passions, beside which my love and your friendship are nothing at all!
He hasn't a minute now to sacrifice to us; he passes all his time, all
his days, with his new flame on Rue Ménilmontant. She can't be anything
very distinguished, living in that quarter; but we must know a little of
everything!"
I saw that Pomponne had been chattering and inventing fables.
"Ah! so you have been told that I go every day to Rue Ménilmontant?" I
said, with a tranquillity that seemed to add to their irritation.
"Yes, monsieur; to see a young and pretty blonde. You like blondes now,
it seems! You like 'em of all colors, don't you?"
"And this blonde whom I go to see is my mistress, is she?"
"Oh, no! she may be your laundress, who knows? And you go there to watch
her iron your shirts! Ha! ha! ha! Why don't you tell us that? it would
be more amusing."
"I won't tell you that, because I have no reason to lie."
"Oh! of course not! To be sure, you're your own master, you can do what
you think best. It seems that she came here one day--your blonde--and
ran away as if the devil was after her. Oh! how sorry I am I wasn't here
that day, when she honored you with a visit! I'd have led her a pretty
dance! I'd have sent her mazurking down the stairs! But, who knows?
perhaps I shall meet her one of these days. As you pass all your time
with her now, it's probable that it will soon be her turn to come here.
Just let me meet her! You see, I'm not very gentle when I'm jealous!
I'll box that woman's ears; yes, monsieur, yes, I'll box her ears!"
I listened to Rosette without winking. Frédérique said nothing, but kept
her eyes on me.
"You're not so wicked as you try to make people think, Rosette," said I,
trying to take her hand, which she snatched away. "If you should find
the young woman you speak of here, you would not insult her, I trust;
for it would be as absurd as your insulting madame."
"What do you say? Do you want to make us believe that the blonde is just
a friend of yours? Oh! my boy, that may do for once. Madame Frédérique
here is your friend, but you don't pass all your time with her, I
believe.--Does he, madame?"
"Oh! I see very little of monsieur!" rejoined Frédérique, with a gesture
of annoyance; "and when by chance he does condescend to pay me a visit,
he seizes the first pretext to retire. I know that friends ought not to
stand on ceremony; but it would be possible to be more frank and
outspoken."
This was said in a tone which indicated that she was seriously offended.
Suddenly Rosette darted at me, as if she meant to claw my eyes out,
crying:
"Come, monsieur, who is this woman that you pass all your time with? How
long have you known her? what do you do at her house? Answer! answer!
Answer, I say! I am not your friend, and I want you to stand on ceremony
with me!"
"First of all, mademoiselle, I might refuse to answer questions asked in
such a way. You want to know all that I do? Are you entitled to? Do I
know all that you are doing, when I am looking vainly for you at your
seven aunts'? But, nevertheless, I propose to gratify your curiosity,
because I shall be very glad to justify myself at the same time in the
eyes of my friend Frédérique, who thinks that she no longer has my full
confidence."
"That is to say, you condescend to answer me on madame's account? That's
very polite to me! But, no matter! go on, monsieur."
"This girl, to whose room I have, in fact, been going regularly for some
days, and who lives on Rue Ménilmontant, is not my mistress. Your
conjectures with regard to her are altogether false; she is a poor girl,
who was virtuous, and who was seduced----"
"How clever! As if all girls weren't virtuous before they're seduced!"
"But I know what I am talking about; I mean that she had not the taste
for pleasure or idleness which sooner or later leads a girl on to her
ruin."
"Ah! very good; I understand! She'd have been a saint, if she hadn't
sinned."
"If you don't mean to let me speak, Rosette, it is useless to question
me."
"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I'll hold my tongue."
"This girl became a mother. Her seducer had deserted her."
"Indeed! but what has all this rigmarole to do with you? Is it any of
your business, if you're not the seducer?"
"I learned indirectly of this young woman's misfortunes; I became
interested in her, I gave her work, and tried, so far as was in my
power, to relieve her distress. What is there so surprising in that,
mesdames? Why do you look at me with such a peculiar expression?"
"Go on, my dear boy, continue your touching story. And now you pass your
time with this young woman; because she's teaching you to knit,
perhaps."
I could not restrain a gesture of impatience. It is disheartening, when
one has tried to do a little good, to be incessantly suspected of the
opposite. I sprang to my feet and exclaimed:
"I go to see that young woman every day now, because she is in despair;
because she would lose her reason, in all probability, if she had no
one to keep up her courage; because this is no time to abandon her!
Believe me or not, as you choose, mesdames; but so much the worse for
you, if you believe me incapable of doing a kind action from
disinterested motives!"
"I have never believed that of you, Charles," said Frédérique, coming to
my side; "but it seems to me that one who believed that she had your
full confidence may well be surprised to learn that your attention is
engrossed by a young woman whom you had never mentioned to her."
"As for me," cried Rosette, "I'm not so gullible as madame; I don't take
any stock in your innocent, unfortunate, persecuted woman! All you need
is the credulous and cruel husband! I saw a play like that once. I don't
say that you don't help this lovely blonde of yours; on the contrary, I
believe you help her too much. No doubt you were touched by her woes;
but why? Because you're in love with her."
"That is not true, Rosette; I tell you once more, you are all wrong."
"I beg your pardon--one more question, and answer it honestly: is this
woman pretty?"
"She is very good-looking."
"There! I was sure of it!--Take notice, Madame Frédérique, that these
benevolent gentlemen never protect any women that aren't good-looking.
As for the ugly ones, I don't know how it happens, but they never
unearth them. They can groan in corners as much as they choose, there's
no danger that anyone will hunt them up.--Total result: I don't take any
stock in your story, and I believe I shall do well to yield to
Freluchon's entreaties and couple up with him.--You've seen his sponge
shop on Rue du Petit-Carreau, haven't you, madame? Don't you think it's
rather neat?"
"Very," replied Frédérique; "the counting-room especially struck me as
remarkably elegant."
"Ah! how fine I'll look in it!--Adieu, Charles! You've been playing
tricks on me, and I'm going to get married!"
Rosette departed, and I confess that I did not try to detain her; what
she had said had stung me to the quick. As for Frédérique, I saw that in
the bottom of her heart she shared the grisette's unjust suspicions. She
stayed a moment longer with me, but said almost nothing; then she too
left me, and when I pressed her hand it hardly responded to the
pressure. So that is how we are believed when we tell the truth! If I
had lied, I am very certain that they would not have been so
incredulous.
XLII
A CONSOLATION
I did not recover at once from the sensations caused by the two visits I
had received. I knew that my liaison with Rosette would not last long;
and when a thing is bound to end a little sooner or a little later, one
is prepared for it. Moreover, since my peregrinations among the aunts, I
had not had the slightest confidence in Rosette.
But Frédérique! That she should look coldly on me because I had busied
myself in behalf of a young woman who was in trouble surprised me, I
admit. She was kind-hearted herself; why was she unwilling that other
people should have that good quality?
I was tempted for a moment to go to her; but I reflected that it would
be almost equivalent to asking her forgiveness for doing a kind action
without her leave. I felt that I must retain my dignity. So much the
worse for those who see evil everywhere and in everything!
All this reflection and hesitation detained me at home much later than
usual, and the day was far advanced when I arrived at Rue Ménilmontant.
Madame Potrelle was not in her lodge, which was deserted. I hastened
upstairs; but my heart was oppressed by a melancholy presentiment: was
the poor child worse?
When I reached Mignonne's room, I found there, besides the unhappy
mother, the doctor, the concierge, and a neighbor.
Mignonne was weeping and calling her daughter; at last she fell back on
her chair, speechless and motionless.
"Little Marie is no more," said the doctor, in a low voice; "she died
only a minute ago, after a slight convulsion. The child could not
recover; I knew it all along; but the poor mother will not have it that
she is dead. Still, we must take her away."
Poor mother! poor child! I had arrived too late! I could not have
prevented that catastrophe, and yet I was deeply grieved that I had
delayed so long. The old concierge leaned over Mignonne and burst into
tears; the other woman did the same. I walked to the cradle and looked
in. Poor little girl! the last struggle had gone gently with her, for
her face was not changed; on the contrary, it seemed that with death she
had found peace and rest, that she was happy in having ceased to suffer.
Her sweet face seemed to smile; I stooped to kiss the forehead of that
angel who had made so brief a sojourn on earth.
Mignonne, who was apparently absorbed by her grief, when she saw me,
sprang to her feet, pushed the doctor away, and came to me, crying:
"Here you are! here you are! How late you have come! But you will make
her drink, won't you? You will bring the dear child back to life; for
she isn't dead! oh, no! God has not taken my daughter away from me!
Here, here, take her; why don't you make her drink? Open her lips; you
see that she doesn't cry, that she doesn't refuse!"
And she stooped over to lift the child, covering her with tears and
kisses. Then she suddenly uttered a loud shriek and pressed her to her
heart.
"Cold! cold!" she cried. "Why is that? Warm her, monsieur, warm her, I
say! You can see that she is dying!"
It was a heartrending scene. Even the doctor could not restrain his
tears. But luckily Mignonne lost consciousness. We took advantage of
that moment to carry her away, the doctor and I. The neighbor who was
present lived on the same street, two houses away; she offered to take
the young mother in and keep her as long as her condition required.
We placed Mignonne in a large armchair; several obliging people lent a
hand, and we carried Mignonne to the neighbor's house before she
recovered consciousness. The doctor accompanied her, and said that he
would not leave her. Madame Potrelle remained, to pray beside the dead
child. I left the house, as sad and gloomy as a stormy day. I sought a
solitary quarter, for the sight of the world oppressed me.
"What had that young mother done," I said to myself, "that she should be
deprived of her child, who was her only comfort and joy on earth?"
A fortnight had passed since little Marie's death. I had not as yet had
the courage to go to see Mignonne; I was afraid that the sight of me
would make her unhappy, for it would inevitably remind her of her
daughter.
But did not she think of her always, poor woman? Not by striving to
banish a memory from the heart do we succeed in resigning ourselves to
it with less bitterness; on the contrary, grief is pacified and soothed
by speaking freely and often of those we have lost.
I had called at Madame Dauberny's, but was told that she had gone into
the country for a few days. Of Rosette I heard nothing at all.
One hot summer's day, I decided to go to see Mignonne. I had left her in
charge of decent people who were deeply interested in her. The doctor
had promised to see her constantly, and that was why I had postponed my
visit. We often have courage to bear our own troubles, but find it
wanting when we must face those of other people.
When I arrived at Madame Potrelle's lodge, I found the good woman there.
I hardly dared to question her. She divined my hesitation and
anticipated my wishes.
"Madame Landernoy has been very sick, monsieur; for five days, we
thought she would die; but she has finally recovered her health, or at
least the consciousness of her misfortunes; for I don't call it health
myself, when she cries all the time and only eats so as to keep up her
strength. At last, about four days ago, she insisted on coming back to
her own little room upstairs. The neighbor didn't want her to; but the
doctor said: 'She mustn't be thwarted, it will make her worse.'--So
she's come back. Oh! monsieur, if you could have heard her sobs when
she saw the child's cradle; and now she keeps her head bent over it all
the time, as if she was looking for her; and she says: 'It's all I've
got left of her. I can't cry anywhere but over her cradle, for I don't
know where she is--I haven't got anything of hers. Nobody can find the
poor woman's child, and I can't go and kneel by her grave!'--Ah!
monsieur, it is very painful to hear that, and to see that poor young
thing crushed under the weight of her grief, and refusing, sometimes for
whole days, to budge from her little one's cradle!"
I made no reply, but went up to Mignonne's room. I found her door
closed. I could hear nothing; profound silence reigned. I knocked gently
on the door. After a moment, I heard Mignonne's sweet voice:
"Who is there?"
"It is I, madame; pray let me come in."
She evidently recognized my voice, for she opened the door at once. She
looked earnestly at me, and said, pointing to the cradle with a
heartrending expression:
"Why do you come now? She isn't here any longer; you can't do anything
more for her; and I--oh! I don't need anything now."
She fell, exhausted, on a chair. But I stood in front of her and said,
in a respectful and firm tone:
"I have one more duty to perform. Be good enough to come with me,
madame; take your bonnet and shawl, and come with me, I beg. I ask it in
your daughter's name."
Mignonne gazed at me in surprise; but I had no sooner mentioned her
daughter, than she rose, hastily put on what she needed, and was ready
in a moment.
I went downstairs first, and she followed me. Mère Potrelle stared when
she saw us pass her door; but I did not stop. I had come in a cab,
which was waiting at the door. I asked Mignonne to get in, and she
complied without asking any questions. I took my seat beside her; the
cabman knew where to take us, and we drove away.
Mignonne did not open her lips, and I respected her silence. Thus we
traversed the distance that separated us from the cemetery of
Père-Lachaise. Our cab stopped at the gate of that place of repose. I
alighted first, and gave my hand to Mignonne. When she recognized the
place where we were, she seemed to feel a sudden shock; her eyes
brightened, she looked into my face, then eagerly seized my hand and
walked beside me, never relaxing her grasp; I felt her hand tremble in
mine.
I led her for some time through the paths between the graves. At last, I
stopped on the summit of a hill where there was a sort of enclosure
formed by a number of cypresses. I led her into that enclosure, where
there was a monument as simple as the body beneath it. It was a flat
stone, lying on the ground, with a white marble column standing at its
head. On that column was an angel flying away from a cradle, and at the
base these words only:
HERE RESTS MARIE LANDERNOY
That modest monument was surrounded by newly planted flowers, and the
whole was enclosed by a low iron fence. I opened the gate, of which I
had the key, and pointed to the stone, saying simply:
"Your daughter is there."
The young woman, who had followed me in silence, but trembling nervously
for a reason which I could well understand, gazed vacantly at the little
cenotaph at first; but when she read her daughter's name on the marble,
she uttered a cry, fell on her knees as if to thank heaven, then rose
again, weeping, threw herself into my arms, and pressed me to her heart,
murmuring:
"My friend! my friend! And I was suspicious of you! Oh! forgive me! I
love you dearly, now! My daughter is lying there; I can come now and
pray upon her grave, and tend and renew the flowers that surround it.
Ah! I breathe more freely now; you have given me courage to keep on
living."
"I have something else here," I said, taking from my pocket a carefully
folded paper, which I handed to Mignonne.
The young woman took the paper, and a flush of joy overspread her face;
she covered her daughter's hair with kisses, then threw herself into my
arms once more.
"Oh! thanks! thanks, my friend! I have not lost everything; I have
something of her! Her soft, fine hair--I have it all, and it will never
leave me! Ah! you have almost made me happy! Let me thank you again."
She laid her head on my shoulder and wept profusely; but the tears were
soothing and assuaged her grief.
Then she knelt beside the gravestone. I walked away in order not to
disturb her meditation and her prayers.
At last, after spending a long time beside her daughter, Mignonne
returned to me; but she was no longer the same woman as when she left
her room. Her sombre grief, her wild glance, had given place to an
expression of pious melancholy and placid resignation.
I took her back to her home; on the way, I tried, not to combat her
regrets, but to make her understand that the most unhappy of mankind are
not those who are taken away from this world.
When we returned, Madame Potrelle looked at us, and was surprised beyond
words at the change that had taken place in her tenant; but she dared
not question us. Mignonne ran to the good woman and kissed her.
"Oh! I am no longer so wretched as I was! I have just been praying at my
daughter's grave; I've got the key; there are flowers all around it; I
am going to take care of them. Marie will be glad. See, I have all her
hair; and it's to him, to monsieur, my best friend, that I owe it all!
Ah! you were quite right when you told me that I made a mistake to
distrust him!"
I bade Mignonne adieu, in order to escape Madame Potrelle's eulogium.
The young woman offered me her hand, saying:
"Now I will come myself to get the work you are good enough to give me.
You will allow me to do it, won't you?"
"I do more than that, I beg you to; and, in the interest of your health,
I urge you to look carefully after all my linen; for there is nothing
like work to distract one's thoughts."
Mignonne speedily fulfilled her promise; she appeared one morning,
alone; she desired to show me that she no longer had any suspicion of
me. I talked a few minutes with her. We spoke of her daughter, the
subject in which she was most deeply interested. The people who are
afraid to speak of those they have lost are the ones who wish to forget
them at once. When one does not wish to forget the dear ones who are no
more, why should one shrink from speaking of them?
Then I went out, after saying to her:
"The keys are in all the drawers. Look over everything, and take away
what you choose. That is your affair; and my servant has orders to obey
you like myself, if you need anything."
Several weeks passed thus. At first Mignonne came every four or five
days, then a little oftener, then every other day; and I frequently
found her established in my quarters, and working there; for she had
said to me one day:
"When there isn't much to mend, perhaps one shirt, or one waistcoat, it
is hardly worth while to carry it home, if it doesn't annoy you to have
me do it here."
And as it did not annoy me in the least to have her work in my rooms, as
I observed with delight that her grief was more calm, more resigned, and
that when she was busily employed there she had much more distraction
than in her own chamber, I urged her to work there whenever it was
convenient for her to do so.
Pomponne alone seemed very much puzzled because that young woman did her
sewing in my apartment when I was not there; especially as Mignonne was
not talkative, and as I had forbidden him to presume to ask her any
questions.
XLIII
CONJECTURES
I called again to see Frédérique, but she had not returned from the
country. Did she propose to spend the summer there? It seemed to me that
she might have told me where she was going, and have asked me to pass
some time with her.
I was unhappy over Frédérique's absence; but, above all, I was hurt by
her manifest indifference. I would have liked to scold her; I would have
liked to tell her that I was very angry with her. Where was she? what
was she doing? whom did she see now? Madame insisted upon my telling her
everything, but she told me nothing.
One day when Mignonne was working in my salon, and I, contrary to my
custom, had not gone out, the doorbell announced a visitor. Mignonne
rose at once, saying:
"I will go, monsieur."
"Why so, Mignonne? Stay, I beg you; you are not in my way; and if my
visitor has anything to say to me in private, I will take him into my
bedroom, that's all. There is not the least reason why you should go."
Mignonne resumed her seat, and Ballangier entered the room. He was still
in cap and blouse, but his dress was irreproachably neat, and his hands
very white. When he saw a young woman installed in my apartment, he
started back in surprise, and would have gone away.
"I beg pardon! I didn't know that you had company. Pomponne told me I
might come in."
"Why, of course; come in, come in! You mustn't let madame frighten you
away. Take a seat, and let us talk."
Ballangier decided to sit down. Mignonne went on sewing and kept her
eyes over her work.
"Well! have you still plenty to do? are they still satisfied with you? I
am sure that they are; I can read it in your eyes."
"Yes; my employer is perfectly satisfied with me. If you knew how rich I
am now! I am actually saving money! Can you believe that I have
seventy-five francs put by?"
"Well done, my friend! As soon as a man has succeeded in saving
something, it's like a snowball. It isn't so hard as people think to
become well to do. Often nothing is necessary but determination; but it
must be constant and immovable."
"Oh! that's the way it is with me now; there's no danger of my
stumbling. Why, when I see a drunken man, it makes me blush for shame,
and I say to myself: 'How could I ever take any pleasure in making a
beast of myself like that!'"
"And your reading?"
"That gives me a great deal of entertainment, too. But there are some
things I have to read over two or three times, because I don't
understand them right away."
"Would you like me to give you some more books?"
"Thanks, not to-day. I am doing an errand for my employer, and I had to
pass your door; that's why I took the liberty of coming up."
"You did well, for it's a pleasure to me to see you now."
Ballangier smiled, then glanced furtively at Mignonne. We talked for
some time; then he rose, saying that he must hurry, because his employer
was waiting for him. I walked into the reception room with him, and
there, after bidding me adieu, Ballangier murmured:
"She's mighty pretty, that little woman sewing in there!"
"Yes, she is pretty; and, what's better still, she's respectable."
"Ah, yes! Is she a lady?"
"I'll tell you another time who she is."
When Ballangier had gone, I returned to Mignonne, who went on with her
work and said nothing. Still, I would have bet that she was surprised to
hear me, a young man of fashion, addressed thus familiarly by a man in
cap and blouse.
Pomponne handed me a huge envelope which the concierge had just brought
upstairs. The enclosure was printed; evidently a wedding invitation. I
read:
"Mesdames Falourdin, Riflot, Piquette, Dumarteau, Lumignon,
Chamouillet, and Cavalos have the honor to announce the marriage of
their niece, Mademoiselle Rosette Gribiche, to Monsieur
Jules-César-Octave Freluchon, dealer in sponges."
Ah! it was very amiable on Rosette's part to send me an announcement of
her wedding. But something was written at the foot of the sheet:
"You are requested to attend the ball, which will take place at
Chapart's, Rue d'Angoulême; I rely on you for the polka."