names are not the same--but on the mother's side. My mother was a widow
with one son when she married Monsieur Rochebrune, my father.--And now,"
I added, turning to Mignonne, "allow me to solicit your hand for my
brother, who loves you sincerely and who will devote his life to making
you happy."
Mignonne timidly gave her hand to Ballangier, saying to me with her
customary gentleness:
"I shall be very happy to be your sister."
While all this was taking place, Armantine cut a peculiar figure. She
left us early in the evening. The next day, she left Fontenay.
"How did you know that Ballangier was my brother?" I asked Frédérique,
when we were alone.
"My dear, have you forgotten that day on the Champs-Élysées? The poor
fellow was tipsy, and, while I was trying to quiet him, he involuntarily
told me the secret, although I asked him no questions."
A few days after that festivity, Frédérique received a letter, which she
read with evident emotion. Then she handed it to me, murmuring:
"See, my dear! you began the work, and Providence has done the rest."
The letter was from Zurich, Switzerland, and contained these words:
"MADAME:
"Monsieur François Dauberny, travelling for pleasure, met his death
three days ago on one of our glaciers. The sad event occurred, it
is said, while he was pursuing a young Swiss girl, who had refused
to listen to him. The papers found upon him give the information
that he was your husband."
"Well!" said I, taking Frédérique's hand; "nothing can part us
henceforth!"
THE GIRL WITH THREE PETTICOATS
I
THE DANGER OF SLEEPING TOO MUCH
At first glance, you will think that this is a paradox, you have so
often heard it said that: "There is nothing so good as sleep"; or:
"Sleep is so beneficial"; or: "Sleep is the greatest of restorers"; or:
"He who sleeps, dines."--I ask your pardon for this last quotation. I am
persuaded that you have never experienced its truth.
To all this I might reply that the best things have their bad side, and
that we must never abuse them. But I will content myself with simply
giving you some figures; you are aware that there is nothing so
convincing as figures.
I take people who go to bed at midnight; many, it is true, go to bed
much later; but as there are vast numbers who go to bed earlier, the
balance is preserved. You retire at midnight, then, and you get up at
eight in the morning; you have slept eight hours, or one-third of your
day. Consequently, if you live sixty years, you will have devoted twenty
years to sleep. Frankly, doesn't that seem to you too much? Ah! but I
can hear you retort:
"But, monsieur, one doesn't sleep all night without waking; I never have
eight hours' sleep!"
Very good; I agree. Instead of twenty years, then, I will charge you
with only fifteen; is not even that a good deal of time wasted?
"Sleep," says Montaigne, "stifles and suppresses the faculties of our
mind."
You will say: "Rest is indispensable to mankind"--and to womankind, too,
the ladies are so charming when they are asleep!--That is true; but
habit is everything in a man's life; with four hours' sleep a day, or a
night, you might be in as robust health as Æsculapius. I love to believe
that the god of medicine was in robust health; however, I will not take
my oath to it. But, to reach that result, you must get into the habit of
not sacrificing more than four hours to oblivion of your surroundings.
Now, as you adopt a contrary course, the result is that the more you
sleep, the more you feel the need of sleep, which, by deadening your
faculties, thickens your blood, deprives you of a part of your normal
activity, and sometimes makes your mind indolent--that is to say, if you
have one; but I am sure that you have.
Sleep has another great disadvantage; it tends to produce obesity; and
you will agree that you do not wish to be obese. That is a burden with
no corresponding benefit. In general, nothing ages a man so quickly as a
big paunch. Find me a man who desires one; I am inclined to think that
you would search in vain. On the other hand, you will find men by the
hundred who do their utmost to compress and abolish what stomach they
have; to that end, they often employ means which impede their
respiration; they wear corsets, like women; there are some who even go
so far as to refrain from satisfying their appetites, who do not eat as
their stomach demands, always in the fear that that organ will protrude
unduly.
Alexander the Great, or the great Alexander--no, I think it better to
say Alexander the Great, because he stands by himself, and great
Alexanders are very numerous--Alexander the Great often desired, even
when he was in bed, to resist the attacks of sleep, for fear that it
would make him forget the plans and projects that he had in mind.
Perhaps you will ask me why he went to bed, that being the case. He went
to bed to rest, but not to sleep. To that end, he caused a large copper
basin to be placed on the floor beside his bed; he kept his arm extended
over the basin, and held in his hand a big copper ball. If sleep
overcame him, his fingers would relax, and naturally the ball would drop
and make such a splash when it struck the water that it woke him
instantly.
You have the right to do as Alexander the Great did, when you wish to
avoid going to sleep; but perhaps you will find it rather tiresome to
hold your arm over a basin, with a heavy copper ball in your hand. I
admit that one must needs be Alexander the Great, or Alexander Dumas, to
do such things.
There are other ways of keeping awake: sleep rarely assails you when you
are enjoying yourself; therefore, you need only enjoy yourself, but that
is not always so easy as one might think.
A gentleman, whom I will call Dupont, with your permission, and who
lived in the pretty little town of Brives-la-Gaillarde, had the
unfortunate habit of sleeping too much. He was married, but it seems
that that fact did not amuse him enough; there are some men who are
capable of hinting that it was more likely to increase his infirmity.
This much is certain: that Madame Dupont herself often said to her
husband:
"You sleep a great deal too much, monsieur; it's perfectly ridiculous!
You're only forty years old; what in heaven's name will you do when
you're fifty? You fall asleep as soon as your head touches the pillow,
and don't wake up during the night; in the morning, I can hardly make
you open your eyes. You're not a man any longer, you're a marmot. Let me
tell you that when I married you I didn't think I was marrying a marmot!
But never mind about me; this sleeping all the time will be the death of
you; you're getting to be terribly fat, and you'll soon have a stomach
like Punchinello."
Monsieur Dupont was impressed by his wife's harangue; perhaps he would
not have cared so much about the resemblance to a marmot, but he was not
anxious to have a stomach like Punchinello.
He did not hesitate, but went at once to his physician and said to him:
"Doctor, I sleep a great deal too much; my wife complains about it, and
I feel myself that it's making me lazy. What must I do to sleep less?"
The doctor, who was very fond of smoking, shook his head and rolled a
cigarette, as he asked:
"Do you smoke?"
"Yes, doctor, I smoke all the time; but I fall asleep even when I'm
smoking."
"That's a pity! because I was going to advise you to smoke."
"Advise something else."
"Do you take snuff?"
"Yes, doctor; I have a collection of snuffboxes; but I don't take much
pleasure in it."
"That's too bad! for I would have advised you to take snuff."
"Try something else."
"Do you play cards?"
"I know all the games, but I don't care for any of them; cards put me to
sleep at once."
"So much the worse! I would have advised you to play cards. For, after
all, to avoid going to sleep, you must amuse yourself. Have you ever
been to Paris?"
"Yes, doctor, twice; but it was a long while ago, when I was in
business. It was before my marriage. I have an idea that I rather
enjoyed myself in Paris."
"Well, then, go there again; spend a few weeks in Paris; that will wake
you up, invigorate you, and amuse you. But be sure to go alone; don't
take your wife."
Dupont heartily approved this last injunction; he hastily made the
necessary preparations, told his wife of the doctor's prescription, and
started; nor did madame seem greatly distressed by his departure. But
one does not care much for the society of a marmot, unless one is a
marmot also.
II
HOW DUPONT AMUSED HIMSELF AT THE BALL
It was the year 1860, and it was the carnival season, which unluckily
was very brief that year. We say unluckily, for we admit that we do not
agree with the people who say:
"Masks have gone out of fashion; it isn't the thing to disguise yourself
now to drive or walk on the boulevards. No, no! That's all gone by,
forgotten, bad form! Before long, there won't be any carnival."
In the first place, we do not understand why such people frown upon
something that tends to amuse and rejoice the common people. It may not
make you laugh, monsieur, who seem always to be in a bad humor, and
whose nerves are unstrung when you see other people enjoying themselves.
I am very sorry for you! But I assure you that, in the old days, when,
during the pre-Lenten season, a triple row of carriages filled with
masks formed an immense Longchamp in the centre of Paris, the
promenaders and idlers did not complain because they were furnished with
that spectacle gratis.
Everybody could not afford to go to the Opéra ball, or even to the Salle
Barthélemy; and the modest annuitant, as he strolled about the streets
with his wife during the carnival days, returned home in high glee when
he had rubbed elbows with Harlequins or Punchinellos; and if a Bear said
to his wife: "I know you!" the delighted couple could not contain
themselves; and madame would say proudly to her concierge: "A Bear said
to me: 'I know you!'"
You must see, you pessimists, who want to abolish the carnival, that by
abolishing it you would grieve a great many people. I know that that is
a matter of indifference to you; but, despite your efforts, so long as
the world exists, there will be masks. Some people would tell you that
there are masks all the year round; that you need not wait for carnival
time to see them. But, as you hear that very often, I will not say it.
The carnival is the season of intrigues and of mad pranks. Again, we
might say that there are intrigues all the year round; but that has been
said before, and we will not repeat it. We will take the liberty, in
passing, of calling your attention to the fact that we say only novel
things; that is very considerate on our part, and we are persuaded that
we shall receive due credit therefor.
Monsieur Dupont was, as we have said, a man of forty years; that is the
age of passions, when one is destined to have any; but thus far the
gentleman in question had not manifested the slightest symptom of
anything of the sort. He smoked, took snuff, gambled, and drank, but
without enthusiasm, and, we might say, without enjoyment. As for the
women, you have seen that he slept most of the time beside his wife.
Nevertheless, Monsieur Dupont was not insensible to the charms of
beauty; what attracted him more than anything else in a woman was
figure, shape, carriage; in short, he preferred a well-proportioned body
to a pretty face; and unluckily for Madame Dupont, she was rather pretty
than well made. Perhaps that was what had made her husband such a heavy
sleeper.
As for Dupont himself, he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither short
nor tall, neither clever nor stupid; he was one of those men of whom
nothing is said. He had rather a good figure, however, with a shapely
foot and a small white hand. He was very proud of these advantages,
considered himself a little Apollo, and was absolutely determined not to
take on flesh; the fear of that catastrophe was mainly responsible for
his decision to go to Paris; and since the doctor had recommended that
he should go without his wife, it was evident that he wished him to lead
the life of a bachelor there. Now, what is the life of a bachelor, if
not to be constantly on the look-out for intrigues, amourettes, _bonnes
fortunes;_ in a word, to pass one's time running after women--society
women when opportunity offers, and grisettes when one can do no better?
Speaking of grisettes, there are some writers who try to make us believe
that there are none now; that they have gone out of fashion, like pug
dogs; that the mould is broken. With due deference to those gentlemen,
we maintain that the grisette still exists and always will exist in
Paris. For, if you please, what are all the flowermakers, seamstresses,
burnishers, illuminators, laundresses, waistcoatmakers, shirtmakers,
trousermakers, etc., etc.?--They are neither coquettes, nor those
exceedingly free and easy beauties who are always in evidence in the
proscenium boxes of the smaller theatres, and are called, I do not just
know why, lorettes; nor are they kept women, for it very often happens
that their lovers can give them nothing but love; lastly, they are not
virtuous bourgeois women, who never go out except on the arm of a father
or brother. They are grisettes, genuine grisettes! Pray let us not
demonetize them, they are such pretty coins! Why insist that they shall
cease to be current?
I wish that you gentlemen, who will have it that there are none left in
Paris, would go now and then, during the summer, to the Closerie des
Lilas, the favorite ball of the students who love dancing and love; you
will see there grisettes of all categories, you will see them laughing,
capering, fooling, dancing a cancan as graceful and much less indecent
than the Spanish dances which are allowed at the theatres; you will hear
them talk, making fun of one another, envying this one her lover,
ridiculing that one's lover; and amid the brief sentences and bursts of
laughter that fill the air on all sides, you will catch some piquant,
clever remarks, original expressions, which you hear nowhere else, and
which make it impossible for you to keep a serious face--unless, that is
to say, you belong to that school which insists that no one shall laugh,
and which dares to say that "laughter is a grimace"! What a pitiful
school, good Lord! Take my advice and never send your children to it!
You must surely see that the results are not desirable.
Dupont, arriving in Paris during the carnival, began his bachelor life
by betaking himself to the Opéra ball.
"The doctor ordered me to enjoy myself, and I can't fail of it in the
midst of that crowd, largely composed of pretty women who are not
absolute Lucretias, who ask nothing better than to make acquaintances,
who, in fact, go to the ball for that sole purpose. I will take my
choice, I will try to find a woman shaped like a Venus--yes, a Bacchante
even, for all the Bacchantes I ever saw in pictures were of perfect
shape; I will play the agreeable, the gallant; I have wit enough when I
am started; to be sure, I have some difficulty in getting started, but
with perseverance and punch I shall succeed; and I won't go to bed at
ten o'clock, for I won't go to the ball till midnight."
Dupont carried his plan into execution; he had some trouble to avoid
falling asleep in his chair when the clock struck ten. Several times he
was on the point of getting into bed instead of putting on his dress
coat; but, luckily, just as he was about to yield to his old habit, he
glanced at his stomach and remembered that he could no longer button the
last button of his waistcoat; whereupon he sprang to his feet and
dressed in haste, muttering:
"You poor devil, do you want to turn into a Punchinello? I shan't have a
hump behind, to be sure, but one in front is just as laughable and much
more inconvenient. I'll go to the ball, cut capers, and have a jolly
time! Sapristi! this isn't a joking matter, it's a matter of remaining
young!"
Behold, therefore, our friend at the ball, gliding amid the throng that
walked back and forth around the dancing enclosure, because from there
one can look at the women at close quarters; one can even speak to them,
joke with them, and offer them an arm when they are without an escort;
all that is permissible at a masquerade ball. Indeed, what is not
permissible there?--Dupont saw divers pretty creatures dressed as
boatmen, sailors, jockeys, and postilions. As a general rule, ladies who
dress in masculine costume wear no masks and are very glad to show their
faces. They also disclose their shoulders and breasts; sometimes,
indeed, there is too much abandon in their attire; they do not
understand that the eye likes to have something to divine, and that a
man is especially enamored of what he does not see.
Dupont selected a very attractive little blonde dressed as a Columbine.
To become better acquainted, he invited her to polk; but our worthy
friend from Brives-la-Gaillarde did not know what a risk he was taking;
he fancied that the polka was danced at the Opéra ball as it was danced
in his province; above all, he was unaware that it always ended in a
galop--and such a galop! it must be seen to be appreciated. It is a
whirlwind; it is as if a sort of insane frenzy had taken possession of
all the dancers, under the inspiration of the lively, rapid, deafening
music that electrifies you and takes you off your feet; you no longer
galop, you fly, you whirl madly about, you push and jostle everyone you
meet! Be fearless and do not lose your head, or you will infallibly be
thrown down.
That is what happened to Dupont; he was not agile enough to hold his own
in that bacchanalian dance; he fell and dragged his partner to the floor
with him; she sprang quickly to her feet, and said in an angry tone:
"When you don't know how to galop, my boy, you shouldn't ask a lady to
dance."
And the Columbine seized the arm of a Harlequin, and began to dance with
him; while poor Dupont, who had not risen quickly enough, was struck by
the feet of several dancers, and finally got up covered with bruises.
As he was very lame in the knees, shoulders, and back, he left the ball
and went home to bed, saying:
"That's enough amusement for to-night!"
But Dupont would not admit that he was beaten, although he really had
been. A few days later, he tried his luck again at a ball; but this time
he went to the Casino, which he had been told was the rendezvous of the
women most in vogue. In truth, our provincial was agreeably impressed by
the fine costumes and by the elegance of those ladies, most of whom were
in party dresses instead of masks.
"It is impossible," he said to himself, "that they dance such a
dangerous galop here as they do at the Opéra. However, I will be prudent
and not galop; I will confine myself to taking a partner for a
contra-dance; that's the wiser way, because the figures are always the
same; I know them all, and it isn't possible that I can be thrown down
doing the English chain or the _pastourelle_."
And Dupont, after walking about the hall for some time in search of a
particularly shapely partner, invited at last a rather attractive person
whose languorous eyes gazed into his with infinite good humor.
They stood up to dance; but Dupont had for vis-à-vis a _gaillarde_ who
had been a pupil of the famous Rigolboche, and whose bold and eccentric
dancing was so renowned that people fought for places to watch her.
When Dupont executed his _avant-deux_ before that lady, he suddenly
received a superb kick full in the face, amid the applause and roars of
laughter of the spectators.
Dupont alone did not laugh; his nose was crushed, and he attempted to
complain; but the tall _gaillarde_ said to him:
"It's your own fault! You're a donkey, my dear friend; you ought to have
known that that was the time when I lift my leg! If you don't know my
steps, you shouldn't dance opposite me! Bribri would never have let my
foot hit him!"
As Dupont's nose was bleeding and pained him severely, he left the ball
and went home to bed, saying to himself:
"I've amused myself enough for to-day."
Several days passed, and, Dupont's nose having healed, he said to
himself:
"I'll go to the ball again; I'll stick to it; but this time I won't
dance."
Attracted by the length of a poster which almost covered a whole pillar
on the boulevards, he went to the ball in the Salle Barthélemy. There
the crowd was almost as great as at the Opéra, but the company was
infinitely less refined, and the tobacco smoke and the dust raised by
the dancing, blended with the odor of the refreshments which were being
served, gave to that ball a distinction peculiarly its own.
Dupont discovered a pretty little brunette, whose dress resembled that
of a grisette. She was alone; he offered his arm and a glass of punch.
The girl hesitated, then replied:
"You are very kind! I am very fond of punch, and I'd like to take a
glass; but I'm afraid of Ronfland."
"Who's Ronfland?"
"He's--he's my friend, a cabinetmaker, a good fellow--but he gets drunk
too often. I came to the ball with him, and he was to dance with me; but
he didn't, and he left me here. That ain't a nice way to treat me!"
"As Monsieur Ronfland left you, it seems to me that you're at liberty to
do what you choose, and to accept my arm and a glass of punch; you can't
stay alone in this crowd, you need an escort."
"It ain't very good fun to be alone, that's true. I don't understand
Ronfland; he left me near the orchestra, and he says: 'Stay here, and
I'll come right back.'--That was more than an hour ago, and he hasn't
come back."
"He's forgotten you."
"Oh! I'm sure he's gone to get a drink."
"Without you? That isn't polite. Of course, you have the right to do the
same."
"Faith! yes, so I have. So much the worse for Ronfland! After all, it's
his own fault!"
Dupont put the little brunette's arm through his and took her to the
café; he ordered punch and filled a glass for his new acquaintance, who
drank it readily, but kept repeating:
"After this you'll dance with me, won't you, monsieur? For one don't
come to a ball to go without dancing."
And Dupont, who was not at all anxious to dance, continued to pour out
the punch, as he replied:
"Yes, by and by; we have time enough. There are too many people here
now; we should be too warm; it's better to drink punch."
But suddenly a young man, with a cap cocked over one ear, rushed up like
a bomb, brought his fist down on the table, upset the punch bowl and
glasses, and boxed the little brunette's ears, crying:
"Ah! that's how you behave, Joséphine! I've caught you at it! I bring
you to the ball, and you play tricks on me with other men! I'll bring
you to the right-about, you vile street walker!"
Mademoiselle Joséphine began to weep.
"You're still drunk, Ronfland," she cried. "I don't play tricks on you;
you ought not to leave me; you're a drunkard; I don't love you any
more!"
But Dupont was not of a temper to allow a woman who was in his company
to be maltreated; he rose, picked up the empty bowl, which was rolling
about the table, and with it struck Ronfland on the nose.
"Parbleu!" he said; "my nose was smashed the other day, and I'm not
sorry to have my revenge."
But the young man in the cap, infuriated by the blow, leaped upon
Dupont, who lost his balance, and they rolled together on the floor,
still striking each other.
The police appeared and separated them. Ronfland and his companion were
turned out of doors, and Dupont was obliged to pay for what was broken.
As he had cut himself severely in the face while rolling about on the
broken glass, he lost no time in taking a cab and returning to his
hotel.
"I've got what I deserve!" he said to himself; "I have gone about it the
wrong way. I certainly shall not go to any more balls in search of
amusement!"
III
MADEMOISELLE GEORGETTE
Dupont was obliged to keep his room a week. He had taken rooms in an
unpretentious hotel on Rue de Seine. To pass the time, which seemed very
long, our provincial spent most of the day at his window. As his rooms
were on the third floor, and as the opposite house was not high, Dupont
was able to look into the chamber of a neighbor who lived opposite,
under the eaves.