Chapter II: Part 2

“O Honorine! how unkind you are!”

Edmond’s appearance put an end to this conversation. He entered the room very modestly, apologizing for his presumption. One is generally well received when one displays some fear of coming inopportunely. The young man’s courteous, gentlemanly demeanor and his reserved manners prepossessed Honorine in his favor. As for Agathe, the flush that overspread her cheeks, her confusion, her eyes, which she was afraid to turn upon the new arrival, demonstrated clearly enough that his presence caused her the most intense emotion; and her voice was almost inaudible when she replied to Edmond’s greeting and inquiry for her health.

But when the first awkward moment had passed, the young man, reassured by the cordial welcome he had received, became amiable and sprightly, recovered his spirits, and his conversation soon afforded much amusement to the ladies, to whom he gave all the news of Paris. Then he spoke enthusiastically of the house, the situation, the outlook.

“We also have a very pretty garden,” murmured Agathe.

“If I were not afraid of being presumptuous, I would ask to see it.”

“With pleasure, monsieur; landed proprietors, you know, are always flattered to exhibit their property; and it should be more excusable in us than in others, we have been landed proprietors such a short time!”

They walked in the garden, which the young man found charming, as he did the whole house. Agathe began to be less embarrassed, she recovered her gayety, laughed at the slightest provocation, and, when she did so, disclosed such fresh red lips and such pretty teeth that it would have been a pity for her not to laugh, in very truth.

“It is very good of you, monsieur,” said Honorine, “to remember your promise and to think of coming to see us. But perhaps you know someone at Chelles?”

“No, madame, absolutely no one. The desire to present my respects to you was quite sufficient to bring me here; furthermore, I was anxious to know if you were satisfied with your purchase.”

“Yes, monsieur, very well satisfied. Agathe and I like this neighborhood very much.”

“Have you plenty of society?”

“We might have, if we wanted it; but we do not seek it; society is often a nuisance in the country. We have a call now and then from the local doctor, an old man and rather pleasant. I think that we shall go no farther; what we have seen has given us no desire to join in the festivities of our neighbors, has it, Agathe?”

“Oh! no, indeed! tiresome eccentricities--perfectly intolerable with their chatter, in which there is never an interesting word. It’s so amusing to listen to that! What a difference when one is with people who--whom we like! then the time passes so quickly!”

“Yes, indeed; too quickly, in fact; for I fear that I presume too far, that I incommode you by prolonging my call.”

“Oh! no, monsieur, our time is entirely at our disposal; and if there is no necessity for your hurrying back to Paris----”

“Not in the least, madame; I too am master of my time--too much so, indeed.”

“Have you no business?”

“Pardon me, I trade on the Bourse. I am thinking seriously about earning money.”

During this dialogue between Edmond and Honorine, Agathe frequently glanced at her friend, and her eyes seemed to say:

“Well! do you propose to let this young man go away like this? Aren’t you going to invite him to dine with us? He was so courteous to us in Paris; he certainly deserves to have us pay him that compliment.”

Honorine understood Agathe’s pantomime perfectly, but she was amused by her impatience. However, when Edmond again spoke of going, she said:

“If you are in no hurry to return to Paris, monsieur, stay and dine with us; you will have a very simple dinner, but we shall enjoy your company longer.”

“Really, madame,” stammered Edmond, bowing in acknowledgment of the invitation, “your invitation causes me so much pleasure--it is very bold of me to accept--and yet I haven’t courage enough to refuse.”

“Oh! then you will stay!” cried Agathe, jumping for joy; then, ashamed of having allowed the pleasure she felt to appear, she ran away, saying:

“I am going to see if the hens have laid any eggs.”

Edmond was on the point of calling after her: “Oh! mademoiselle, don’t make them lay for me!” for no one is so likely as a bright man to say foolish things, when he is in love. However, he caught himself in time, and Honorine said to him:

“You will permit us to forego ceremony, won’t you?”

“It is a sign of friendship, madame.”

“Very well; I will leave you and finish my toilet. Meanwhile, will you walk, or will you go back to the salon? You are musical, I believe; you can play on the piano; in short, make yourself quite at home.”

“Thanks, madame, thanks a thousand times.”

Honorine retired to the house; Edmond, left alone in the garden, strolled about there for some time, then entered the summer-house and sat down.

“She comes here to work,” he thought; “it is here she sits--she said so just now. Sweet girl! she blushes when I glance at her; and then she lowers her eyes; she seems moved, perturbed. Oh! if she might love me!”

And the young lover, absorbed by his thoughts, leaned against the window and looked out into the country. But he looked without seeing, his mind was busy with Agathe alone.

Suddenly he remembered Freluchon, whom he had almost forced to take the trip with him; who must be waiting for him now, to eat _matelote_, and who would be furious if he did not join him.

“Faith! I can’t help it,” thought Edmond; “he can be angry, if he chooses, but I can’t decline the invitation of these ladies, and deprive myself of the happiness of passing the day with the girl I adore. No, indeed! and Freluchon, in my place, would do the same. Besides, between friends there ought to be no formality.”

Agathe did not appear. Hoping to find her in the salon, Edmond went there; but the ladies had not finished dressing. The young man took his seat at the piano, turned over the leaves of several songs, then yielded to the temptation to sing. Edmond sang very well; his voice was sweet and well modulated, and he had in addition taste and expression, which constitute the greatest charm of every person who sings; moreover, he accentuated the words perfectly; when he sang you did not lose a syllable; and it is so uninteresting to listen and not understand!

The lovely song called the _Val d’Andore_ was on the piano. Whether it was that the thought that he was at Agathe’s piano, or his pleasure in knowing that he was near her, had augmented his powers, certain it is that the young man had never sung so well, that his voice had never been so sweet and pure. And the two friends, who, after completing their toilet, had returned to the salon, stood at the door to listen, and did not move a muscle for fear of losing a word.

But Agathe flushed and turned pale alternately as she listened to that melodious voice, which went to her very heart.

“Oh! how beautifully he sings!” she whispered; “oh! my dear! what a voice!”

“Hush!”

Agathe was silent; but a moment later two great tears rolled down her cheeks. Honorine saw them and touched the girl’s arm.

“Upon my word!” she whispered, “you are crying now. What does this mean?”

“I don’t know, my dear friend! I don’t know what the matter is; but I am very happy!”

“Will you be kind enough to wipe your eyes and not show how susceptible you are to music. Really, I am almost sorry that we invited this young man to dinner.”

“Oh! it’s all over, my dear; it’s all over; it won’t happen again.”

Edmond having ceased to sing, the two young women entered the salon.

“You sing very well, monsieur,” said Honorine; while Agathe, still all a-quiver from the effect that Edmond’s voice had produced upon her, stood apart and dared not trust herself to speak.

“What, mesdames, were you listening to me? If I had known that, I should not have dared to sing.”

“You would have been very foolish, and we hope, on the contrary, that you will continue, although you know that we are here.”

“If it will give you any pleasure, madame, I will do whatever you command. But may I not hear you and mademoiselle, also?”

“Oh, yes! monsieur, we will both sing; and as I have not enough talent to require urging, I will begin.”

Honorine seated herself at the piano. She had not much voice, but she put so much expression into the words she sang that one never tired of hearing her.

Next it was Agathe’s turn; she faltered, forgot words and air, confused one song with another, and sang very badly because she longed to sing better than usual.

“Do not judge her by this hearing,” said Honorine; “really, she is not in voice to-day.”

“I am hoarse!” murmured Agathe with a pout, as she left the piano.

Edmond sang again, and his sympathetic voice delighted the two friends so much that they listened too intently to hear Poucette, who stood in the doorway shouting that dinner was served. However, the young peasant’s loud voice succeeded at last in making itself heard. They left the piano and went down into the garden, where the table was laid under an arbor. To dine in the open air is one of the great joys of life in the country; and to those sybarites who fear that they may not have everything necessary to their comfort, who make a wry face if a leaf falls on their plate, if a maybug buzzes about their ears, I would say:

You do not know that the sense of well-being which one feels on breathing the pure country air always sharpens the appetite.

The dinner passed off very merrily.

Edmond was agreeable, Honorine witty, and Agathe happy. Everybody was content.

From time to time Edmond exclaimed:

“How lovely it is to live in the country! I think I must hire a little room in the neighborhood, for the summer; it would do me a great deal of good.”

“Is your health poor, monsieur?” asked Honorine in a slightly sarcastic tone, for the young man had done ample justice to the dinner.

“I am not ill as yet, madame; but my lungs are weak, very weak.”

“Why, that is strange; one would not think it, to hear you sing.”

“I assure you that a doctor, a friend of mine, tells me that the country air would do me no end of good.”

“Indeed, I believe that it can never injure anyone.”

“If I could find a small furnished apartment in this vicinity--a bachelor requires so little!”

“Oh! you can find that!” exclaimed Agathe; “it seems to me I have seen signs on the main street. It would be very nice to have you for a neighbor!”

“It is I, mademoiselle, whom it would make very happy.”

Honorine nudged her young friend with her knee, to urge her to be less expansive; whereupon Agathe made a funny little face and held her peace until some new outburst escaped her.

The girl was not as yet accustomed to society, and she said frankly just what she thought; which people are very careful not to do in society--and with good reason.

The music had delayed the dinner, and they were still talking around the table in the garden long after it had grown dark. Suddenly Poucette ran toward them with a terrified air, and said to the young man:

“Monsieur, your name’s Edmond Didier, isn’t it?”

“Yes--why?”

“Because there’s a young gentleman running all about the neighborhood, shouting at the top of his lungs:

“‘Edmond Didier, where are you? if you are not killed or eaten, answer me! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you!’ ”

“What does this mean?” demanded Honorine, while Edmond hung his head and stammered in dire confusion:

“Mon Dieu, mesdames, I beg your pardon most humbly; I remember now that I came here with a friend of mine.”

“And you have not thought of him since morning! Oh! the poor fellow!”

“Do not pity him, madame; I arranged to meet him at Gournay, to eat a _matelote_; but it gave me so much pleasure to remain with you----”

“That you left your friend to his own devices.”

“He will have eaten his _matelote_ without me--that’s all.”

“But you see that he is anxious about you, since he is rushing about the country calling you.--Try to overtake this gentleman, Poucette, and bring him back with you; tell him that the person he is looking for is here.”

“Very well, madame. I’ll find him; he’s yelling loud enough, so that you can hear him a long way.”

“Really, madame, I abuse your good nature. To compel you to receive my friend----”

“Is he not presentable?”

“I beg pardon; he’s a very good fellow,--a little free-and-easy,--I mean, a little eccentric; he is very well circumstanced, he has a handsome fortune----”

“That is a matter of indifference to us; but it seems that he must be very fond of you, to look for you so energetically.”

“Oh! that’s because he doesn’t want to go back alone.”

At that moment Poucette returned with Freluchon, who, as soon as he caught sight of Edmond, exclaimed:

“Ah! so this is the way you treat your friends; and it was to make me pass a day like Robinson Crusoe, in a horrible place where one doesn’t see a living being, that you brought me into the country with you!”

“Freluchon!--don’t you see these ladies?”

“Oh! I beg pardon, mesdames; but really that is no way to act; I leave it to these ladies--let them say whether I did wrong to cry aloud.--Imagine, mesdames, that this gentleman, who dares to call me his friend, brought me here almost by force this morning, saying: ‘We will have a delightful day; I am going to call on some very charming ladies who live at Chelles, but I shall not stay long; go to Gournay and wait for me; order a _matelote_ and I’ll be with you at four o’clock.--Very good; I turn to the right when he turns to the left. I find myself in a country which is not unpleasant to look at, perhaps, but where you don’t meet a living soul--not a peasant--not an ass--and ordinarily there are asses everywhere!--Oh! by the way, I did meet some sheep, but no shepherd--I saw only the dog--probably he acts as shepherd too. After walking about for three mortal hours in this desert, somewhat anxious concerning my plight and saying to myself from time to time: ‘Can it be that a second Deluge has swept this region?’ I returned to the modest cabaret where I had ordered a _matelote_, some fried fish, and even a rabbit _sauté_, for I should not believe that I was dining in the country unless I ate rabbit.

“The dinner was ready, but monsieur had not arrived. I waited one, two, three-quarters of an hour, until the _cabaretier_ informed me that the dinner was suffering from the delay. At that, I took my place at the table, thinking that he would come in a moment. I swallowed several pieces of eel--the _matelote_ was good, I must admit that--but he didn’t come. I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of leaving the eel?’--I ate eleven slices of it, mesdames, with fried fish and rabbit in proportion; if I have indigestion, it will be his fault! Eleven slices! and the eel was superb.

“After dinner I left Gournay and set out in quest of my gentleman; for I was really uneasy. I thought that something must have happened to him, that he had fallen into a hole--there are holes everywhere. I reached this hamlet, and, not knowing where you lived, mesdames, I called my friend--in a heartrending voice; no one answered. Faith! then I rang the bell at rather a fine house, with pilasters topped by great balls tapering to a point. I don’t know what style of architecture that is, but I suspect that it’s the _Boulette_ style. I rang rather violently, no doubt; and as I continued to call this blackguard--I beg pardon, mesdames, I mean this--scamp--it seems that I alarmed the occupants of the house, and four of them came in a body to open the door; there was one gentleman who was armed, and I saw another dancing in the courtyard. A tall woman, with the voice of a sapper and miner, said to me:

“‘What do you want, monsieur, and why are you making all this uproar at my door?’

“Thereupon I assumed an affable manner and replied in honeyed tones:

“‘Do you happen to have here my friend Edmond Didier, with whom I would like to return to Paris?’

“At that, the big man who was armed observed that I was a joker, that it was probably a prearranged scene, and the tall woman said:

“‘I don’t like jokes of this kind; I call it downright impertinent.’

“And they immediately shut the door in my face, just as the little man who was dancing posed as _Zéphir_.”

“Monsieur must have called at Madame Droguet’s!” said Agathe, laughingly.

“Ah! that lady’s name is Droguet, is it? it is well suited to her.--Appalled by my inhospitable reception, I walked on through the streets, shouting exactly like a crier announcing the loss of some object or the approach of the day when taxes must be paid; in villages they never fail to make that announcement, in order to stimulate the zeal of the taxpayers. But your servant came to my rescue, madame, and guided me here.”

“And now, Freluchon, I will reply to your reproaches in very few words. I certainly intended to join you, but these ladies had the extreme kindness to invite me to dine with them. Tell me now, if you had been in my place, would you not have done exactly as I did, and accepted?”

“It’s very likely; but I would have sent a messenger to Gournay to set my friend’s mind at rest.”

“You? you never would have thought of such a thing! And besides, there are no messengers in a village.”

“You won’t have so much difficulty in finding your friend when he has lodgings here,” said Agathe.

“Ah! do you propose to hire a house here?”

“No, not a house, but a small apartment.”

“Monsieur’s lungs are delicate,” said Honorine, “and he thinks that the country air will do him good.”

“Your lungs delicate! Well! that is a good one!”

And Freluchon threw himself back in his chair, laughing uproariously, oblivious to the glances Edmond bestowed upon him.

Honorine put an end to the scene by saying to the newcomer:

“Will monsieur have something to eat?”

“Infinitely obliged, madame; but when one has eaten eleven slices of eel, one needs nothing but exercise.--But the trains--what time does the last train leave for Paris?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“In that case, it will be well for us to start.”

Edmond realized that his friend was right; he took leave of the ladies, thanking them for their hospitable welcome; while Freluchon eyed Poucette, whose robust figure aroused his admiration.

Then the two young men went to the station.

IV

CHAMOUREAU MARRIED

Chamoureau, who was in such utter despair when he lost his Eléonore--or who pretended to be, for genuine sorrow does not act a part and make a public display of its tears; it seeks solitude and finds solace in its memories--Chamoureau had contracted a second marriage; he had become the husband of the woman whose charms had turned his head. At last he possessed the fair Thélénie, if it is proper to say that one possesses a woman when she gives herself to one without love. In my opinion one has only the usufruct in such cases.

The newly-married pair had taken a handsome apartment on Rue Saint-Lazare. Thélénie had informed her husband that she proposed to have a carriage, and he had bowed to his wife’s wishes, saying:

“My dear love, we will have whatever you wish; I shall always consider it a pleasure and a duty to gratify all your desires.”

“In that case, monsieur, you may begin by ceasing to call me _thou_; there is nothing in worse form than to thee-and-thou one’s wife; and I am a stickler for good form.”

“What, my dear love, after three days of married life, thou--you want----”

“You have thee-and-thoued me three days already, and that’s too much; I tell you again, monsieur, that in good society a man and wife don’t do it. You seem desirous to appear like a petty government clerk.”

“I don’t agree to that--but I thought----”

“Enough--it’s decided: you are not to call me _thou_ any more.”

“What! not even in the blissful moments when my affection----”

“Hush! that’s enough.”

“The devil! that will embarrass me terribly.”

From that moment Chamoureau no longer ventured to use the familiar form of address to his wife; in her presence he was like a scholar before his teacher, or rather, like a soldier before his commanding officer. He dared not speak unless he was questioned; he had no opinions, tastes, desires; Madame Chamoureau took all that responsibility on her shoulders.

As is frequently the case with women who have led very dissipated lives, Thélénie, after her marriage, assumed a very severe demeanor and bearing; she became a veritable prude, frowned if anyone made a ribald remark before her, and scolded her husband if he presumed to laugh at it. She refused to go to the Théâtre de Palais-Royal, and she could not understand how women could have the effrontery to waltz.

Such was Madame de Belleville; for the newly-married pair answered to no other name, and Thélénie had said to her husband more than once:

“Remember, monsieur, that your name is no longer Chamoureau; when anyone calls you by that name, don’t answer, but turn a deaf ear and go your way.”

“But, my dear love, there are people who have known me a long while, and who know perfectly well that my name is Chamoureau.”

“Tell those people once for all that you answer to no name but Belleville.”

“There are some who think that I live at Belleville, and that that’s what I mean.”

“Bah! monsieur, what difference does all that make? Suppose you should cease to be the friend of the pack of fools with whom you used to associate, where would be the harm?”

“That’s true; in that case, I cease to know my former acquaintances; I have a handsome fortune, and I ought not to frequent the same kind of society.”

“Oh! by the way, monsieur, there are two persons to whom I give you leave to speak, and even, if--if it will be agreeable to you to see them--you may ask them to call on us; I shall not be sorry to let them see the comfort and elegance of our home.”

“Very well, dear love; and who are these two persons whom you are kind enough to be willing to receive?”

“Monsieur Edmond Didier and his friend Freluchon.”

“Oho! why, if I’m not mistaken, you demanded, before marrying me, that I should break off all relations with those two gentlemen.”

“It is quite possible, monsieur; I may have desired it then; now I feel differently. Am I not at liberty to change my mind?”

“Oh! yes, indeed! absolutely at liberty.”

“This Freluchon was your intimate friend, I know, and I do not wish to deprive you of his company.”

“Oh! thanks a thousand times, my adored wife! I am deeply sensible of----”

“Don’t talk to me like that any more! _Adored wife!_ Anyone would think we were acting a melodrama! Call me madame, and stick to that.”

“Very well, I understand, madame--madame--and I will stick to that.”

Some days after this conversation, which will give an idea of the kind of happiness which Chamoureau enjoyed since he had ceased to be a widower, he came face to face with Freluchon one morning on the boulevard.

The latter began by laughing in his former friend’s face.

“Good-day, Freluchon; what are you laughing at?”

“Parbleu! at your expression--your new rig--your new face--for you have manufactured a new face for yourself with all the rest.”

“Freluchon, you see a very happy man.”

“No one would think it to see you walk.”

“Freluchon, I am married again; the lovely Thélénie has become my wife.”

“Aha! so that’s what gives you such an idiotic look, is it? I supposed at first that it was the result of your new wealth; but you’re married, so there’s a double explanation.”

“Yes, Freluchon, I am.”

“You have been married once already; but you were bent on doing it again, and it was your right.”

“Ah! my friend, I am the most fortunate of men!”

“You say that as if you were reciting a fable: ‘A crow perched on a tree----’”

“Tell me, Freluchon, why won’t you believe that I am happy?”

“Bless my soul! I ask nothing better than to believe it. If it is so, so much the better; but as I know these women, as I know that when they have once found a dupe to cover up their past misconduct, they acquire such authority over him that he becomes a mere nobody--an utterly ridiculous person--well, I didn’t know that that rôle would suit you. But it does suit you, so it’s all right, it’s your business. March gayly on, my poor Chamoureau, and may----”

“Oh! I beg your pardon--allow me to stop you right there. I must tell you that my name is no longer Chamoureau, or, at least, I no longer answer to that name.”

“The deuce! have you taken your wife’s name, pray? are you Monsieur Thélénie?”

“No, my name is De Belleville now.”

“What does this new farce mean?”

“It means that my wife, my superb wife, cannot endure the name of Chamoureau; it’s a weakness of hers, but to be agreeable to her, I have taken the name of the place where I was born--Belleville--and we are known by no other name now--Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”

“Gad! that’s another good one! But after all, you may call yourself Romulus if you choose; it’s all one to me, absolutely.”

“By the way, Freluchon, that isn’t all; my wife, who is very affable with me, although----”

“Although it doesn’t appear?”

“No, I mean, although--although she doesn’t mean to be--has authorized me to invite you and your friend Edmond Didier to come to see us.”

“Ha! ha! ha! worse and worse!”

“What’s the matter?”

“And it is you whom she selects for such errands?”

“Why not?”

“Poor Chamoureau!”

“De Belleville, I beg you, Freluchon; De Belleville! Don’t call me anything else.”

“Very well, my dear Seigneur de Belleville--for if you are not yet a seigneur, I am sure that you soon will be----”

“Do you think so?”

“You are well fitted to reach any height--with the help of your wife’s _cotillon_.”

“What do you mean by her _cotillon_?”

“In other words, her influence. You will thank Madame de Belleville, in my behalf; I do not expect to avail myself of her invitation.”

“Why not?”

“As I am very absent-minded, I fear that I might make a mistake, and call her Madame Chamoureau; and I am sure that she would turn me out of doors on the instant.”

“What a paltry reason!”

“As for Edmond Didier--oh! that’s a different matter. I hardly ever see him now.”

“Indeed? have you had a falling out?”

“Not at all; but he is in love, yes, very seriously in love this time; and as his passion lies in Chelles, he has hired a place in that region and he never stirs from there.”

“Chelles? I wonder if this passion of his can be a lady for whom I bought a little place at Chelles in the spring--Madame Dalmont?”

“Precisely; that is to say, it is not Madame Dalmont whom he’s in love with, but her young friend, a very pretty girl who lives with her--Mademoiselle Agathe.”

“Oh, yes! I remember--a very pretty blonde, that is true. I understand now why he took so much trouble to have that purchase concluded so quickly: Mademoiselle Agathe had already caught his eye.”

“Parbleu! when a young man becomes so obliging, so zealous, so eager to make himself useful, you may be sure that love has something to do with it.”

“So you don’t see Edmond now?”

“I see him when I go to Chelles, to his lodgings; but as I am not in love, I don’t go very often. Still, there’s a very pretty peasant girl there, Mademoiselle Poucette. But when you attempt to joke with her, why! she cuffs you as if she’d pound you to a jelly.--So, my dear fellow, you need not expect a call from Edmond. As I tell you, he is hooked this time; he’s head over ears in love; but this young woman cannot be his mistress--and then----”

“Then he will marry her.”

“That would do very well if he still had the sixty thousand francs that he did have; one can live upon that amount. But he has very little of it left; and as for the young lady, I fancy that she has nothing but her lovely eyes, and they won’t do to make soup.”

“Oh, no! money before everything! That is my wife’s principle, too.”

“I don’t doubt it; she has famous principles, has your wife!--Adieu, Chamoureau de Belleville, lord of the outskirts and of other places which I will not mention. When you have a coat of arms, I advise you to put in some stag’s horns; they look well against the background of the shield.”

Freluchon walked away, still laughing.

“That devilish Freluchon!” said Chamoureau to himself as he looked after him; “he’s always in high spirits; but I don’t believe he has thirty-two thousand two hundred francs a year! After all, I am quite as well pleased that he is not coming to our house; I am quite certain he would call me Chamoureau; he would do it on purpose!”

When he reached home, the happy bridegroom lost no time in seeking Thélénie, and telling her that he had met Freluchon. The name of Edmond’s friend instantly fixed Thélénie’s attention.

“Well, did you invite him to come to see us, and to bring his friend Monsieur Edmond?” she asked.

“Yes, to be sure, I did what you told me; but they won’t either of them come.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Freluchon has contracted the habit of laughing in everybody’s face; he joked me about my change of name, and declared that if he came to see us he couldn’t help calling me Chamoureau. As you may imagine, I didn’t insist.”

“But his friend, Monsieur Edmond Didier?”

“Oh! that’s a different matter! He has a love-affair on the brain; a passion--oh! a grand passion--Look out, my dear, you’ll drop that book you have in your hand.”

“Never mind, monsieur; what does the book matter? Go on; you say that Monsieur Edmond is very much in love--as usual--some caprice for a grisette, for that gentleman takes to that type of woman.”

“No, madame, this time it’s a respectable young woman with whom he is in love.”

“How do you know that she is respectable?”

“Because I know her; she’s a fascinating blonde.”

“You know her, you say, monsieur; and you have never mentioned it to me!”

“Never mentioned what to you?”

“Why, Monsieur Edmond’s love for this girl, whom you know, and whom you consider so pretty.”

“Why, madame, I couldn’t mention it to you, because I knew nothing about it myself; it was Freluchon who told me.”

“But you said that you knew this woman! You don’t seem to know what you are saying, monsieur! Oh! how you irritate me!”

“My dear love, do be careful; you’re tearing the lace in your sleeves--you will have it in rags.”

“Oh! don’t bother about my lace, monsieur; it suits me to tear it, apparently. But for God’s sake, tell me exactly what Monsieur Freluchon said to you about his friend Edmond. Speak, monsieur! why don’t you speak? you see that I am waiting!”

At that moment Thélénie’s eyes emitted flames, and their expression was so far from loving that Chamoureau found them less beautiful than usual. He had never seen his superb wife’s face wear such a savage, threatening expression; he felt ill at ease, he was frightened, and he stammered:

“Madame, you--you--dis--dis--distress me; what--what--what’s the m--m--matter?”

Thélénie strove to calm herself as she replied:

“Why, nothing’s the matter, monsieur; only my nerves are on edge this morning, and the slightest thing upsets me, irritates me. Go on, I am listening.”

Chamoureau repeated to his wife all that Freluchon had told him concerning Edmond’s new love-affair. Thélénie listened attentively; she tried to remain calm; to avoid tearing her lace; and she rejoined with apparent tranquillity:

“So these women who live at Chelles are known to you?”

“Yes, my dear love; it was through me that they bought Monsieur Courtivaux’s house--for twenty thousand francs, as I remember.”

“What sort of women are they?”

“Madame Dalmont, the one who bought the house, is a widow, some twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with an interesting, but sad face; of moderate means, she told me herself. Her young friend, the one Monsieur Edmond is so much in love with, must be about sixteen or seventeen--she’s an orphan, I believe--but such a pretty face! lovely fair hair, blue eyes----”

“Enough, monsieur! you have extolled this surprising beauty too much already! I shall end by thinking that you are in love with her too!”

“Ah! madame, you know very well that you alone, whose unapproachable charms----”

“And Monsieur Edmond has hired a house at Chelles? he lives there now?”

“Yes, in order to be near those ladies.”

“At whose house he visits?”

“Naturally.”

After a few minutes of silence, Thélénie said:

“Monsieur, all _comme il faut_ people have a house in the country, a villa to which they go for the summer. Of course you do not expect me to stay cooped up in Paris all summer, like a shopkeeper on Rue Saint-Denis.”

“Madame--I think--faith! I don’t know; I will do whatever you want.”

“I want a country house, monsieur; we will hire one.”

“Very well, my dear love; I will look about for one, I will read the _Petites-Affiches_.”

“Don’t take all that trouble; just tell them to put the horses in the carriage, and we will look for a house in the neighborhood that I like best.”

Chamoureau executed his wife’s orders with alacrity, while she, left to her reflections, said to herself:

“Ah! I will know this woman whom you love, ungrateful Edmond! and I will find a way to put a spoke in your love-affairs!”

Mademoiselle Héloïse, who had retained her former footing of intimacy with her old friend, because she was careful to call her nothing but Madame de Belleville, suddenly appeared, in evident uneasiness, and whispered to Thélénie:

“I say, my dear, I just saw--down in the street, standing in front of the house, that horrid man who came to your old rooms one day, so wretchedly dressed, all in rags, and who had such a strange name--Croque, I think.”

“Ah! you recognized him?”

“Yes, although he is dressed a little better than he was the other time. He has one of those faces that one doesn’t forget! he looks like a night-owl!”

“So Croque has found my trail,” thought Thélénie, “and some day he will present himself again. Oh, well! it matters little, after all; I have an idea now that I may have occasion to make use of him.”

V

THE CHERRIES.--THE RAVINE

Edmond very soon put in execution the plan he had formed. On the day after that on which he had dined at Madame Dalmont’s, he returned to Chelles alone. He did not call upon the ladies, because a second visit after so brief an interval would have been indiscreet; but he went all about the neighborhood and succeeded in finding an attractive house to let all furnished, a very short distance from Madame Dalmont’s. The house was large enough for a good-sized family; it was much too large for a single man; but the tenant could have possession at once, and it was only five minutes’ walk from Madame Dalmont’s; so Edmond did not hesitate; he hired it for the balance of the year for one thousand francs, one-half of which he paid in cash to Monsieur Durand, the owner of the property.

Two days later, the young man called at Madame Dalmont’s.

“It is a neighbor of yours,” he said, “who ventures to pay you a visit, and who, if it is not too presumptuous, will ask your permission to come now and then in the evening, to play and sing with you.”

“What! have you hired a house here?” cried Agathe, unable to restrain a joyous movement.

“Yes, mademoiselle, a summer house, belonging to a Monsieur Durand, very near that lady’s house where Freluchon was so coldly received when he went there to ask for me a few days ago.”

“Oh! I know the place,” said Honorine, “but it seems to me to be very large for a single man.”

“Oh! what difference does it make? Besides, Freluchon will come to see me often, and pass the night.”

“I thought that he didn’t like this part of the country.”

“He will get used to it; for my part, the longer I am here, the better I like it.”

As he said this, Edmond’s eyes were fixed on Agathe, and she understood perfectly why the young man liked Chelles so much.

But it was not without considerable disquietude that Honorine saw Edmond Didier take up his abode so near to them; and Agathe, who could read her protectress’s face very easily, said to her after Edmond’s departure:

“How serious you look! Are you sorry that Monsieur Edmond has hired a country house in this vicinity? You frown at me; is it my fault?”

“Your fault? yes, of course it’s your fault; and yet I can’t scold you! Why, you know perfectly well that this young man is in love with you; and that that was the only motive that led him to hire that house, which is large enough for ten persons.”

“My dear friend, I swear to you that Monsieur Edmond has never said a word to me which would lead me to suppose that--that he was thinking of me.”

“I believe you; indeed, he has not been coming here long.”

“Do you mean that you think that that young man is capable of saying unseemly things to me? Do you suppose that I would listen to them?”

“No. Monsieur Edmond seems an honorable man; he has no evil intentions, I believe; but love is a sentiment that one cannot control. If you should love this young man----”

“Well, where would be the harm, since you think that he loves me? He would be my husband.”

“Your husband! My poor girl, before marrying, you must have at least enough to live on. You have nothing, and I fancy that Monsieur Edmond hasn’t very much, either!”

“But he is always very well and fashionably dressed; he hired Monsieur Durand’s house for a thousand francs.”

“That proves that he knows how to spend money, but not that he knows how to earn it.--Come, come, don’t you take your turn at making wry faces at me. I am your second mother; I am thinking of your future, of your welfare; you ought not to be angry with me for that.”

Agathe replied by throwing herself into Honorine’s arms, saying:

“Never fear! I shall not have any secrets from you.”

The two friends had hardly finished their conversation when Poucette’s voice attracted their attention. The girl was talking to someone, in what seemed to be a threatening tone. Her voice came from the garden; the two ladies were there in a moment, and found Poucette clinging to the leg of a small boy who had climbed into a cherry tree, and continued to eat the cherries although she jerked at his leg, trying to pull him down. But when Honorine and Agathe appeared, little Emile concluded to come down from the tree.

“D’ye see, madame,” cried Poucette, “here’s the one that steals our cherries; for some time past I’ve been noticing that the cherries kept disappearing although you ladies don’t pick any; so I began to suspect something; I hid and watched, and I saw this good-for-nothing scamp, the lost child, climbing over the wall right here by the cherry tree, and in a minute he was in the tree.”

“Oh! I recognize him,” said Agathe; “it’s the boy who chased the cow that frightened you so.”

“Pardi! he don’t know to do anything but mischief, the wicked little scamp.--But I’ll teach you!”

And the peasant made ready to strike the boy, who neither stirred nor spoke, and seemed to care little whether he was beaten or not.

But Honorine stopped Poucette with a gesture; then she sat down on a bench and beckoned the boy to her.

He hesitated, but at last decided to go to her, after casting a savage glance at Poucette.

“Why do you come here to take my cherries?” inquired Honorine in a gentle voice, and looking at the little thief with no trace of anger.

He seemed astonished to be spoken to otherwise than harshly; he lowered his eyes and answered at last:

“Well! I like cherries, I do.”

“Even so, that is no reason for taking what doesn’t belong to you,--for climbing a wall. Do you know what a risk you run? If the constable had seen you he would have arrested you; he might have taken you to prison, and they would have kept you a long time perhaps, as a vagrant, a bad boy.”

“Oh! I’m too small; they don’t put little boys in prison!”

“You are mistaken! little boys are just the ones they do keep in the houses of correction until they grow up, so that they can’t loiter along the roads doing nothing.”

“Well, then, in prison I’d play with the other little boys, as you say there’s little boys there.”

“No, you wouldn’t play, because they don’t keep little ne’er-do-wells in prison to play and enjoy themselves; they make them work; and those who refuse are punished, kept on bread and water, and not allowed to speak to anyone.--Come now, think and tell me whether the few cherries you have eaten are worth all the punishments that they might bring upon you.”

Little Emile made no reply; he gazed at Honorine, furtively at first, but at last made bold to look her in the face, as if to assure himself that she was not laughing at him, and that she really meant what she had said. Doubtless the young woman’s face inspired confidence, for he seemed to reflect; and after a few moments he muttered:

“What am I to do to get cherries then? there ain’t any cherry tree at our house; and they won’t give me any money to buy any.”

“Why, instead of stealing--which is very, very wrong, even if it’s only cherries--you should just come and ask for some; and I would never refuse to give them to you! Especially if I haven’t heard of your doing any more naughty things, like throwing stones at a cow to make her run through the fields at the risk of hurting people, especially poor little children who might not have time to get out of the way. Oh! it is so wicked to hurt those who are weak and can’t defend themselves; only cowardly hearts do that.”

“Oh! I fight with big boys, I do!”

“Don’t fight at all; that will be much better.”

Then she made a sign to Agathe, who understood her and brought a little basket filled with cherries. Honorine took out two handfuls and handed them to the little boy.

“Here,” she said, “since you are so fond of cherries, take these.”

The child stared at her in surprise, and said in a faltering voice:

“What! are you going to give me some?”

“Yes, I will give you these, on condition that you won’t steal any more; do you promise?”

“Well! as long as you give ‘em to me, I don’t need to climb over the wall any more.”

And the boy, putting his hands together, received the cherries which she gave him and hugged them to his breast. Then he looked all about and asked:

“Can I go now?”

“To be sure--you are free. Go; but don’t be so naughty any more, and instead of making everybody hate you, make them love you, and you will see how much happier that will make you.”

“And will everybody give me cherries?”

“I don’t promise you that; but people will be kind to you when you are kind to them.”

Little Emile said nothing more; but he made a pirouette and scampered away, shouting at Poucette as he passed her:

“The lady’s better ‘n you!”

“Thanks!” said the young peasant; “if madame gives fruit to everybody who comes to steal it, they won’t take the trouble to climb the wall!”

“Well! what would you have had me give the child?”

“It seems to me that he deserved a good licking instead of cherries!”

“He is said to be very naughty; but on the other hand everybody scolds him and treats him harshly.”

“Sometimes they beat him, and hard too!”

“Well, I propose to try another method of reforming him.”

“You are right,” said Agathe; “_gentleness is better than violence_; I have read that somewhere in La Fontaine’s fables.”

A few days later, Edmond having gone to Paris, the two friends knew that he would not come to see them; and so, immediately after dinner, Agathe proposed to Honorine that they should go for a long walk.

“I don’t want to go in the direction of the Tower,” said Honorine; “it would seem as if we were trying to meet the owner again; and as that gentleman has not thought fit to call to inquire whether my fright had any serious consequences, I should be sorry to have him think that we cared to see him again.”

There was a faint suggestion of irritation in Honorine’s manner as she said this; but Agathe did not notice it.

“Mon Dieu! my dear,” she rejoined, “as the man doesn’t care for society, but avoids it, why should you expect him to come to see us? It doesn’t seem to me that that is any reason why we should deprive ourselves of the pleasure of walking in the direction that is most agreeable to us. For my part, I would like to go toward the Tower, and Noisy-le-Grand; for that is where that ravine is, with the cross erected on the spot where they found a young man dead. To tell the truth, I am very curious to see the place; it will make my flesh creep, but no matter; I am very desirous to see it; I have never forgotten that story that the doctor told us.”

Honorine, whose resolution did not seem very firm, replied:

“Oh, well! if you want to see the ravine and the cross--after all, it isn’t our fault that the gentleman’s estate lies in that direction; and then it would be very strange if we should happen to meet him again.”

“It isn’t likely.”

“At all events, if we do meet him, we will not speak to him--do you understand? we will simply bow to him, but we will not stop.”

“But suppose he speaks to us?”

“Oh! in that case--but he won’t speak to us, as he cares so little for society.”

“Let us start; this time I trust that we shall not meet any cows to frighten us.”

The two friends left the house. It was seven o’clock in the evening; the weather was fine, but the atmosphere was somewhat heavy and seemed to presage a storm. The young women did not allow themselves to be frightened by some dark clouds which appeared above the horizon. They strolled idly along the road to Gournay, stopping now and then to pluck flowers; and after passing through the little village, Honorine said:

“We must not take the road we took the other time, which leads toward that gentleman’s property. Let us take another road--this one, for instance.”

“But suppose we lose our way?”

“We can always find it again by inquiring. Besides, Noisy-le-Grand is in this direction.”

“But Noisy isn’t where we want to go; we want to find the ravine where the cross is that was set up in memory of the young man who was murdered there.”

“Well! that ravine, they say, is close by the road leading to Noisy.”

“No, it’s near the park belonging to the Tower, and this road takes us away from it.”

“You don’t know any more about it than I. However, we will ask.”

The two friends walked along the road, which was unfamiliar to them; it was shaded in spots by fine walnut trees and venerable acacias.

After having walked for some time, Honorine stopped.

“How dark it is!” she said; “has the night come already?”

“No, it’s the storm coming up! Oh! how black it is! What should we do if the storm should surprise us here? I don’t see any house where we could go for shelter.”

“We will stand under one of these magnificent walnuts.”

“Oh, no! when it lightens, we mustn’t stand under a walnut tree, it’s one of the trees that attract lightning.”

“What! are you afraid, Agathe, you who are always so brave?”

“A storm isn’t very pleasant when you’re in the midst of the fields! Oh! mon Dieu!”

“What is it?”

“I felt a drop of rain, a big drop.”

“Let’s walk faster.”

But they quickened their pace to no purpose: in a moment the storm burst; the rain fell in torrents and forced them to seek shelter under a huge tree whose dense foliage protected them almost entirely from the downpour.

“We are not lucky in our walks!” said Honorine; “I shall not leave our garden any more!”

“Nonsense! when it’s over we forget all about it.”

“Yes, but this one keeps on, and we are a long way from home! What an idea of yours to want to go to a place that is said to be dangerous!”

“Oho! it’s your turn to be afraid now.”

“Not of the thunder, at all events!”

“But the thunder is more dangerous than a cross set up in a ravine.”

“Ah! what a flash! it was superb!”

“It was frightful!”

“I think the rain is subsiding a little.”

“Let us go on.”

“Mon Dieu! here comes the darkness now; suppose it should overtake us before we have found our way!”

“Let us walk, let us walk; we shall certainly meet someone who will tell us which way to go.”

“Oh! how slippery the rain has made the road! We shall fall in a moment; that will be the last straw!”

“Let’s take each other’s arm, and hold on firmly.”

The two friends walked on, laughing when they almost fell, shrieking with terror when the lightning flashes lighted up the surrounding country. The rain had almost ceased, but the night was coming on, and the farther they walked, the less familiar the road seemed to them.

At last they met a peasant woman driving an ass before her; at sight of her they uttered a cry of delight.

“Madame! madame! which way to Chelles, if you please?”

“Why, bless me! you’re turning your backs to it!”

“Which way must we go, then?”

“See, take this path to the left; then turn to the left again and you’ll come to Gournay; then----”

“Oh! we know the way after that, thanks!”

“And the cross in the ravine--are we far from that?”

“The cross in the ravine! Jesus, my Lord! you want to go to the cross in the ravine! at night! What in the world do you want to go there for?”

“From curiosity.”

“The deuce! you must be mighty curious, then!”

“Is it dangerous to go by there?”

“Bless me! this much is sure, that nobody round here would want to go through the ravine at night. As soon as you get near it, you hear groans and complaints.--It’s the dead man come back, for sure.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts myself.”

“It’s plain you don’t belong round here. Well, if you take the road I told you, you’re bound to pass, not through the ravine, but by one end of it. Good-night, mesdames.”

“Will you let us take your ass to return to Chelles? we will pay whatever you choose.”

“No, no; I don’t let my ass to folks who want to go to the dead man’s cross! No, thank you! Besides, Julie wouldn’t go, either; she’d balk. Come, away with you, my poor Julie!”

And the peasant who gave her jenny the name of Julie went her way, driving the beast before her.

“We know our way now,” said Honorine; “let’s make haste, for it will soon be entirely dark.”

“The thunder is still rumbling.”