Chapter III

RECEPTION AT THE BARON DE MARCEY’S.--A SUPPER PARTY OF YOUNG MEN AND ITS RESULTS

The cab halted in front of a handsome hôtel. There was a long line of private carriages waiting to enter the courtyard; one would have thought that they were taking their owners to the Bouffes, or to see the English actors. There is not so large an audience at the Français when they are playing Molière or Racine; but our actors have not made a special study of the death agony of a moribund; they do not exhibit to us all the dying convulsions of a man who is being murdered, nor make us hear all the hiccoughs of a princess who is starving to death; those pretty little episodes are very pleasant to witness, they excite the nerves of people who need such tableaux to arouse the slightest emotion. And yet there are some people who claim that it is more difficult to act well a scene from _Tartufe_ or _Le Misanthrope_, than to imitate a scene from the Place de Grève. But let us allow every one to follow his or her taste, and let us be content to congratulate him who still enjoys a play that does not last forty years, and who is moved by a scene in which no one dies.

When he saw the throng of carriages and the brilliantly lighted salons, Robineau said to himself:

"This will be a very numerous, very fashionable and very well assorted affair!"

He at once alighted from his cab, and hurried toward the entrance, passing his hand over his curls and putting on his second glove. Then he went up to the first floor, reflecting thus:

"After all, I am as good as all these people--better perhaps. Even if they do have carriages--what difference does it make to me?"

Robineau said this to himself in order that he might not seem embarrassed and intimidated when he entered the salons; but it did not prevent his being red of face and stiff and awkward when he found himself in the midst of the guests, where he vainly sought Alfred for some time. At last his friend came to him, and, taking his arm, began by indulging in some jesting remarks concerning divers persons present. This gave Robineau time to recover himself; he resumed his self-assurance, his customary smile, and began to cast his eyes upon the ladies, thinking only of making conquests.

"By the way, your father, Monsieur le Baron de Marcey--I have not yet had the honor of paying my respects to him," said Robineau, as he gazed admiringly at some very pretty young ladies who had just entered the salon.

"My father has seen you before; must I present you to him again? It’s the same ceremony every time!"

"It’s a long time since he saw me, my dear fellow, and----"

"That makes no difference; you have one of those faces that no one ever forgets."

As he spoke, Alfred walked away to speak to some ladies, and Robineau murmured:

"I certainly have a face that--I wonder if he meant that for an epigram? that would be very becoming in him.--Ah! there is Monsieur de Marcey."

A man of some forty-eight years was passing Robineau at that moment; he was of tall stature and his carriage was noble and imposing; his strongly marked features were still very handsome, although they seemed to be already fatigued by too intense emotions rather than by years. He was a little bald in front, although his hair was still dark; lastly, his face was habitually serious and almost stern. But to those persons who could read his countenance more understandingly, the expression of his somewhat sombre glance was rather melancholy than severe. However, his black eyes grew softer, and a faint smile played about his lips whenever he looked at his son. Such was the Baron de Marcey.

"Monsieur de Marcey,--I have the honor--I am much flattered----"

The baron glanced at Robineau for an instant, then exclaimed:

"Ah! this is Monsieur Robineau, I believe?"

"Yes, monsieur, an intimate friend of your son, who invited me to come; and I took advantage of----"

"My son’s friends will always be mine, monsieur, and they confer a favor on me by coming to my house."

As he spoke, Monsieur de Marcey bowed to Robineau, and passed on to speak with other guests, while the government clerk puffed himself up and sauntered through the throng, saying to himself:

"Monsieur de Marcey is always extremely amiable to me; indeed I consider him more amiable than his son, because he hasn’t always that mocking air.--Ah! there’s the music; they are going to dance. I think I will dance, too; but with a pretty woman, for I can never keep in step with an ugly one,--it’s no use for me to try."

The orchestra had given the signal; one of Tolbecque’s lovely strains drew the dancers together from all sides, and charmed the ears of those who did not dance, but who, as they watched beauty and innocence _chasser_ and _balancer_, listened with delight to airs selected from our best composers’ prettiest operas.

Robineau addressed himself too late to several comely young ladies who were already engaged; he was forced to take a partner who had naught in her favor save her youth and a very stylish costume. He heard somebody call her madame la comtesse, and that made him desirous to distinguish himself as her partner; but she seemed to pay very little heed to his airs and graces, and replied only by monosyllables to the complimentary remarks he addressed to her.

"She’s a prude!" Robineau muttered, after he had escorted the countess to her seat; and he proceeded to invite a very attractive young person to whom also he essayed to play the amiable; but she contented herself with smiling at what he said to her, and seemed wholly intent on the dance.

"She’s a fool!" thought Robineau, as he carried his homage elsewhere. But finding that he created no sensation, despite his energetic movements and the smiles he lavished on his partners, he left the ball-room.

"After all," he muttered, "among all these fine ladies there isn’t one who comes up to Fifine! And if Fifine had a tulle gown, and a wreath in her hair, and some of those great bracelets with antique cameos--ah! what a sensation she’d make!--I’ll take a look at the écarté table. I will carelessly bet a five-franc piece.--Ah! the deuce! there are ices; I’ll begin by seizing one on the wing."

Robineau took an ice, and, in order to eat in comfort, seated himself behind two gentlemen of mature years, who were talking together in a small salon between the ball-room and the card-room.

"How he has changed!" observed one of the two gentlemen, looking at Monsieur de Marcey, who happened to pass through the salon.

"Changed! whom do you mean?"

"De Marcey."

"Oh! do you think so?"

"If you had known De Marcey twenty-five years ago, as I did, my dear Dolmont----"

"Parbleu! that’s just it--twenty-five years ago; and it seems to you that it was only yesterday--and that he ought to appear the same to-day."

"No, no, I don’t say that.--Dear De Marcey! We made the Austerlitz campaign together."

"Oho! were you at Austerlitz?"

"Yes, indeed; I am proud to say that I was; and I have been in almost every battle that has been fought since. Now, I am resting."

Robineau took his eyes from his vanilla ice for an instant, to look at the speaker. He saw a man of fifty, whose frank and intelligent face bore more than one scar; his buttonhole was decorated with several orders, and Robineau said to himself:

"This gentleman has well earned his decorations--that is sure!"

"To be sure," rejoined the old soldier’s companion a moment later, "De Marcey is not old; he entered the service early in life, as you did; but so many things have happened since that it always seems as if centuries had passed over our heads."

"For my part, when I think of my campaigns, it seems as if it had all happened no longer ago than yesterday, for I fancy that I am still in the field!"

"He is like me," thought Robineau, "when I think of my first fancy. And yet it was ten years ago. She was a _figurante_ at the Porte-Saint-Martin, and on the day of our first rendezvous we dined at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, Faubourg du Temple. It wasn’t a fashionable restaurant then as it is to-day, and there was no canal to cross to get there; but they served delicious _sheep’s-trotters_. It seems to me that I am there still. I was eighteen years old then. Ah me! one grows old without perceiving it!"

And Robineau heaved a sigh--which did not prevent his finishing his ice.

"When I say, Dolmont, that De Marcey seems changed to me, I refer to his temperament rather than to his physical aspect. If you had known him long ago--he was always in high spirits and a jovial companion; he used to laugh and joke with us. He was fond of the ladies--oh! he was a great lady’s man. But he was jealous of his mistresses, very jealous! I recall that on various occasions that tendency led him into quarrels; and indeed it was on account of it, I believe, that they married him at twenty-three to a young lady for whom he cared very little. His parents maintained that, with his jealous disposition, if he married for love he would be unhappy. And in fact his marriage began very auspiciously. I knew De Marcey’s first wife; she was a very attractive woman, and I believe that she would have made her husband very happy; unfortunately she died, a year after giving birth to a son. I learned that De Marcey married again after six years; but I was not in Paris then, and De Marcey had left the army. I never knew his second wife."

"He didn’t marry the second time in Paris, but somewhere in the neighborhood of Bordeaux. It seems that his wife’s family had an estate there, and the marriage took place on that property. Indeed, I think that he did not return to Paris with his wife until long after his second marriage."

"And what sort of person was his second wife?"

"Charming! One of those exquisite faces such as the painters succeed in producing occasionally, but which we see much less frequently in the world."

"The deuce!"

"But she had a sad, melancholy air; when she smiled, the smile seemed to conceal a secret grief. I never saw her dance, although she was very young, eighteen at most; but she seemed to shun the pleasures suited to her age, and to go into society solely to please her husband."

"And De Marcey was very fond of her?"

"Oh! he adored her; he seized every opportunity of giving her pleasure. He was untiring in his devotion to her."

"Did he have any children by her?"

"No; but the lovely Adèle--that was the second wife’s name--loved little Alfred dearly, and manifested all a mother’s affection for him. She died after three years; De Marcey’s grief was so violent that for a long time his life was in danger. At last, the sight of his son, meditation, lapse of time----"

"Yes, time! that is the all-powerful remedy. But for all that, I am no longer surprised that his humor is so changed from what it was! One may overcome the most profound sorrow, but it always leaves its traces. It is like the severe wounds, which heal, but of which one always carries the scars."

With that the old soldier rose, his companion did the same, leaving Robineau alone on his chair, which he at once quitted, saying to himself:

"It is very entertaining to listen to other people’s conversation, and it’s instructive, too; you seem to be paying no attention, but you listen; especially when people talk loud, for that means that they are not saying anything that they wish to conceal. Ah! I must listen to the conversation of some of the ladies; that will be even more amusing, because they always sprinkle their talk with wit; when I say always, I mean of course those who have wit.--Yonder are two ladies who seem to be engaged in a most interesting conversation, for they are talking with great animation. There’s a vacant chair beside them."

Robineau nonchalantly took his seat beside two pretty women, and turning his ear toward them as if without design, caught some fragments of their conversation.

"Yes, my dear love, I judged him rightly. I was wise, as you see, to distrust his protestations of love, his ardent oaths, his profound sighs! And yet you cannot conceive with what an air of sincerity he told me that he proposed to be virtuous and faithful henceforth, and to love no one but me! It is ghastly to lie like that!"

Robineau turned his head so that he could see the speaker’s face; and he saw a lovely brunette, whose vivacious and intelligent features expressed at that moment a sentiment of vexation which she tried to conceal beneath a forced smile.

"My dear Jenny, I believe that you are a little annoyed because you put Alfred’s love to the proof."

"Annoyed! on the contrary, I am delighted. I did not believe in it for an instant; his reputation with respect to women is too well established for----"

At that point she lowered her voice and Robineau could not hear the rest of her sentence; but he thought:

"They are talking about Alfred--this is delightful!--She is a person he has been making love to, no doubt. Gad! how amusing it is!"

The other lady, who also was young and pretty, replied after a moment:

"I am inclined to think that I should have more confidence in his friend, Monsieur Edouard Beaumont; he has a less frivolous, less heedless air than Alfred; and he is very good-looking, is Edouard; he has a very pretty figure."

"Mon Dieu! my dear love, I’ll wager that he is no better than other men. It is safer to distrust those cold, reserved manners, too. Nobody is worse than such men, when it comes to deceiving us poor women. With a scapegrace who makes no pretence of concealing what he is, one knows what to expect at all events."

"And that is why you have a weakness for Alfred, I suppose?"

"Oh! never! never! I laughed at his oaths of love. Perhaps it amused me a little to listen to him.--But, although he is agreeable and bright--as to loving him, oh! I promise you that I never dreamed of such a thing. Pray do not think that!"

"If you defend yourself so eagerly, Jenny, I shall end by believing that you adore him."

"Oh! upon my word, I----"

She lowered her voice again. Robineau tilted his chair a little in order to hear; but for several minutes the two friends spoke in such low tones that he could not catch a word. At last the charming Jenny observed aloud:

"You did well, very well. I am sure that it puzzles him tremendously to see us talking together, for he thought that we were at odds. Did he never talk to you about me?"

"Why, no; he talked about nobody but myself."

"Ah, yes! of course. I assure you, Clara, that I shall remain a widow; I shall never marry again!"

"Can anyone be sure of that, my dear? Remember that you are only twenty-two years old."

"An additional reason for not endangering the happiness of my life. Is not what I have known of marriage likely to make me avoid it? Monsieur de Gerville married me when I was eighteen, having never paid court to me; without any idea whether I liked him or not, he asked my parents for my hand. He was rich, so they gave me to him. However, Monsieur de Gerville was young and good-looking. I might have loved him if he had taken the trouble to try to win my love, if he had simply tried to make me think that he loved me. I was such a little idiot then! I believed whatever anyone chose. But no--I was his wife, and he would have considered that he disgraced himself by making love to me, by paying me any attention. He had two or three mistresses who deceived him; but that was much better than loving his wife, who did not deceive him. However, he is dead, and it is my duty to forget the suffering he caused me; but I confess that that taste of married life left me with a very poor opinion of men in general. I believe them to be, as a rule, selfish, inconstant, unjust to women: they must have everything, and we must do without everything; they are pleased to be unfaithful, but they demand constancy from us; they are good-humored so long as we are fortunate enough to please them, but as soon as they begin to sigh for another woman, they do not give us another thought; instead of trying to conceal their unfaithfulness by redoubling their attentions and consideration for us, they become sulky, capricious, bad-tempered; and if we are so unfortunate as to manifest any regret at the change in their treatment of us, they accuse us of being jealous and exacting!"

"O Jenny! Jenny!"

"You will find out, my dear Clara, that it is all true. In fact, what happy couples can you mention? Only those where the wives close their eyes to their husbands’ infidelities. Oh! when we let them do whatever they choose, go in and out and run after other women, without ever calling them to account for their actions, then we are what they call good wives, and they deign to offer us an arm once a month."

"I see that Alfred’s inconstancy has soured you!"

"What do I care for Monsieur Alfred’s inconstancy? I tell you again, I listened to him only for the fun of it, and I never took his declarations of love seriously. However, I am very glad that I know--that I conceived the idea of----"

Here they lowered their voices once more; and as they had reached a very interesting point, and as Robineau was most desirous to learn what the idea was that had occurred to Madame de Gerville, he tilted his chair a little more in the hope of hearing. But the weight of his body overturned it, and before he could recover himself, he rolled at the feet of the two friends.

As they had paid no attention to their neighbor, they were not a little surprised when that gentleman fell almost on their laps. But Robineau rose hastily, stammered an apology and walked away, muttering:

"They polish their floors a great deal too much! It’s almost too slippery to stand up! I don’t understand why all the dancers don’t fall on top of one another. To be sure, they walk instead of dancing.--Curse that chair! I was just going to learn the idea of that pretty brunette--Madame Jenny de Gerville. I will remember the name, and I’ll drive Alfred crazy. Ah! it’s very amusing!"

Robineau returned to the ball-room and looked about for other groups of people conversing. He heard laughter near at hand, and found that it came from two ladies who were not dancing; there happened to be a vacant chair behind them and Robineau took possession of it.

"These ladies are laughing," he said to himself; "I’ll wager that they are making fun of some other women among the company. I mustn’t miss this! I didn’t have time to look at them, but I will scrutinize them when they turn.--Attention!"

"Oh! what a ridiculous creature that man must be, and how I would have liked to see him dancing with you! You must point him out to me when you see him."

"Oh, yes! never fear; he is easily recognizable. I can’t imagine where Monsieur de Marcey found him!"

"Good!" thought Robineau; "they are making fun of someone--I was sure of it."

And he moved nearer to them, taking care not to tilt his chair.

"Just imagine, my dear love, a short, fat, heavy, awkward man, with a big nose, stupid little eyes, lips that he presses together when he talks, and hair curled so tight that he looks like a negro!"

"Ha! ha! ha!"

"And with it all, such a pretentious manner! He asked me to dance--they were just forming for the first contra-dance; I accepted, and during the dance he tried to play the amiable, but he had nothing to say except the most commonplace things, all so flat and wornout that it made me very sorry for him!--When he found that I made no reply to those entertaining remarks, he took the liberty to squeeze my hand while we were dancing!--Ha! ha! ha!"

At that point, the lady who was speaking turned, and Robineau recognized the countess with whom he had danced the first contra-dance. The blood rushed to his face. Meanwhile, the lady, who instantly recognized the gentleman of whom she was speaking, with difficulty restrained an inclination to laugh, and gently touched her friend’s knee. But before the latter had time to turn, Robineau was already far away. He was beside himself with rage, and glared furiously about, muttering:

"Well, upon my word! that woman must be a great joker! I don’t know whether it was I she was talking about, but in any event, I hope she may find many of my kind!--But she’s too ugly to have any attention.--To say that I squeezed her hand! that is false! These ugly women are forever slandering us men; it’s because they are furious at not finding any lovers."

Having lost his desire to listen to conversations, Robineau bent his steps toward the card-room, making such a horrible grimace that Alfred, meeting him beside one of the tables, stopped him and said:

"Mon Dieu! what a face you are making, my dear Robineau! Have you been having hard luck?"

"I have lost three hundred francs!"

"That’s nothing; you will win them back." And Alfred walked away, while Robineau said to himself:

"He takes things easily! That’s nothing, he says! If I had lost three hundred francs, I should never get over it! But I am very sure not to lose any such sum, as I have only twenty-one francs fifty. I must risk that. I will try to win; but they say that it isn’t very prudent to play écarté at these large parties. However, at Monsieur le Baron de Marcey’s there can’t be any but honest people. No matter; I am going to bet on the one who is winning--that’s the best thing to do.--Who is having the luck?" asked Robineau as he drew near the card-table.

Unluckily for him, the luck changed; in a very short time he lost his twenty-one francs. Thereupon, making every effort to conceal his ill-humor, he turned away from the table.

"Good-bye to the trip into the country and the dinner at the restaurant on Sunday!" he thought. "Fifine will have to dine at her aunt’s, and I will play the guitar. It was well worth while for me to put myself out, dress in my best clothes and hire a cab, to come to a grand party!--It is very amusing, isn’t it? Women who laugh at you; men who stare at you as if they would like to walk on you; gamblers who win your money without giving you time to see where you are! Fifine is right: one has much more fun at Madame Saqui’s or at the Funambules when they play _Le Fantôme Armé_.--Let us take a look at the buffet. If I can’t put ices in my pocket, I can put some oranges and cakes."

Robineau went to the refreshment room; there were no oranges left, but there was an abundance of cakes. He stuffed his pockets with them while the servants brought refreshments, and he was about to make for the stairway when Edouard appeared in front of him. The young author stopped.

"Good evening, Monsieur Robineau," he said; "I haven’t seen you before--there are so many people here!"

"True; and look you, between ourselves, I don’t consider these enormous crushes very amusing; I confess that I have had enough of it, and I am going away."

"Already? Why, it’s only two o’clock. Oh! you must stay; Alfred wants us to take supper in his apartment after the party, and talk nonsense."

"Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, if we are to have supper. The devil! if I had known, I wouldn’t have eaten so much sweet stuff. But no matter--I will stay."

"Let us walk about and look for pretty partners."

"I will gladly walk about; but as to dancing, I am done."

Robineau slapped his pockets softly, to flatten them, and followed Edouard, saying to himself:

"I am not sorry to be seen talking with an author; I will talk theatre with him, and people will think that he and I are working together on a play.--I will bet that you prefer the play to an evening party, eh, Monsieur Edouard?"

"That depends; there are pleasant parties and very tiresome plays."

"Oh! of course; but I mean to say that it is very pleasant to be an author.--I must tell you of a plot--I say a plot, but I have a dozen in my desk!--Oh! I have some astonishingly good ones!"

"I believe it."

"Plots for grand operas, opéra-comiques, vaudevilles, melodramas. Oh! I do a little of everything; I have an inexhaustible imagination, and if I had time----"

"Yes, time is always what those people lack who produce nothing."

"That is so, isn’t it? But I will show them to you. What I should like more than anything would be to have free admission to the theatres.--Ah! to be able to go behind the scenes, to see the actresses at close quarters, and the ballet-dancers, who make pirouettes, so they say, as they bid you good-evening! What a lot of conquests one might make!"

"Not so many as you think; you get accustomed to the wings, as you do to the auditorium, and you talk with a Turk or a Polish girl without noticing their costumes."

"Of course; habit--I understand; but to produce a play, to superintend the rehearsals and the performance."

"It is delightful when one succeeds; but even so, what vexations have to be undergone before that point is reached! Rehearsals where people are never prompt, where they talk instead of studying their parts, which makes it necessary to rehearse forty times what they should have learned in fifteen; actors who want to make over their parts, managers who want to rewrite your plays, actresses who don’t like their costumes, claqueurs who want all your tickets, and last of all the public, that will have none of your play: such is often the result of six weeks of discomfort, annoyances and hard work!"

"He says all this to take away any inclination on my part to write plays," thought Robineau. "All authors are like that; they try to disgust beginners. I won’t show him my plots; he would steal my ideas, and then say they were his own.--You are rather inclined to look at the dark side of things now, Monsieur Edouard," he said aloud, "because you are still sore from your failure."

"Oh! I assure you that I have forgotten all about it."

"Bah! nonsense! For my part, if I should be hissed, I think that I should be in a horrible humor.--By the way, have you seen your little sempstress again? But I suppose that she is already replaced, is she not?"

"Faith, no! I am beginning to be tired of these _bonnes fortunes_, in which, as Larochefoucauld says, there is everything except love. I think that I should prefer a little love and less pleasure."

"That is like me, I am for sentiment, for what is called pure sentiment. I have adored all the women I ever knew, even my _figurante_ at the Porte-Saint-Martin; and on their side, they have all treated me with peculiar favor; I am their spoiled child."

"You are very fortunate, Monsieur Robineau!--For my part, I would like to find--I don’t know just how to express it, but it seems to me that there should be a secret sympathy acting at the same time on two hearts that are made for each other."

"Yes, I understand you; that is what happened to me with my first inclination, whom I met at the Bal du Colisée. We fell while waltzing, both at the same time. I instantly discovered a secret sympathy therein."

Edouard allowed a faint smile to escape him, and drew near to a quadrille in which some very pretty women were performing.

"What do you think of that little blonde, Monsieur Robineau?"

"Why, nothing extraordinary; a good complexion, and youth; but she doesn’t turn her feet out enough."

"You are hard to suit! I think her very attractive; her eyes are lovely, her bearing full of grace. She does not seem to have made a careful study of dancing, but anyone can see that she enjoys it.--And what of the tall one, opposite?"

"She is not pretty; her nose is much too long, and there seems to be no end to her arms; her hair is badly arranged----"

"Well, I think that she has a very bright face, and it seems to me that, while she is not pretty, she must be attractive. I will wager that her conversation is very agreeable--And that stout brunette that’s dancing now?"

"She is a perfect bundle, and she tears about like one possessed."

"But see how light she is, despite her stoutness! What vivacity gleams in her eyes!"

"I say, Monsieur Edouard, you claim to be weary of _bonnes fortunes_, and yet you find all women to your liking; they all attract you!"

"Although I am weary of ephemeral liaisons, I did not say that I proposed to love no more; on the contrary, I am at present in search of an opportunity to fall in love in earnest."

"Well, well! so am I, messieurs," cried Alfred, who had stopped beside his two friends and had overheard Edouard’s last words. "I have a heart to place, and may the devil take me if I have known what to do with it for the last fortnight!--Here are plenty of good-looking women, however!"

"Faith! messieurs," said Robineau, throwing out his chest, "I protest that I contemplate all the ladies with a most indifferent eye. I am a philosopher, you see; besides, I have what I need, and it would be difficult for me to find anything better."

"Aha! Robineau, then you must show her to us. You must ask us to dine with her."

"Upon my word! do you mean to say that you think that she’s a woman for mixed parties? a woman to be taken where there are men?"

"Are you trying to make us think that she’s a duchess?"

"Why--look you--that might be."

"Ha! ha!--What on earth have you got in your pockets, Robineau? Are you wearing false hips to please your Dulcinea?"

Robineau blushed and put his hands over his pockets as he replied:

"It’s some papers that I forgot to take out of my coat."

"If you danced with such pockets as that, you must have produced a tremendous effect!--Ha! ha! it’s worse than Mère Gigogne!--Are these ministerial papers, too?"

Robineau turned away in a pet and threw himself on a sofa, heedless of the fact that he was crushing his cakes; and there he remained until the end of the ball, when Alfred came to him and said:

"We are going up to my rooms, Robineau; we are going to finish the night at the table, with a few faithful friends. Will you join us?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"Then make up your mind to leave your couch, to which you seem to be glued like a pasha."

Robineau followed Alfred. Young De Marcey’s apartment was above his father’s, and contained everything that luxury, refinement and variety could suggest. It was a retreat that any petite-maitresse might have envied.

Four young men, as heedless and reckless as the master of the place, soon appeared in response to their friend’s invitation, and with Edouard and Robineau completed the party.

"Messieurs," said Alfred, presenting Robineau to his young friends, "allow me to introduce an old school-mate, a very good fellow, albeit slightly irascible when you talk to him of his conquests or his employment. Do not pay any attention to the size of his pockets; he maintains that it makes him more graceful. He is a little out of temper now because he lost some money at écarté; but we will make him tipsy and he will be a delightful companion."

All the young men laughed, and Robineau followed their example, crying:

"That devilish Alfred! always joking! But, as for making me tipsy, I defy you to do it, messieurs. I have a hard head, I tell you; I have never been known to get drunk."

"On my honor, Alfred, your quarters are delightful. Everything is so fresh and bright, and decorated with such taste! It is an enchanting spot," said one of the young men, as he walked about the apartment.

"Faith, messieurs, if you like it, so much the better. But I have nothing to do with it; my father looks after everything that concerns me, and he has lately had all the furnishings of my apartments replaced, saying that what I had was not handsome enough. I let him do as he pleases."

"Nobody can deny, Alfred, that you have a most agreeable father!"

"Oh! as to that, messieurs, I do him full justice. He is so kind that I am sometimes tempted to reproach him for indulging me too much. If I incur debts, he pays them; if I want money, he gives it to me; if I express a fear that my follies displease him, he embraces me, saying: ‘You are young, and you must enjoy yourself; be happy, my dear boy--that is all I desire.’ And I give you my word, he is so kind that I often pause in the act of committing some extravagance; for I have no secrets from my father, and I should be terribly distressed if I did anything that grieved him. Yes, messieurs, his indulgence will keep me in the paths of prudence, whereas, if he had thwarted me, if he had been harsh toward me, I should have done a hundred times as many wild and foolish things."

"In short, each of you loves the other dearly," said Edouard; "and it seems to me that one should always be happy to have one’s father for a friend."

"My father was very fond of me too," said Robineau; "however, he broke a cane over my back one day because I had lost my handkerchief. He was orderly to the last degree, was my father, but he loved me dearly all the same."

"To the table, messieurs, to the table, and let us see who can say the most foolish things! After an evening of dignified behavior, it is pleasant to take one’s ease for a while."

They took their seats at the table, and attacked a fine fowl and a ham roasted in currant jelly. Those who had danced a great deal were hungry; the others were incited by their example, and Robineau forgot that he had stuffed himself with cakes, in order to do honor to the sugar-cured ham, which he considered delicious. Bordeaux and chambertin circulated freely; the conversation became more and more animated, and as they drank they laughed and jested; each had his anecdote to tell, each had some love-making adventure with which he was anxious to regale his friends; the subject of women is inexhaustible, and men are always glad to return to it, for there is no man to whom it does not recall pleasant memories.

"Messieurs," said a young man, who seemed to be rather inflammable, "there is one incontestable truth, and that is that if we wish to be loved by the women, we must not love anyone of them."

"Oh! upon my word!"

"I leave it to Alfred; am I not right?"

"Faith! I am inclined to think just the opposite; for I am rather fortunate with the fair sex, and yet I love them all."

"Very good; you love them all, therefore you love none of them; which is just what I said."

"It would be a great pity, messieurs," said Edouard, "to think that a deeply rooted sentiment may not be reciprocated; and that as soon as we are really in love with a woman, she will cease to love us."

"When a man is in love, he loses all his advantages, and he is stupid enough to be carved."

"That is true," said Robineau, "he is terribly stupid."

"The woman we love doesn’t think us stupid, when she returns our love."

"Monsieur Edouard is right," said Robineau, tossing off a glass of chambertin; "when she returns our love, why, that is another matter! it is altogether different!"

"But when she doesn’t return it," said one of the young men, "then she makes sport of us and laughs at our sighs; she makes us look like downright jackasses, and we don’t discover it."

"We don’t even suspect it," said Robineau, filling his glass with chambertin again, "and that’s the amusing part of it."

"A woman, messieurs," rejoined Edouard, "who laughs at a man because he is really in love with her, such a woman is a flirt, and it seems to me that society is not made up entirely of flirts. How many passionate, loving hearts there are, ready to respond to our love! How many women who cannot help loving a scapegrace in secret, and who exert every effort to conceal what they feel!"

"They are innumerable," said Robineau.

"Faith! coquettish or sentimental, artless or passionate, they are fascinating," said Alfred; "except, however, when they run after us, follow us and set spies to watch all our movements."

"Oh! the devil! a woman who follows a man is a horrible creature! In the first place, it’s very bad form! But such a thing is never seen now."

"Yes it is, sometimes."

"For my part, messieurs," said Robineau, who persisted in talking constantly, although his tongue was beginning to thicken, "when a woman follows me, and I discover it--for when I don’t discover it, I close my eyes--but when she follows me, I say to her: ‘My dear love, you are following me about and I don’t like it. When I choose to be with you, I will tell you so; but if I choose to speak to another woman, I don’t need your presence in order to make myself agreeable; on the contrary, it paralyzes my faculties.’"

"Bravo! bravo!" laughed the young men; "he talks like Cicero."

"Now for the champagne, messieurs," said Alfred.

"Champagne it is!"

"Yes, champagne!" cried Robineau, "and let’s see who will drink the most; I never get drunk."

The corks popped, they partook freely of the champagne, and soon everybody was speaking at the same moment and each imagined that he was being listened to. But amid the uproar and the outbursts of laughter, Robineau succeeded in making himself heard because he shouted louder than all the others, and the tipsier he grew, the more he insisted upon arguing to prove that wine did not go to his head.

"My dear friend," he said, addressing Alfred, "you haven’t a suspicion that I am in the secret of your love-affairs, of your conquests; that is to say, a sweet little brunette, a widow; I don’t propose to mention her name, because we must be discreet, but it seems that you made love to her in great shape, and that the said Madame de Gerville set out to put your constancy to the test----"

"Madame de Gerville! how do you know that? How do you know Madame de Gerville?"

"In the first place, I haven’t said that it was Madame de Gerville; I didn’t mention any names, did I, messieurs?"

"No, no!" cried the young men, laughing heartily; "oh, no! he knows too much for that! anybody can see that he never gets tight!"

"Why, messieurs," said Robineau, putting a glass of champagne to his lips, "I swallow this like milk; I have a head of iron!--But all the same, Alfred, the young widow says that you’re a monster! a perfidious wretch! It would seem that she was really taken with you."

"I don’t know whether Madame de Gerville was taken with me; but I confess that I was deeply in love with her,--so much so that for a moment I thought it was serious. Jenny is lively, amiable, clever; but one fine day I met a certain Clara at her house; I didn’t know that she was her particular friend; there are many women who see one another every day, but don’t love one another. This Clara is very attractive too; I told her that I considered her a charming creature--the most natural thing in the world; but it seems that she repeated it to Madame de Gerville, and that Madame de Gerville didn’t like it. Faith! it matters little to me. To the devil with constancy! I know nothing but pleasure myself!--Let us drink to the health of all pretty women!"

"Ah! messieurs, everybody must live! here’s to the ladies in general!" said Edouard.

"Yes," said Robineau, holding out his glass to touch Edouard’s, "the ladies in general! and in particular, too; for I have a particular one--ha! ha!--and a solid one, too! Virtue personified, with a wanton air, and plenty of morals--the whole disguised as a milliner."

"Aha! so your duchess is only a milliner now!" said Alfred! "and you wouldn’t invite her to dine with us!"

"Well, messieurs, what’s the odds, after all? What does rank amount to when beauty is in question?"

"He is right. Haven’t kings been known to marry shepherdesses? The ancients weren’t so proud as we are. Did not Shechem, the son of King Hamor, marry Dinah, the shepherd Jacob’s daughter? Did not one of the Pharaohs of Egypt fall in love with Sarah, a shepherd’s sister?"

"Very good! in that case, long live the grisettes! I know of no one like a grisette for the combination of love and dancing; for patching your breeches when you tear them, for keeping your breakfast hot in the morning and lighting your lamp at night. Just go and ask some fine lady of fashion, such as I saw here to-night, to sew on a button or mend your suspenders--you’d be well received, wouldn’t you?--Long live the grisettes! I stick to that!"

"Long live the grisettes!" echoed the young men, laughing; and they plied Robineau with drink, because he was beginning not to know what he was saying, and that greatly entertained the young men, especially Alfred, who was not sorry to hear him contradict, when he was drunk, the lies into which his self-conceit had led him when he was sober.--Liars should never drink too much. The old proverb, _in vino veritas_, is true. How many people there are who would make fools of themselves in their cups, if they did not take care to keep sober! What reckless admissions, what piquant confessions we should hear, if--But the ladies never get tipsy!

"So it seems, Robineau, you’ve a very pretty milliner for a mistress?" said Alfred, filling his friend’s glass.

"Pretty, messieurs! Why, I don’t mean to say that her face is absolutely beyond criticism; and there are some defects in the contour, too. But her figure! oh! it’s like a model! If she was here, I’d have her stand up on this table, so that you could admire her. In short, she is Fifine! that tells the whole story!"

"Ah! her name is Fifine, is it?"

"Yes, messieurs; a charming girl! a regular dragon! who has never been able to resist an invitation to drink,--that is when she took a fancy to the man."

"And she took a fancy to you at once, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes! instantly; that is to say, she made me run about a good deal. And the boxes I carried! and the rolls I paid for! How I did pay for them! She is decidedly fond of rolls, is Fifine.--No matter; here’s her health, messieurs!"

"Fifine’s health!" replied the young men. This toast moved Robineau to tears; he took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes, and pulled from his pocket with it, and scattered about the floor and on the table, all the cakes he had purloined, which had became as flat as pie crust. The young men roared with laughter, and Alfred emptied Robineau’s other pocket on his plate, crying:

"Here’s a provident fellow, messieurs; he put his dessert in his pocket."

"It was for my canary, messieurs," faltered Robineau, dumfounded for an instant by the spectacle of the little cakes; "for Fifine’s canary, I mean, who says ‘kiss me quick’ like a starling.--Still, you understand, it was only a joke, a wager; I am not reduced to that means of getting bird food. Not that the loss of my twenty-one francs doesn’t embarrass me a good deal; but----"

"I thought you had lost more than three hundred?" said Alfred.

"The deuce! three hundred francs! A copying clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year! Why, that would be more than two months’ salary!"

"You are mistaken; you earn a hundred louis, and you are soon to have an increase."

"Nonsense! A hundred louis! And as for getting an increase, my deputy-chief, who rules the roost, told me only this morning that, if I didn’t write better, they would be obliged to discharge me. That sounds well from him, when his writing is like fly tracks, and he earns six thousand francs! It seems to me that he ought to write better than me.--Well, messieurs, you don’t seem to be drinking; I was sure that I would beat you all!"

The young men were, in fact, beginning to yawn; Alfred tried in vain to wake them up--he too was overcome with drowsiness. The young men took their hats and bade one another good-night, pretending to be very firm on their legs.

It was broad daylight, and the streets were already alive with workingmen on their way to work; the peasants were returning leisurely to the country from the market, where they had been to sell their vegetables. The fresh, ruddy faces of the husbandman and the mechanic formed a striking contrast to the pallid faces of our young rakes; but the former had slept, while the latter had been up all night and were about to retire when the others were already beginning their day’s work.

Robineau left the hôtel with the young men. When he was alone in the street, he had some difficulty in making up his mind what to do; the houses seemed to be moving about, and the very earth to be unstable beneath his feet. He gazed with a frightened expression at the people who passed; and it is probable that they detected something peculiar in his face or his costume, for they laughed as they looked at him. Determined, however, to overcome what he took for a passing dizziness, Robineau pulled his hat over his eyes, and, exerting himself to the utmost to maintain the perpendicular, ran all the way home without stopping, and arrived there completely exhausted.

The first person Robineau met on the staircase was Fifine, who was going down to buy some milk for her breakfast.

"What! have you just come home?" she asked Robineau, who was trying vainly to put his key in the lock.

"Yes, my dear love, the party is just done."

"The party! why, it’s been daylight a long while; it’s after six o’clock.--Well! what makes you fumble at your door like that?"

"I don’t know what’s got into my key, Fifine, but it simply won’t go into the lock."

"Give it to me; I’ll find a way to unlock it."

Fifine opened the door, and exclaimed, after looking at Robineau more attentively:

"Mon Dieu! what a face! Your eyes are coming out of your head!"

"I don’t know what’s the matter with me, my dear; but this much is certain, that I don’t feel very well."

"Oh! I see well enough what the matter is; it seems to me that you have been having a good bout!"

Robineau had thrown himself into a chair, and was sighing piteously. Fifine followed him and stood gazing at him with a scornful shrug. At last, finding that he said nothing, but continued to sigh, she exclaimed:

"How much longer are you going to groan like that? You seem to have come back from your ball in fine spirits!"

"Ah! Fifine, that is because I consider a ball a very foolish thing!--These great parties--the trouble one has to take in dressing--all for the sake of being bored to death!--Ah! I should have done much better to keep my money to go into the country with you."

"Oho! I see how it is; monsieur has lost his money at écarté; and then morality comes to the front."

"Yes, my darling girl, I have lost my all! I have nothing left!"

"I wish all your écarté players had the jaundice, and you too!"

"I don’t know if I have the jaundice, but I feel very sick at my stomach."

"Oh! I believe you; your disappointment evidently didn’t interfere with your eating and drinking."

"I took almost nothing, I assure you; but there was a magnificent supper."

"Did you bring me any good things?"

"I had my pockets full; and I don’t know how it happened, but I haven’t anything at all now!"

"Ah! I recognize you there! How kind of you!"

"Fifine, if you find fault with me, I shall be ill."

"That means that your supper was too much for you. What a charming creature--a lover like this, who goes off to enjoy himself with other people, and comes home with an attack of indigestion!"

"Don’t abandon me, Fifine, I implore you!"

"That’s it! I must nurse him now!--Well, stay there; keep quiet, and I’ll make you some tea."

"Oh, yes! make me some tea; I don’t want to drink anything else."

The young milliner hastened downstairs and bought all that she needed for Robineau, who had a severe attack of indigestion. But Fifine was active, quick-witted and skilful; in an instant she lighted a fire, heated some water and gave the sick man a cup of tea. Thanks to her attentions, he felt better after a little, and at each cup of tea that the girl gave him, he cried:

"Ah! I shall remember your kindness, Fifine; I won’t spend my money with anybody but you. I wish I had a crown to offer you, and even then I should not think that I had paid you for your devotion.--As for these big parties, I shan’t go to any more of them. Society offers no temptations to me;--a cottage and you--that is true happiness!"