often! Does monsieur refuse?"
"No, certainly not. Look over my commode and my closets, and take
whatever you choose."
The good woman made haste to examine my effects. She made up a large
bundle of linen, hastily, as if she were afraid I would change my mind;
then she rolled it all up in her apron, saying:
"Will monsieur take an account of what I've got?"
"No, Madame Potrelle, that is quite unnecessary; I know with whom I am
dealing, and I am not suspicious myself."
The concierge thanked me, bowed again, and took her leave, saying that
the work would be attended to immediately.
Is it conceivable that during all the time that Madame Potrelle was
talking about her tenant, I thought of nothing but Frédérique and
Balloquet? Ah! how small a thing it takes to give a new turn to our
thoughts! We are kind or cruel to others only as it gratifies our
caprices. That truth is most discreditable to mankind!
I had not fully determined what course to pursue, but I decided to go
out; and at my door I found myself face to face with Balloquet, who was
coming to see me.
"Ah! I am delighted to find you, my dear Rochebrune!"
"And I to see you. Shall we go upstairs?"
"It isn't worth while; we can talk as well, walking."
"Very good. What have you to tell me?"
"I was coming to talk to you about Madame Dauberny. Ah! my friend, what
a woman! what a physique--to arouse passions!"
"I see that you are in love with her already. Well! did you overtake her
yesterday?"
"Yes, I overtook her on the street. She didn't want to accept my arm,
but I insisted, and she yielded."
"Ah! she took it, did she? And you escorted her home?"
"Naturally."
"And--and--how does your passion progress?"
"It's all over! oh! it's all over, absolutely!"
I made such a sudden movement that Balloquet cried:
"What struck you then? cramp in the leg? a twist in the tendon, perhaps?
That catches you sometimes in walking."
"No, I--I turned my foot. But you said: 'It's all over!'--What is it
that's all over? Do you mean that you are already the fortunate
vanquisher of that lady?"
"No, no! not at all! just the opposite! I said it was all over, because
she gave me my walking ticket, I mean my dismissal. Oh! but she did it
in the most amiable, the most courteous way--impossible to take offence.
You were quite right when you told me that I should waste my time."
I was conscious of a thrill of satisfaction, of happiness, that I could
not describe. Poor Balloquet! I pitied him then. I pressed his arm
affectionately, and said:
"Come, tell me the whole story, my friend."
"Oh! it didn't last long. I offered my arm, as I say, and she accepted
it at last. On my way, I resumed my rôle of gallant--I believe that I
even ventured upon a declaration of love. We drank quite a lot at
dinner, you know.--Your Rosette would do well to marry a dealer in
sponges!--In short, I was very animated, my words flowed like running
water. She made no reply whatever.--'It's because she is moved,' I said
to myself. We reached her door, and I asked permission to go upstairs
for a moment. That was a little abrupt, I agree; but when one has heated
the iron so hot----"
"Well?"
"At that, the lady halted in front of me and said, in a tone at once
ironical and imposing: 'Monsieur Balloquet, the day is at an end; all
that you have said to me thus far I have listened to as a sort of
continuation of the impromptu excursion to the country which made us
acquainted. During a day of follies, it is not against the law to say
foolish things. To-morrow, it would be unbecoming. You are very
agreeable, monsieur, and you are Rochebrune's friend; in that capacity,
I shall always be glad to see you when chance brings us together. But
let there be no more talk of love between us, monsieur; that is a
passion to which I have said adieu. And if I should have a fancy to
renew my acquaintance with it, I tell you frankly that I should not
apply to you for that purpose. So, au revoir, and no ill feeling!'--With
that, she held out her hand, pressed mine warmly, and shut her door in
my face. Well, my friend, on my word of honor, I am not in the least
offended with her; for she's no coquette; she doesn't lure you on with
false hopes, but says to you at once: 'It's like this and like
that!'--You know what to expect. I will be true to Satiné. Poor Satiné!
But I'll tell her to put less rose on her gloves. Never mind; she's a
fine woman, is Madame Dauberny; I can't understand why you've never
thought of making love to her."
Did he propose to set up as an echo of Baron von Brunzbrack?
When Balloquet left me, I squeezed his hand so hard that I made him cry
out. Really, he was a very good fellow, was Balloquet, and I was very
fond of him! How in the devil could I ever have dreamed that Frédérique
would listen to him? There was not the slightest bond of sympathy
between them.
Now that I was no longer tormented by that business, I remembered
Mignonne and Madame Potrelle, and how coldly and absent-mindedly I had
listened to what that good woman told me. Mignonne's child was ill, and
the poor mother was in need of a thousand things to nurse her properly!
Suppose I should go to see her, to encourage her? She would receive me
ill, perhaps; but, no matter! I no longer felt in the mood to take
offence.
I started for Rue Ménilmontant. Madame Potrelle uttered a cry of
surprise when she saw me; then she said:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, have you come to take back the work that young
woman needs so much?"
"No, no, far from it! But this morning I was--preoccupied, and I paid
little attention to what you told me."
"That's so; monsieur wasn't like what he usually is; but, _dame!_
everyone has his own troubles."
"I would like to see Mignonne, Madame Potrelle, and see for myself what
her child's condition is. Do you think she will receive me?"
"Oh! yes, monsieur. She receives anybody now, if they say they know
anything about children's health."
I ran quickly up the five flights. I stopped to take breath before
mounting the last narrow, dark staircase. When I reached the top, I
heard a sweet, melancholy voice singing:
"'Veille, veille, pauvre Marie,
Pour secourir le prisonnier.'"
Mignonne's door was thrown wide open, for it was summer, and in that way
she admitted a little air and light to her chamber, which, as we know,
had no window but the round hole in the ceiling.
I stepped forward; Mignonne's back was turned toward the door; she was
on her knees beside a cradle placed on two chairs. The cradle was
covered with a pretty piece of flowered chintz; a flounce of the same
material about the base concealed the little straw mattress on which
children usually lie. It had almost a luxurious look, in striking
contrast with the other contents of that poor chamber; but the most
poverty-stricken mother always finds a way to adorn her child's cradle.
At that moment, Mignonne was trying to put the child to sleep by singing
to her and rocking her.
I stopped in the doorway; she did not turn. She did not hear me; she had
no eyes or ears for anything but her daughter. She was speaking to her:
"Well! don't we propose to go to sleep to-day, Mademoiselle Marie? Don't
we propose to shut our lovely eyes? Oh, yes! we have very lovely eyes,
but we must sleep, all the same; that will do us good! And then, mamma
wants you to. Do you hear, dear child? mamma wants you to. Oh, yes! you
hear me; you smile at me. Ah! she holds out her little arms, she wants
me to take her! Mon Dieu! but it would do her so much good to sleep! But
I must do what you want me to, mustn't I?"
She bent over the cradle and took up the child; then she stood up, and
saw me. She cast a sad glance at me, in which I no longer saw any trace
of alarm.
"Excuse me, madame," I said, stepping forward; "I ventured to come to
see you, because Madame Potrelle told me this morning that your little
Marie was ill. I studied medicine a little, long ago; I shall be happy
if I can assist you with advice, which you may follow if you think it
good!--Ah! she is very pretty, dear child!"
"Isn't she, monsieur?"
And Mignonne smiled when she saw me gazing at her daughter, who was
really beautiful and already bore much resemblance to her mother. But
her pretty features were drawn and worn, and denoted some internal
trouble; her eyes too were sad, and it is with the eyes that children
express their feelings before they have learned to talk.
"How old is she, madame?"
"Almost fifteen months, monsieur."
"She seems very big for that age, and I have no doubt that it is her
precocious growth that makes her ill."
"Do you think so, monsieur? Yes, that must be one of the causes. She is
very large for fifteen months; and yet she isn't stout, she isn't too
big, like the children that are abnormal!"
"Allow me to feel her pulse."
I took the child's hand; the skin was dry and burning. Mignonne read in
my face that I was not satisfied with that examination.
"She's feverish, isn't she, monsieur?"
"A little; growing fever; that ought not to alarm you."
"Oh! do you think she will get well, monsieur?"
"Certainly I do, madame. Her condition doesn't even seem to me serious
enough for you to be worried about her."
"But, monsieur, it's more than a month that she's been like this;
sometimes she's better for a day or two; then she laughs and sings--yes,
monsieur, I give you my word that she sings, poor dear! To be sure, I
don't suppose anybody but her mother can understand her. But then she
falls back into this sort of prostration, the fever comes back, and she
refuses everything. Mon Dieu! then I don't know what to do to bring a
smile back to her lips. Do you suppose that she's in pain? The poor
little things can't tell us where they feel sick. But she will get well,
won't she, monsieur?"
"I have always believed, madame, whenever I have stood beside a man or
woman whom the doctors had given over, that they might still recover,
for I believe more in God than in man; I have more faith in divine
Providence than in human skill, and I do not think that we know as yet
all the resources of nature. But when the sufferer is a child, a
creature so fresh and new in life, to despair of its recovery seems to
me rank blasphemy; because in that young plant, just born, there must be
the sap of youth and strength and maturity. Children become very ill in
a very short time, and recover their health as quickly; their eyes, sad
and haggard to-night, will laugh again to-morrow; often nothing more
than a ray of sunshine is needed to effect that happy change."
"Ah! monsieur, you restore my courage!"
"You must never lose it when you are nursing a sick person. I suppose
that you have a doctor?"
"Yes, monsieur; but he doesn't come often. He doesn't say much of
anything. But I hope he'll come to-day; I expect him."
"Would you like me to send another one?"
"Oh! no, monsieur; I have confidence enough in this one."
"Adieu, madame! Don't grieve, don't fatigue yourself too much; remember
that you must retain your own health in order to nurse your child. With
your permission, I will call again to inquire for little Marie."
"Yes, monsieur."
I stepped forward and kissed the child on the forehead; her eyes
fastened upon me in evident amazement. Mignonne, too, looked closely at
me when I kissed her little one. But she made no objection, and
responded sadly to my salutation as I left the room.
I went downstairs, and found the concierge watching for me, combing one
of her cats the while.
"Well, monsieur, did you see my tenant and her little sick girl?"
"Yes, madame; I did my best to revive hope in Mignonne's heart. Her
child is not well, still I think she isn't in danger. What does the
doctor say?"
"_Dame!_ the doctor shakes his head; he always says when he goes away:
'We shall see.'"
"He doesn't compromise himself. Meanwhile, take this money, Madame
Potrelle, and see to it that the young woman and her child want
nothing."
"Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! But all this money---- Why, how much
have you given me? A hundred and fifty francs!"
"That's an advance on the work Mignonne is going to do for me."
"An advance! But she'll never take such a sum of money, monsieur!"
"That is why I give it to you. Pay for the medicines; there's no need of
Mignonne's knowing anything about it."
"But, monsieur, suppose she should ask me how I got it?"
"Arrange it to suit yourself, Madame Potrelle; say that the druggist
doesn't charge anything for medicines furnished to sick people who live
under the eaves; lie, if necessary: there are cases where lying is no
sin. And when this is gone, come to me at once and get more--without
saying anything to Mignonne."
"Ah! monsieur, what you're doing---- Well! if anyone should ever speak
ill of you in my presence, he'd get Brisquet in his face. This is
Brisquet I'm combing."
"Au revoir, Madame Potrelle! I'll come again in a few days to hear about
little Marie."
XLI
THE REWARD OF WELLDOING
Several days passed, and I had not been again to see Mignonne. Rosette
had called upon me several times; but my pretty grisette talked too much
about Monsieur Freluchon, the dealer in sponges; which led me to think
that our relations would not last much longer.
Madame Dauberny was slightly indisposed; she sent for me to come to her,
and I lost no time in complying. She seemed touched by my zeal. She was
charming with me; she asked me about Rosette, but laughingly and without
irony, as before; then she said, shaking her head:
"I am no longer afraid that that girl will make you lose your common
sense and forget our friendship."
"Have you ever been afraid of that?"
"Why, yes. My friendship is too selfish. It is wrong, I realize that;
but I am jealous, which a friend has no right to be. Scold me,
monsieur."
"On the contrary, I forgive you--the more freely because I seem to have
the same conception of friendship that you do; for----"
"For what? Go on!"
"Well! I too am jealous of the affection you bestow on others. And on
that trip to the country, when Balloquet made love to you--that vexed me
terribly."
"Really? Did you suppose for a moment that I would listen to that man?"
"Why not--if he had pleased you?"
"If he had pleased me--very good; but you know perfectly well that he
could not please me--seriously. And so your friendship is jealous, too?"
She lowered her eyes as she asked that question. I took her hand and
pressed it affectionately. At that moment, her maid entered and said:
"Monsieur Dauberny, who has just arrived, wishes to know if he may come
to inquire for madame's health."
Frédérique was thunderstruck. She glanced at me, murmuring:
"He has come back! What a misfortune! I had flattered myself that he
would never come back. But, after all, we must submit to our fate. After
five months' absence, I dare not refuse to receive him; for his visit is
solely one of politeness, no doubt. Remain, my friend; your presence
will give me strength to endure Monsieur Dauberny's. Will you do me this
favor?"
"If you authorize me to do so, madame, I will remain."
Frédérique told her maid that she might admit Monsieur Dauberny. I was
intensely agitated by the thought that I should soon be in that man's
presence; but I strove to conceal my agitation beneath a calm and
indifferent air.
Monsieur Dauberny appeared in a moment. He was rather tall, but had
grown too stout for his height. His face, the features of which were,
generally speaking, regular, wore nevertheless an expression of brutal
libertinage, and when his eyes tried to express merriment they became
sea-green, watery, like those of a wild beast. He appeared to be about
fifty years of age; his hair was thick and curly. He was neatly dressed,
but seemed to have difficulty in carrying his great weight.
He was apparently surprised to find a man in his wife's apartment.
However, he gave me a rather curt nod, to which I replied by an almost
imperceptible inclination of the head and a manner so frigid that he was
impressed by it and immediately bowed again much lower.
I confess that I felt incapable of bending my head before that monster.
At that instant, the fate of poor Annette recurred to my memory; I
remembered her bruises, her horrible suffering! I remembered that
shocking scene on the outer boulevards! I felt that I could not remain
longer in that man's presence. The blood rushed to my face; I was on the
point of giving way to my wrath and hurling myself upon the villain!
While I was still master of myself, I took my hat and left the salon.
"Are you going, Rochebrune?" said Frédérique.
"Yes, madame, yes; I beg pardon--but an important engagement--pray
excuse me!"
I said no more, but went away, turning my head to avoid bowing to
Monsieur Dauberny.
What would Frédérique think of my behavior toward her husband--of that
abrupt departure? I did not know; but if I had stayed longer, I should
have broken out; and before her, in her apartment, that would have been
a mistake.
Pomponne was watching for my return; he came to meet me, crying:
"Monsieur, the old concierge--I know now that she's a concierge--from
Rue Ménilmontant has been here, not with the young woman who came once
and ran off as if someone was going to assault her--a very pretty
blonde----"
"Well, Pomponne, well! What did Madame Potrelle say?"
"Ah! yes, that's the concierge's name; it had escaped me. She said: 'Be
good enough to ask Monsieur Rochebrune to come as soon as
possible--to-day, if he has a minute--to my young tenant; for she's in
great trouble.'--I was going to ask her why the young woman was in
trouble, but she didn't give me time; she went away again, saying: 'I'm
in a hurry, I ran all the way.'--To be sure, if she had run all the way
from Rue Ménilmontant----"
I listened to no more from Pomponne. I left the house at once and
hurried to Mignonne's abode. I found the concierge below.
"What is there new, Madame Potrelle? Do you want money?"
"Oh, no! it ain't that, monsieur; but that poor mother--her child's much
sicker. The doctor told me there wasn't any hope, but I haven't told
Madame Landernoy that, for it would kill her too, she's so unhappy
already! I don't know what to do to encourage her, and I thought of you,
monsieur."
I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. My heart was very
heavy; still, I felt that I must try to bring back a little hope to her
heart.
I arrived under the eaves. The door was still open and Mignonne was
kneeling by the cradle, as at my previous visit; but she was not
singing; everything was perfectly still. The young mother, with her eyes
fixed on her child, seemed to be watching for some gleam of hope on her
face or in her breathing.
I stepped into the room; Mignonne did not even turn her head.
"Excuse me, madame," I said, approaching the cradle; "will you allow me
to examine your little girl?"
The young woman glanced at me, with eyes dim with tears, and murmured:
"Oh! monsieur! just see how she has changed, poor child, in the ten days
since you saw her! Just look at her!"
Poor little one! My heart sank and my chest heaved when I saw the
shocking ravages that disease had wrought in so short a time. When I saw
her, ten days before, she was pale and thin; but her pretty features had
not changed. Now, her little face was all wasted away; her head, like
her body, seemed shrunken; her mouth, which she kept tightly closed, her
little features, constantly distorted by nervous contractions--everything
indicated great suffering; and yet she was still sweet and pretty. Ought
such angels to suffer? What crime can they have committed?
I took the child's hand; it was still burning. The mother gazed
anxiously at my face and said:
"Monsieur, do you still hope?"
"I told you that I should always hope."
"Oh, yes! you are right; but for that, I should die."
"Does she complain? Can you guess where she feels pain?"
"Alas! she doesn't complain, poor child! But she groans and cries, and I
can't soothe her any more. Oh! monsieur! I can't soothe her any more!"
Mignonne paused a moment to weep. I did not try to check her tears. They
do much more harm when stored up than when they are freely shed.
In a moment she continued, pointing to the child:
"Look! see how she keeps her teeth clenched all the time. Oh! that is
what frightens me!"
"What does the doctor say?"
"He ordered her some medicine. But she won't take anything, she won't
drink. That is the hardest part of it!"
"Yes, for if she drank a little of it, it would probably allay the fire
that is consuming her."
"But what am I to do if she won't drink it--when she cries if I insist?
I can't force her, can I, the dear little pet?"
"Will you let me try, madame?"
"You, monsieur! Do you think you can succeed any better than I?"
"I shall go about it differently."
"With her teeth always clenched--I'm afraid she'll break the cup when I
hold it to her mouth."
"For that reason, I do not mean to try with a cup. Have you a small
spoon?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Please let me have it, madame."
Mignonne gave me a small iron spoon, and a cup containing the sedative
draught ordered by the doctor. I filled the spoon and offered it to the
child, who refused to take it; but I succeeded in partly opening her
gums for an instant with my left hand, and poured the contents of the
spoon into her mouth. The little one cried bitterly; but she had
swallowed a few drops of the potion, and that was all I wanted.
Mignonne watched me in amazement, almost in terror; for a moment she was
afraid that I would hurt the child. But she soon calmed down, and seemed
pleased with the result I had obtained.
"You saw how I did it," I said; "you must act in the same way, when you
want her to take a little of the medicine."
"Oh! monsieur, I don't know whether I can; I don't know whether I can be
as quick as you; and then I shall be afraid of hurting the dear angel."
"I did not hurt her."
"That is true. And see, look at her, monsieur; it seems as if she were
breathing better! Oh! if that really has done her good!"
"It is more than likely."
"Oh! monsieur, if you would stay a little longer, and give her some more
by and by?"
"I will gladly do it, madame."
"I am abusing your good nature, monsieur; but I'm afraid I can't do it
as well as you."
"I am in no hurry, madame; my time is at my own disposal. I have often
made a bad use of it, and I will try to atone partly, here with you."
The child seemed to be dozing, and I did not disturb her. But, after
half an hour or more, when she began to be uneasy again, I repeated my
manoeuvre and made her swallow another half-spoonful of the potion.
I remained some time longer talking with Mignonne, doing my utmost to
restore her courage and hope. Then I went away, saying:
"Until to-morrow!"
The next day, I went again to see the little invalid, and passed a large
part of the day with Mignonne; for my conversation served to revive her
courage, and she thought that no one could succeed so well as I in
making the child drink. Little Marie's condition showed a slight change
for the better. The doctor was greatly surprised, and the mother's hopes
revived. It seemed to me that I too loved the poor little girl. One
becomes attached to children so easily!
A week elapsed; I had not allowed a day to go by without passing several
hours in Mignonne's room. I thought that she still retained some
suspicion of my intentions; but, as she considered that I understood
taking care of children, she said to me each day when I left her:
"It would be so kind of you, if you would come to-morrow!"
I had not called on Frédérique again, nor had I seen Rosette. What must
they think of me? But on returning home one afternoon, about four
o'clock, I found both my friend and my mistress established in my salon.
I saw at once, by the expression of their faces, that they were angry
with me.
"Ah! here you are, are you, monsieur?" said Rosette. "You're getting to
be very rare--very hard to find, for this is the third time I've been
here--so help me! I don't know whether your Jocrisse told you?"
"My Jocrisse did not tell me."
"And madame here has been as many times as I have, it seems, and hasn't
had any better luck."
"What, Frédérique! you have taken the trouble to come here? I am
terribly sorry."
Frédérique smiled, but with the mocking expression that I knew so well,
saying:
"What does it matter that I have been here? You weren't very solicitous
about my health, I judge, as you haven't been to inquire about it since
the day you left so abruptly. I understand that there is nothing very
agreeable in my husband's presence; still, from regard for me, you might
have put up with it a little longer."