insisting on dancing all night with me; and I was not at all certain
that she would not demand something else. But I would not accept her
invitation, I would not go to her wedding feast. I would be more
sensible than she was. I would not swear that, later on, I might not do
myself the pleasure of buying a sponge of her. Meanwhile, I wished
Monsieur Freluchon all happiness, and I was convinced beforehand that it
would be his.
One evening, when I went home, Pomponne said to me, rubbing his hands
gleefully:
"Monsieur had another visitor to-day. Mon Dieu! monsieur had only just
gone out, when Madame Dauberny came."
"Madame Dauberny? Oh! how sorry I am that I didn't see her!"
"She came in; in fact, she waited for monsieur quite a long time,
talking with your seamstress."
"What do you mean by my seamstress? In heaven's name, can't you say
Madame Landernoy?"
"As that lady sews for monsieur, I thought she was his seamstress."
"No matter! what did Frédérique say when she went away? Will she come
again to-morrow?"
"Oh! no, monsieur; she won't come again to-morrow nor any other day; for
she said to me when she went away: 'You will tell your master that I
shan't come again.'"
"She said that she wouldn't come again! That's impossible, Pomponne; you
are mistaken; Frédérique could not have said that."
"Beg pardon, monsieur; I'm sure she said it, because it surprised me;
and I said to her: 'Why! is madame angry with monsieur?'"
"Oh! I recognize you there! Always inquisitive and chattering! Well,
what did she say to that?"
"She said: 'That's none of your business!'--I didn't say any more."
I could not understand why Frédérique should have said what Pomponne had
reported to me. If she had come often to see me without finding me, it
might be conceivable; but, on the contrary, I had been more than ten
times to inquire for her while she was in the country.
"No matter!" I thought; "I will go to see her to-morrow, and obtain an
explanation of all this, I hope."
The next day, as soon as I had finished breakfast, I hastened to Madame
Dauberny's. At last, she was at home! Her maid ushered me into her room.
I found Frédérique enveloped in a morning gown. Her lovely hair, falling
in long curls on each side of her face, was without ornament. She was
very pale, and her manner was cold and constrained; she greeted me with
a smile that was not sincere, and said:
"Ah! is it you, Charles?"
"Yes, it is I. You came to see me yesterday, and I am extremely sorry
that I was absent. But that fact does not seem to me a sufficient
explanation of your saying to my servant that you would not come again.
What did that mean? I have been here ten or fifteen times to see you
since you went into the country, where it never once occurred to you to
write me, to tell me where you were. I could not write to you, for I had
no idea in what direction you had gone. But I came, nevertheless, again
and again; for I could not tire of coming, when I hoped to see
you!--Tell me, what is the matter? what have I done? Why are you
offended? for you are offended, I can see by the cold way in which you
receive me."
Frédérique listened to me attentively. She forced herself to smile and
offered me her hand, saying in a faltering tone:
"All that you say is true--I have no right to be angry--and I am not any
longer."
"But you are!"
"No, I am not."
"Why did you tell Pomponne that you would not come again?"
"Why--because--as you have a woman installed in your rooms now--I
thought that my visits could only----"
"Upon my word, I can't understand you! Because a person comes to my
rooms, a person who looks after my linen, takes it away and brings it
back!--What has that to do with our friendship?"
"Is she the--the young woman in whom you took such a deep interest?"
"Yes, madame. She has lost her child, her little girl, who was her only
joy! It seems to me that that is an additional reason for trying to
lighten her sorrow."
"Oh! most assuredly! It seems, too, that you have done wonders for her,
for she says everything good of you! she extols you to the skies! Never
fear, my friend, she is truly grateful!"
"But that ought not to seem extraordinary to you, who maintain that
ingratitude is the most shocking of vices."
"No, no! I see nothing at all unusual in all that."
"Mon Dieu! Frédérique, you drive me mad! Do you know that, to hear you,
one would think you were unkind and unfeeling, and yet I know that you
are not."
"She is very pretty, that young woman!"
"I told you that before. And because she is pretty--is that a reason for
not doing anything for her?"
"Oh! quite the contrary! That is a reason for being deeply interested in
her, for having her come to work in one's own rooms, and pass her days
there.--Ha! ha! ha! Really, Rosette wasn't so foolish as I: she guessed
the truth at once."
"What do you mean by that, Frédérique?"
"I mean that you love that young woman, that you are in love with her,
that you mean to make her your mistress! Oh! mon Dieu! it's all simple
and natural enough, and I don't blame you. You are free, and so is she;
you are perfectly entitled to--to live with her, if it suits you to do
so! But what I don't like, what pains me, is that you always make a
mystery to me of your sentiments and your intrigues; that I never learn
your secrets except from others; that you haven't confidence enough in
me to tell me of your new amours. That is what angers me. For, you see,
being neither your mistress nor your friend, I am nothing at all to you!
So I cannot see the necessity of continuing our acquaintance."
My heart sank; I felt, not anger, but sorrow, genuine sorrow, to find
that I was unjustly judged by a woman to whom I would have been glad to
lay bare my whole heart, to whom I longed to tell my most secret
thoughts, hoping to read her heart as she would read mine. That reproach
of a lack of confidence in her touched and wounded me; as I was not
guilty, I would not even try to justify myself.
I took my hat and prepared to go.
"Are you going already?" exclaimed Frédérique.
"Yes, madame. I consider it useless to remain longer with a person who
believes neither in my words nor in my affection. I thought that you
were able to judge me fairly, to appreciate my feelings. I was mistaken.
Some day, I doubt not, you will realize your error. Then, madame,
perhaps you will come to me and offer me again that friendship of which
you now think me unworthy; and you will find me, as always, happy to
deserve such a favor."
Frédérique looked at me; I believe that she was on the point of rushing
toward me; but she repressed that impulse, which came from her heart,
and I went away, determined to make no attempt to see her again. I had
learned that one can no more rely on a woman's friendship than on her
love; that there must inevitably be a strain of inconstancy or caprice
in all their affections.
On the day following my visit to Madame Dauberny, Mignonne came as usual
to bring back my linen; but, contrary to her custom, she took another
package and prepared to go away again at once.
"Don't you propose to stay and work a while to-day?" I asked her. She
seemed embarrassed, and hesitated before replying; at last she faltered,
lowering her eyes:
"Monsieur--it is--I am--I am afraid that staying here so often to
work--I am afraid I am in your way."
"What is the source of that fear to-day? Haven't I told you that I could
receive in my bedroom anybody with whom I wished to be alone?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Why this fear, then? What new idea have you got into your head?"
"It didn't come into my head."
"Whose, then, pray?"
"Monsieur--the fact is--that--it was day before yesterday that a lady
came to see you. Didn't your servant tell you?"
"Certainly he did."
"That lady sat down; she stayed a long time with me, and examined me
very closely. She had a strange way about her. When she mentioned you,
she said just _Rochebrune_, or _Charles_. She is very intimate with you,
it seems."
"Well! what then?"
"After looking at me so hard that I didn't know which way to turn, she
began to talk to me. She asked a lot of questions about the beginning of
our acquaintance. She asked me how long I'd known you, and--and--oh! a
lot of things I don't dare tell you. I just told her the truth--all you
had done for me, and all I had to be grateful to you for. You are not
angry, are you, monsieur, because I told her all that?"
"Why should it make me angry?"
"The strange part of it was that the lady didn't seem pleased to hear me
say all--all the good of you that you deserve! She kept shrugging her
shoulders--I saw it plainly enough! And at last she cried: 'This is all
very noble, it's magnificent; but it's easy to see what the end of it
will be. When a young woman installs herself in a young man's bachelor
apartment, there must be in the bottom of her heart a sentiment stronger
than her care for her reputation; it must be that she isn't afraid to be
looked upon by the world as that young man's mistress.'"
"She said that?"
"Yes, and then she went away, saying: 'I don't want to make you unhappy,
mademoiselle; I simply mean to give you a little advice.'--Oh! but she
did make me awfully unhappy!"
"And is that the reason why you don't propose to work here to-day?"
"Oh! it isn't on my own account, monsieur; it's on yours. That lady says
it will keep all your friends from coming to see you. I wouldn't for the
world have you quarrel with anyone."
"You cannot believe anything so absurd, Mignonne! Say, rather, that you
are afraid to be looked upon as my mistress--that it has occurred to you
that----"
"O monsieur! for heaven's sake, do not finish! After all you have done
for me, the memory of my daughter alone would be enough to make me
worship you. What do I care for anything the world can say? Do I know
the world? Have I any reputation to preserve? Would life have any charm
for me, were it not for you, who attached me to it by giving my daughter
a last resting place? You, and the memory of Marie, that is all the
world means to me! What do I care for all the rest? Oh! if it does not
displease you to have me stay, tell me so again, monsieur, and I swear
to you that I will obey you with happiness and joy."
"In that case, stay, Mignonne."
The young woman hastily unrolled the work she was about to take away;
she took her needle and set to work in her usual seat, after looking at
me with a smile.
She at least showed undiminished confidence in me.
XLIV
LOVE ON ALL SIDES
Mignonne continued to come to my rooms. I found already that my living
expenses had diminished materially. I asked her to have an eye to a
thousand and one details of housekeeping, to which I never paid any
attention; she did it with a zeal and an intelligence that astonished
me. I was like Ballangier, I was becoming too rich; and yet, nothing was
ever lacking; on the contrary, I was as comfortable as I could wish. I
discovered that a woman is very useful in a house.
Mignonne's health was fully restored, and she had recovered her fresh
color; she never laughed, but a sweet smile sometimes played about her
lips. I was delighted with the change and congratulated her on it.
"It is your work," she said.
When we talked together, she always spoke of her daughter; she went to
see her almost every day, and I often saw in her belt a flower which she
constantly covered with kisses. I guessed where she had plucked that
flower.
Ballangier came to see me, and did not find me; but he found Mignonne,
and Monsieur Pomponne told me that he sat in front of her more than an
hour, without opening his mouth.
"How do you know that?" I demanded, pulling Pomponne's ear; "did you
listen at the door?"
"I couldn't listen, monsieur, as they didn't say anything."
Oh! these servants! Is there no way of finding one who is neither
inquisitive, talkative, a liar, nor a gossip? When they are not all of
these together, they are phoenixes!
"You received a visitor for me, did you?" I asked Mignonne.
"Yes, monsieur, that young mechanic; for he seems to be a mechanic."
"Yes; he's a cabinetmaker. What did he say to you?"
"He talks very little. But he told me enough for me to understand that
you are his benefactor, too; that he owes you a great deal."
"No, I am in no sense his benefactor. What I did for him was a duty. But
he behaved very badly at one time; for a long while he led a life of
idleness and dissipation. He was deaf to my entreaties and
remonstrances. In those days, his presence was as distasteful to me as
it is agreeable now. He has turned over a new leaf, become a respectable
man once more, and a good workman; I have given him all my friendship
again, and some day I hope--I hope that he will make a good husband.
Then, if Ballangier could fall in with a woman like you, Mignonne,
gentle and virtuous and hard-working, and if he could win her love, he
would be altogether happy."
Mignonne had become serious. She looked at the floor, murmuring:
"Oh! as for me, monsieur, you know very well that I can never think of
marriage! You know that I have been a mother!"
"If you concealed nothing from the man who loved you, you would still be
worthy of an honest man's love and esteem. Ought anyone to be so severe
as that, Mignonne? Who has not sinned--more or less?"
"However, monsieur, I shall never have any occasion to tell my story,
for I shall never marry."
"We cannot foresee the future."
"Oh! I can safely take my oath to that!"
I insisted no further, for it seemed to be a painful subject to the
young woman. Probably, engrossed as she was by her daughter's memory,
she did not choose to admit that anyone could divert her thoughts from
her, even in the future.
Nothing from Frédérique. She did not come to see me, and I certainly
should not go again to her. So it was all over; we had quarrelled--and
for what? More than once, unconsciously perhaps, I had walked in the
direction of her house and found myself in front of it; but at such
times I made haste to retrace my steps. I would have been glad, however,
to know if she were in Paris, or if she had gone away again. If chance
should bring us together, surely we could not pass on the street without
speaking. But I did not meet her.
By way of compensation, I did meet Ballangier near my own house. He was
on his way to see me; but as he had met me, he said that he would not go
upstairs. Something made me think that he would have preferred to go up.
I noticed a certain constraint in his manner. He asked about Mignonne,
but he did it with the air of one who dared not reveal all of the
interest he took in that young woman. Poor Ballangier! it was not
difficult to divine what was going on in his heart; he was not an expert
dissembler.
Another day, I met him again near my abode, and he made haste to tell me
that he had not come out without the permission of his employer, who was
still content with him, because he always worked two hours later at
night when he left his work in the morning. I looked him squarely in the
eye, and said:
"You don't tell me everything, my friend. You are concealing something
from me at this moment!"
He blushed, became confused, and stammered:
"Concealing something? I? Why, I don't think so!"
"You are not very sure, are you? But I'll tell you straight away what it
is: you're in love!"
This time he turned pale.
"In love? with whom, pray?"
"With whom? Why, with that young woman whom you have seen several times
at my rooms, and whom I call Madame Landernoy--or Mignonne."
"Oh! nonsense, Charles! you are mistaken. I consider her very
good-looking, to be sure; and then, her manner is so sweet and so
modest! But I certainly shouldn't presume to fall in love with her,
especially as--as you might not like it! For, you see, you have a right
to love her, you have done so much for her, and you give her work to
do."
"My friend, if that is all that prevents you, you may fall in love with
Mignonne at your pleasure; for, so far as I am concerned, I look upon
her as a sister; I have never dreamed of loving her in any other way;
and for the very reason that I have been of some service to her and that
she has enough confidence in me to come to my rooms to work, I should
feel bound in honor not to love her otherwise than as a sister."
Ballangier's face became radiant. He seized both my hands and squeezed
them hard; he would have cut capers in the street, if I had not
prevented him.
"Is it possible?" he cried. "You don't love her! you don't think of
loving her! Oh! if you knew what a weight you have taken off my
breast!--For I do love her, Charles; yes, I do love that young woman!
love her, do I say? why, I idolize her, I am mad over her! It took me
all of a sudden when I first saw her, it struck me here! Since then,
it's impossible for me to think of anything else. But I wouldn't ever
have told you; I wouldn't ever have told her, either. You'll forgive me;
for I thought that, with her always in your rooms--I thought you
couldn't help loving her--but nothing of the sort! You see, I've never
been in love before; I've known a lot of street walkers--but as to love,
not a bit of it! And now, what a difference! And how proud I am to be a
decent, hard-working man again! Perhaps I might take her fancy. Do you
think she'll ever love me, Charles? Oh! if she could love me!"
I strove to calm him; then I began by telling him Mignonne's whole
story. He listened attentively, muttering from time to time:
"Poor girl! the villains!"
When he knew all, I asked him if he still deemed Mignonne worthy to be
his wife.
"Do I think her worthy? Yes, indeed, poor girl! The least she's entitled
to is to find a man who'll make up for all the injury others have done
her. But suppose I should begin by killing this Fouvenard? by smashing
this Rambertin?"
"No, no, Ballangier; we must forget those wretches. If an opportunity
should offer, I don't say----"
"Ah! how quickly we'd seize it! how we'd trounce those fellows!"
"Now, all that you have to do is to try to please Mignonne; but even in
that you must act with great circumspection, and, above all, with
patience! That young woman, engrossed as she is with thoughts of her
daughter, would take fright at a single word of love. You will need time
to touch her heart. You must gain her confidence. In short, I cannot
undertake to say that you will win her love; that is your affair; for
you understand that I cannot intervene. I know enough of Mignonne's
temperament to be sure that that would be no way to succeed with her."
"Oh! never fear, Charles; I am very reserved, very shy. I will wait, I
will wait as long as it's necessary. The hope of winning her some day
will give me courage. I am going to read a lot; to try to educate
myself, and to be less awkward in my talk; for she talks mighty well,
and she has a very distinguished air. You'll see, Charles, you'll see!
You will be better satisfied than ever with me!"
Ballangier left me, drunk with joy. I prayed that he might be happy in
his love, and determined that I would do all that lay in my power to
help him.
I had just left him, and was walking along, musing upon what he had said
to me, when someone halted in front of me. It was Dumouton, the
debt-ridden man of letters. He had no umbrellas this time, but he
carried under his left arm an oval box, of bronzed tin, which seemed to
be carefully fastened.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! I recognized you at a distance. You
didn't see me, for you were lost in thought. Are you pretty well?"
"Very well, thanks, Monsieur Dumouton."
"Were you thinking out the plot of a play? You seemed very much
preoccupied."
"Oh, no! I don't write plays, myself."
"You are very wise! It's a wretched trade since so many people have
begun to dabble in it."
I attempted to salute Monsieur Dumouton and leave him; but he detained
me, saying with an embarrassed air:
"I beg pardon! I would like to say another word to you, as I have
happened to meet you. It's like this. First of all, you must know that
one of my children is sick; he's been--out of sorts for a week. And
then, we were without a certain household utensil--mon Dieu! why not say
it at once--a syringe! We needn't be more prudish than Molière, need
we?"
"Surely not; you are perfectly justified in saying a syringe."
"So I said to my wife: 'We must have a syringe!'--'Buy one,' said she.
Very good! that's what I did this morning. I bought a _clyso-pompe_ with
a constant flow--a new invention. It's exceedingly convenient; it comes
in a box; this is it that I have under my arm. Who'd ever suspect there
was a syringe in it? It might be lace, or prunes."
"Or even a pie."
"You are right; there are pies of this shape. And it's so easy to use;
no one has any idea what it is. Why, you can even use it at the theatre,
in a box. I know a lady who made a bet that she'd do it at the opera,
during a ballet; she won her bet."
"Did she have witnesses?"
"Probably."
"I must confess that I should have cried off."
"In a word, I bought this delightful _clyso-pompe_. Well! Monsieur
Rochebrune, would you believe that our child, whom his grandmother had
accustomed to the old method, positively refused to adopt the new?
Impossible to make him try the _clyso-pompe!_ Children are so obstinate!
And as my wife spoils him, she bought him an old-fashioned syringe. The
dealer who sold me this box refuses to take it back, and I am trying to
dispose of it--at a loss, of course. If you happened to want such a
thing----"
"No, Monsieur Dumouton, I am sorry that I cannot oblige you as I did in
the matter of the umbrella, but I won't buy your _clyso-pompe_."
"You are making a mistake. It's always useful."
"It is of no use for you to insist. But go and see our mutual friend,
Monsieur Rouffignard. Who knows? perhaps he will be very glad to relieve
you of this instrument."
At the name Rouffignard, Dumouton's face lengthened, and, without
another word, he bowed and disappeared. I was sure that he would not try
to sell me anything more.
XLV
SECOND-SIGHT IN WOMEN
It was three days after I had received Ballangier's confidence, and in
the morning when I was still alone, that Pomponne announced Madame
Dauberny.
I could not believe my ears; but at the same instant Frédérique hurried
into the room, with the amiable, fascinating expression, the proud yet
sweet glance, that always attracted and vanquished me; and, before I had
recovered from my surprise, she ran to me, took my hand, then threw her
arms about me and kissed me two or three times.
I began by letting her do as she chose, because I found it very
pleasant; but I gazed into her face, my eyes questioned her. She met
them fearlessly and said:
"Yes, Charles, I was wrong! Reproach me all you choose, overwhelm me
with the harshest words--I deserve it, yes, I deserve it! you could not
say too much. But here I am! I have come back to you, to ask your
forgiveness, to swear to you that hereafter I will have no more
caprices, that I will believe all that you say--all, do you hear? That I
will approve of everything you do, that my friendship will no longer be
selfish or exacting, and that it will be unchangeable! Indeed, do you
suppose that it really ceased even for a moment? Oh! no, you never
thought so, did you, Charles? You hadn't such a bad opinion of me, had
you?"
I was bewildered by what I heard. I would have liked to ask her why she
had been angry, and why she was so no longer, but she put her hand over
my mouth, crying:
"No reproaches, my friend, since I agree that I was wrong and beg your
pardon! Are you not willing now to throw a veil over the past?"
"Oh, yes! I am, indeed! Besides, you have come back, and I am so happy
to find you once more as you used to be, that I don't care to seek for
the explanation of my good fortune. But we, or rather you, are no longer
angry, are you, Frédérique?"
"I have sworn it, my friend. Tell me, what are you going to do to-day?
Would you like to pass the day with me?"
"Would I like it! You anticipate my dearest wish."
"The weather is magnificent; what do you say to a ride? We can go and
hire some horses at the riding school, where I usually hire; they have
some very good ones."
"A ride? delightful!"
"Then get ready quickly, monsieur. I will wait for you in your salon."
She left the room. I hastily finished dressing, and joined her in the
salon.
"Your young seamstress doesn't seem to be here to-day," said Frédérique,
with a smile.
"No, she came yesterday. She doesn't come regularly, every day, but just
when she pleases."
"My friend, I was most unjust to that young woman. Such things as I said
to her! Really, I don't know what had got into my head that day!"
"As you're sorry for it, you mustn't think any more about it."
"Oh! I shall try to make my peace with her, all the same. Let us go and
have our ride, my friend."