Chapter XXX: Good Friends

On waking the next morning, Master Hugonnet remembered nothing of his debauch except his dispute with the little clerk, with whom he was now furiously angry. As he arranged his shop, he cried:

"Can anyone imagine such a sly, impertinent knave! To propose to me to make pomade for him out of vile things, and to ask me if it would make hair grow!--He had a very cunning leer as he said that, the horrible dwarf!--Just imagine, my girl, a little man with a nose so turned up that you can see nothing but two holes in his face; and making sport of me for all that, because he had a few crowns in his pocket, won in gambling hells, no doubt. If I find him again, I'll give him another good thrashing! I don't propose to have the Basoche insult bath keepers!"

Ambroisine let her father give vent to his bile. Then she approached him and smiled.

"Father," she said, "you didn't talk like that last night when you came home from the wine shop! Then you adored this little dwarf; you shed tears of regret because someone had beaten him."

"Really! I must have been drunk then?"

"Why, yes! rather."

"I must cure myself of that failing."

"Oh! father, a single failing may be excused in one who has so many good qualities; the world is not perfect."

"You spoil me, my child; but as for you, I know of none but good qualities, not a single fault!"

"Do you remember, father, that someone knocked last night, near midnight, during the storm?"

"No, I don't remember."

"But you do remember at least the horrible storm, that lasted almost all night?"

"Very vaguely; why?"

"If someone had come to ask me for hospitality in that weather, should I have done wrong to grant it?"

"It is never wrong to do a good deed, even though it fall upon ingrates."

"Well, father, someone came--all drenched and shivering; that person was very unhappy--with no place to go for shelter. And so I took her in and gave her a night's lodging; she passed the night in this house, and is here still."

"She is here--where, pray?"

"In my room."

"In your room!"

And Master Hugonnet's brows began to contract, but Ambroisine hastened to add:

"That person, father, is Bathilde, the daughter of your friend Landry."

"Landry's daughter here! and she passed the night here, you say? What on earth has happened at her father's house? What's the trouble?"

"Oh! father, some very terrible things have happened in your friend's house."

"Tell me all about it, my child."

Ambroisine, with downcast eyes, told the story of Bathilde's liaison with the young Comte de Marvejols, of Dame Ragonde's return, and of the terrible catastrophe which had followed the discovery of that mystery.

Hugonnet listened, his face betraying the interest he took in the story; at times he clenched his fists, his features contracted, his eyes blazed with anger; but at the last, when Ambroisine described the condition in which she had found Bathilde in the street, at midnight, when the rain was falling in torrents and the thunder roaring almost incessantly, then Master Hugonnet could no longer resist his emotion; tears dimmed his eyes, and he could not help muttering:

"Ah! that was too much! they were too harsh! they were without pity in their anger!--Why, the poor girl might have died!"

"Yes, indeed! a little later, and I should have found her dead!" cried Ambroisine, putting her arm about her father's neck. "Ah! you would not be the man to drive your daughter away like that, without pity, without mercy--to turn her out of doors, where she would be exposed to the fury of such a storm! No, no! no matter how guilty I might be, you would not treat me so, father! you love your girl too dearly!"

Hugonnet had not the strength to reply; he could do no more than wipe his eyes and kiss his daughter.

"I have told you all, father," Ambroisine continued; "I have even told you the name of Bathilde's seducer; but I implore you to keep the secret; for if Master Landry should discover it, he would fight with the count; and if either of them should be killed, the poor girl would be still more to be pitied."

"Very good, I will hold my tongue! but this seducer must be punished! Let me undertake that duty."

"No, father, no; you must not interfere in this business at all. I beg you not to. I propose to see Comte Léodgard. Bathilde believes that he still loves her, she is convinced that he will repair his wrongdoing, that he will restore her honor by marrying her."

"He! Comte Léodgard! that scapegrace, marry Landry's daughter! the daughter of a bath keeper!--Do not hope for that! He will never marry Bathilde, never!"

"Oh! father, if she should hear you, think of her despair!--Well, I shall take no rest until the count has undone the wrong he has done her; nothing will stop me, nothing deter me from attaining that end! You see, I am strong and determined, father; I resemble you--I am brave. Let me act, I beg you; let me see the count myself, and take whatever steps are necessary to make Bathilde happy once more!--I do not know whether it is simply my longing for success, but something tells me that I shall succeed."

Hugonnet pressed Ambroisine's hand.

"Do as you think best; you are a good girl, and I have confidence in you."

"Oh! thanks, father! And now, won't you come with me and say a word of consolation to poor Bathilde, who will not stir from my room and dares not show herself to you?--Come, father, and see her, I beg you; if you do not, she will think that you are angry because I made her welcome; that will add to her grief, and she has quite enough now."

Hugonnet allowed his daughter to take his hand and lead him to her room, where she softly opened the door.

At sight of Ambroisine's father, Bathilde fell on her knees and hid her face in her hands. But when Hugonnet's eyes fell on the poor girl, whose sufferings had already made inroads on her beauty, he forgot her fault and remembered only her misfortune.

He ran to her, lifted her up, and kissed her, saying:

"I am not your judge, I am your friend, as I used to be your father's. Would you like me to go to see him, and entreat him to be kind to his daughter?"

"Oh! you are too kind, monsieur. But I am afraid that you would do no good; perhaps, indeed, the anger of my parents would be redoubled if they should learn that you know of my wrongdoing."

"But suppose that I should go to see Landry and pretend to know nothing about it?"

"That would be better, father," said Ambroisine; "you can see how they receive you, and whether they mention their daughter."

"They will not mention her!" said Bathilde, sadly shaking her head. "When they turned me out of the house, they said to me: 'Never show your face here again; we shall not recognize you, for hereafter we have no daughter!'--So, you see, they will not mention me."

"Courage, my child, courage! It is impossible that their anger will not die away finally. Meanwhile, this house is yours, my daughter will be your sister, and I will try to replace those who have withdrawn their affection from you."

Bathilde kissed Hugonnet's hands; and Ambroisine threw her arms about her father's neck, crying:

"Ah! if I didn't love you already with all my heart, I believe that I should love you more than ever at this moment!"

Left alone with Ambroisine, Bathilde, who had but one thought, one hope, hastily scribbled this note to Léodgard:

"My parents have found out everything, and they have turned me out of their house. Ambroisine has taken me in; she is like a sister to me. But without you, Léodgard, I cannot hope for pardon. I must tell you what I dared not tell you before, something that makes me glad and miserable at once: I am a mother! Oh! my dear, remember your oaths, and come, come quickly, to give your child a father."

* * * * *

She handed her letter to her friend and said:

"It's on Place Royale; you will find the place, won't you?"

"Never fear," Ambroisine replied, placing the paper in her bosom. "Place Royale is not very hard to find; I passed through it not so long ago, on my way home from Vincennes, where I had been to see my godmother; she gave me a message for somebody who lives on Place Royale.--Ah! I shall never forget that day; for on the road that I took---- But, great heaven! here I am telling you things that don't interest you; and I read in your eyes that you wish that I had started before this with your letter. That is natural enough, since what you have written is sure to interest the count so deeply.--Come, be calm, I am going--I am going at once!"

"Dear Ambroisine! what torment, what trouble I cause you!"

"Will you be kind enough not to say that? I tell you once more that your not being in your father's house now is my fault. If it had not been for that infernal idea of mine of taking you to see the Fire of Saint-Jean, you would still be on Rue Dauphine, working by your mother's side. As I am the prime cause of the trouble, the least that I can do is to try to repair it."

Ambroisine left the house, walked very fast, did not stop on the way, and reached Place Royale in less than half an hour. She asked at a shop where the Hôtel de Marvejols was; it was pointed out to her, and in a moment the girl saw the heavy gate leading into the courtyard swing open before her.

"What do you want?" cried the concierge, in a rough voice, and without leaving the large armchair in which he sat at the back of his lodge.

"I would like to speak to Monsieur le Comte Léodgard de Marvejols."

"He is not in."

"Will you have the kindness to tell me at what hour I can find him?"

"Never!"

"What! never?"

"No; monsieur le comte no longer lives here, he doesn't sleep in monsieur le marquis his father's house, and he never comes here; so, you see, you will never find him here."

"Then, monsieur le concierge, will you kindly tell me where monsieur le comte lives now, and I will go there."

"I don't know where monsieur le comte lives; besides, it is none of my business to give his address!"

"But, monsieur, I must speak with monsieur le comte; it is absolutely necessary!"

"That is none of my business."

And the concierge closed the door of his lodge with a most unamiable air.

Ambroisine remained in the courtyard, in despair at the unsuccess of the step she had taken, and unable to make up her mind to go away. At that moment old Hector, the marquis's valet, came from a porch at the rear and crossed the courtyard. He saw Ambroisine, and as beauty always exerts a charm, even over old men, he approached the comely girl and said, observing her distressed look:

"What is the matter, my pretty maid? Do you wish something here?"

"Yes, monsieur; I hoped to find someone, and I am told that he is no longer here."

"Whom do you seek, my child?"

"I desire to see the young gentleman of the house, monsieur--Comte Léodgard."

"My master's son!" rejoined old Hector, with a profound sigh. "Ah! this is no longer the place to look for him; Monsieur le Comte de Marvejols is no longer to be found under his father's roof. Nearly a month ago he ceased entirely to come to the house; and monsieur le marquis, although he tries not to show it, is deeply grieved, I can see."

"But, monsieur, if monsieur le comte no longer lives here, he must live somewhere, unless--mon Dieu!--unless he has left Paris--France?"

"No, no, my child, don't be alarmed!" replied the old servant, compressing his lips with an expression in which there was a faint suggestion of cunning; "monsieur le marquis's son has not left Paris. Oh! he leads too merry a life here to have any idea of going away!--And are you so very anxious to see him, my pretty maid?"

"Yes, monsieur, it is so important! A certain person's repose, her happiness, is at stake. I have a letter to give to Monsieur Léodgard; and your concierge will not tell me where I can find him."

"But I do not believe that he knows. Since monsieur le comte ceased to live with his father, monsieur le marquis never speaks of his son, and he will never hear his name mentioned. But I, who, without making any pretence, know what goes on in my master's heart, have made inquiries without saying anything to him about it; I talked with the valet of one of Monsieur Léodgard's friends, and I learned from him that monsieur le comte occupies a very pretty, elegant house a long way from here--in Rue de Bretonvilliers. It is close by Ile Saint-Louis--a new street recently laid out, in a very deserted quarter. But it seems that that does not prevent monsieur le comte from enjoying himself immensely in his new abode, where he gives fêtes, or rather orgies! for our young gentlemen do not know how to amuse themselves in any other way. Probably fortune, which used to treat Monsieur Léodgard so ill, has ceased to be adverse to him. Well, well! card playing has its chances; there are times when luck favors you as much as it has been against you. If monsieur le comte is lucky now, so much the better; for his father would never pay his debts again.--But I stand chattering here, and my master may need my services."

"Rue de Bretonvilliers, you said? Thanks, thanks, monsieur!"

"I don't know the number, but there are very few houses on that street as yet, and it will be easy for you to find it."

"Oh! yes, monsieur, yes, I will find it; thanks for your kindness."

"Go, my child; I hope that you will not make a useless journey!"

Ambroisine left the Hôtel de Marvejols and started off again; but she reflected on what the old servant had just told her. If the young count, since he had ceased to live with his father, led a more dissipated life than ever, of course he had entirely forgotten poor Bathilde.

That thought weighed heavily on Ambroisine's heart; she had never had any confidence in the oaths which the count had sworn to her friend; but it shook neither her resolution nor her courage.

Rue de Bretonvilliers, begun in 1615, contained as yet very few houses; the new buildings were, in many instances, separated by walls enclosing gardens or unimproved land. The _belle baigneuse_ observed one house of a refined but curious style of architecture, consisting of three wings, two of which were on the street, while the third, which was much smaller, was at the rear of an immense courtyard.

Something told Ambroisine that that was Léodgard's residence, and she did not hesitate to knock there.

"Monsieur le Comte de Marvejols?" she inquired of an old woman whom she saw in the courtyard. The old woman nodded, then took a trumpet from her pocket and put it to her ear.

Ambroisine repeated her question, speaking very loud.

"Monsieur le comte is not in!" replied the deaf old concierge; "what do you want of him?"

"I have a letter for him."

"Give it to me."

"But I would like an answer."

"You can come again."

"When must I come to find the count?"

"No one ever knows; he doesn't say."

"But you will hand him this letter to-day?"

"Yes, if I see him."

"Do you not see him every day?"

"No; he is at liberty not to come home!"

"What sort of a life is he leading?" thought Ambroisine.--"At all events, you will give him this letter as soon as he returns?"

"Yes, if I see him."

"What! you do not see him when he returns?--you, the concierge?"

"Bless me! he has his own key; and he doesn't always knock."

"Well! try to see him as soon as possible!"

Ambroisine went home, far from satisfied with what she had learned.

Bathilde was impatiently awaiting her; she told her all that she had done, all that the marquis's old valet had told her concerning the young count. But Bathilde, far from being dismayed, was persuaded that her lover had left his father's house only to be more free to offer a home to his future wife.

"He will have my letter soon!" she cried, taking her friend's hand; "he will know my plight, all that I have had to suffer for him; in a word, he will know that I am a mother.--Ah! you will see, Ambroisine, that he will come at once to comfort me."

Ambroisine made no reply; but she did not share her friend's hope.

Master Hugonnet came again in the evening to see the poor girl, and said to her with a disappointed air:

"I went to Master Landry's to-day."

"You have seen my father!" cried Bathilde; "well?"

"He received me very coolly, very shortly, in fact; he answered only a few curt words to what I said. His face was dark and careworn."

"Oh! my poor father! it is I who am the cause of his unhappiness!"

"But he did not say a word about you.--As for your mother, when she saw me, she turned her back and disappeared; perhaps she was afraid that I should read her grief in her eyes."

"Oh, no! monsieur, she was afraid that you would mention her daughter's name."

And Bathilde turned away to weep, thinking how sad it was to be an object of shame and misery to those whose existence it was her duty to make glad.

Two days passed, and Bathilde received no news of Léodgard. Each hour, each minute that went seemed a century to the poor girl, whose eyes expressed the anxiety and suffering that were devouring her heart.

When the second day had gone, Ambroisine, realizing her friend's tortures, said to her in the morning, after kissing her:

"While my father is busy with his customers, I will run to Rue de Bretonvilliers."

"Oh, yes! do go, Ambroisine; it is not possible that Léodgard has received my letter and has not taken the slightest step toward consoling me. If he will simply come and tell me that he still loves me, that will give me strength to endure my suffering. Either the concierge has not seen him or she has forgotten to hand him my note."

"That is what I propose to find out."

"If he is at home, try to see him, to speak to him, to obtain an answer from him, so that I may at least know what my child's fate will be!"

"I know all that I am to say to him."

"But do not reproach him. You know how impatient, how quick-tempered he is! Avoid irritating him."

"I shall think of you, and, like you, I will be indulgent."

Ambroisine left the house. Bathilde hardly breathed all the time that she was absent. At last her friend returned, but her face did not announce cheerful news, and her voice trembled as she said to Bathilde:

"The concierge swore that she gave the letter to her master the day before yesterday, before night; she knows nothing more."

"And you did not see him?"

"'Monsieur le comte is absent,'--that is what she told me.

"'But at what time must I return in order to see him?' I asked the woman.

"'I don't know, myself; monsieur le comte goes in and out without saying anything to me, and he won't even allow me to ask him if he will return at night. "That does not concern you!" he told me once, and with such an angry, threatening look, that I vowed I would never ask him another question.'

"That, my poor girl, is what that woman told me."

"He received my letter two days ago!" murmured Bathilde, weeping; "and he has not been here, he has sent me no answer!--Mon Dieu! can it be that what you told me of Comte Léodgard is the truth? Was I simply one of those victims to whom a man does not become attached, only a caprice, only one seduction more?--Oh! if that is true, if I am no longer loved by the man for whom I ruined myself, if he has abandoned me forever--Ambroisine, I shall not have the courage to endure my misery!"

"Yes, you will have that courage," said Ambroisine; "heaven will give it to you; indeed, you will derive it from your very situation. When you think that you are a mother, you will remember what you owe your child--that child whom you love already, although you do not know it yet; but who will make you forget all your troubles, when its little arms try to embrace you, when its mouth calls you by the sweet name of mother, when the sounds of its voice reach your heart."

Bathilde wiped her tears away and looked up at her friend, saying:

"Oh! you are right! one cannot desire death when one is a mother.--I will be brave; for my child's sake, I will try to think only of it."

"But do you think that you must abandon all hope?--No, indeed! I am not easily rebuffed, I tell you! I did not find the count to-day; well, I will go there ten times, a hundred times; and, if necessary, I will pass whole days and nights in front of his house, until I am able to see him and speak to him; and unless he goes in and out like a ghost, or has the power to make himself invisible, I shall end by meeting him. Meanwhile, I say again, patience and courage, and think of your child!"