom, who must be somewhere in the neighborhood; and then we will try to rescue our horse, for he ought not to pass the night in the fields."

"Come, Julien, get the donkeys out of the stable.--I ought to tell you that there's no saddles for 'em."

"No matter; they will be very useful to us all the same."

The donkeys were produced, and I paid on the spot for their hire; I took a third one, for our groom, whom I hoped to find. Raymond hesitated a long while before mounting his beast; he wanted saddle, stirrups, and pads; he claimed to be able to ride like Franconi, but he could not sit on a donkey. Tired to death by all his lamentations, I started off with the young peasant, who rode the third donkey, and set out to find the groom. Raymond, seeing that I had ceased to listen to him, decided to follow me, clinging with one hand to the tail and with the other to the mane of his steed. He urged the poor beast along in my wake, and we were in the fields once more.

I let my donkey take his own course. I called the groom at the top of my lungs, and my companions did the same. At last someone answered us; we rode in the direction of the voice and found our young man lying on the ground, under a tree. The poor devil had sprained his foot and could not walk. I put him on the peasant's donkey. It only remained for us to unharness our horse, whom we found on the ground beside the cabriolet. The rain had allayed the poor beast's ardor, and he finally allowed us to raise him to his feet. Our guide assured us that he was uninjured; he mounted him, took his place at our head, and the cavalcade set out for Montmorency.

All these details had taken time. It was after half-past eleven when we left our little carriage, which I commended to the young peasant's care; he promised to fetch a blacksmith to mend it at daybreak. We could have gone much faster but for Raymond; he compelled us to stop every few yards; his donkey refused to go, or else insisted on turning into another road; and he uttered heartrending cries when we did not wait for him. Luckily, the rain had ceased and it was a little less dark, so that we could see where we were going.

At midnight we caught sight of the first houses in Montmorency. Raymond gave a joyful cry, whereat his donkey was frightened and jumped, throwing its rider off into a muddy path, where he lost his shoes. As we were a little ahead, Raymond was obliged to pick himself up unassisted; the fear of losing us lent him strength, but his steed did not wait for him, and he ended his journey running after the beast, which he caught on the square just as we were dismounting. All the people of the inn had gone to bed, but we knocked until they answered. They were surprised that travellers should arrive so late; they would be far more surprised, I thought, when they saw the condition we were in, especially Raymond, whose last fall had plastered him with mud from head to foot. They admitted us, however, but, as I had foreseen, they were taken aback by our appearance. But I soon succeeded in telling my story. The landlord, seeing that he had to do with people of standing, apologized to us and hastened to show us to our rooms. They gave a room to our groom; the horse was taken to the stable, and the peasant went home with his donkeys.

I ordered a brisk fire made, to dry our clothes, and requested the host to serve whatever he had ready, for our misadventures had not taken away our appetites. We were served with a chicken, ham, salad, and fruit. While I took my place at the table, Raymond went into his bedroom, where he ordered another fire lighted, and asked the girl who waited on us to come to rub his back, so that he might avoid an illness. She was a robust peasant of some twenty years, not of the type to be afraid of a man. Still, Raymond's proposition struck her as rather peculiar; she looked at him with a smile and seemed to hesitate.

"Go with him," I said to her, "and don't be afraid; monsieur is thinking of nothing but his health, and I'll answer for his behavior."

While my companion was being rubbed, I did justice to the supper, and dried myself thoroughly in front of the fire. The bedroom door was not closed, and I could hear Raymond urging the servant on and complimenting her on her skill. The buxom damsel must have been tired, she had rubbed him so long, but Raymond seemed to enjoy it. Soon I concluded that the fire and the servant's ministrations had entirely restored my friend's animation, for he began to be enterprising, and I heard the girl exclaim that she would not stand it. And I had answered for his behavior! How can you trust anyone?

But the noise continued in the adjoining room; and at last the girl fled into the room where I was, roaring with laughter, and pursued by Monsieur Raymond in shirt and drawers and a pair of the innkeeper's slippers.

"Won't you keep quiet the rest of the night, Monsieur Raymond? Am I to have no peace with you?" said I.

"Oh! what eyes, my friend! Ah! the hussy, if she would!"

"Yes, but the trouble is I won't, Monsieur Insolent!"

"Come, Raymond, let the girl go to bed; it's late and this is no time to rouse the whole inn. I've no desire to get into any more trouble for your lovely eyes.--Leave us, my girl! we don't want anything more."

"I say, my dear, where's your room; do tell me where it is?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"Tell me, all the same, you sly minx, and you won't be sorry."

"Well, I sleep upstairs, at the end of the hall."

"Good; I understand."

The servant left us, and Raymond sat down at the table.

"I trust," said I, "that you don't propose to run after that girl? She's fooling you."

"No, no! I was joking, that's all. She's as solid as a rock!"

"She ought to know whether you are or not, for she rubbed you long enough."

"Yes, indeed; the hussy knows!"

"It doesn't seem to have disposed her in your favor."

"Bah! didn't she tell me where her room was?"

"Don't you trust her."

"Oh! I've no desire to go after her, as you can imagine; but, one thing is sure, and that is, that if I chose, I should have everything my own way."

"I don't believe it."

"Do you want to bet?"

"No; because you would indulge in some pleasant little performance which would make my night as agreeable as my evening has been; and I confess that I've had enough of that sort of thing for to-day. Good-night, Monsieur Raymond! I am going to bed, and I advise you to do the same."

"Yes, neighbor, yes, I'll do the same. Sleep well. Your servant!"

Raymond took his candle with an offended air and went to his room, locking the door behind him. I laughed at the crazy fellow's pretensions and folly, and got into bed, where I soon fell asleep. A noise, the nature of which I could not determine, soon woke me. I listened, and called to Raymond, to find out if he were ill; he did not answer, and I heard nothing more, so I went to sleep again. I did not wake until eight o'clock; the sun was shining brightly into my room, indicating a lovely day. As I was at Montmorency, although against my will, I would at all events enjoy the delightful walks in the neighborhood and have a taste of the pleasures of the country before returning to Paris. Our cabriolet could not be repaired as yet, and we should have to wait for it.

While I was dressing, I called to Raymond and asked him if he wanted to take a walk before breakfast. He did not answer; apparently he was still asleep. But his door was ajar, and I seemed to remember that he had closed it the night before. I entered, and called him again:

"Come, come, lazybones! it's late; wake up!"

No answer. I looked at his bed: he was not there. So he had risen earlier than I and gone out before me. I was turning away, when I saw Raymond's coat, waistcoat, and breeches spread out on chairs, where he had put them to dry. What! he had gone out without coat or breeches? that was very strange! Thereupon, I remembered my neighbor's schemes, his dallying with the servant, and the wager he proposed when he was eating his supper. My uncertainty was at an end: Monsieur Raymond had set out to prove to me that he was not to be resisted; he had gone to lie with the stout damsel who had wiped him and rubbed him so thoroughly. But inn servants do not stay in bed until eight o'clock; the girl must have been up long before. Why had Raymond not returned to his bed? Did he want the whole household to know where he had passed the night? I did not see the point of that very clearly; however, I determined to ascertain the fact. I called and rang; the same servant appeared; her aspect was unchanged; she had a smile on her lips, her big eyes were wide open, and her manner alert and determined. She had anything but a bashful air; I supposed that she was probably accustomed to nocturnal visits. I looked at her and laughed.

"Did you call, monsieur?"

"Yes, my child."

"What can I do for you?"

"How is our groom?"

"Oh! he's all right, monsieur; they've put a compress on his foot."

"And the carriage?"

"That don't amount to much--only a matter of a couple of hours. But the man who owns the vineyard where you upset followed after the blacksmith; he wants his pay for the damage you did on his land; he says you pulled up more'n a dozen vines."

"Good! we have got to pay him because we nearly killed ourselves on his poles; let him have a hundred sous.--By the way, my lass, tell me now what you've done with my friend?"

"With your friend?"

"Yes; the gentleman who came with me."

"Oh! the man that lost his shoes, and that I had to rub so long!"

"Exactly."

"Pardi! I haven't done anything with him, and I wouldn't have anything to do with him, although he was after me like a thirsty dog! Mon Dieu! what a fellow!"

"It's no use to pretend, my dear; he slept with you; I don't see any harm in that, but where in the devil is he now?"

"What's that you say? he slept with me? Bless my soul! that's a good one! It's a lie, d'ye hear! I don't sleep with anybody that don't suit me, and your big baby didn't suit me at all. Has he got the face to say that? Ah! I'd tear his eyes out if I heard him!"

"It seems to me that when you tell him where your room is, you shouldn't make so much noise because of what I've said to you."

"My room! I told him where my room was! Good Lord! do you mean to tell me---- Ha! ha! ha!"

The servant, who had turned purple with wrath, suddenly began to roar with laughter. I waited a long while for that outburst of merriment to cease; the buxom creature held her sides, and was obliged to sit down before she could speak. She recovered herself at last.

"Let me tell you, monsieur, that the door I mentioned to your friend ain't the door to my room at all, but it leads into a big room like a loft, where there's a lot of sun and it's always dry as a bone; that's why the master picked it out to keep the fruits he's going to preserve, such as pears and apples and grapes; and then provisions, such as bacon and ham and sausages!"

"Whatever you choose; but I suppose he keeps the room locked?"

"Yes, monsieur; but, for all that, he swore that things kept being stolen; and for the last few days, I don't know whether it's to catch the thieves or not, but I've noticed that the door was only latched."

"And that is where you sent my companion?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I don't see what he can have been doing there all night. But he must be somewhere. Come, my girl, take me to your storeroom."

"I'll go and get the master, because we ain't allowed to go there."

"I don't care for the prohibition; I must find my companion, who can't have gone to visit the Hermitage or to walk in the valley, in his shirt and drawers."

"That's so; it ain't the custom."

Paying no heed to the servant, who went to tell her master, I left my room, ascended the stairs, and walked through a long corridor, at the end of which I saw a door. It was at some distance from the inhabited portion of the house; and I could understand that Raymond might easily have called without making himself heard. But why had he remained there? That is what I was determined to know. I pushed the door, which was not locked, and saw Raymond with one leg in a trap, sitting upon a pile of hams, where he had fallen asleep.

My arrival made him open his eyes. He held out his arms with an expression which I cannot describe.

"Ah! my friend! my savior! set me free, I implore you!"

"What in the devil are you doing here?"

"I am caught like a rat in a trap, as you see; I can't budge. I've been here since one o'clock this morning; I shouted and called, but no one came, and I had to make the best of it. When I found that no one heard me, I sat down on the first thing I could find, and at last I fell asleep; but I ache in every limb. I shan't forget Montmorency!"

I was sorely tempted to laugh, but Raymond's long face aroused my pity. I was trying to release him from the trap, but to no purpose, when our host arrived with the servant. At sight of the latter, my poor companion made a horrible face, while the girl laughed till she cried.

"Aha! morgué! so I have caught my thief!" said the landlord, as soon as he caught sight of Raymond; but when he came nearer, he was greatly surprised to recognize the guest to whom he had lent his slippers. Raymond told a not improbable story of a trifling indisposition which surprised him in the night and compelled him to seek a certain place which he thought was upstairs; and in that way he had fallen into the trap set in the storeroom.

Our host apologized profusely. He alone knew the secret of the trap, and he hastened to release my companion. Raymond went to his room to dress; but he was in a savage humor and did not care to inspect the outskirts of Montmorency. He was afraid that the night he had passed on the hams, in his shirt, would give him the rheumatism, and he longed for the moment when we might start for Paris. I might have joked my neighbor on the hard luck that pursued him in his _bonnes fortunes_, but I was considerate and held my peace. I left him to rub his own shoulders, legs, and posteriors; and, after breakfasting, sallied forth alone to visit those delightful spots which Grétry and Jean-Jacques still adorn; for men of genius never wholly die. I will not describe scenes with which the reader is as familiar as myself; I should teach him nothing, and if I should make any blunders they would be detected; but if some day I visit a distant and desert country, if I see some Gothic château or some chapel tumbling to decay, I promise you a glowing description of it; for then I shall be able to say whatever comes into my head, without fear of contradiction.

Let us return to Raymond. He waited impatiently for my return from my walk. The cabriolet was mended, the horse harnessed, and we were at liberty to start. I helped in my two invalids, for Raymond was little better off than the groom; he could hardly move. I took my seat between them, and, after paying the innkeeper's account, which included the slippers in which my companion returned to Paris, we started for the capital, where we arrived without accident, because I did not allow Monsieur Raymond to take the reins. On reaching our abode, we dismissed the cabriolet and gave the groom something by way of compensation for his sprained foot, which would keep him in the house a few days. I paid everything and presented to my companion a statement of our expenses overnight, as follows:

_F. C._

For the cabriolet, which we kept one day longer than
we intended 30 00

For the peasant woman and her son, who acted as our
guide and helped us to pick up our horse 6 00

For the hire of three donkeys at midnight 9 00

For repairing the cabriolet 12 00

For injury to vines 5 00

For accommodation at the inn, lodging, supper, and
breakfast 28 00

For slippers for Monsieur Raymond 2 50

For the servant who rubbed Monsieur Raymond 3 00

For fire on two hearths, a most unusual thing in inns 2 00

For the groom, who sprained his foot trying to stop our
horse 20 00
______

Total 117 50

On examining the items of expense of our pleasure party, to which he might have added his costume, which was almost completely ruined, from the hat to the shoes, Raymond heaved a profound sigh, and he was rather long about taking from his purse the fifty-eight francs seventy-five centimes that he owed me. Our account being adjusted at last, we betook ourselves to our respective apartments.

XX

SUSPICIONS OF THE MIND.--APPREHENSIONS OF THE HEART

Thanks to my neighbor, I had not availed myself of Madame de Marsan's courteous invitation; but I proposed to go soon to make my excuses to her, and I would be careful to go alone; it seemed to me that that would be preferable in every way.

Doubtless Caroline was awaiting me impatiently; I must make haste to put an end to her anxiety. I had promised to return during the night; but unforeseen events---- It was after two o'clock in the afternoon, when I hastened to Rue Caumartin.

This time she was not at her window; but could I expect her to give herself a twist in the neck in order to see me a moment sooner? No! I was too sensible to demand that. I went upstairs and rang--no answer. She had gone out! She had probably got tired of waiting for me, and had gone out for a walk, perhaps to make some new purchases. There was nothing for me to do but to go away and return; but I concluded to ring once more. I did so, to no purpose. I went downstairs in an ill humor, because I was annoyed; nothing annoys one more than a postponed pleasure. I had no right to be angry because she had gone out; still, it seemed to me that she might have waited for me. I walked away, scratching my ear; indeed, I believe that I scratched my head. Was it a presentiment? Alas! I had never yet found a faithful woman! But I had vowed not to distress myself beforehand; that never does any good. I determined to do my best not to distress myself afterward either! I should be more certain of being happy.

As I turned into the boulevard, I saw her. What a costume for a morning walk! She caught sight of me and seemed embarrassed. She came toward me, however. We both smiled, but I believe that neither of us felt any inclination that way; it is so easy to distinguish a forced smile!

"Ah! here you are at last!"

"Yes: does that surprise you?"

"I didn't expect you so late."

"I quite believe that you didn't expect me."

"Have you just come from my rooms?"

"Yes; and you?"

"I have been for a little walk."

"What a dress!"

"I don't see anything uncommon about it."

"Not in comparison with the one you wore on Rue des Rosiers?"

"You always have something unkind to say!"

"I don't see what there is unkind in what I said."

"I suppose you'd have me go out in cap and apron!"

"They wouldn't be unbecoming to you."

"But I have no desire to wear them."

"Oh! I believe you!"

"To hear you, anyone would think that before you knew me I was a stupid, awkward country girl!"

"I am well aware that you were not an innocent maid."

"Are we going to stay here on the boulevard all night? I am going home; are you coming with me?"

I hesitated; but I went with her. When we were in her apartment, Caroline joked me about my severe air. In truth, what right had I to reproach her? I was far from amiable sometimes, I knew; and a man who scolds and grumbles is seldom loved. True; but a man who is loved never appears to scold; he is always right. I kissed Caroline, and peace was made. We dined together, and I took her to the theatre; but although I did my best to amuse her, she did not seem to enjoy herself very much. She appeared to be distraught, preoccupied; I was almost tempted to find fault with her, but I restrained myself, for she would have said that I was always complaining! But if she had been as she used to be, I should have had no cause to complain. Ah! I say again, when a man ceases to be lovable, it means that he is no longer loved.

It was near midnight when I went home. A secret hope led me to grasp the knob hurriedly. No bouquet! and yet it was the day! Could Nicette have forgotten me? That would have caused me a pang, a very sharp pang. But what childish nonsense! How could I expect her to bring me flowers all the year round, when I did not condescend to go to her to bid her good-morning? In the depths of my heart, however, I was not indifferent to those tokens of her remembrance of me; I was touched by them, much more, perhaps, than I supposed; I realized it from the grief that I felt at her neglect; I had become so accustomed to that homage! It seemed to me that it was my due. Why should I conceal it? I flattered myself that Nicette loved me; I believed her to be capable of constancy; and while I did not choose to abuse her love, I was not at all sorry to inspire it. I determined to investigate her conduct; I determined to see her, to speak to her. I would rise the next morning at six and prowl about the little flower girl's booth. What strange mortals we are! For a whole month I had neglected Nicette; and because I thought that she had forgotten me, I was consumed by a longing to see her again, to know what she was doing and what her sentiments were! Was it love, self-esteem, jealousy, vanity, or simple curiosity on my part? Call it what you please, it was as I have described it.

As for Caroline, I determined not to torment myself any more about her; she was either faithful or unfaithful; in the first case, I was wrong to suspect her; in the second, she deserved neither my love nor my regrets. That is a very fine dilemma which I propose to all jealous lovers, present and future. But they will reply that when a man is able to talk sensibly he is not in love. To that I have nothing to say, for I am inclined to think that it is true.

I was up at six o'clock. At that hour I was quite certain not to meet any acquaintances before whom I should blush to be seen speaking to a street peddler. I soon reached the place where Nicette was accustomed to display her wares. But I saw nothing; could it be that I was too early? had she moved to another quarter? I accosted a messenger whose stand was a few feet away; those fellows know everything.

"My friend, wasn't there a flower girl who used to stand in front of this house?"

"Yes, monsieur; she was here up to a week ago."

"And she no longer stands here?"

"Oh! she isn't very far off. Thirty yards or so farther along you'll see a little shop; that's where she is now."

"A shop, do you say?"

"Yes, monsieur; it isn't very big, but it's well arranged, all the same."

I turned to walk away--but perhaps that man could tell me something. Nicette had a shop; what was I to conclude from that? I trembled to think! Had some other man been more fortunate than I? had she listened to some other man? and did another possess that treasure which I might have obtained and which it had cost me such a struggle to respect?

I returned to the messenger, put some money in his hand, and began to question him.

"Do you know this flower girl?"

"Yes, monsieur, I know her--not very well, though, for she's a bit proud; she don't talk much to anybody but her customers; and even then you mustn't say too much, or she'll send you about your business. Oh! she's a good girl, I tell you! She's virtuous, and the virtuous ones are always noticed."

The man's praise of Nicette caused me the keenest delight; I should have been sorry to learn that I could no longer esteem her.

"You say that she's virtuous, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur; we messengers know what's what; and then, I see everything that goes on. It isn't that Mamzelle Nicette lacks lovers. Oh! pardi! the whole quarter, if she chose! she's so pretty! and she has a fine lot of customers. It's hardly six weeks since she set up on this street; but the young men soon spied her, and there's a whole mob of dandies that come to buy flowers, just to make love to her, you understand. But Mamzelle Nicette don't sell anything but bouquets. I must do her that justice. She won't listen to the swells any more than the footmen; and when some sly fellow orders flowers of her, to have her bring them to him, he gets caught, for she just sends them by the wigmaker's little girl."

I walked away, overjoyed by all that I had learned; in two bounds I was in front of Nicette's shop. She was already arranging her jars of flowers on boards placed outside, in the street. When she saw me, she gave a cry of surprise, dropped the carnations she had in her hand, blushed scarlet, and could hardly stammer:

"What! is it you, monsieur?"

I smiled at her astonishment and entered her shop, where I seated myself on a stool and looked at her.--How pretty she was! Joy made her even prettier, and glistened in the look with which she met mine.

"Is it really you, Monsieur Dorsan, you, in my shop? Ah! I didn't expect such a pleasure! I had stopped hoping for it!"

"Why so, Nicette?"

"Why--it is so long!"

"That is true. But I have things to do which make it impossible----"

"Oh! I believe you, monsieur. Besides, aren't you your own master? and how can you give a thought to a girl who sells flowers?"

There was something so touching in the way she spoke, that I was deeply moved. How could I ever have forgotten such charm, such innocence, such susceptibility? I could not understand it.

She was still standing in front of me; I took her hand, and I believe that I was actually on the point of drawing her down on my knees. She made no resistance; she glanced anxiously about, but had not the strength to go away from me. What imprudence! what was I doing? We were in full sight of passers-by, and someone might come in at any minute. She had nothing but her reputation, and I was about to besmirch it! Poor child! she would sacrifice it to me, in her dread of displeasing me.

I dropped her hand and moved away from her, looking toward the street. She understood me, and thanked me with her eyes.

"So you were able to hire a shop, Nicette?"

"Yes, monsieur; I've made a lot since I've been in this quarter. I am economical and spend very little; I am sure that I can get along all right. I don't think I did wrong, did I?"

"No; I know that you are behaving as well as possible."

"You know it?"

"I have never doubted it. Your bouquets have shown me, moreover, what a grateful heart you have."

"Oh! can I ever forget what you did for me?"

"Haven't you made any acquaintances on this street?"

"No, monsieur; I don't want to make any."

"Aren't you bored, being all alone?"

"How can I be bored? I always have something to think about?"

"What do you do in the evening?"

"I read, and I am learning to write."

"Do you know how to write?"

"A little; before long I shall know how to write well, I hope. There's an old gentleman who gives me lessons sometimes."

"What need is there of your knowing any more than you do?"

"That's true, monsieur; if you don't want me to, I won't learn any more."

"Oh! I don't say that. Study, Nicette, since you enjoy it; you weren't born to sell flowers. But take my advice, and don't try to rise above the condition in which fate has placed you; it rarely succeeds."

"Oh! I'm not trying to do anything of the sort, monsieur; I'd just like to be not quite so stupid as I used to be."

"My dear girl, you may be ignorant, but you can't be stupid; you will always be charming; your natural wit does not need the resources of education to attract esteem, any more than your charms need the help of art to win admiration. Ah! Nicette, be always as you are now, as I first saw you! Do not change!"

She listened to me in silence; her sweet glance approved all that I said; we understood each other so well! But impatient customers were already beginning to look at her flowers; I felt that I must go. I said adieu, but I continued to stand in front of her. It was impossible to take a kiss, I realized that; she divined my thought, and we both sighed. To part so coldly! Ah! if we had been in my room! I was certain that I had but to say the word, and she would come; but I refrained from saying it, for she would have been lost. I pressed her hand and fled. I felt that I must fly from her, in order not to adore her.

XXI

CONFIDENCE

As a fortunate change in our destiny reconciles us to life, as a lucky throw of the dice brings us nearer to wealth, as a noble deed reconciles the misanthrope to mankind, as the acceptance of a play calms the wrath of an author, as a bottle of old wine makes the drunkard forget his pledges, as a sunbeam causes the traces of the storm to disappear, so the sight of a pretty woman makes us forget our virtuous resolutions, her love banishes from our hearts the memory of our last mistress's perfidy, and her virtues reconcile us to women in general, whom we take a vow to shun whenever we are deceived, and whom we do not shun, because it is not in nature to do it.

Thus the sight of Nicette always led me to esteem her more highly. I reproached myself for sometimes speaking ill of a sex which contains models of sensibility, refinement, and sweetness, and which often redeems a weakness by a hundred estimable qualities. The result in this instance was that I thought I had done wrong to suspect Caroline, that nothing in her conduct ought to arouse my jealousy, and that, by reproaches and unfounded distrust, we often embitter a heart that we might have made ours forever.

I even went so far as to say to myself that it was my own fault that I had been deceived so often, and that I had invariably done the opposite of what one should do to retain a woman's love. We go very far with the syllogisms that we propound to ourselves. At the rate at which I was going on, I might have ended by satisfying myself that the infidelities of our female friends are simply the consequences of our behavior toward them, when I happened to pass Tortoni's just as Raymond went in with a man of some sixty years, with an awkward figure, and an inane, disagreeable face, who was obliged to use a cane to support his left leg, but whose costume denoted wealth and his manner a remnant of dandyism.

I was not at all anxious to sit down with them, despite Raymond's entreaties; he exclaimed at once that we must breakfast together. I pretended not to hear him, and took my place in a corner, at some distance from Raymond, of whom I had fought shy since our trip to Montmorency. But, as I drank my chocolate, I noticed that the conversation of the two gentlemen was very animated. I was convinced that the gouty old fellow was telling his friend about some amorous affairs, which he took pains to vaunt in the highest terms so that he might still pose as a gay young rake. Would he not do better, I thought, to attend to his infirmities? He rose at last, and I supposed that Raymond would go with him; but, no: he remained behind and joined me at my table.

"Good-morning, my friend! Well! have we recovered from the fatigue of travel?"

"You are the one to answer that question. Thank heaven! I didn't sleep on a pile of hams, with my leg caught like a plump lark!"

"Ah! the sly hussy! I admit that I looked a good deal like a sparrow; but I don't feel it now, I rubbed myself so hard yesterday! I used up two bottles of cosmetic for the skin, and three phials of Ceylon oil; so that I have recovered all my elasticity this morning. Tell me, do you know that man who was with me just now?"

"No."

"That was Monsieur de Grandmaison."

"I never heard of him."

"He's a very rich man, enormously rich!"

"He's enormously ugly!"

"He's an ex-financier, contractor, promoter."

"Yes, I understand."

"He gives delightful balls."

"Not for himself, surely."

"Oh! he's still quite a rake."

"He doesn't look it."

"Because he drags his leg a little; but that doesn't prevent his making conquests."

"From buying them, you mean."

"That's what I mean; but it all comes to the same thing. Between ourselves, I admit that he didn't invent gunpowder, and that his education is confined to the rules of subtraction and multiplication, which he understands perfectly. But still, for all that, he has the prettiest women in Paris."

"That doesn't speak well for the prettiest women in Paris."

"He was telling me just now of a new intrigue he is on the point of consummating. Ha! ha! it's most amusing! She's a ravishing young beauty, and he is going to steal her from a young man."

"Some kept woman."

"It seems that the little one is worth her price, and that she hangs back; and then, too, the young man, who is jealous no doubt, keeps her very close. For all that, they've seen each other--at the window, in the first place; then, letters and propositions. Grandmaison, who knows how to manage such affairs, talked about cashmere shawls and diamonds! The little one's a coquette, and it seems that her young lover keeps her on a bourgeois footing. The poor fellow will soon be plundered."

I had a feeling of uneasiness, which as yet I dared not analyze; Raymond's story, to which I had listened mechanically, interested me deeply at last; the words _window_, _cashmere shawls_, and _diamonds_ aroused vague suspicions in my mind, which I blushed to harbor when I recalled Monsieur de Grandmaison's age and appearance. My self-esteem refused to admit that such a rival could be preferred to me; but a secret voice told me that self-esteem often deceives us. I determined to ascertain the truth, and I proceeded to ask Raymond certain questions, which, I was sure, would prove to me that I was wrong to torment myself.

"Where does this Monsieur de Grandmaison live?"

"Rue Caumartin, in a magnificent house that he owns; it's just at the end of the street, near the boulevard."

I felt a shudder run through my whole body, my gorge rose, a weight descended on my breast--all in a second, and as the result of a mere word. I continued my questions, however, affecting the utmost tranquillity.

"And this young beauty?"

"Lives just opposite him, in a small house where there's no concierge, on the second floor front. Grandmaison saw her first at her window; it's a broad street, but he has an excellent glass that he had made to watch the ballets at the Opéra. It's a little telescope; it brings everything right under your eyes, and you can imagine how pleasant it is, while a dancer is making a pirouette, to fasten it on----"

"Well, go on: this young woman?"

"As I was saying, he assured himself with his glass that she was young, pretty, well built, and not faded. Oh! his glass is invaluable for that!"

"But the lover?"

"The lover doesn't live with her. He goes very often to see her; but he doesn't sit at the window, naturally; so that Grandmaison has only caught a glimpse of him, for she is careful to leave the window as soon as the young man arrives."

"Well?"

"Well, everything is going as smoothly as possible. Grandmaison took the little one to a closed box at the Opéra night before last, the lover being in the country."

At that point, I could no longer control myself, and, entirely unconscious of what I was doing, I struck the table between my neighbor and myself such a violent blow that the cup of chocolate bounded up into his face as he leaned over the table to speak to me. The bulk of the liquid deluged Raymond's waistcoat and shirt frill. He jumped back, startled by the gesture that had escaped me. Ashamed of having allowed my trouble, my wrath, my frenzy, to appear, I tried to recover myself; I composed my features and apologized. Raymond, uncertain whether he could safely approach me, asked for a glass of water to clean his face.

"Pardon! a thousand pardons! my dear Raymond, I don't know what caught me then.--You were saying that, the day before yesterday----"

"You gave me a terrible fright. Are you subject to nervous spasms?"

"No, no! it was mere absent-mindedness.--You were saying----"

"The devil! you ought to look after that. Thanks to you, I have got to go home to change my waistcoat and shirt."

"Oh! that's nothing.--So, the night before last he took the young woman to a closed box at the Opéra, eh?"

"Yes, yes.--Is there any more on my face?"

"None at all; you look splendid. Go on."

This compliment restored Raymond's good humor; he tucked his frill out of sight and resumed the conversation.

"Yes, they were there, in a box----"

"So, it's all over, is it?"

"Oh, no! not yet. The beauty hangs back, you understand, and Grandmaison isn't the man to push matters so fast--with his bad leg, he needs all the conveniences. Oh! if it had been one of us two, that would have been the end; we are sad rascals, you know!"

"But since then?"

"He saw the little one again yesterday morning, outside the walls. He promised to give her a magnificent cashmere shawl, genuine Turkish, to-night, if she'd take supper with him at his house; moreover, a complete apartment, a lady's-maid, a carriage at her service, and a hundred louis a month, to say nothing of presents, if she would agree to stay."

"Well?"

"She has accepted."

"She has accepted!"

I sprang to my feet so suddenly that Raymond recoiled and looked at me uneasily.

"Did it take you again, neighbor?"

"No, nothing's the matter. Let us go out and get a breath of air."

And I took Raymond's arm and led him away. He followed me, making a wry face. Doubtless I pinched his arm without noticing it, for he begged me to let it alone; but I did not hear him.

"My dear Dorsan, your muscles keep contracting; let my arm alone, please."

"Oh! these women! these women! But why do I feel this weight at my heart? for I do not love her."

"Let me go, my friend, I entreat you!"

"Oh! it's because it is cruel to be constantly deceived in this way! to be fooled again and again! and for whom, I ask you?"

"I don't know what you ask me, but let me go; you hurt me; I shall be obliged to call for help."

"But is it really she, after all? I must confound her.--Raymond!"

I turned toward my companion, and not until then did I notice his piteous expression and terrified eyes; I released his arm, and, becoming a little calmer, asked him what the matter was.

"The matter! Faith! you seem to have attacks of brain fever; you squeeze my arm so that you make me yell, and you utter exclamations that I don't understand."

"I was thinking about something that I'll tell you of later. But let us go back to this intrigue of your friend: it interests me very much. Monsieur de Grandmaison sups to-night with his new conquest?"

"Yes, to-night."

"I am very curious to see this woman who you say is so pretty."

"Faith! so am I, for I don't know her any more than you do, and I am looking forward to seeing her."

"What! you are to see her?"

"Certainly; I am invited to the supper, with five or six agreeable roués, intimate friends of Grandmaison. As he is naturally a little stupid, when he has told a woman that he'd like--you understand--he can't think of anything else to say to her to amuse her; and as he desires to be sparing of his pleasures, because he's not so robust as you and I are, he reserves his ardor for the night; he always invites a number of friends to supper, in order to put his charmer in the right mood."

"A most excellent device, and very pleasant for his guests!"

"You must understand that we always get something out of it. These women, when they have a large stock of susceptibility, are never satisfied with Grandmaison, who's an invalid!"

"I understand: you are his friend and deputy."

"I am whatever anyone wants me to be! Oh! we have great sport at these little supper parties! we laugh like lunatics! The food is delicious and the wines exquisite! no constraint, no ceremony; we joke and sing and drink; and the jests, the puns, the remarks with a double meaning, the spicy anecdotes, the smutty couplets! There's a rolling fire of them; everybody talks at once, and nobody hears what the others say; it's delicious!"

"You make me regret that I am not one of you."

"Would you like to be, my dear fellow? Parbleu! if you would, I will venture to introduce you."

"Really! could you do it?"

"I can do anything I choose! you know very well that everything succeeds that I undertake."

"I had forgotten that. But this Monsieur de Grandmaison doesn't know me."

"What difference does that make? I know you, and that's enough! Introduced by Raymond, you will be welcome."

"Do you think that I might venture?"

"Why, of course! So long as a man is hilarious and tells amusing stories, he's sure of being well received at Grandmaison's; that's why he's so fond of me."

"Oh! if it's only a matter of providing amusement, I promise you some for this evening."

"You're our man; it's agreed, then. Meet me at the Café Anglais at ten o'clock; that's the hour of meeting."

"I will be there, I give you my word."

"But if you will accept my advice, you'll take a little orange-flower water to calm your nerves."

"Never fear! I shan't have another attack."

"Good-bye, then, until ten o'clock to-night!"

Raymond left me, and I reflected long upon all that I had learned. The woman was Caroline; I could not doubt it; and yet a feeble ray of hope still gleamed in the depths of my heart. I determined to go to her, but to conceal my feelings, and to try, if possible, to read her heart, to detect her treachery in her eyes. But, above all, I would be sensible, philosophical, and try to penetrate myself with the truth of these two lines:

"Let dandies rage, let fools cry lack-a-day;
The wise man, cozened, silent goes away."

XXII

THE LITTLE SUPPER PARTY

I arrived at her apartment. My appearance did not seem to embarrass her; she greeted me with a smile and spoke to me as usual. Could it be that I had suspected her wrongfully? But she did not observe my agitation! The secret excitement which I strove to conceal would not have escaped the eyes of love! They see everything, divine everything! And Caroline asked me no questions, although I was on fire and talked at random; although I was momentarily on the point of exploding and could hardly refrain from outward manifestations of the torments I was undergoing!--No, she did not love me.

I told her that I intended to pass the day with her. I fancied that I could detect embarrassment in her glance; but she speedily recovered herself.

"You always give me pleasure by staying with me," she said at last, in that soft voice which had fascinated me at our meeting on the boulevard. Ah! such voices are as deceitful as the others!

In vain did I try to compose my features and assume a cheerful air; I could not manage it. I felt as if something were choking me, suffocating me. I had had that feeling so often!--I went to the window, but instantly turned away; I must not run the risk of being recognized in the evening. Oh! what a tedious day it was! I put forward the dinner hour; never, I think, was a dinner so dreary to me! Caroline complained of a headache; but I did not complain. If I could only have made love to her! I tried; but her replies seemed commonplace beyond words to me. A conversation between two people who have ceased to love each other is woefully stupid.

I suggested that we go to the theatre. She declined; her headache was growing worse, and she felt very uncomfortable.