ANYONE who saw Monsieur Bouchard a week after his adventures at the
Pigeon House would have said that the excellent man had grown ten years
older in that time. For he had endured more cares, anxieties, worries,
vexations, apprehensions and palpitations in that one week in the Rue
Bassano than in all his thirty years in the Rue Clarisse. Not that
Monsieur Bouchard had the slightest desire to go back to his old life.
Not at all. In the Rue Bassano he at least lived; in the Rue Clarisse
he had merely vegetated.
In the first place, on his arrival at his apartment shortly after
midnight on that fateful evening spent at Melun he had been unable to
find out anything at all about Madame Vernet. The _concierge_ had gone
to bed when he got home, and he dared not disturb the whole house at
that hour. He spent a sleepless night, with Pierre snoring peacefully
in the next room. The fellow had not come home till two o’clock in the
morning. Monsieur Bouchard utilized the watches of the night in making
up a story to tell the _concierge_ to account for the enquiries he
meant to make concerning Madame Vernet. A _concierge_, he well knew,
is the nearest approach to an omniscient being on this planet. It was
comparatively easy to concoct a tale that would go on four legs, in
the expressive phrase of his countrymen. Monsieur Bouchard was vastly
pleased with his own shrewdness when he paused to think of the facility
with which he invented his story. But to get it accepted at its face
value--ah, that was another thing.
At six o’clock in the morning he tiptoed down stairs in his dressing
gown and slippers. The _concierge_, yawning, was just opening the
shutters in her little den.
“Can you tell me, my good woman,” said Monsieur Bouchard, in a manner
calculated to allay any suspicions the _concierge_ might have--if
anything can allay the suspicions of a _concierge_--“whether Madame
Vernet arrived here last night--in fact, if she is in the house at
present? I ask because I promised her aunt and uncle out at Melun last
evening to escort her in, and by some accident we became separated in
the railway station, and I am considering what apology I shall make to
her aunt and uncle--very worthy people at Melun.”
The _concierge_ looked at poor Monsieur Bouchard, not with suspicion,
but with certainty in her eye. The very expression of her face called
him a liar and a villain, as she replied, coolly:
“Madame Vernet _did_ come in last night and left the house at five
o’clock this morning, to visit her aunt and uncle at Châlons.”
By which Monsieur Bouchard, who was no fool, found out three things:
first, that Madame Vernet had been beforehand with the _concierge_;
second, that Madame Vernet did not have an aunt and uncle at Châlons,
although she seemed to have uncles and aunts in every town, village and
hamlet in France; and third, that wherever she might be she certainly
was not at Châlons.
He spent the next three days in vain efforts to find out Madame
Vernet’s whereabouts. The _concierge_ had evidently been thoroughly
bought and coached, and would absolutely tell nothing. Madame Vernet
had taken her apartment by the month, and had paid in advance. The
_concierge_ knew no more. Not even a ten-franc piece could screw any
additional information out of her.
Papa Bouchard began to feel a little frightened. What would happen
if it should come out in the newspapers, as Léontine had threatened?
There were journalists enough in Paris ready to jump at such a story as
Léontine had hinted at. There was that Marsac, and the remarkable tale
he had concocted about a bogus fortune--Papa Bouchard recalled at least
a dozen instances that were frightfully like what he apprehended. When
this thought occurred to him he bit the pillows in his anguish--it was
in the middle of one of his sleepless nights. And what glee would those
laughing devils of newspaper men have out of him! And how should he
ever show his face in the Rue Clarisse? Monsieur Bouchard made up his
mind that if ever the thing got into the newspapers he should emigrate
to Madagascar.
Of course, Pierre knew all about it. Monsieur Bouchard had told him too
much not to tell him more. Pierre was only moderately sympathetic,
which infuriated Monsieur Bouchard.
“At least,” cried the poor gentleman, “those two scamps, Léontine and
de Meneval, are in as much trouble as I am.”
“But they have the necklace,” replied Pierre, “and it seems to me that
Monsieur is in a jolly hole, with his necklaces and his widows, and all
the rest of it.”
Monsieur Bouchard, at this, burst into a string of bad words that were
very reprehensible, but perfectly natural to a man in his imminent
circumstances.
However Pierre might choose to devil his master in private, in public
he was unflinchingly loyal to him. In the first place, Léontine and
de Meneval, each determined to force an explanation from Monsieur
Bouchard, haunted the Rue Bassano, and when they did not come they
wrote. It was easy enough to dispose of the frantic notes and letters,
but when the two came--always separately--and Léontine wept and raved
that she would and must see Papa Bouchard, and de Meneval swore and
stormed to the same effect, Pierre was immovable. Monsieur was one day
at Passy, another he was at Versailles, always on important business,
and Pierre never had the least idea when he would be home. Thus, by
unceasing vigilance and an unabashed front, Pierre managed to stave off
an interview between his master and the de Menevals for the whole of a
critical week.
Mademoiselle Bouchard was easier to manage. Pierre went to the Rue
Clarisse daily, with a very acceptable tale about Monsieur Bouchard
being so busy making the will of a rich old gentleman at Passy that he
had no time for anything else; likewise, that he was finding the noise
and commotion of the Rue Bassano so objectionable that he bitterly
regretted having left the Rue Clarisse. This little romance took
so well that Pierre improved on it by saying that Monsieur Bouchard
was trying to sublet the apartment, so he could return to peace and
quiet in the Rue Clarisse. Mademoiselle Bouchard was touched, charmed,
delighted to hear this.
Not so Élise. She was not of a trusting or confiding nature. When
Pierre turned up, late in the day, yawning, and still only half-awake,
she did not believe in the least his account of being kept awake by
the noises of the carts and carriages in the Rue Bassano. She boldly
taxed him with leading a riotous life, which Pierre strenuously denied,
and going to Mademoiselle Bouchard, actually wept over Élise’s want
of confidence in him after thirty years of married life. Mademoiselle
sharply rebuked Élise, and ordered her henceforth to believe everything
Pierre told her. Élise made no reply to this beyond her usual sniff,
but privately resolved the first day she had time to slip around to
the Rue Bassano and interview the _concierge_. She knew the ways of
_concierges_ as well as the ways of men.
For four days Monsieur Bouchard gave himself, body and bones, to the
business of a private detective in trying to locate Madame Vernet. Vain
effort! He of course expected to have to pay handsomely for the return
of the paste necklace, but he valued his peace of mind more than money,
and was ready enough to come down with some cash provided he could get
hold of the necklace.
On the fifth day he was delighted, but scarcely surprised, to receive
a letter from Madame Vernet saying that, as there seemed to be some
complications concerning the necklace he had so generously and sweetly
given her, and as she was a person of much delicacy of feeling, she was
seriously thinking of returning it. He could address her at the Pigeon
House at Melun.
Monsieur Bouchard replied by writing and flatly offering her five
hundred francs, nearly six times the original value of the necklace.
He himself took his letter out to the Pigeon House, and spent the
entire evening there, on the chance that Madame Vernet might turn up.
She did not, however. Next day he received a letter from her, all
reproaches and hysterics; how could he offer her money!--her, the most
disinterested, the most retiring of her sex! Money was nothing to her,
least of all a trifling sum of five hundred francs. Monsieur Bouchard
promptly replied, increasing his offer to a thousand francs. Another
deeply injured note from Madame Vernet. At last, after five days of
continual negotiation, Monsieur Bouchard haunting the Pigeon House
every evening, terms were arranged--two thousand francs in exchange for
the necklace.
It was infamous, but as Pierre reminded Monsieur Bouchard, one must
always pay for one’s indiscretions. It would seem as if Madame Vernet
had the direct inspiration of Satan himself in dealing with the too
amiable and too susceptible Monsieur Bouchard. Not only had she given
her address all along as the Pigeon House, but she appointed that
abode of gaiety and champagne as the rendezvous where she was to
meet Monsieur Bouchard and hand over the necklace in return for two
thousand francs in notes of the Bank of France--Madame Vernet specified
that there should be no cheque in the affair; she was so diffident;
it always embarrassed her to go to a bank, and notes could be passed
anywhere.
But Monsieur Bouchard was not wholly without discretion. He concluded
he would rather not be seen in the act of handing over the money to
Madame Vernet. Pierre--the foxy Pierre--should give her the money and
should receive the necklace. So, on the evening specified, the two took
the train for Melun, and went rattling out of Paris without dreaming of
what was brewing behind them and likewise stewing ahead of them.
[Illustration]
It was simply this: Élise had that evening found her opportunity to
go around to the Rue Bassano, and in five minutes she had discovered
everything Monsieur Bouchard and Pierre had been doing since they left
the Rue Clarisse. The _concierge_ knew all about the chase after Madame
Vernet, the continual trotting out to Melun--nay, she knew that both
Pierre and his master had an appointment with Madame Vernet at the
Pigeon House that very evening. Élise returned, boiling with rage,
to the Rue Clarisse, and with face and eyes blazing recounted to the
trembling and agitated Mademoiselle Bouchard the horrid story of the
frightful goings on in the Rue Bassano. And she had for audience not
only poor Mademoiselle Bouchard, but Léontine de Meneval, who happened
to be paying her weekly visit to Rue Clarisse. Léontine scarcely
heard Élise’s fierce denunciations of the two reprobates in the Rue
Bassano; all she really took in was the correspondence and the running
to and fro about the necklace. She flew from the apartment, leaving
Mademoiselle Bouchard in a state of collapse on the sofa, while Élise
retailed every circumstance of horror she had found out about the
renegades. Calling the first cab, Léontine drove rapidly home, rushed
to her strong-box, and got the supposed paste necklace out. She had
said to Monsieur Bouchard that anybody could tell at a glance that it
was an imitation, yet it so glowed and sparkled in its white radiance
that for the first time she began to suspect it was real. If so,
it only deepened the mystery, and she felt she must solve it then
and there. Again ordering a cab, she sprang into it and ordered the
cabman to drive her to one of the great jewelry shops in the Avenue de
l’Opéra. On reaching it she ordered the carriage to wait, and going
into the shop, asked to see the proprietor. He advanced, politely, and
Léontine, taking the necklace from about her neck, where she wore it
under her high bodice, said, with such calmness as she could muster:
[Illustration]
“Will you kindly give me some idea of the value of this?”
The jeweller took it up, examined it for a moment, and said:
“About forty thousand francs, I should say, Madame. The stones are
remarkably well matched, better than in many costlier necklaces.”
“Do you mean to say the stones are--are----”
“Well matched, Madame. In fact, some of them came from this
establishment. It was made by M. Leduc, a friend of mine, and I
assisted him.”
“Thank you,” replied Léontine, forcing herself to be calm, reclasping
the necklace round her throat and covering it up. She went out, got
into the cab again, and hesitated before giving her order. She was in
truth quite dazed and mystified. The man had touched his hat three
times, when she said, with an air of quiet determination:
“To the St. Lazare station.”
Yes, she would that very moment go and confess all to Victor. Her
resolution seemed an inspiration. There was some mystery about the
necklace, and it was only fair that Victor should know it. There should
be no more concealments between them. She reached the station just in
time to miss the eight o’clock train. It was still daylight, and she
waited for the next--a very slow one. Half-way to Melun the engine
broke down. It was nearly eleven o’clock before she found herself in
front of the huge old barrack building in which de Meneval had his
quarters.
[Illustration]
The orderly who took the place of _concierge_ at once recognized her
and politely escorted her to Captain de Meneval’s door.
“I do not think Monsieur le Capitaine is in at present,” he said; “but
if Madame will wait, he will no doubt be here shortly.” And he knocked
loudly at the door.
It was opened by a soldier--de Meneval’s servant--whom Léontine had
never seen before. The man’s unfamiliar face, and the unlooked-for
sight that met her eyes as soon as she stepped over the threshold, made
her turn as if to go out. In the middle of the room was spread a table,
with preparations for an elaborate supper; and Léontine’s quick eye
discovered that ladies were expected, for to three huge bouquets were
appended cards with names written on them. “For the Sprightly Aglaia,”
“For Olga, the Queen of the Dance;” “For Louise of the Fairy Foot.”
Léontine, slightly embarrassed, said to the soldier:
“I see I have made a mistake. I am Madame de Meneval, and I supposed
these to be Captain de Meneval’s quarters, but evidently they are not!”
“They are, Madame,” replied the man, very civilly.
“But I say they are _not_!” replied Léontine, somewhat tartly. “Captain
de Meneval _never_ entertains ladies at supper. He leads a most retired
life at Melun, while here are preparations made for a gay party.”
“Pardon, Madame; but Monsieur le Capitaine is giving the party to some
young ladies from the Pigeon House.”
Léontine’s first impulse was to box the soldier’s ears, but in sweeping
another glance round the room she recognized her own picture over the
mantel, together with a battered photograph of de Meneval’s chum,
Major Fallière, and other things to convince her that Captain de
Meneval was really the host of the impending supper party. She retained
self-possession enough to say to the man:
“If you have finished you may go.” And he discreetly vanished.
Léontine, throwing her parasol on the sofa, began to march up and down
the room in wrath and excitement.
“_These_ are his quiet evenings! _He_ doesn’t know anything about the
Pigeon House since he was married! I shouldn’t have minded it if he
had told me all about it, but to pretend to such economies, and at the
same time be secretly indulging in these extravagances--these shameless
orgies--oh, it is too much!”
Léontine had completely forgotten Putzki and Louise and the object of
her sudden descent on her husband. While she was walking up and down,
becoming every moment more angry and wrought up, the door opened, and
in walked Major Fallière. Léontine recognized him at once from his
picture--a soldierly looking man, slightly bald, immaculately well
dressed, and bearing in his air the reason for his sobriquet, the Pink
of Military Propriety. But his eye was not unkind; on the contrary, he
was distinctly in the class of men designated by women as dear old
things; and as such Léontine felt an instant confidence in him.
The correct Major was not so correct, however, that he hesitated to
march up to Léontine, and chucking her playfully under the chin,
remarked:
“The Pigeons are out early to-night. Where are the rest of the Pouters?”
Léontine’s face was a study. A flash of rage from her bright eyes was
succeeded by a look of puzzled helplessness, and then a radiant smile
of delight. This was really too good. He--old P. M. P.--had mistaken
her, Léontine de Meneval, for one of the young ladies from the Pigeon
House! Angry as she was, she could not forbear laughing, and she
replied, with her sauciest air:
“Oh, they’ll be here presently. I came early because I had a
premonition that old P. M. P. would be here early, too. Always on
time--one of the cardinal virtues of a soldier.” And then Satan
tempted her to tiptoe and actually chuck old P. M. P. under the chin!
[Illustration]
The effect frightened her for a moment or two, because Major Fallière,
perfectly astounded and highly offended, drew himself up stiffly
and glared at her like an ogre. But she was so very pretty, her
impertinence was accompanied with such a charming air of simplicity,
that no man not an absolute ogre could withstand it. So, in spite of
himself, old P. M. P.’s backbone relaxed, his eyes softened and he
tugged at his mustache to disguise the smile that _would_ persist in
coming.
Léontine having once admitted Satan into her heart, he speedily took
complete possession of the premises, and the next thing he inspired
her to do was to examine the prim Major carefully from the top of his
thinly thatched head down to the tips of his well-fitting shoes, and
say to him:
“I have often heard of you, and I am so glad to meet you. You know you
are quite a handsome man, Major.”
The Major grinned.
“For your age, that is.”
The Major scowled.
“And I like you well enough to wish to make friends with you. But first
I must tell you my name. It is Satanita.”
“Satanita! Rather suggestive, eh?”
“I should say so. Little Satan; and I match my name.”
“You are the sweetest, most innocent and captivating little devil I
ever saw.”
“Thank you. You should see me dance and hear me sing. The Pouters, as
you call them, are not a patch on me.”
“I can well believe it.”
“I have another name--I am called the Queen of the Harem-Scarem.”
“No doubt you are.”
“Now,” continued Léontine, seating herself with a confidential air
beside Major Fallière, “what do you think of our host, Victor de
Meneval?”
“One of the best fellows in the world.”
“Devoted to his wife, eh?”
“Yes. I have never seen her, but I hear she is a charming creature, and
Victor is truly attached to her.”
“This looks like it, doesn’t it?” cried Léontine, pointing to the
supper table.
“I don’t see that it doesn’t look like it. I happen to know that de
Meneval has had a good deal to trouble him lately. He got some money
from an unexpected source some days ago, and I advised him to give a
little supper--it’s dull out here, you know----”
“_You_ advised him to give a little supper! You--the Pink of Military
Propriety!”
“Yes, why not?”
“And how about his wife?”
“Oh,” replied the Major, with easy confidence, “she would probably make
an awful row if she knew it--but she’ll never know it. De Meneval has
coached me--I know exactly what to tell Léontine when I meet her--it so
happens that I have not met her yet. But I hear she is a charming young
woman.”
“She will be twice as charming to you when she finds that you have been
leading her husband off into giving suppers to--to--little devils like
me for example,” said Léontine, very solemnly.
“Oh, de Meneval and I have mapped out our campaign. We have a large and
trusty assortment of lies, expressly for Léontine’s consumption, and
she will swallow every one of them.”
Now, this was very provoking of the Major, but something in his kind
eyes, his way of standing up for Victor, his candid praise of herself,
gave Léontine a sudden impulse to tell him the whole story of what was
weighing on her and perplexing her and had driven her out to Melun
at that hour of the night. She knew all about him, what a generous,
sympathetic fellow he was, in spite of his primness and propriety--in
short, that he was a dear old thing. So, with eyes flashing with
mischief, and with smiles dimpling her fair face, Léontine said,
demurely:
“I have still another name besides Satanita and Queen of the
Harem-Scarem. Can’t you guess it?”
“No. I am not a clairvoyant.”
“I am--” Léontine rose, with her whole face sparkling with impish
delight--“I am Léontine, Madame de Meneval, wife of your friend, Victor
de Meneval. Yonder is my picture. Here am I.”
Poor P. M. P! He stared at her for a full minute, glared wildly about
him, and then, jumping up, made a dash for the door, from which
Léontine, laughing till the tears ran down her cheeks, dragged him back.
“What are you running away for?” she asked, forcing him to a seat
beside her.
“Because--because--” the Major tore his hair, “oh, de Meneval will
certainly shoot me when he hears that I chucked you under the chin!”
“But he won’t hear it, unless you tell him. And _I_ chucked _you_ under
the chin, remember.”
Major Fallière, burying his head in his hands, groaned aloud, and then
all at once the absurdity of the thing struck him, and he burst into a
howl of laughter.
Léontine joined him. They laughed and laughed, and when they would get
a little quiet Léontine would motion as if to chuck him under the chin
again, and Fallière would go off into renewed spasms.
[Illustration]
Presently, however, Léontine grew grave. The instant success of her
impromptu personation had given her an idea. She wanted revenge--a
sharp revenge--on de Meneval, and she saw a way to get it.
“Listen, and be quiet,” she said to Fallière. “Victor deserves to be
punished. I will tell you why. He has always represented to me that
he led the quietest kind of a life here--nothing but attention to his
military duties, and his evenings spent in the seclusion of his own
room, with nothing but ballistics and my picture for company.”
Fallière could not refrain from a soft whistle.
“And he professed to be so glad that you were ordered to Melun, because
you were so much more sedate than the other officers. He complained
that they spend too much time at the Pigeon House, while he had
entirely given up frequenting that fascinating place.”
Fallière whistled a little louder.
“I had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to take me to supper
there the other night. Now, what do I find? That he has been throwing
sand into my eyes all the time. Look!” Léontine waved her arms
dramatically toward the table. “Oughtn’t he to be punished?”
“Certainly he ought,” replied Fallière, with the ready acquiescence of
a bachelor who thinks that married men should be made to toe the line.
“Very well. You will help me?”
“You may count on me.”
Léontine rose and looked around her. On the sideboard sat a couple of
bottles of mineral water, and on the floor near by a wine cooler full
of bottles of champagne. She cleverly transferred the labels from two
of the champagne bottles to the apollinaris bottles and then put them
in the wine cooler.
“I think I can drink at least a quart of apollinaris,” she said.
“And I’ll see that you get apollinaris every time,” replied that crafty
villain of a Fallière, laughing.
“And I’m Satanita, and I shall act Satanita until I have made Victor
sorry enough he ever played me any tricks.”
“Oh, no, you won’t! At the first sign of distress on his part you will
throw the whole business to the winds, fall on his neck and implore his
forgiveness. I know women well.”
“Of course you do--having never been married. But wait and see if
I don’t give him a bad quarter of an hour. And I reckon on your
assistance.”
“I will stand by you to the last.”
They were interrupted at this point by a great sound of scuffling
outside the door, mingled with shrieks of girlish laughter. The door
flew open, revealing three remarkably pretty girls--Aglaia, Olga and
Louise--dragging in an elderly gentleman by main force and his coat
tails. The elderly gentleman was resisting mildly but with no great
vigor, and it was plain he was not particularly averse to the roguish
company in which he found himself. And the elderly gentleman was--Papa
Bouchard!
[Illustration]
One of these merry imps from the Pigeon House had possessed herself of
his hat, which she had stuck on her curly head; another one had laid
violent hands on his umbrella, while the third and sauciest of the
lot, Aglaia, had robbed him of his spectacles, which she wore on her
tiptilted nose. Papa Bouchard, puffing, protesting, frightened, but
laughing in spite of himself, was saying:
“Young ladies, young ladies, I really cannot remain, as you insist,
to supper. I do not even know the name of the host on this occasion.
I am quite unused to these orgies. I am out here this evening with my
servant merely for the purpose of completing a business transaction.”
A chorus of “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” saluted this speech, and Mademoiselle
Aglaia, Papa Bouchard’s chief tormentor, asked, solemnly:
“Is your business engagement with a lady or a gentleman?”
And when Papa Bouchard, in the innocence of his soul, replied, “It
is with a lady,” each one of the Pouters, as the young ladies of the
Pigeon House were called, pretended to fall over in a dead faint.
Papa Bouchard, much alarmed, ran from one to the other, trying to
revive them; but while he was rubbing the brow and slapping the hands
of each in turn, Louise suddenly came to life, and running and locking
the door, put the key into her pocket, so that Papa Bouchard had no
means of escape except out of the third-story window or up the chimney.
[Illustration]
And at that moment his eye fell on Léontine.
Pity Papa Bouchard! He really had no intention of attending so gay a
party. He had spent the whole evening anxiously watching for Madame
Vernet. She had not arrived, or at least had not seen fit to reveal
herself, and while he was hovering about the entrance to the terrace
garden looking for her, these three merry girls had come along, had
swooped down on him without the least warning, and had carried him off
bodily to de Meneval’s supper. Papa Bouchard had not the slightest idea
of where he was when he was plumped down in Captain de Meneval’s room.
But one look around him--the sight of Léontine--revealed his whole
dreadful predicament to him. It was too much for poor Papa Bouchard!
His persecutors having permitted him to sit on a chair, he endeavored
to recover himself, and fanning with his handkerchief in great
agitation, he debated with himself what to do. Léontine, meanwhile, was
laughing at him without a sign of recognition.
Papa Bouchard, presently finding his voice, said sternly to Léontine:
“May I ask what you are doing here in this company?”
To which Léontine, with pert gaiety, replied:
“And may I ask what _you_ are doing here in this company?”
“I,” said Papa Bouchard, with dignity, “am here by accident, and by the
violence of these young women.”
“Oh, what a fib!” cried Olga. “The old duffer begged us to let him
come. We tried to shake him off, but we couldn’t. Isn’t that so, Aglaia
and Louise?”
And Aglaia and Louise said it was so.
Papa Bouchard, astounded at such duplicity, glared at them, but the
only satisfaction he got was a fillip on the nose from Aglaia and a
remark to the effect that he and the truth didn’t live at the same
address. Papa Bouchard indignantly turned his back on these traducers
and again opened on Léontine.
“I am amazed--amazed at your temerity. What shall I say to Captain de
Meneval when I see him, as I shall to-morrow morning?”
“Anything you like,” was Léontine’s laughing answer.
“Léontine de Meneval,” cried Papa Bouchard, much enraged, “do you know
_me_, your guardian and trustee?”
“No, I don’t,” responded Léontine, nonchalantly. “I never saw you
before.”
At this, shouts of laughter came from the three young ladies, and they
all urged Papa Bouchard to stop his wild career of prevarication and
learn to tell the truth.
Papa Bouchard, quite beside himself, turned to Major Fallière.
“Sir,” he said, solemnly, “you wear the uniform of an officer, and
I presume you are a gentleman. Believe me, this lady--” indicating
Léontine--“is the wife of a brother officer of yours, Captain de
Meneval. The truest kindness you can do him or her is to persuade her
to leave this scene of dissipation and return to Paris with me.”
[Illustration]
“O-o-o-o-h!” shrieked the three impish girls in chorus. “What an
outrageous proposition! And she says she never saw the man before!”
Papa Bouchard, still appealing to Major Fallière, continued, earnestly:
“Perhaps this misguided girl has not told you that she is Madame
Victor de Meneval.”
“She told me,” quietly replied Major Fallière, “that she was simply
Satanita, a singer and dancer.”
Papa Bouchard dropped limply on the sofa and groaned in anguish
of heart. But now was heard a jaunty step on the stair, which all
recognized as de Meneval’s. The mischievous Aglaia ran forward and
unlocked the door, and in stepped de Meneval, smiling and debonair.
Now, this little festivity had been his sole recreation during the ten
miserable days since he had got into the complication of the necklace;
and the supper, which was for only five, was at the suggestion of the
Pink of Military Propriety. So it was without any compunctions that de
Meneval walked into his quarters, expecting to find a small but jolly
party. But he instantly recognized the two uninvited members, and
stopping short on the carpet, his ruddy complexion turned a sickly
green.
[Illustration]
Papa Bouchard felt a sensation of triumph at Captain de Meneval’s
entrance. _He_, at least, would not dare to deride and defy him, as
these wretched young women had done. But before Monsieur Bouchard could
open his mouth, Aglaia burst forth, pointing to the old gentleman:
“Of all the impudent men I ever saw, this one excels! What do you
think? As soon as he found we were coming here to supper, he hung on to
us--declared there was nothing he liked so well as a gay little party,
that he could drink so much champagne he was called the Champagne
Tank--and actually forced himself in here, although we tried to push
him out. Didn’t he, Olga and Louise?”
And Olga and Louise confirmed every word that Aglaia uttered.
Papa Bouchard, thoroughly exasperated, struck an attitude like that
of Socrates in his favorite picture, “Socrates and His Pupils,” and
addressed Captain de Meneval.
“Monsieur le Capitaine,” he said, “you of course do not and cannot
believe a word that these young ladies say concerning my presence here
to-night.”
Victor, very much alarmed, and dreading to catch Léontine’s eye, yet
retained enough of his wits to see that he had Papa Bouchard at a
disadvantage, and that the best thing to do was to assume the worst,
and decline to listen to any explanation.
“Monsieur Bouchard,” he said, coldly, “you are asking a little too much
of me when you wish me to believe your testimony against that of three
ladies. I don’t know how you came, but I am very glad to see you now
that you are here, and hope you will remain to supper.”
“But I came on business!” cried poor Papa Bouchard. “I had an
appointment to finish up a transaction with a lady----”
And Aglaia and Louise and Olga again uttered a chorus of shrieks, and
pretended to faint.
But de Meneval had troubles of his own to attend to then. He walked
over to where Léontine sat, and assuming an air of forced jollity, such
as a man puts on when he anticipates a wigging from the wife of his
bosom, said:
“Delighted you happened to arrive, my love--and what do you think of
the Pouters?”
“I think they are very jolly girls,” promptly replied Léontine; “but as
I am another uninvited guest, I thought it best to tell Major Fallière
and the others that I, too, am a singer and dancer--Satanita, I called
myself, on the spur of the moment.”
De Meneval turned from green to blue. “And you did not immediately
inform them that you are my wife?” he hissed, in a savage whisper.
“No,” coolly replied Léontine, “and when Papa Bouchard recognized me, I
declared I had never seen him before. I am little Satanita--good name,
isn’t it?--for this evening.”
De Meneval, enraged and disconcerted beyond words, felt helpless.
Suppose he were to proclaim the truth? Léontine, as if answering the
thought in his mind, whispered, with cruel glee:
“And if you say I am your wife I shall simply deny it. Satanita I am
and Satanita I shall be, and I shall live up to the part--of that you
may be sure.”
[Illustration]
De Meneval was in doubt whether to shoot himself. And then there was a
move toward the table. The girls were dragging Papa Bouchard forward,
who, still very angry, was yet not insensible to their pretty and
mischievous wiles. Léontine, running up to Major Fallière, demanded
that he sit next her at table, while de Meneval found himself sitting
opposite Léontine, and with indescribable feelings saw her drink
champagne, as he supposed, by the tumblerful. Fallière had cleverly got
hold of the two bottles of apollinaris, and filled Léontine’s glass
with the greatest assiduity.
[Illustration]
There was much noise and excitement, and as the supper progressed de
Meneval grew almost frantic over the spectacle his dear little Léontine
was making of herself. For she not only managed to drink innumerable
glasses of apollinaris, but she sang, she even danced. She paraded up
and down the room, singing, in her sweet, saucy voice, verses made up
at the moment.
“Oh, I am the Widow Clicquot, Clicquot,
I live at the Château Margaux, Margaux,
My coachman’s name is Pommery Sec,
My footman is Piper Heidsieck,
Moët-et-Chandon are my span.”
She paused for reflection and added:
“And when Moët and Chandon go lame,
I drive Mumm and Roederer!”
Here her invention gave out, and rubbing the top of de Meneval’s head
with one of the champagne bottles, she added, laughing:
“Houp-là!”
That “Houp-là” almost drove de Meneval to distraction, but a roar of
applause, in which all joined except her husband and Papa Bouchard,
encouraged Léontine to continue. After a few moments’ reflection she
began singing again:
“This is the way in Champagne Land!
Oh, Champagne Land is dear to me,
But Champagne Land is queer to me.
There, lobsters grow on trees,
There is a mine of cheese;
The oysters walk,
The cocktails talk,
And the _pâté de foie gras_ builds his nest
In the hedge where the anchovy paste grows best.”
And she concluded with another “Houp-là!”
At this Papa Bouchard, who had been as much horrified as de Meneval,
leaned over and whispered in agony to him:
“She has certainly lost her mind and appears quite crazy!”
This was too much for poor de Meneval. He had spent an hour of torture
while Léontine, vastly to her own amusement, to Major Fallière’s,
and to that of the Pouters, had exhibited all the saucy graces of a
Satanita, and Queen of the Harem-Scarem, but de Meneval could stand no
more. Therefore, rising from the table, he cried, with tears in his
eyes:
“My friends, I beg of you to leave me. This lady who calls herself
Satanita is my wife. I have never seen her act in this manner before--I
am sure she never so acted before. It is my duty as well as my
privilege to shield her, and I wish to say that if any person, man or
woman, ever mentions what her unfortunate conduct to-night has been,
a life will be forfeited, for I swear to shoot any man who dares to
breathe one word against her, and any woman who does it may reckon on
my vengeance.” And with big tears rolling down his cheeks, he held his
arms out to his wife.
[Illustration]
This was too much for Léontine. Just as Major Fallière had predicted,
at the first sign of repentance on de Meneval’s part she forgot all her
resolutions to punish him, and falling into his arms, she exclaimed, in
her own, natural voice:
“You dear, chivalrous angel, I haven’t touched champagne--it is nothing
but apollinaris water, and I am your own true, devoted Léontine!”
De Meneval was so overcome that he could do nothing but pat her head
and cry:
“Oh, what have you not made me suffer to-night!”
“At least,” replied Léontine, laughing and looking toward Major
Fallière, “you have not spent your usual dull evening at Melun,” and de
Meneval had the grace to blush, while old P. M. P. laughed back at the
roguish Léontine.
Papa Bouchard, too, had suffered agonies at Léontine’s behavior--agonies,
however, which the attentions he experienced at the hands of the young
ladies partly ameliorated, for they had not stopped pinching and
tickling him for a single moment.
“Really,” he said, “I have been very much agitated and distressed--I
never saw such doings in the Rue Clarisse. I was very seriously
concerned at my ward’s behavior--very seriously concerned. But now,”
continued Papa Bouchard, “everything seems to be straightened out
to everybody’s satisfaction, and finding ourselves accidentally
together, why not finish up our evening with a jollity which--er--did
not--er--exist, so far as I am concerned, in the beginning? So I
say--houp-là!”
Alas! at that very moment the door opened softly behind him and in
walked Madame Vernet! She was prettier, more demure and gentle than
ever before. Her black costume, though highly coquettish, had a
nun-like propriety about it. She advanced with downcast eyes, and said,
timidly:
“I knocked and thought I heard someone say, ‘Come in.’ I do not know on
whose hospitality I am trespassing, but I saw Monsieur Bouchard enter
half an hour ago, and as I must see him on a matter of business, I
venture to ask for a word with him here.”
Monsieur Bouchard, at the sight of her, seemed about to collapse. Not
so Captain de Meneval. He rose at and said, with an ironical bow:
“Madame Vernet, you are trespassing on the hospitality of Captain de
Meneval, the gentleman you adopted as a brother about ten days ago
and handed over as a dangerous lunatic to Dr. Delcasse--who had a
strait-jacket, a cold douche and a padded cell ready for him.”
At this Madame Vernet assumed an attitude more shrinking, more timid
than before, and falling on Monsieur Bouchard’s shoulder, cried:
“Dear Paul, protect me from this dreadful person!”
Monsieur Bouchard was not at that moment able to protect anybody. He
looked the picture of abject despair as he clutched the arms of his
chair. He could only say, feebly:
“Go away! go away!”
“Is that the way you speak to your own Adèle!” cried Madame Vernet,
burying her head on Monsieur Bouchard’s reluctant bosom and bursting
into tears. “Oh, what a change within one short week! Last week it was
nothing but ‘Dearest Adèle, when will you name the day?’ And now it is
‘Go away! go away!’” Madame Vernet’s voice was lost in sobs, but she
continued to rub her left ear vigorously into Monsieur Bouchard’s shirt
front.
“It is false!” wailed Monsieur Bouchard, trying to escape from Madame
Vernet’s left ear.
“Do you pretend to deny,” sobbed that timid and trustful creature,
“that only a week ago you gave me this?” She took from her pocket the
paste necklace, and at the sight of it a shock like a galvanic battery
ran down the backbones of de Meneval and Léontine. “And that when I
found it to be paste you offered me two thousand francs, in humble
apology for the attempt to deceive me?”
“It is false!” again cried Monsieur Bouchard, almost weeping.
“And that we were to meet here to-night in order to make exchange? Oh,
dearest Paul, we have had lovers’ quarrels before, but nothing like
this!”
Monsieur Bouchard was too much overcome by Madame Vernet’s affectionate
attentions to do more than groan and try to push her away. But de
Meneval, walking coolly up to her, quietly and very unexpectedly took
the necklace out of her hand, saying:
“This is the property of my wife, and as such I take possession of it,
and call on Monsieur Bouchard to make an explanation.”
At this Madame Vernet uttered a despairing shriek, and throwing both
arms round Monsieur Bouchard’s neck, screamed:
“You must avenge this insult, Paul! And you must at least give me the
two thousand francs!”
But Monsieur Bouchard was so perfectly delighted with the notion that
de Meneval had the necklace and Pierre the two thousand francs, that
his countenance changed as if by magic. He struggled to his feet, and
after vainly to disengage himself from Madame Vernet’s encircling arms,
much to the amusement of the three young ladies and Major Fallière,
cried:
“I am perfectly overjoyed to make an explanation--an explanation that
will cause you, Léontine, and you, de Meneval, to forget all the
unpleasant events of this evening. This necklace is paste--and the
one Léontine has is real. You may remember, de Meneval, you came to
my apartment a week ago last Monday evening, bringing Léontine’s real
diamond necklace with you. You told me that when you bought it for her
you also bought an imitation one for seventy-five francs, which you
kept a secret from her.”
De Meneval, during this speech, had lost his dashing and determined
attitude.
“I believe I did something of the kind,” he said, meekly.
“And that you had, still unknown to Léontine, put the paste one in
place of the real one; and you threatened, if I did not advance
money to pay a large bill you owed at the Pigeon House for things
like this--” Monsieur Bouchard indicated the supper table and the
guests with one wave of his arm--“you would take the necklace to the
pawnbroker.”
De Meneval turned to Léontine, and knowing what was coming, said, with
a sickly smile:
“Dearest, will you forgive me?”
“Indeed I will!” replied Léontine, who knew more of what was coming
than did de Meneval.
[Illustration]
“Scarcely were you gone,” continued Monsieur Bouchard, assuming his
oracular manner, which sat rather awkwardly on him, as Madame Vernet
persisted in nestling on his shoulder, “when in comes Léontine with the
paste necklace, and for the same purpose--money or the pawnbroker.
It at once occurred to me that she could not be trusted with any
necklace on which she thought money could be raised--her debts were to
tailors and dressmakers--so I gave her back her own necklace--she has
it now--and told her it was paste, and she said it looked it. Then,
just as I had got rid of her, in comes _this_ lady--” Papa Bouchard
made a desperate effort to shake off Madame Vernet, but that diffident
person only held on to him the more affectionately--“picked up the
necklace, clasped it round her neck, and walked off with it, and I have
spent the most miserable week of my life trying to get it back. I had
arranged to give her the two thousand francs, which Pierre, my man,
has in his pocket at this moment, when, owing to this lady’s indelicate
persistence in following me here, and in rashly exposing the necklace,
she lost it, and I keep my two thousand francs. If I could find that
rascal Pierre I could prove all I say.”
And as if in answer to his name, the door was burst open, and in rushed
Pierre, pale and breathless.
“Monsieur,” he cried to Papa Bouchard; “all is discovered, and we
are in the greatest danger. My wife Élise found out everything from
the _concierge_ in the Rue Bassano this evening. She went back to
Mademoiselle Bouchard, and, if you please, both of them took the train
for Melun to capture us--and just as I was coming to warn you I ran
into them at the foot of the stairs. They had asked for Captain de
Meneval’s quarters, in order to get him to help them search for us.
They are on the stairs now!”
[Illustration]
Léontine and de Meneval, meaning to let Monsieur Bouchard bear alone
the brunt of Mademoiselle Bouchard’s wrath, immediately scuttled into
seats against the wall, which they occupied with great dignity. Major
Fallière, who had heard of Mademoiselle Bouchard, got as far away from
the girls as he could, and they--Aglaia, Olga and Louise--with much
discretion ranged themselves primly on a sofa at the farthest end of
the room. But this left Papa Bouchard standing in the middle, with
Madame Vernet embracing him tenderly. He, too, would have liked to
flee, but he was literally frozen with terror, and unable to move or
speak. And then the door came open, and in walked, or rather marched,
Mademoiselle Céleste Bouchard and Élise.
Never in all his fifty-four years of life had Monsieur Bouchard
seen his sister in such a state as she was at that moment. Her eyes
sparkled, and her small figure was erect and commanding. Her emotions
had made both her and Élise altogether forget the primness and
propriety of their costumes, for which mistress and maid had been
noted. Mademoiselle Bouchard’s correct, elderly bonnet seemed to have
caught the same infection of demoralization as Monsieur Bouchard,
Pierre and Pierrot, for it sat at a most improper and dissipated angle.
Her mantle was awry, she had on one white glove and one black one,
and a fringe of white petticoat showed the agitation in which she had
dressed.
Élise was in somewhat the same condition, and she clutched a flower pot
and a gold-headed stick which had belonged to Bouchard _père_, under
the impression they were a travelling bag and an umbrella.
[Illustration]
The sight that met their eyes was Monsieur Bouchard apparently
submitting with willingness to Madame Vernet’s endearments, while the
lady herself sobbed out upon his breast:
“Oh, Paul, dearest, protect your own Adèle from that dreadful old
woman!”
Now, this was too much for any woman to stand. Mademoiselle Bouchard,
panting and trembling with wrath and horror, sank into a chair.
“Élise,” she gasped, putting her hand before her eyes, “put up your
umbrella between me and that disgraceful sight. I cannot look upon it.”
[Illustration]
Élise, equally agitated, made futile attempts to convert the stick into
an umbrella, and then cried out:
“Oh, this is only a stick! Perhaps I put the umbrella in the travelling
bag.” But failing to find an umbrella in the flower pot, she collapsed
into a chair next her mistress, crying out: “When you, Mademoiselle,
have finished with Monsieur Bouchard I’ll dispose of Pierre. Oh, the
rascal!”
Pierre, like his master, was dumb before the accuser. Not so Madame
Vernet. She continued to appeal to Monsieur Bouchard:
“Oh, darling Paul, I am _so_ frightened! Why don’t you send her away?”
“But I am not your ‘darling Paul’ and never was!”
Poor Monsieur Bouchard was simply a pitiable sight, and the de
Menevals, the Major and three girls were heartless enough to go into
convulsions of silent mirth at his predicament. They, too, had nothing
to say in Mademoiselle Bouchard’s indignant presence. But that lady was
determined to be answered.
“Paul,” she said, in the tone of an inquisitor, “stop those shocking
demonstrations toward that person and explain your conduct to me.”
“My dear Céleste,” replied Papa Bouchard, in a faint voice and almost
weeping, “if you could induce this lady to stop _her_ demonstrations
I should be the happiest man on earth. And there’s no explanation to
give. I’m the helpless victim of a designing woman.”
At which Madame Vernet screamed and said, trying to kiss him:
“But I will forgive you, my own Paul. I know you don’t mean what you
say.”
And Élise added to Monsieur Bouchard’s anguish, and to Mademoiselle
Bouchard’s horror by crying out, “Mademoiselle, he isn’t trying to get
rid of her. He is tickling her and pinching her--I see him myself!”
Monsieur Bouchard thought he should have died of horror at this awful
and baseless charge.
Apparently Madame Vernet was master of the situation, but Major
Fallière, the cool, the resolute Fallière, came to the rescue. Going up
quietly to Madame Vernet, he deliberately raised her face so he could
look her squarely in the eye.
“Madame Vernet,” he said, “you seem to have lost sight of that little
incident of representing my friend, Captain de Meneval, as your brother
and a dangerous lunatic, and the trick you played on Dr. Delcasse. Now,
I happen to know that Dr. Delcasse is determined to punish you, if he
can find you, and unless you immediately leave these quarters and leave
Melun I shall inform Dr. Delcasse of your whereabouts, and you will
have a visit from the police.”
Madame Vernet, seeing she had met her match, disengaged herself from
Monsieur Bouchard, to that gentleman’s great joy. Assuming an attitude
and air of great innocence, she said:
“I don’t really understand what you mean, or even who you are. But
being naturally a very diffident and retiring person, I cannot stand
the least unfavorable criticism, and I shall certainly leave this
censorious and unsympathetic company.”
Major Fallière ceremoniously offered her his arm, escorted her to the
door, and opened it. Madame Vernet paused on the threshold.
[Illustration]
“I go,” she said, “to seek refuge and protection with my aunt and uncle
in Mézières.”
And the Major shut the door after her.
Mademoiselle Bouchard then rose majestically and advanced to Monsieur
Bouchard.
“And _you_, Paul,” she said, “will seek refuge and protection in the
house of your sister in the Rue Clarisse, where you spent thirty happy
and peaceful years. You will there resume the orderly and quiet life
interrupted by your unfortunate excursion into the Rue Bassano. You
will return to early hours and wholesome meals. You will have boiled
mutton and rice, with a small glass of claret, for your dinner, and
ten o’clock will be your hour for retiring. An occasional visit to a
picture gallery or a museum will supply you with amusements far more
intellectual than the orgies you have been indulging in at the Pigeon
House.”
Monsieur Bouchard, the image of despair, looked round him. Captain de
Meneval and Léontine were in fits of laughter. The three girls, huddled
together on the sofa, were tittering; the grim Major was smiling
broadly. Even a worm will turn, and so did Monsieur Bouchard.
“I am sorry, my dear Céleste,” he said, in a voice he vainly endeavored
to make cool and debonair, “but what you suggest is impossible. I have
taken my apartment for a year. And I find that boiled mutton and rice
for dinner do not suit my constitution. I--I--I--shall remain in the
Rue Bassano.”
A round of applause from Major Fallière, Léontine and Victor, in which
the three young ladies joined, much to Monsieur Bouchard’s annoyance,
greeted this. Nevertheless, it stiffened his backbone.
“Do you mean to say that you do not intend to return to the Rue
Clarisse?” asked Mademoiselle Bouchard, in much agitation.
“Y--yes,” replied Monsieur Bouchard, trying to assume a swashbuckler
air. “You see, I don’t think the air of the Rue Clarisse agrees with
me very well. I often had twinges of rheumatism there. Now, since I
have been in the Rue Bassano, my joints feel about twenty-five years
younger. In fact, I myself feel considerably younger--an increased
vitality, so to speak. I am sorry to disoblige you, my dear Céleste,
but for the sake of my health and other reasons I shall remain in my
present quarters.”
Mademoiselle Bouchard, defeated, was speechless. Not so Élise. Walking
up to Pierre, she seized him and bawled:
“No excuses about your health shall keep _you_ from the Rue Clarisse.
I promise you that you shall have a very different time there from
your life in the Rue Bassano, turning night into day, running out here
to the Pigeon House all the time and making a show and a scandal of
yourself.”
“No, Élise,” firmly replied Pierre, who had much more real courage than
his master, “I promised Mademoiselle Bouchard that I never would desert
Monsieur Bouchard. If he remains in the midst of the dangers of the Rue
Bassano he needs my protecting services more than ever. Although but a
servant, I have a sense of honor. I cannot break my word.”
“Oh, you old hypocrite--” began Élise.
“Hypocrite, you may call me,” answered Pierre, folding his arms and
turning up the whites of his eyes, “but liar and falsifier you cannot.
Mademoiselle--” to Mademoiselle Bouchard--“I shall keep my word to you.
As long as Monsieur Bouchard remains in the Rue Bassano I stay with
him. He shall not face alone the dangers of that gay locale--those
music halls, those theatres, those merry cafés, where all sorts of
delicious, indigestible things are sold. His faithful Pierre shall be
with him.”
[Illustration]
Mademoiselle Bouchard realized she was beaten. So did Élise. They rose
slowly. De Meneval ran into the next room, and bringing out a cage that
held the redoubtable Pierrot, put it into Mademoiselle Bouchard’s hand.
“There, dear Aunt Céleste,” he cried, “is your consoler. I offered to
buy him from the proprietor of the Pigeon House, but the man said he
would give me the bird for nothing--in fact, he would pay to get rid
of him. He was driving the customers of the Pigeon House away by his
language.”
“At least,” said Mademoiselle Bouchard, solemnly, “if men are
renegades, there is something of the same sex that is faithful and
grateful. No doubt this poor bird is happy at escaping from the
dissipated atmosphere of the Pigeon House to the sweet seclusion of the
Rue Clarisse.”
[Illustration]
But, horror of horrors! The instant the wicked Pierrot found himself
going in the direction of the door, on his way to the Rue Clarisse,
he broke out into the most outrageous denunciations of the two ladies.
Shrieks, demoniac laughter, yells, oaths and slang of the worst
description poured from him; he screamed with rage, bit furiously at
both Mademoiselle Bouchard and Élise, and forcing the cage door open,
with almost human intelligence flew out and perched on Monsieur
Bouchard’s shoulder, from which he continued his volley of abuse,
winding up with a shout of:
“Go to the devil, you bowlegged old rapscallions!”
But the two respectable elderly persons so infamously described, were
already fleeing. Of course, no such bird as Pierrot had become could
be tolerated in the Rue Clarisse, and Élise cried, while she and
Mademoiselle Bouchard ran down the stairs:
“The only safe thing to do, Mademoiselle, is to keep everything
masculine out of our apartment. They are all alike--men and
parrots--everything that is masculine is abominable and not to be
trusted. They live to deceive us poor women, and are never so happy
as when they are lying to us. So let them go--Monsieur, Pierre and
Pierrot--the wretches, and trust to retributive justice to overtake
them!”
But neither Monsieur Bouchard nor Pierre seemed to fear the
blindfolded lady with the sword. They were at that moment capering with
glee, and Pierre was shouting:
“I wouldn’t go back to the Rue Clarisse for a million of monkeys!”
And Papa Bouchard was saying:
“I have a confession to make. It is this--that I like a gay life, and
as that worthy fellow says, I would not go back to the Rue Clarisse for
a million of monkeys, and all the money in the Bank of France beside. I
intend to lead a _very_ gay life, hereafter. I am a changed, a reformed
man. Léontine, I shall allow you three-fourths of your income to
spend--and if you get into straits, come to Papa Bouchard and perhaps
I’ll do something handsome. Victor, when next you have a little party
of Pouters on hand, don’t forgot your Papa Bouchard.”
“Indeed I won’t,” cried de Meneval, “and Fallière and I will promise
to get twenty of the best fellows in the regiment and take you on the
biggest lark, bat, jag, and jamboree you ever heard of in all your
life!”
[Illustration]
“Pray don’t forget,” answered Papa Bouchard, while his mouth came open
as if it were on hinges. “Remember--it is to have all the combined
features of a lark, a bat, a jag and a jamboree. And Pierre, my man, we
won’t go back to the Rue Clarisse!”
“No!” shrieked Pierre, capering in an ecstasy of delight, “we won’t go
back to the Rue Clarisse!”
And Pierrot yelled as if inspired, “We won’t go back to the Rue
Clarisse! We’re free! we’re free! Gay dogs are we!”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
In Chapter III, in the paragraph beginning on page 239 that begins
with “But Monsieur Bouchard” there appears to be a missing word
after the word “vainly.” The transcriber believes that the missing
word was “trying,” but research was not able to confirm this.
There are no other contemporaneous editions for comparison.