distinguished and sweet-smelling fruit. I will go to some perfumer's
shop this evening, and cause myself to be sprinkled from head to foot,
so that people may smell me five minutes before they see me.--But let us
drink, my dear clerks, let us taste these bottles--let us empty them,
cadédis!--and no heeltaps!--Come, young plaster! Cheer up, and take off
that shocking blister, which makes you look like a spaniel."
Plumard made a wry face, but he drank; Bahuchet laughed at his
companion's expression, and emptied his glass, which Passedix refilled.
The two clerks were soon more than hilarious, and began to make remarks
which might have compromised them in Passedix's eyes, if he had been in
a condition to notice them; but, being engrossed by his new costume and
his newly acquired wealth, and being passably excited himself by his
frequent libations, the chevalier did not hear what the two clerks said;
especially as the wine had loosened the tongues of all three, so that
they all talked at once.
"Six thousand francs a year! O fortune!--How becoming this color is to
me!"
"I like this wine rather well."
"Plumard, we must go into the old clothes business; it pays."
"Why does he call me _spaniel_ and _poodle_? I get tired of that, in the
end.--Let's take a drink!"
"Your health, boys!--Ah! when she sees me thus, as brilliant as the sun,
I shall be one too many for her four-faced lover!"
"Bahuchet's infernal pomade is responsible for my wearing this round
thing on my head!"
"Your health, O my infanta!"
"Thirty pistoles! I make a profit of a hundred per cent, and I am
tempted not to give my uncle anything."
"O Miretta! I will lay my little hoard at thy feet, and myself as well!"
"The devil take Maître Bourdinard's office! I propose to enjoy myself; I
work no more!"
In the midst of this hubbub, the bottles being empty, Passedix paid no
further heed to the two clerks, but left the hotel, to display himself
to an admiring Paris and to seek Miretta.
Bahuchet and his friend followed him to Place aux Chats. There they
stopped, looked at each other, and began to laugh. They linked arms,
each thinking that he was supporting the other, and Bahuchet stammered:
"We have thirty pistoles to spend; for I don't suppose, dear boy, that
you will be foolish enough to give half of it to your uncle the old
clothes man?"
"I never had any such intention. My uncle can afford to make me that
little gift."
"If he loses his temper, you can tell him that somebody stole the
bundle, the clothes."
"That is true. I'll say that the famous Giovanni stripped me."
"Bravo! the very thing; let us charge the accident to Giovanni's
account. Par la sambleu! the fellow is stout enough to take a lot of
robberies on his shoulders."
"Now, we will have some sport. We must make the thirty pistoles
dance.--Look out, my dear boy, steady!"
"Where shall we go to spend it?"
"We must go out of Paris, or we might meet some of our comrades, and
then we should have to treat them too."
"No such fools!"
"Let us go to the village of Le Roule."
"Where is that village?"
"Le Roule?--It's a pretty village, just after you leave Paris by Porte
Saint-Honoré.--There's a leper's hospital there."
"A leper's hospital! Thanks! What an attraction! Do you propose that we
go for diversion to a leper's hospital?"
"Why, no; you don't let me finish. I said that to show you that I know
the locality. There is also a certain _pêcheur-rotisseur_, who serves
stewed rabbit and fried fish. We shall be very comfortable there, and we
can regale ourselves at our ease."
"So be it! let us go there; lead the way."
"Try not to waver so on your legs."
"Isn't he delicious!--when it is he who stumbles at every step."
The two clerks, each supporting the other, and sometimes describing
zigzags which terrified the passers-by, set out for Le Roule, which was
then only a village, although destined to become one of the great
faubourgs of Paris.
XXXIV
A BOLD STEP
Since Bathilde had learned the result of Ambroisine's visit to Léodgard,
since she had learned in what way he had treated the person who went to
implore him in her behalf, a profound melancholy, a gloomy resignation,
had succeeded the impatience, the anxiety, the hope, which had divided
the empire of her mind at first.
It has often been said, and justly, that anxiety is worse than
misfortune itself.
Bathilde, when she found that she had nothing to hope from Léodgard save
contempt and disdain, turned all her thoughts upon the child to which
she was to give life. It was for it that she resolved to live; it was
for it that she derived courage and resignation from the very excess of
her suffering.
But one thought still tormented the poor child: she was afraid that her
presence was a burden, not to Ambroisine, but to her father; she was
afraid that her prolonged sojourn in Master Hugonnet's house was an
embarrassment, an inconvenience, which, from kindness of heart, he was
careful to conceal from her.
But in her plight, without money or resources of any sort, whither
should she go if Ambroisine's father sent her away?
Bathilde was wrong to conceive such fears; Master Hugonnet did not do
good for ostentation's sake; he simply followed the biddings of his
heart, and he was happy himself when he could render a service; it never
occurred to him to plume himself upon it. The thought of sending the
poor girl away who had come to him for shelter would never have entered
his mind, and it was not necessary that she should be Ambroisine's
friend to induce him to be kind and charitable toward her; kind hearts
do not require to be stimulated; they who need a great number of
witnesses in order to do a good deed are not truly generous.
But Ambroisine read her friend's heart; she divined her thoughts, her
anxieties, her fears; she did her utmost to banish them, impressing upon
Bathilde that her presence, far from being the slightest embarrassment,
was very advantageous to them; that by her skill with her needle she
assisted them materially; that her company made her, Ambroisine's,
retreat delightful; and that, in fine, it was to Bathilde that
gratitude was due.
Friendship is ingenious when it seeks to dissemble its kindly acts.
Bathilde smiled at her friend and pressed her hand; but tears fell from
her eyes, despite her efforts.
"Weeping again!" said Ambroisine, one day. "You are not reasonable. You
have no further reason to tremble for your child's future. Did I not
tell you that the Sire de Jarnonville had promised to be a father to it?
And he will not break his word! I judged him rightly when I thought that
beneath that savage, yes, terrifying manner, the Black Chevalier
concealed a heart accessible to pity. How could he fail to be moved by
the sufferings of others, he who had suffered so terribly himself in the
loss of his child?--He has been here several times since the day that I
met him in Rue de Bretonvilliers. He comes to me when I am alone, and
asks in an undertone: 'How is your friend? Does she need anything? Do
not forget that I propose to be a father to her child.'"
"A father!" rejoined Bathilde, bitterly. "What! Can it be that the child
of Comte Léodgard de Marvejols needs that a stranger should be a father
to it--when its own father exists?--Alas! I do what I can to be brave,
Ambroisine. But, in spite of myself, I suffer when I think that shame is
the only inheritance that I shall bequeath to my child."
On the day following this conversation, Ambroisine was alone in her
father's shop, just at nightfall, when the Black Chevalier crossed the
street, halted in front of her, and said in a curt tone which ill
dissembled what was taking place in his heart:
"That poor girl--your friend--can I do anything for her yet?"
Ambroisine looked up at Jarnonville, and, as if struck by a sudden idea,
cried:
"Pardon me, seigneur; you can assist me to restore her honor,
perhaps.--For I see plainly that my poor Bathilde cannot console herself
for the abandonment of her lover and the curses of her mother. Since
yesterday an idea, a hope, has come into my mind. Heaven, doubtless,
suggested it to me.--Sire de Jarnonville, Comte Léodgard's father is
still living, is he not?"
"To be sure--the Marquis de Marvejols."
"What sort of man is he?"
"The old Seigneur de Marvejols is an upright, just man, who is sensitive
to the last degree in the matter of honor. Proud of the name that his
ancestors have handed down to him, he is no less proud of having no
unjust act for which to reproach himself in the whole course of his
life. Stern in his speech, he has nevertheless a sensitive and generous
heart; the evil-minded may tremble before him; the unfortunate never."
"What you tell me, seigneur, confirms me in my plan."
"What is it?"
"To go to Comte Léodgard's father, to lay before him the whole story of
his son's behavior toward Bathilde, and the events that have resulted
from it, and to demand justice for the victim of a shameful seduction."
And seeing that Jarnonville kept silence, Ambroisine continued:
"Do you disapprove of my project, seigneur chevalier? What have I to
fear, after all? My poor Bathilde cannot possibly be more unhappy! Her
seducer cannot treat her any more cruelly!--Yes! I am determined to
attempt this method of restoring my friend's honor! This old marquis,
who is such a just man, will perhaps insist upon his son's keeping the
promises, the oaths, he made to Bathilde."
"But how will you prove to Léodgard's father that his son did really
make your friend a solemn promise! He will tell you that all men who
seek to seduce a woman use the same language, and that it is her place
not to listen to words whose value she should know."
"How will I prove it! Oh! luckily enough, I have kept a letter written
to Bathilde by the count when he had not succeeded in his projects. It
is the first and, I believe, the only letter he ever wrote to her. The
poor child gave it to me at the time, to be rid of the temptation to
read it all day long. For the eloquent oaths of love which it contained
were beginning even then to turn her head. Writing is something more
than mere words."
"Yes, you are right; and if you have that letter----"
"I have always kept it carefully; something told me that it might be of
use to Bathilde some day; she thinks, no doubt, that I burned it long
ago."
"In that case, carry out your plan. But I do not see in what way I can
be of use to you in all this, and why you claim my assistance?"
"To help me to gain access to the old Seigneur de Marvejols--that is why
I appealed to you."
"Do you know where the Hôtel de Marvejols is?"
"Yes, chevalier; it is on Place Royale. I went there once, expecting to
find Monsieur Léodgard there."
"Well! go there now; ask for monsieur le marquis; say that it is a poor
girl who desires to speak with him, to obtain justice, and you will
speedily be admitted to the old nobleman's presence. To obtain access to
the upright man who reckons duty superior to birth and fortune, one
needs no influence; it is enough to be oppressed and to claim his
support. Therefore, a sponsor would be of no use to you; on the
contrary, it would offend the old marquis, by showing him that you
confounded him with those powerful men who are insensible to the laments
of the unfortunate."
"Oh! thanks, Sire de Jarnonville, thanks! To-morrow I will go to the
Hôtel de Marvejols."
"Does your friend know of your plan?"
"No, indeed! I should not think of mentioning it to her. In the first
place, I am sure that she would forbid me to go to her seducer's father;
she would be afraid of drawing upon herself that _honorable_ young
man's wrath; but he was not ashamed, by presuming upon a poor girl's
innocence, to look on while she was cursed and cast out by her
parents!--Oh, no! Bathilde shall know nothing about it, seigneur
chevalier! If I fail in my undertaking, at all events she will not have
this fresh humiliation to add to her grief; if the old marquis listens
to me kindly, then it will be time enough to give her heart a little
hope."
"Go, brave girl, and may you succeed in your noble purpose!"
The next day, about noon, Léodgard's father was alone in his study. The
old nobleman's countenance had seemed sterner than ever of late, because
it had become more melancholy.
The desertion of his son, who had entirely ceased to visit the old Hôtel
de Marvejols, was the probable cause of the grief which the marquis
concealed beneath a prouder and more gloomy expression. But upon that
noble brow, furrowed by age, there was something else than sternness to
be read.
The marquis was seated in his great easy-chair; a book lay open before
him on a table; but he was not reading; his head was resting on his
hand, and he seemed absorbed in profound meditation. From time to time
he glanced at certain papers that lay scattered over the table, and
murmured:
"All his debts are paid; he has contracted no others; and yet he passes
his time in fêtes, in orgies, entertaining his friends and their
mistresses. The most princely magnificence reigns in that house that he
occupies in Rue de Bretonvilliers! Where, in heaven's name, does he
obtain this money which he seems to squander so lavishly? Doubtless
chance has become favorable to him, but chance cannot be always on one
side; and not long ago he lost quite a large sum at the Duc de
Soubiran's. Where does he find enough money to meet his insane
expenditures? Can it be true, as rumor has it, that some foreign
courtesan has given him immense wealth in exchange for his love; and
that Léodgard has agreed to that shameful bargain?--Ah! I do not propose
to seek any further to learn the source of his fortune; for something
tells me that the discovery of that secret would bring the flush of
shame to my brow!--And his marriage to Mademoiselle de Mongarcin--I must
think no more of that; it will never take place. That nobly born heiress
would refuse now to marry a man whose conduct is a constant
scandal.--Ah! Léodgard did thoroughly everything that was necessary to
prevent that union from being arranged!"
The old man had relapsed into meditation, when the door of his study
opened, and old Hector discreetly showed his face before the rest of his
body.
"What do you want, Hector?" inquired the marquis, raising his head; "I
did not ring for you."
"That is true, monsieur le marquis; and I should not have ventured to
disturb you without a reason, a motive; someone----"
"What is it, pray? Speak, explain yourself, Hector. Does someone wish to
speak with me? Is it my son, or someone from him?"
"No, monsieur," replied the valet sadly, turning his eyes upon the
floor; "no, it is not Monsieur Léodgard who sends--although the person
probably knows him, for she came here to ask for him several months
ago."
"The person--who is this person?"
"It is a young girl; she asks to be allowed the favor of speaking with
monseigneur--in private."
"A young girl--and an acquaintance of Comte Léodgard--I can have nothing
in common with such a person! Send the girl away, Hector!"
"I have the honor to assure monsieur le marquis that the person in
question appears to be no less virtuous than respectable. She implores
monseigneur to consent to hear her; she demands justice and says that
she has no hope of obtaining it except through him."
"Justice!" muttered the marquis. "In that case, Hector, do not keep this
girl waiting--admit her at once."
The old valet left the room, but he very soon returned with Ambroisine,
who, when she reached the doorway, turned pale and began to tremble, and
dared not go forward, for the marquis's aspect was stern and imposing.
The old man fastened his eyes upon her, and they inspired as much fear
as respect in the person who faced them for the first time.
Hector gently pushed the lovely girl into the room, whispering to her:
"Don't be afraid! Monsieur le marquis is not so terrible as he looks."
Then, at a sign from his master, the valet bowed and disappeared,
leaving Ambroisine alone with Léodgard's father, who motioned for her to
come forward, saying:
"Come nearer, take a chair, and tell me what you desire from me, young
woman."
"Justice, monsieur le marquis," replied Ambroisine, raising her head;
for the old man's deep voice, instead of frightening her, seemed to
restore her courage by reminding her of the motive that brought her
thither.
"Justice? Has someone wronged you? have you reason to complain of
someone?"
"I am not the one who has been wronged, seigneur; and it is not for
myself that I have come to implore your assistance; it is for a friend,
who is very unhappy, greatly to be pitied, but who would never have
dared to come herself to tell you of her trials; and yet----"
"Explain yourself more clearly, my girl, and, above all things, be
careful to tell nothing but the truth!"
"Ah! monseigneur, could anyone dare to lie before you? But I beg you to
excuse me if I cannot express myself very well."
"A person always expresses herself well when falsehood and calumny do
not sully her lips, and when she has faith in God's justice.--Speak, my
child, I am listening."
"Bathilde--that is my friend's name--is not yet eighteen years old; her
father, now the keeper of a bathing establishment on Rue Dauphine, is an
old soldier, who served under Henri IV; he is a man of great courage,
and the soul of honor. Bathilde was brought up very strictly in her
parents' house; her mother never allowed her to go out, or to have any
pleasure whatever.--Excuse me, monsieur le marquis, for going into all
these details; I do it because the poor girl who knows nothing is in
much greater danger of allowing herself to be deceived than one who is
warned by experience. Unfortunately, Bathilde's mother went on a
journey, and during her absence her daughter had more liberty. A young
man noticed her at the Fire of Saint-Jean, to which I had the
unfortunate idea of taking her.--You see, Bathilde is so pretty! there
is so much candor and innocence in her beauty that it was easy for a
seducer to divine that he could readily deceive her and triumph over
her. Well, this young man constantly appeared before my friend's
windows; then he sent her, by way of the window, a letter in which he
made her the most loving promises; he swore that she should be his wife;
he called God to witness the sanctity of his oath.--Ah! monseigneur,
poor Bathilde would have considered that she insulted the man she loved
if she had not had confidence in such an oath. She was weak, she was
guilty! But judge of her despair when her mother returned and discovered
her sin! Poor Bathilde was cast out pitilessly, turned into the street
at midnight.--Luckily she remembered that I was her friend.--We did not
spurn her! we gave her shelter; my father forgave her fault when he saw
how miserably unhappy she was.--But Bathilde still hoped that her
seducer would keep his promises; she wrote to him, she informed him that
she bore within her a pledge of their love; and I undertook to deliver
her letter, to see the man in whom her only hope lay.--Ah! monsieur le
marquis, he who was the cause of all the harm rejected my petition; he
was unmoved by the sufferings of the poor girl whom he had shamefully
abused; he ordered me to be turned out of his house, and forbade me ever
to appear there again.--Is not that infamous behavior, seigneur? Is it
not true that when one has dishonored a poor girl who was as pure and
virtuous as she was beautiful, he has no right to be deaf to her prayers
and to deny his child?"
The old man listened to Ambroisine with interest, and without
interrupting her; while she was speaking, he sat with his head resting
on his hand, seemingly weighing every word. When she finished, he looked
at her with a kindly expression and said:
"You are a sincere and devoted friend--that is well; this that you are
doing, one might ask in vain of the young men who press one another's
hands with endless protestations of friendship. But, alas! my poor girl,
what has happened to your friend is one of those misfortunes which have
become too common in our day. Moreover, what is there to prove that
this young Bathilde did not herself invite seduction, that her coquetry
did not cause her ruin?--Lastly, why do you apply to me rather than to
another, to obtain justice from this seducer? Am I his kinsman or his
connection? have I any rights, any power, over him?"
Ambroisine, without replying, took from her breast the letter written to
Bathilde by Léodgard, and with a trembling hand presented it to the old
man; he had no sooner cast his eye on the paper than he recognized his
son's hand. Thereupon his expression changed, a cloud darkened his brow;
he controlled his emotion, however, and read the document that he held
in his hands. As he read on, his expression became more severe, and when
he had finished he let his head fall forward on his breast and seemed
utterly crushed by that fresh blow.
Ambroisine, hopeful and afraid by turns, sat perfectly still, not daring
to break the silence, and prayed under her breath that heaven would move
the old man's heart to pity for poor Bathilde.
"It is my son, the heir of my name, who has done all this!" murmured the
marquis at last, speaking to himself, as if he had forgotten the girl's
presence. "O mon Dieu! am I doomed always to find him culpable? Shall I
owe to him nothing but subjects of grief, misery, and shame?--Yes, it
was certainly his hand that traced these characters--indeed, he did not
hesitate to sign the letter--to write a name that has always been
honorable at the foot of these lines which contain naught but falsehood
and perfidy! which have no purpose but to drag an innocent girl to the
pit!--Ah! he is misplaced in the reign of a just and virtuous monarch!
In the time of Henri III, in that age of license and libertinage, among
the Maugirons and Schombergs and Saint-Mégrins and the rest of the
king's _mignons_, he would have found his fitting place, and would have
obtained the approbation and favors of a dissolute court for his
conduct! But to-day, when a firm hand holds the reins of the State, when
protecting laws restore the courage of the weak and make the criminal
tremble, my son, the last descendant of the line of Marvejols, seems by
his conduct to seek to gain for his name the scandalous celebrity
courted by the favorites of Henri III! I cannot allow these disgraceful
proceedings to be prolonged! no! Justice must be done before all! Honor
takes precedence of nobility!"
And the old man, raising his head proudly, said to Ambroisine in a firm
voice:
"Go back to your friend, my girl, and say to her that she will hear from
me ere long."
Ambroisine would have been glad to know what she might hope for
Bathilde, but a gesture from the marquis imposed silence on her; and she
left the Hôtel de Marvejols, uncertain as yet whether she should
congratulate herself on having gone thither.
XXXV
AN UNEXPECTED CHANGE
Although the old marquis had told Ambroisine to say to Bathilde that she
would soon hear from him, the _belle baigneuse_ did not think it well to
tell her of the visit she had made to the father of her friend's
seducer. She was afraid of arousing vain hopes in her heart. To no one
save the Sire de Jarnonville did she describe her interview with
Léodgard's father. The Black Chevalier, who now took a deep interest in
Bathilde, said to Ambroisine, when she finished her story:
"Justice will be done! Do not doubt it, brave girl. The old marquis
will, first of all, make inquiries about your friend and her relations;
he will wish to make sure, first of all, that you have not deceived him
in any respect; and when he is certain that all you have told him is
true, I repeat, he will see that justice is done."
"But what do you mean by justice, seigneur chevalier? Can he force his
son to marry Bathilde?"
"No; and, frankly, I do not think that such is his intention. But if
Léodgard has a right to refuse to contract a union which does not meet
his views; if, being of full age, and his own master, he is at liberty
to defy his father's desires or his will, his father, who is in very
good favor with the cardinal-minister, has but a word to say to induce
Richelieu to send Léodgard to the Bastille. As for his victim, I do not
doubt that the old marquis will make her independent and take care of
her child."