it came from your father; but such watches are not worn now. Put it away
carefully in your desk and have a stylish one, as thin as a sheet of
paper. I have instructed my steward to find one for you, and to bring
you this morning all the jewelry that you ought to have. Stay, I hear
him asking for you now in your reception room.--This way, Poterne, this
way; monsieur le marquis is visible.”
Poterne’s villainous face appeared at the bedroom door, and Chérubin
invited him to come in. As he passed Daréna, he said to him rapidly and
in an undertone:
“The dealer wouldn’t trust me with anything; he’s waiting at the door.”
“All right, you will be able to pay him. They’re not false, of course?”
“No, they’re genuine stones.”
“How much does he want for them?”
“Eight hundred francs.”
“Call it two thousand.”
Monsieur Poterne took a pasteboard box from his pocket, containing a
very pretty, flat watch, a gold chain, which looked very light but was
of beautiful workmanship, and a diamond pin. Chérubin uttered a cry of
admiration when he saw the baubles.
“These, monsieur le marquis, are the finest and most stylish things to
be had,” said Poterne, passing the chain about the young man’s neck, and
doing his utmost to assume an honest expression.
“Yes, they’re in the latest style,” said Daréna. “My dear Chérubin, you
must have these things; a well-dressed man cannot do without them. I
have several chains myself; they are all broken just now, but I am
having them mended.”
“Oh! I will buy all these jewels,” cried Chérubin. “Who would believe
that there was a watch inside of this? What a pretty pin!--How much for
them all, monsieur?”
Observing the young man’s enthusiasm over the jewels, Poterne thought
that he might add a little more to the price.
“Twenty-five hundred francs in all,” he said.
Daréna turned his face away and bit his lips, while Chérubin ran to his
cash drawer.
At sight of that drawer filled with gold pieces, Monsieur Poterne turned
blue, his brow became wrinkled, his eyes increased in size and his nose
shrunk. Daréna, observing his excitement, took advantage of the fact
that Chérubin’s back was turned to administer a kick to his friend,
muttering:
“I trust, you villain, that you have no detestable intentions; if I
thought that you had, I would break every bone in your body.”
Poterne had no time to reply; he rubbed that portion of his anatomy
which had been attacked, received the amount which Chérubin counted out
to him in gold, and hastily took his leave. But he had hardly passed
through the bedroom door when Daréna ran after him, saying:
“Excuse me, my young friend, I will return in a moment; I forgot to give
my steward an important order.”
Hurrying after Poterne, who seemed anxious to avoid being overtaken,
Daréna caught him on the stairs and seized him by his coat collar.
“Don’t go so fast,” he said; “you’re in a great hurry, you old
scoundrel. Come, give me two thousand francs, in a hurry.”
“Two thousand francs!” muttered Poterne; “why, I’ve got to give eight
hundred to the jeweler, who is waiting downstairs.”
“You can give him five hundred; he will be satisfied to wait for the
rest.”
“But I----”
“I’ll break you into six pieces, if you argue. Come, Poterne, be decent!
You know that when I am in funds, you never lack anything.”
Monsieur Poterne complied, looking as if he were about to weep. Daréna
pocketed the gold and returned to Chérubin, who was admiring himself in
the mirror. Jasmin came to say that breakfast was served, and the
gentlemen took their seats at the table. They were hardly seated when
Monsieur de Monfréville was announced.
When he saw Daréna at table with their young friend of the preceding
day, Monfréville moved his head imperceptibly and said to the count:
“Here already? The deuce! you must have come quite early.”
“When I am fond of my friends, I am always in haste to see them,”
replied Daréna.--”What wine is this, faithful Jasmin?”
“Beaune, monsieur,” replied the old servant, bowing.
“It is very good; but I like sauterne and chambertin at breakfast. You
must have a fine cellar here?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur; and all old wines.”
“I imagine so, if they were laid in by our young friend’s father.--Come,
O model of old retainers, go and bring us several more bottles. When a
cellar has been left in peace for a generation, it seems to me that it
is high time to empty it.”
Jasmin hastened to do as he was requested, and Monfréville said to
Daréna:
“But you give orders without even consulting the master of the house!”
“My friend has given me carte blanche, and I am making the most of it.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Chérubin; “pray do whatever you choose in my
house.”
Daréna leaned toward Monfréville and said in his ear:
“He was already talking of going back to Gagny this morning; if we don’t
make the young fellow giddy, he is capable of returning to his nurse,
and that would be downright murder!”
“Aren’t you going to breakfast with us, monsieur?” Chérubin asked
Monfréville.
“Thanks, my young friend, but I have breakfasted. Were you satisfied
with the tradespeople whom I sent to you this morning?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur; everything was beautiful. I bought a lot of things,
and so did monsieur le comte.”
Monfréville glanced at Daréna, who pretended not to hear and seemed
busily occupied helping himself to partridge pie.
“And look at my watch and my gold chain, and this pin. Monsieur Daréna
sent them all to me by his steward. How pretty they are, aren’t they?”
“Did you pay much for them?” Monfréville inquired.
“Why, no, only two thousand five hundred francs; I don’t call that
dear!”
Monfréville looked again at Daréna, who continued to stuff himself with
partridges.
“Why, yes, it was quite enough,” he said; “in fact, it was very dear. In
the future, with your permission, I will advise you in your purchases; I
fancy that I know at least as much about such matters as monsieur’s
steward.”
Jasmin returned with a number of bottles; he broke one when he attempted
to put it on the table, and dropped a cream cheese on Daréna’s head.
Chérubin was terribly distressed by his servant’s awkwardness; and the
old fellow, overwhelmed with confusion by what he had done, slunk out of
sight behind a screen. Daréna was the first to laugh at the accident.
“It’s of no consequence,” he said; “I am not dressed yet.--For all that,
my dear marquis, if I may venture to give you a piece of advice, I
advise you to relieve your old Jasmin from the duty of waiting at table.
His services will be ruinous to you and fatal to your friends. The
excellent fellow has abundantly earned retirement and you must give it
to him. I will go home to dress, and come back for you; for we will pass
the day together, eh, Monfréville?”
“That is my wish, if it will not annoy our young friend.”
Chérubin hesitated a moment, then said falteringly:
“But I intended to--to go to Gagny--to see my--my nurse.”
“Oh! to-morrow! to-morrow!” cried Daréna; “we have too many things to do
to-day; I will hurry home to dress and return at once.”
Daréna took his leave. Monfréville would have liked to hint to his young
friend that he would do well not to place too much confidence in the
count’s manifestations of friendship for him; but if he attempted so
soon to destroy the young man’s illusions, if he told him to be on his
guard against false friends, selfish affections, the wiles of
shopkeepers, and all the perils of Paris, would he not run the risk of
disgusting him with that city, which he had consented to visit only with
regret?
“After all,” said Monfréville to himself, “Daréna is jovial and bright;
he has the art of inventing some new pleasure every day, and even if his
friendship should cost Chérubin a few thousand-franc notes, the
youngster is rich, and one must needs pay for one’s apprenticeship in
everything. Besides, I will keep an eye on our pupil, and I will try to
see to it that his inexperience is not over-abused.--By the way, my
young friend,” he said aloud, “what have you done with your tutor? He is
to remain with you, is he not? Is he not well?”
“Dear me! you are right!” cried Chérubin. “I had entirely forgotten
Monsieur Gérondif!--Jasmin, go and inquire what my tutor is doing; ask
him why he doesn’t come to breakfast.”
Jasmin went to Monsieur Gérondifs room. The ex-schoolmaster was buried
in his bed, sound asleep, and entirely hidden by the bedclothes and the
pillows, which had fallen over his head. There was nothing save his
snoring to indicate that the bed was occupied.
The old servant put out his hand toward the pillow; it came in contact
with Monsieur Gérondifs prominent nose, which he laid hold of and pulled
violently, crying out:
“Come, monsieur le savant, wake up; my master is asking for you.”
Monsieur Gérondif opened his eyes and rescued his nose from the fingers
that had grasped it.
“What’s the matter?” he muttered; “what’s the meaning of this violence,
and why wake me by the nose? That’s a new way, surely; rosy-fingered
Aurora doesn’t treat the fair-haired Phœbus so.”
But, on learning that his pupil had breakfasted, Monsieur Gérondif
decided to rise; he made a hasty toilet and went down to pay his
respects to the marquis.
“The delights of Capua enervated Hannibal’s soldiers,” he said, eying
the remains of the breakfast, which were very appetizing. “My dear
pupil, I became even as a woman on my downy couch. Accept my apologies;
hereafter I will certainly rise with the chanticleer.”
And Monsieur Gérondif seated himself at the table to make up for lost
time, while Chérubin, to content Mademoiselle Turlurette, went to cast a
glance at the different parts of the establishment. Monfréville, who had
declined to accompany him, went to the tutor and said:
“Monsieur, you have a most important duty to perform; I doubt not that
you will do your utmost to succeed.”
Monsieur Gérondif looked up at Monfréville, opened his enormous mouth,
apparently annoyed at having to reply instead of eat, and said at last:
“In truth, monsieur, I have a very hearty appetite at this moment; but I
hope to succeed in satisfying it with what is on the table.”
“That is not what I referred to, monsieur, but to your pupil, to this
young man who should be the object of your utmost care here in Paris,
because, although it was absolutely necessary that he should come here,
we must see to it that he is not made the dupe of his innocence and his
amiable disposition.”
After taking time to swallow a chicken wing, the tutor replied in a
magisterial tone:
“In that respect, young Chérubin could not be in better hands! Never
fear, monsieur, I will draw for my pupil a most appalling picture of the
seductions in which people may seek to ensnare him. Morals before
everything! That is my motto. St. Paul said: _Oportet sapere ad
sobrietatem!_ But I say that, at the marquis’s age, one must be virtuous
first of all.”
“No, no, monsieur, that isn’t what I mean,” rejoined Monfréville, with a
shrug; “it isn’t a question of terrifying the young man and trying to
make a Cato of him. Let him enjoy such of the pleasures suited to his
years as his means will allow; but prevent his abusing them, and see to
it that he is not made the dupe of the schemers and swindlers with whom
Paris is overflowing.”
“That is just what I say, monsieur; I will be constantly on the lookout;
I will keep my eyes and ears open and my nose in the air, and it will
not be my fault if the child succumbs to temptation. Moreover, I have an
entirely novel system of education--always in the interest of good
morals.--Pardon me if I continue my breakfast.”
“Clearly the man is either a fool or a hypocrite,” thought Monfréville,
as he turned on his heel. “I trust that he is not both!”
Chérubin concluded his inspection of his family mansion, which seemed to
him old, dark and dismal. Monfréville advised him to have it painted,
furnished and decorated according to modern ideas.
Daréna returned, arrayed in the latest fashion; he had donned a part of
the purchases he had made that morning without untying his purse
strings, and with the money received from Poterne he had bought what he
still lacked. So that his costume was beyond reproach, and he wore it
with as much ease and unconstraint as he displayed in his old coat.
Chérubin admired Daréna’s elegant appearance and the grace with which he
wore his clothes. Monfréville made similar reflections, regretting that
a man possessed of so many advantages sometimes descended so low and
frequented such wretched company.
“Here I am, at your service,” said Daréna. “We must take Marquis
Chérubin somewhere. I can’t make up my mind to say ‘Grandvilain’;
indeed, the name doesn’t fit our young friend at all, and if he takes my
advice, he will be content with Chérubin alone, which is a most gallant
name.”
“What!” murmured Jasmin, “is monsieur going to drop his father’s name? I
tell you, I object!”
Nobody paid any heed to the old servant, and Daréna continued:
“First of all, our friend must see everything in Paris that deserves to
be seen. That will take time; for a shrewd observer there is a great
deal to see.”
“And then,” said Monfréville, “Chérubin will do well to give a few hours
every day to the masters who are quite indispensable; for his education
is far too incomplete for him to go into society.”
Monsieur Gérondif’s fork stopped in the act of conveying food to his
mouth, and he cried:
“Who says that my pupil’s education is incomplete? He will surely know
as much as I do very soon.”
“Come, come, learned Master André, don’t get excited,” said Daréna, with
a laugh; “I have no doubt that you are very strong in the dead
languages,--and in the art of carving a chicken; yes, you’re very good
at that. But can you teach our friend music, dancing, riding, fencing,
boxing?”
“Boxing?” muttered Jasmin, with an air of stupefaction.
“Yes, boxing, and all the fashionable sciences which a young man of rank
and fortune must know, unless he wishes to be laughed at.”
“Trust me,” said Monfréville, taking Chérubin’s arm; “my father was a
friend of yours, and even without that, your youth and innocence would
be sufficient to awaken my interest and to arouse in me a wish to make
an accomplished gentleman of you.”
“And to begin with,” said Daréna, “a short ride in the saddle; there is
nothing pleasanter in the morning. Do you know anything about riding?”
“Oh! I can ride very well, and I’m not afraid,” Chérubin replied; “at
the village I used to ride all our neighbors’ horses.”
“Good! there’s a livery stable close by where there are some very good
horses; let us go there and hire, pending the time when you have horses
in your stable--another indispensable thing.”
Chérubin went out with his two friends; he was beside himself with
delight at the thought of a riding party. Being still a novice in all
sorts of pleasure, Nicole’s foster-child had never before ridden
anything but plough horses.
They went to the stable-keeper, who ordered his three best horses
saddled. Just as the gentlemen were mounting, they heard a voice
calling:
“Well! isn’t there a horse for me too?”
Thereupon they discovered Jasmin, who had followed his master, after
tightening the waistband of his breeches as much as possible, covering
his head with a long-vizored cap, which entirely concealed his eyes and
nose, and arming himself with a hunting crop.
Chérubin and his friends could not help laughing at the aspect of Jasmin
in the garb of a groom, and Monfréville exclaimed:
“This old servant’s devotion is becoming very painful.”
“But I don’t need you, Jasmin,” said Chérubin; “go back to the house;
you can’t come with me, it would tire you too much.”
“I know my duty, monsieur,” replied Jasmin; “my place is always in your
rear.”
“Yes, yes, he is right,” said Daréna; “and as he insists on coming with
us, why, let him come.--A horse for this faithful retainer--a good
little trotting horse. Jasmin has the look of an excellent rider.”
“He will certainly be thrown,” said Chérubin, in an undertone.
“That is what I expect too; but it will do him good. This fellow needs a
lesson; he is extremely pig-headed; he insists on breaking your dishes,
capping your friends with cheese, climbing up behind carriages, and
riding horseback; we must try to cure him of this exuberant zeal.”
A horse was saddled for Jasmin, and, with the aid of two hostlers, he
succeeded in climbing to its back. The cavalcade started; in the streets
of Paris they went slowly and the old servant was able to follow his
master, which he did with much pride, sitting erect in his saddle and
bearing heavily on his stirrups; but when they reached the
Champs-Elysées, Chérubin and his two companions started off at a gallop.
Jasmin, seeing his young master disappear in a cloud of dust, was
determined to follow him, and began to strike his steed with his crop.
The beast, desiring nothing more than to join his stable companions,
sprang forward and darted in pursuit.
But his old rider had presumed too much on his strength; in a few
seconds the horse was galloping alone and Jasmin was rolling in the
dust.
When they reached the Bois de Boulogne, Chérubin turned and said:
“Well! where on earth is Jasmin?”
“I was certain that he couldn’t keep up with us,” said Daréna.
“If only he has not fallen and hurt himself!”
“Don’t be alarmed; at his age one falls gently. Somebody must have
picked him up, and we must hope that this lesson will correct the old
fellow a little, for his attachment needs to be toned down.”
They rode on, the two gentlemen admiring the confidence of their young
companion, who needed only a few lessons in grace and style to become an
excellent horseman.
After their ride they returned to Paris, sauntered along the boulevards,
visited several cafés, then went to one of the best restaurants in the
Palais-Royal, and after dinner to the play. About midnight Chérubin
returned home, not having had a single moment during the day to think of
the village.
He found that Jasmin was not hurt by his fall, but he admitted to his
young master that he should not try again to attend him to the Bois de
Boulogne.
The following days were no less thoroughly occupied; Monfréville and
Daréna were almost constantly with Chérubin; the former sent him
teachers in all the social accomplishments; the second talked to him
incessantly of the lovely little dancers with whom they had dined.
“Which of the four do you prefer?” he would ask.
And Chérubin would reply, lowering his eyes:
“They are very pretty, all four.”
“I understand, you liked them all. That can be arranged, and I will take
you to see them whenever you choose; you will be received with open
arms.”
At that suggestion Chérubin would turn as red as a cherry and stammer:
“Oh, yes! in a few days.”
And while his pupil was being taken about and entertained and dazzled,
Monsieur Gérondif lay idly in his bed, sat for hours at a time at the
table, showed his teeth to Mademoiselle Turlurette, and said to Jasmin
every day:
“Above all, worthy Eumæus, do not forget the orders to the concierge: if
anybody from Gagny, even Madame Frimousset, should call and ask to see
monsieur le marquis, she must be told that Monsieur Chérubin de
Grandvilain is absent, that he is travelling; for if my pupil should see
her again, above all if he should see little Louise, although he is
beginning to like the city, he might allow himself to be lured away
again, and all the fruit of our efforts would be lost! And that would be
the greater pity, because, thanks to the advice of his two friends and
the lessons I give him, he must necessarily become ere long a most
preponderating cavalier.”
Jasmin, who always humbled himself before the tutor’s learning, did not
fail to do exactly what he recommended, saying to himself that it could
not be wrong to send the nurse away without allowing her to speak with
his master, because a man who educates children must be perfectly
familiar with the rules of courtesy.
And the days and weeks and months passed in that life of enjoyment, of
constant occupation, and of dissipation, which Chérubin led at Paris.
Whenever he spoke of going to the village, his new friends said:
“Yes, to-morrow; you haven’t time to-day.”
But when Daréna proposed to Chérubin to take him to see one of the
little ballet dancers whom he thought so attractive, the marquis
replied, blushing to his eyes:
“Yes, to-morrow, to-morrow!”
XIV
A CHILD’S LOVE
While Chérubin was enjoying himself in Paris, making merry and thinking
of nothing but pleasure, at Gagny his friends were dismal and bored, and
shed frequent tears. It is often so in life: the happiness of one is
acquired only at the expense of others’ misery. Is it not too high a
price to pay? If we always reflected upon causes and effects, we should
sometimes regret being happy.
On returning from Montfermeil, where, it will be remembered, she was
sent by Monsieur Gérondif, Louise, who had discovered that he had had no
other object than to get her out of the way, asked anxiously where
Chérubin was; and Nicole, weeping bitterly, told her that the youth whom
she still delighted to call her fieu had gone to Paris with several
gentlemen, and some charming ladies, evidently foreigners, judging from
their costumes, who had danced in her house in a style utterly unlike
any village dance.
Louise wept a long while; her heart was torn. There was one pang more
cruel than all the rest in her suffering; at fourteen and a half a girl
may well know what it is to love; and with love jealousy had made its
appearance.
“You let him go!” said Louise, sobbing; “but he promised never to leave
me; those people must have taken him by force.”
“No, my child, Chérubin went away of his own free will, in high spirits,
in fact, and almost dancing with those little hussies, who twirled round
and round longer than the tops my boys used to spin when they were
little.”
Louise wept more bitterly still.
“Why did you let those horrid women come into your house?” she cried.
“Oh! I detest them!”
“Bless my soul, child, it was one of the gentlemen who brought ‘em; they
drank milk just like cats; and then they danced like kids.”
“And Chérubin went away with them!--But he’ll come back to-morrow, won’t
he, mother dear?”
“Let us hope so, my child.”
But the morrow and several more days passed without bringing Chérubin
back to the village. Louise was so depressed that Nicole forgot her own
grief to comfort her.
“But something must have happened to him!” the girl constantly
exclaimed. “Probably they are keeping him in Paris against his will;
for, if not, he would have come back. Let’s go after him, mother, let’s
go after him.”
Nicole tried to make Louise listen to reason.
“Listen, my dear,” she would say, “it’s a long, long while since
Monsieur Jasmin began to tell me: ‘My young master will have to go to
Paris some time; he can’t pass his whole life out at nurse! If it was
known that he’s still with you, I should be scolded.’ And a lot of
things like that. The fact is, my child, that they usually take children
away from a wet-nurse when they begin to talk, unless--unless----”
And the good woman stopped, for she was on the point of saying:
“Unless they do like your mother, and don’t take ‘em away at all.”
Louise had that instinct of the heart which enables its possessor to
read one’s inmost thoughts; she divined the words that died on Nicole’s
lips, and she said, sobbing and pressing her hand convulsively:
“Nobody came for me, I know that. My mother didn’t want me, and yet I
couldn’t have been naughty then--I was too young. And if it hadn’t been
for you, for your kindness, what would have become of me? Oh! dear
Nicole, how can a mother ever abandon her child? I would have loved my
mother so dearly, and she didn’t want to take me back, or even to kiss
me! Oh! she must have died, I am sure, or else she’d have come after me,
or at least have come to see me sometimes.”
“Yes,” said Nicole, kissing Louise, “you are right, my child, your
mother must have died and not had time to send for you; perhaps she
wasn’t able to tell where her child was. Bless my soul! people die so
sudden sometimes! That’s the way it must have been. But let’s not say
any more about it; you know, I don’t like to get into that subject, for
it always makes you sad.”
“That is why I so seldom mention it, my dear Nicole, although I think
about it almost all the time; but when Chérubin was with me, I used to
forget sometimes that I don’t know who my parents are. He told me that
he would always love me--and now he has abandoned me too.”
After this conversation Louise went to the end of the garden, where she
could weep at her ease. In vain did Nicole say to her:
“He’ll come back, my child, he’ll come back!”
Time passed and they saw nothing of Chérubin.
At last, yielding to the girl’s entreaties, Nicole started with her for
Paris one morning; and all the way Louise kept saying:
“We are going to see him. I’ll tell him how sad I am when I am away from
him; I’ll tell him that I cry almost all the time, that there’s nothing
to amuse me in the village, and he’ll come back with us, mother; oh! I
am sure that he’ll come back with us.”
Nicole shook her head with a doubtful expression, and murmured:
“At any rate, we shall find out whether he’s happy and well; that’s the
main thing.”
In due time they reached the old mansion in Faubourg Saint-Germain.
“This is his house,” said Nicole; “I recognize it all right! This is the
very house where I came to get him when he was a spindling little thing,
as thin as a rail. I made a fine boy of him, thank God! And then I came
here two or three times to bring him to his father, when the old
gentleman was alive.”
Louise gazed wonderingly at the old structure, whose severe aspect and
time-blackened walls almost frightened her. Meanwhile, they had entered
the courtyard, and Nicole said to the concierge:
“Monsieur, I’ve come to see my _fieu_--my nursling, young Chérubin, your
master. He left us to come here, but we don’t like not having a chance
to kiss him for so long; we couldn’t stand it any longer, so here we
are.”
The concierge, who had his orders, replied:
“You can’t see monsieur le marquis, my master, for he isn’t in the
house.”
“Gone out, has he? Oh well! he’ll come back! We’ll wait, won’t we,
Louise?”
“Oh, yes, mother, we will wait; for we must see him when we came to
Paris on purpose.”
The concierge rejoined with exasperating indifference:
“It won’t do you any good to wait; Monsieur de Grandvilain is travelling
and he may not come home for ten days or a fortnight.”
“Travelling!” cried Louise; “oh dear! it’s very annoying! Where is he
travelling, monsieur? in which direction? Has he gone far?”
“My master didn’t tell me.”
“But tell us at least whether he’s well?” said Nicole; “is he happy? is
he enjoying himself in Paris?”
“Monsieur le marquis is in perfect health.”
“Thank God! But why does he go travelling without coming to see
us?--Monsieur, are those young foreign ladies who dance so well
travelling with--with Monsieur Chérubin?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
Nicole and the young girl returned to Gagny, sadly disappointed that
they had not been able to embrace Chérubin; but the nurse said to
Louise:
“Never mind, we know he’s well, and that’s a great deal.”
“Yes, dear mother, and no doubt he’ll come to see us when he returns
from this journey; if he doesn’t, we’ll go to Paris again, for he won’t
always be away.”
But once more the days and weeks passed without a word or a sign from
the youth whom they loved so dearly and whom they were always expecting.
Conquered by Louise’s tears and entreaties, Nicole consented to go to
Paris again, but the second trip was no more fortunate than the first.
That time, however, the concierge said that monsieur le marquis had gone
to pass some time at the château of one of his friends.
The two women returned to Gagny more depressed than ever.
“My dear child,” said Nicole, weeping with her, “I believe that the
little fellow I nursed doesn’t mean to see me again. You see that he’s
forgotten us, for he doesn’t come to the village or send us any word.
And when folks in Paris don’t want to see anyone, why they just say that
they’re out.”
“O mother! do you really think that Chérubin doesn’t want to see us,
that he would be ashamed of us?”
“I don’t say that, my child; but this much is certain: that I won’t go
to his house in Paris again; for they must have told him that we came,
and if he still cared anything about us, it seems to me that he wouldn’t
have lost any time before coming to see us.”
Louise could think of nothing to reply; she longed to defend Chérubin in
Nicole’s mind, when in the depths of her own heart she retained only a
glimmer of hope. After the second trip to Paris, the girl’s depression
became more and more marked; in the presence of her foster-mother she
tried to conceal her distress, her sorrow, but when she was alone she
gave way to them with a sort of enjoyment; for, in extreme unhappiness,
it is almost a consolation not to be disturbed in one’s musings, one’s
regrets, one’s memories.
Louise did like all those who have lost a beloved object--she haunted
all the spots which she had often visited and admired with him. When we
revisit the places where we have been happy, it seems that we must be
happy again; our memory recalls all the circumstances of our previous
visits, and the most trivial and futile things become of inestimable
value when they have some connection with the one we love. By dint of
identifying ourselves with our memories, we fancy that we are still
living in that bitterly-regretted past--our heart dilates with a thrill
of joy. But alas! how brief its duration! The present returns with its
overwhelming truth; we look about--we are alone, all alone--we find in
the depths of our hearts naught save a ghastly void, and no unalloyed
joy in the days to come.
One morning Nicole was working, Jacquinot sleeping, and Louise in the
garden, where she was thinking of Chérubin as usual, when a gentleman
entered the rustic dwelling.
“O _agrestis_ and _rusticus_ abode!” he cried; “I salute thee, but I do
not regret thee. My tastes do not agree with Virgil’s, I prefer the city
to the country.”
Nicole uttered a joyful exclamation at sight of Monsieur Gérondif, and
she made haste to call Louise, saying:
“Come quick, my child, here’s the schoolmaster come back; no doubt
Chérubin will soon be here too.”
It was in fact the tutor, who wore a hat so shiny that it looked as if
it were varnished, with his hair carefully oiled beneath it; his gloves
were glazed and his handkerchief drenched with Portugal water, but his
nose was redder than ever.
Louise rushed into the house. Never had Monsieur Gérondif’s presence
caused her such pleasure; she longed, yet feared to speak to him, but at
last she gave him her hand and said in a hesitating tone:
“Ah! what happiness, monsieur! You are going to tell us about _him_.”
Monsieur Gérondif, for his part, was speechless with admiration at sight
of the girl, for it was eight months since he had left Gagny, and in
that period a tremendous change had taken place in Louise, altogether to
her advantage. She was no longer a child, a little maid; she was a tall,
well-built, charming girl, who had every qualification to attract, and
to whom anybody would have given credit for seventeen years and a swarm
of suitors.
“It is most extraordinary!” cried the tutor; “it is sorcery surely! What
a gratifying change!”
“You find Louise grown, don’t you, monsieur?”
“Grown at least twelve centimetres, and her figure much more solid, more
palpable!”
“But Chérubin, monsieur, tell us about Chérubin! Never mind me. Is he
coming, monsieur? Shall we see him soon? Does he think about us? Does he
speak of us sometimes?”
“Is he very fat and healthy, and happy, the dear _fieu_? And when shall
we have a chance to embrace him? Why don’t he come to Gagny?”
“Monsieur le marquis is very well indeed,” replied Gérondif, still
ogling Louise. “You ask why he doesn’t come to see you? Why, my dear
Madame Frimousset, it’s plain that you know nothing of life in Paris,
and especially the life led by a young man in fashionable society! My
pupil hasn’t a moment to himself: in the morning he fences, rides
horseback, dances, sings and boxes; why, he hardly has time for his
meals. Then he has to go into society--theatres, concerts, balls! How in
the devil do you expect him to find a moment to come to this village?
It’s impossible! Even I had infinite difficulty in making the trip
to-day; I was obliged to hurry my breakfast, and I don’t like to eat
fast.”
“So we shan’t see him any more?” murmured Louise, whose heart had grown
heavy again, and whose eyes were filled with tears.
“I do not say that, adorable lass! but I say that you must be sensible
and not expect monsieur le marquis to interrupt his important
occupations for you.”
“Oh! I don’t expect anything! We’d have gone to Paris again to see him,
but they always tell us he’s away.”
“Don’t come to Paris, you will simply waste your time; how do you expect
to catch a young man on the wing who has five hundred things to do in
the day?”
“Five hundred things! Bless my soul! but the poor boy must get all tired
out!”
“As if he went on foot! He’s always in a carriage or on horseback; and
he rides at full speed.”
“And he can’t come as far as this!” said Louise, with a profound sigh.
“And those lovely ladies who dance so well--he goes to see them, of
course?”
“The ballet dancers! fie, fie! What about morals! We used those
mountebanks just as we use the magnet to attract a lot of things; but
afterward--_retro, Satanas_!”
“But I hope he still thinks of us!” said Nicole.
“The proof that he thinks of you, Dame Nicole, is that he has instructed
me to hand you this; for he wants you to be happy and to have everything
you need. And he’s very generous, is my pupil. Here, take it; there’s a
thousand francs in it. That’s a very pretty sum.”
As he spoke, Monsieur Gérondif handed Nicole a bag of money. She took
it, exclaiming:
“A thousand francs! Oh! that’s too much, a thousand francs. It’s a
handsome present, but if I could have given him a kiss at the same time,
I’d have enjoyed it much better.”
Jacquinot, who had just waked up, looked at the bag of money and
muttered sleepily:
“A thousand francs! How many casks does that make at six sous the
litre?”
“And didn’t he give you anything for me, monsieur?” inquired Louise. But
in a moment she added hastily: “Oh! it’s not a present, it’s not money
that I mean; but a kind word, a remembrance, a word to show me that he
hasn’t forgotten me. Pray try to remember, monsieur.”
Monsieur Gérondif scratched his nose and replied:
“No, my sweet girl, the marquis gave me no message for you in
particular, but he told me to wish you all the best of health.”
Louise turned pale and averted her eyes. Whereupon the tutor went to her
side and said in an undertone:
“Pray do not grieve, _mia cara bella_. Although the marquis forgets you,
there is one who will never forget you, who will watch over your future,
and will not allow you to vegetate in obscurity in this village.
Patience; you are still very young, although perfectly developed
already. Let us wait a bit; Penelope waited a long while for the return
of Ulysses, but he came at last and killed all her suitors. That man
shot perfectly with the bow!”
Louise gazed at Monsieur Gérondif in surprise, as if to ask him what he
meant; but he had turned to Nicole.
“Now, I must bid you adieu,” he said.
“What, already, Monsieur Gérondif, without eating a mouthful, and
without taking a drop to drink?”
“Have a glass of wine,” said Jacquinot; “nobody ever refuses that.”
“Pardon me, my dear Frimousset, but it’s very easy to refuse it, when
you are in the habit, as I am, of drinking fine wines; your _sour_ stuff
would make me sick now.”
“But why are you in such a hurry to go?”
“Excellent Nicole, I know that there are potted quail for dinner
to-day,--Mademoiselle Turlurette told me so,--and it would be uncivil to
myself not to take my share of them. Au revoir, virtuous country folk;
Nicole, watch over this little pearl--_margarita_; I commend her to
your care. And you, sweet Louise, do not give way to sorrow; you have a
grand future before you assuredly! _This oracle is more reliable than
the oracle of Calchas._ I wish you all the best of health, and I fly to
Villemonble to take the diligence.”
As he spoke, Monsieur Gérondif bestowed an expansive smile upon each in
turn; he added to the young girl’s smile an exceedingly ardent glance,
and took his leave, resuming his shiny hat and his glazed gloves.
“He tells me not to give way to sorrow,” thought Louise, when he had
gone; “and Chérubin gave him no message for me!”
XV
MONSIEUR POTERNE’S TRADE
Chérubin must inevitably appear ungrateful and fickle in his affection,
for he seems to have forgotten very quickly good Nicole, who had reared
him, and little Louise, his playmate, whom he said that he loved so
dearly. But such ingratitude and inconstancy are too natural in man for
us to be surprised at finding them in a mere boy. Chérubin had just
entered his eighteenth year; he was surrounded by people whose only aim
was to make life in Paris attractive to him, who were constantly
occupied in affording him new pleasures, and who did not fail to make
sport of him and rally him on account of the time he had passed at his
nurse’s. Ridicule is a very potent weapon among the French; grown men
fear and do everything to avoid it; could a child of seventeen be
expected to set it at naught?
However, Chérubin was not so forgetful as one might suppose. He had
often longed to go to see Nicole and Louise; but, in order to divert him
from that design, they had, in the first place, carefully concealed from
him the nurse’s two visits to the house; then they had told him that
Madame Frimousset had sent Louise away to a kinswoman in Bretagne, in
order to help her to forget the grief caused by her young friend’s
departure.
The prospect of not finding Louise at Gagny had considerably cooled the
young man’s longing to revisit the village. But, as he was still
desirous that his nurse should be happy, he had, as we have seen,
despatched Monsieur Gérondif to her with money, begging him also to
inquire about Louise, to ascertain whether she was likely to return to
Gagny soon--in short, to satisfy himself concerning her future.
On returning from his visit to Nicole, Monsieur Gérondif did not fail to
inform his young master that Louise was still in Bretagne, in the family
of a respectable, well-to-do farmer, who treated her like his own
daughter; and that she was very happy there.
Chérubin smiled faintly at the thought that his former playmate had
entirely forgotten him so soon; he felt a pang of sadness and regret,
and for a moment he thought of going to Bretagne, to reproach Louise for
changing so and for ceasing to love him.
For we are like that at every age: we are quite ready to forget other
people, but we are not willing that they should forget us; we are
inconstant and unfaithful, but we hope that others will be constant and
faithful to us; in short, we have no hesitation in deceiving, but we do
not wish to be deceived.
Daréna’s arrival always brought animation to the hôtel de Grandvilain;
and, while seeking to divert Chérubin, he availed himself of the
acquaintance to turn Monsieur Poterne’s talents to account.
For instance, the ugly hanger-on brought the young marquis two saddle
horses one morning, and, assuring him that it was a magnificent
opportunity, which he must not let slip, induced him to pay three
thousand francs for a pair of nags that were worth five hundred at the
very most.
At another time, it was a tilbury which Poterne had bought from a
Russian prince; at another, some fine hunting dogs of a very rare breed;
in short, Monsieur Poterne had reached the point where he dealt in
everything; he never appeared at the house without offering Chérubin
something at a bargain; he even brought canes, silk handkerchiefs,
parrots and cats. The young man bought everything, and paid with the
most absolute confidence. But Jasmin, who was beginning to consider that
Monsieur Poterne’s bargains were terribly extravagant, was in very ill
humor whenever he saw him enter the house; and he tried to devise some
means by which he could rid his master of his visits. Unfortunately the
old servant had never had a brilliant imagination, and as he grew old
that faculty had become more confined instead of developing.
Monfréville might have thwarted Daréna’s schemes and Poterne’s little
commercial ventures; but he had been obliged to go for some time to an
estate that he owned in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau, where
considerable repairs were necessary. When he left Paris, however, he
urged his young friend to distrust Monsieur Poterne’s services and
obliging disposition; but Chérubin was too young not to be trustful; and
moreover, Daréna always seemed amazed at the good bargains which his
steward found for the young marquis.
While Monfréville was absent, the mansion became crowded with horses,
hunting-dogs, birds of all varieties, gothic vases, and objects said to
be rare or curious, which Monsieur Poterne brought thither every day.
At last, Jasmin said to his young master, one morning:
“If this goes on, monsieur, your house will look like a bric-à-brac
shop! You can’t turn around here! This Monsieur Poterne induces you to
buy too many things; these antique, rare vases look very ugly to me; the
hunting dogs make a frightful noise, and when they are let go, they bite
everybody’s legs. And then the parrots shriek so, and you have five of
them! That so-called Spanish cat he sold you has changed color, and is
nothing but a common white cat now. And you have nineteen canes, my dear
master; I have counted them. What do you mean to do with nineteen canes?
Monsieur le marquis, your father, had only one, and he never carried
more at one time.”
“Hush, Jasmin,” Chérubin replied, laughing at his old servant’s
distress; “am I not rich? haven’t I the means to gratify my whims?”
“Excuse me, my dear master, but you buy all these things because
Monsieur Poterne tells you they’re magnificent, great bargains, and a
thousand other things to tempt you; why, you would never have taken it
into your head to have ten dogs, nineteen canes, five parrots and a
turtle, and to fill this house with old vases and strange looking jugs,
which I call hideous, as I do the turtle, which frightens me.”
“Because you don’t know about such things. Monsieur Daréna always
congratulates me on my purchases; he thinks everything is very fine and
not dear.”
“Oh! as to Monsieur Daréna,” said Jasmin, shaking his head, “I don’t
call him economical! By the way, my dear master, has he ever repaid the
money that you paid the tailor, the shirt-maker and the boot-maker for
him?”
“No; but that isn’t very important. He has probably forgotten it.
Besides, Jasmin, you told me then that it was very good form to lend
money to one’s friends, and that my father often did it.”
“That is true, monsieur, but all the difference is that your father’s
friends paid back what they borrowed.”
This conversation was interrupted by Poterne’s arrival; he still wore
his shabby box-coat, beneath which he carried something of considerable
size, which he kept carefully out of sight. Jasmin made a very
significant grimace at the appearance of the very person of whom he had
been speaking. But Monsieur Poterne came forward with a most humble air,
bowing to the ground, and trying to assume a pleasant expression.
“Ah! it’s Monsieur Poterne!” said Chérubin, laughing at his old
servant’s pantomime. “I was just talking about you with Jasmin, who
declares that my Spanish cat is turning white.”
Monsieur Poterne replied, with a sneering laugh that sounded like the
rattling of copper sous in a saucepan:
“Monsieur Jasmin is joking! The cat that I had the honor to sell you is
very valuable; he used to belong to a Spanish grandee. It is possible
that he may turn white temporarily; he may not be well; but the color
will all come back if you take good care of him.”
“Do you mean that you think that animals aren’t well fed in our house?”
demanded Jasmin haughtily.
“I didn’t mean that, my dear monsieur; but Spanish cats are very
delicate, and----”
“All right,” said Chérubin, “we have talked enough about a cat.
Doubtless you have come to offer me something new, Monsieur Poterne?
for you are an invaluable man! With you one has no time to form a wish.”
“Monsieur le marquis is too kind; as it happens, I have something.”
As he spoke, Monsieur Poterne bestowed a savage glance on the old valet,
whose presence embarrassed him; but Jasmin did not budge, and as his
master did not tell him to go, Monsieur Poterne was fain to make up his
mind to exhibit before him what he had under his coat.
“Well, what have you brought me to-day?” asked Chérubin.
“What I have brought you, monsieur le marquis,--is a bargain.”
“Always bargains,” muttered Jasmin; “we know all about that.”
“I have just come from the sale at an ex-minister’s house; he was a
great epicure. At your age, monsieur le marquis, young people like
sweetmeats--good things--especially those that are hard to get. Faith,
when this was put up for sale, I thought that you might like it.”
As he spoke, Monsieur Poterne produced from beneath his coat a huge jar
of blue china, carefully sealed with parchment.
“What is there in that, Monsieur Poterne?”
“Indian preserve, monsieur le marquis; it’s a very popular sweetmeat in
hot countries, and very rare in France, on account of the difficulty of
bringing it here; this is made of pineapples.”
“The deuce!” muttered Jasmin; “he’s taken to bringing us eatables now!
This is the finishing touch!”
“A jar of this size is ordinarily worth a hundred francs at Chevet’s,
when he has any. I got this for fifty, and I bought it with the
intention of offering it to you.”
“Thanks, Monsieur Poterne; pineapple preserve should be delicious, in
very truth.--Jasmin, give Monsieur Poterne fifty francs, then take this
preserve to the pantry.”
Jasmin took the jar which the ugly knave handed him.
“We don’t need preserves,” he muttered. “Mademoiselle Turlurette makes
very good ones, and it wasn’t worth while----”
A glance from Chérubin imposed silence on the old retainer, who walked,
still grumbling, to the secretary and took out the money, while Poterne
said to the young man:
“I shall soon have something very interesting to offer to monsieur le
marquis. It’s a monkey of the large species, extremely bright and
intelligent, whose owner would not dispose of him except that he has
failed in business. I mean to seize the opportunity, and you will have a
monkey worthy of a king.”
“A monkey!” cried Jasmin; “that would be the bouquet! Our house would be
a complete menagerie then!”
“Hush, Jasmin,” said Chérubin; “and do you, Monsieur Poterne, bring me
the monkey as soon as you obtain it. I am very anxious to own it.”
Monsieur Poterne bowed, took the fifty francs which the old servant,
with a horrible grimace, counted out to him, and left the room,
repeating that he would try to get the monkey at a reasonable figure.
Chérubin, who had an appointment with Daréna and several other young men
to breakfast at the Café de Paris, hastily completed his toilet and
dismissed his old servant, who was in despair at the idea of having a
monkey. He left the room, after casting an angry glance at the jar for
which his master had just paid fifty francs.
A few minutes later, Chérubin, attended by a genuine groom, entered his
tilbury and drove away, paying no heed to Jasmin, who shouted to him
from a window in the pantry:
“He’s taken us in, monsieur! It’s grape jelly and nothing else!”
XVI
MONSIEUR POTERNE CONTINUES HIS LITTLE TRICKS
At the Café de Paris, Chérubin found Daréna and two young dandies whose
acquaintance he had made in the foyer of the Opéra. Intimacies are
quickly formed at eighteen years; we proffer and give our friendship as
if it were the most commonplace thing in the world. As we grow older, we
often discover that we gave nothing and received nothing.
Chérubin’s two new friends were only a few years older than he. One of
them, whose name was Benoît Mousseraud, called himself _de_ Mousseraud,
and never mentioned his Christian name, which he considered vulgar. The
other, on the contrary, whose name was Oscar Chiponard, used his
Christian name only, and never mentioned his family name.
The former was a tall, slender young man of twenty-two, not ill-looking,
although his eyes lacked expression and his hair, which he declared to
be blond, bordered closely on the red; he was a brainless chatterbox,
who boasted of making a conquest of every woman he saw, and of being the
best dressed man in Paris.
The other was twenty-four years of age; he was small, dark,
yellow-skinned, and would have been decidedly ugly, except that his
black eyes were so full of fire and animation that they imparted much
expression to his countenance. He might have passed for a clever fellow,
if he had not had the folly to blush for his family and to lose his
temper whenever anyone mentioned the name of his father.
Both these gentlemen belonged to wealthy families. Mousseraud was the
son of a provincial notary and proposed to purchase a brokerage business
in Paris; Chiponard, whose father was a retired watchmaker, proposed to
do nothing at all.
They both displayed great friendliness to Daréna because he was of noble
birth, and he reciprocated because they were rich. In society there is
an almost constant interchange of these selfish sentiments.
“Come, come, Marquis Chérubin,” said Daréna, “we are waiting for you;
the breakfast is all ordered, and it will be rather fine; I understand
such matters.”
“You’re a little late,” said Oscar.
“He has probably been to bid one of his mistresses good-morning,” added
the tall Mousseraud, stroking his chin.
“My mistresses!” repeated Chérubin artlessly; “oh! I haven’t any.”
“Hasn’t any, indeed!” cried Daréna, nudging him; “I trust that you don’t
believe that! The fact is that he has them in all quarters; he is a
downright villain with the women already.--Don’t say that you have no
mistresses,” he added in Chérubin’s ear; “people will laugh at you and
point their fingers at you as a curiosity. And it’s a fact, my dear
fellow, that for a young man of eighteen, you are very backward.”
Chérubin blushed and hastily took his seat at the table. During the
breakfast Mousseraud talked incessantly of his _bonnes fortunes_, while
Oscar from time to time made malicious comments upon what his friend
said. Daréna ate, drank, and laughed at their speeches. Chérubin
listened to everything with the utmost good faith, simply uttering
exclamations of wonder when their adventures seemed to him
extraordinary.
“Yes, messieurs,” said the tall red-blond, “at this moment I have five
mistresses, without counting two others who are on the waiting list.”
“Waiting for what?” sneered Oscar.
“Parbleu! that is plain enough: waiting for the intrigue to be
consummated; it will be arranged this week, or next at the latest.”
“Then you will have seven mistresses, just like a rooster!”
“Oh! you may pretend to joke, Oscar, but it’s the truth. Indeed, I
sometimes have more.”
“You are getting to be a terrible fellow, Monsieur de Mousseraud!” said
Daréna; “however, if your conquests are pretty, accept my
congratulations.”
“Four of them are enchanting, two very nice, and one passable. But I
shall let the last three go; I intend to keep only the first quality.”
“What’s that! can you let a mistress go?” inquired Chérubin with a
surprised expression.
“I say, marquis, where have you come from? One would think, to hear you,
that you are a novice in love; whereas monsieur le comte assures us that
you are his pupil. That would not do him credit.”
Daréna emptied his glass and cried:
“Do you mean to say that you believe our young Adonis? Don’t you see
that he’s making sport of you--a man who keeps a damsel three days at
most? He takes us all in with his little innocent expression! And if he
deceives us men, tell me whether the women are not likely to fall into
his toils?”
“Monsieur Chérubin is favored in every respect,” said Oscar.
“Monsieur is not the only one!” rejoined tall Mousseraud, with a
conceited air; “I only say this, because it’s a fact, but, on my word of
honor, I have never met a woman who could resist me.”
“Oh! that’s not surprising with you!” retorted Oscar, in a mocking tone;
“you have such an ardent nature--anyone can see that from the color of
your hair.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded the tall young man, while his
cheeks became as red as his locks. “Do you dare to say that I have red
hair?”
“It seems to me that there is no need for me to say so.”
“Come, come, messieurs; are we going to quarrel?” said Daréna. “We met
here to breakfast, to laugh and talk nonsense; and we lose our temper,
and sulk! That is most execrable form--and all about a matter of hair!
Mon Dieu! I wish that mine were red; I should be delighted! It is much
less common in France than dark or fair hair. And it proves too that the
hair is not dyed.--Fill my glass, Oscar, and you, de Mousseraud, serve
what is on that dish.”
“Yes, yes!” cried Chérubin; “instead of losing your temper, tell me what
you do with your seven mistresses?”
“Parbleu! what you do with yours, I presume.”
“I? Why, I haven’t----” A glance from Daréna checked Chérubin, and he
continued: “I don’t do anything at all with mine.”
“In that case they must play some amusing tricks on you.”
“I,” said Oscar, “have a fascinating little grisette just now; I give
her a cap every week and a dress every month, and she is perfectly
satisfied.”
“Among my seven mistresses,” said Mousseraud, “there is an Englishwoman
who costs me a lot of money; but she is an admirable creature!”
“What a braggart he is with his seven mistresses! He reminds me of Blue
Beard. Take them all out walking some day--you’ll look like a
boarding-school master.”
“I give women nothing but my heart now,” said Daréna; “and they are much
more fond of me since I put them on that diet.”
“And you, Chérubin, do you squander money on your charmers?”
“I--I don’t know--that depends,” stammered Chérubin, playing with his
knife.
“Really, you are too close-mouthed,” said Mousseraud; “one can get
nothing out of you.”
Chérubin, who was much embarrassed by the turn that the conversation had
taken, drew his watch, pretending that he had an appointment.
While he was looking at the time, Oscar Chopinard, who was beside him,
examined his watch.
“It’s very pretty, very thin, isn’t it?” asked Chérubin, holding the
watch for his neighbor to see.
That gentleman took it, scrutinized it again very closely, and
exclaimed:
“This is very strange! Is it a wager? Let me see the chain. Parbleu! the
chain too. It would be curious if the pin--Allow me, my dear Chérubin.”
And Monsieur Oscar, who, after examining Chérubin’s watch, had
scrutinized and weighed in his hand the chain that he wore about his
neck, turned his attention to his diamond pin.
“What makes you stare at me like this?” queried Chérubin; “what is there
about me that is so extraordinary?”
“You have upon you objects that I am much surprised to see you wear,”
replied Oscar; “a young man as rich as you are. You certainly didn’t pay
much for your watch and chain and pin?”
“Why, no, not too much--twenty-five hundred francs in all. To be sure, I
got them at a bargain.”
“Twenty-five hundred francs!” cried Oscar, bringing his hands together
violently; “well, my dear fellow, in that case, you have been robbed!
yes, absolutely robbed! The three articles are worth about sixty francs;
the stones are imitation, and the watch and chain are gilded copper.”
“Copper!” cried Chérubin; while Daréna muttered between his teeth:
“Ah! the villain! I almost suspected as much!”
“Why, it’s impossible! Monsieur Daréna’s man of business sold me all
these things.”
“I promise you that I am sure of what I say.”
“Parbleu!” cried tall Mousseraud, in a sneering tone, “Oscar ought to
know: his father was a watchmaker, and he was brought up in the shop.”
“How can this be?” said Chérubin, addressing Daréna. “You are well aware
that it was Poterne who brought me all these things.”
Daréna broke a plate with his glass, crying:
“If it is true, Poterne is a miserable villain who has deceived me
outrageously; but I will shatter him like this plate.”
Chérubin could not believe that they had told him the truth. They left
the restaurant and entered the first jeweler’s shop they saw. The
jeweler had no sooner examined the objects produced by the young man
than he said in a most courteous, but slightly sarcastic tone:
“Oh! how can you wear such trash, monsieur? I would not give fifteen
francs for the whole lot.”
Chérubin took off his chain, his pin and his watch, and dashed them all
on the floor, in a passion which was due, not to the loss of his money,
but to his vexation at being deceived. Then he gave the jeweler his
address.
“Please bring me to-morrow,” he said, “all that I believed that I really
owned--the handsomest things that you have; you will see, monsieur, that
I have the means to pay for genuine jewels.”
The jeweler bowed, assuring him that he should be obeyed; and they left
the shop.
“As for your Monsieur Poterne,” cried Chérubin to Daréna, “I advise him
not to show his face at my house again.”
Daréna, making a show of being furious, seized Chérubin’s hand and shook
it violently.
“My friend,” he said, “I am the involuntary cause of all this; that
rascally Poterne deceived me as he did you. I am sure that he is robbing
me shamefully too. But it is for me to punish him; I am going to find
him now and give him a thrashing.”
With that, he hastily took his leave of the three young men and went
home.
Daréna at this time occupied a small, but attractive apartment on Rue
Neuve-Bréda. Thanks to Poterne’s transactions with the young marquis, of
which Daréna received a share of the profits, he had been in funds for
some time. His man of business occupied a small room above his
apartment.
“Is Poterne in my rooms?” asked Daréna, as he passed the concierge.
“In yours or else in his, monsieur,” was the reply; “he’s upstairs. I
just saw him go in with the little boy who’s been coming to see him
every day for a fortnight.”
“Aha! so a little boy comes to see him every morning? About how old a
boy?”
“Oh! perhaps ten or twelve years old; but he’s got a very sharp face. He
ain’t handsome, but in spite of that, he’s got such a sly expression
that you’d almost call him good-looking.”
“What in the deuce can Poterne be doing with this boy?” said Daréna to
himself as he went upstairs. “Can it be his son? Oh, no! a man like him
never acknowledges a child; he would have to take care of him. It’s
probably some urchin whom he has hired to do his errands and polish his
boots; but I supposed that he did all that himself.”
Daréna entered his room, and, not finding Poterne there, went up another
flight and knocked at the door of his agent’s chamber.
Instantly there was a great commotion inside; it was as if chairs were
being upset, and closet doors opened and shut. At last Monsieur
Poterne’s shrill, unmusical voice inquired:
“Who’s there?”
“Parbleu! it’s I. Let me in, you old scoundrel.”
“Why don’t you let me know who it is at once?” asked Poterne, as he
opened the door. “I was very busy--your knock disturbed me--as I didn’t
know who it was.”
Daréna glanced about the room, which was in great disorder; then,
fastening his eyes on Poterne, who seemed to be anxious to set things to
rights, he said:
“You weren’t alone here, you had a small boy with you. What devilish
mystery are you brewing now, with this child? Come, answer quickly; I
am in no joking mood, I promise you!”
Monsieur Poterne’s only reply was to call out:
“Come, Bruno, come; you can show yourself; it was my intimate friend,
there’s no danger!”
Instantly a closet opened and a small boy of twelve years or more
emerged and rolled across the floor, uttering a shrill noise not unlike
the cry of a savage. The singularity of his behavior was intensified by
the fact that he was clad from head to foot in a sort of greenish skin,
hairy in spots; that that skin, which covered his hands and feet as
well, ended at those extremities in something like claws; and that a
very slender and exceedingly long tail depended from his posterior. His
face alone was uncovered.
“What in the devil is this?” asked Daréna, examining the boy, who went
through a multitude of leaps and capers on the floor, and seemed
perfectly accustomed to walking on his hands.
Monsieur Poterne emitted a hollow rumble, as if he were laughing
internally, and replied:
“This is a monkey I am training.”
“A monkey! For whom, pray?”
“For our young marquis. I wanted to sell him a large and handsome
monkey, but I had no desire to put out the money for one. I had noticed
this little bootblack at the corner; the rascal always did what errands
I gave him, to my entire satisfaction; I saw that he was a bright little
devil, so I proposed to him to play the monkey, for a handsome
remuneration. I bought this orang-outang’s costume, which is very
lifelike; Bruno comes here every morning and puts it on; then he
practises jumping and capering. He is doing very well, and he’s more
amusing than a real monkey. I have a mask, but I haven’t made up my
mind whether to have him wear one. As he is horribly ugly, I think that,
by staining his face and gluing hair on his eyebrows and chin, I could
make a fine monkey of him! Ha! ha!”
Daréna threw himself into a chair; he could not help laughing with his
agent, as he rejoined:
“This is shocking! it is horrible! and yet I cannot help laughing!
Really, this idea of manufacturing a monkey--Poterne, it’s a pity that
you are such a vile knave, for you have much imagination. But let us
suppose that Chérubin has bought this counterfeit monkey--is Monsieur
Bruno inclined to remain an animal all his life?”
“Why, no,” replied Poterne; “once in the house, he will cleverly choose
the moment to take flight; he will escape in one way or another--by the
chimney, if need be; for he has been a sweep, and he is perfectly at
home climbing chimneys. That part of it doesn’t concern me, you see; I
sell a monkey and get my money; it isn’t my fault if you let him escape.
Ha! ha!”
The boy, hearing Poterne laugh, followed his example, imitating anew the
monkey’s wild chatter, and leaping over all the furniture in the room in
order to develop his talent.
“Well,” said Daréna, after a moment, “you will lose the expense of
educating him, Poterne; this little scamp may play the monkey on the
boulevards, but he won’t do it in our young pupil’s house!”
“Why not, pray?”
“Why not? Because you are a villain, a swindler, a thief!”
Monsieur Poterne looked at the count with an expression which said
plainly enough: “You’ve known that a long while; why pretend to be so
surprised?”
“I have no objection to your selling things at rather a high figure to
my young friend, because tradesmen always get as much as they can. That
is business and nothing else. But I do not propose that you shall abuse
Chérubin’s confidence to the point of cheating him outrageously; and
that is just what you have done, master thief!”
Poterne rolled his eyes in amazement, muttering:
“I don’t see where the great harm comes in! I told him they were
preserved pineapples, and they’re turnips; but they can’t hurt him; on
the contrary, they’re less heating.”
“I am not talking about turnips--I don’t know about that episode, you
must tell me about it!--I am talking about the watch and chain and pin;
they are all sham, horribly sham; and you had the face to tell me that
they were worth eight hundred francs! You robbed me too, you villain!”
“It’s very lucky that they weren’t worth as much as that!” replied
Poterne coolly; “for, out of the twenty-five hundred francs I got for
them, you left me only five hundred to pay the dealer on account, and
you’ve never given me the rest since.”
“Because I had a sort of presentiment of your knavery! The idea of
selling trash, gilded copper, to my young friend! it is infamous!”
“Bah! look you, it seems to me that you’ve been living comfortably at
your young friend’s expense for eighteen months past.”
“Hold your tongue, Poterne, hold your tongue. I am tempted to break
every bone in your body, and you deserve it. See what a fine thing you
have done in not being content with the honest profits you might have
made on such things as you sold Chérubin; now you can never go to his
house again. I had thrown open an excellent house to you, and you have
closed it by your thirst for gold--and as a result you have injured me
considerably. I have derived some profit from your little
transactions--and that was no more than fair; as it was I who made you
acquainted with this rich youngster.”
“Some profit! In other words, you took the whole!” muttered Poterne,
with a horrible grimace.
“Once more, hold your tongue, or I cannot restrain myself!--Now, how
shall I maintain my position, my life of luxury? I can borrow of
Chérubin occasionally, to be sure, but that resource will soon fail me:
the most obliging people get tired of lending, especially when they are
never paid. I have tried to instil into my young friend a taste for
cards, telling him that it was the passion of fashionable people; but I
could not do it, cards are a bore to him; and then that devil of a
Monfréville has strongly advised him not to touch them. So that there is
but one way left for me to feather my own nest by making myself useful
to Chérubin, and that is--love. When a wealthy young man is in love, he
usually does all sorts of foolish things for the woman he loves. If
there are obstacles, he spends money lavishly to overcome them,--and we
should have had no difficulty in placing obstacles in his path whenever
we chose. Well! by some fatality which I cannot understand, Chérubin,
who exclaims in admiration at sight of a pretty face, who seemed to be
dead in love with my four little ballet dancers, who cannot look at a
grisette without a thrill, who, in short, acts as if he were
tremendously in love with all women, hasn’t yet engaged in any intrigue
or taken a mistress. I have proposed twenty times to take him to
Malvina, or Rosina, or Fœdora; he will agree at first, then refuse,
saying: ‘Later; we’ll see about it; I don’t dare!’ And my sarcasms, my
jests, fail to overcome his timidity.--That is where I stand now,
monsieur; I was justified, you see, in saying that your knavery has
placed me in an unpleasant position.”
Poterne, who had listened very attentively to Daréna, reflected for some
moments on what he had heard, and replied at last:
“If the young man has no love-affairs on hand, it is probably because he
has not yet met a woman who has really attracted him. Those dancers of
yours who seemed to be throwing themselves at his head--that’s not the
way to captivate a wholly inexperienced heart, which wants illusions,
ardent passion. Never fear, I’ll find what he needs, and before long I
will involve him in a most romantic and complicated intrigue.”
“Remember that you cannot show your face before Chérubin, who is quite
capable of kicking you downstairs. He is in a terrible rage with you, I
warn you.”
“Oh! don’t be alarmed; if I appear before him, I will take good care
that he doesn’t recognize me.”
“Poterne, if you succeed in arousing a passionate love in our young
man’s heart, I will give you back my esteem.”
“Oh, yes! I shall succeed! But first, you must give me time to find a
pretty girl, and then to learn whether--I say, Bruno! Bruno! where are
you going, you little rascal?”
During the foregoing conversation between Daréna and Poterne, the small
boy, who had understood that he was not to play the part of a monkey, as
he had been led to expect, had resumed his ordinary garb; but, when he
had finished his toilet, Monsieur Bruno, presuming that no one was
paying any heed to him, rolled the monkey’s skin around the mask, put
it under his arm, and left the room.
“My skin! my monkey’s skin, Bruno!” cried Monsieur Poterne, running out
to the landing. “Ah! you little vagabond! don’t you mean to give it back
to me?”
But Monsieur Bruno, who had become very skilful in gymnastic exercises,
thanks to the lessons he had taken in playing the monkey, ran down the
stairs so rapidly that he was at the foot before Poterne had covered
three stairs. The latter ran after the little thief none the less; and
while Daréna returned to his room, laughing at the episode, Monsieur
Poterne ran through the street after the bootblack, crying:
“My skin! my skin! stop that little scamp--he’s stolen my skin!”
XVII
ADVICE OF A FRIEND
On returning home, Chérubin sent for Jasmin and said to him:
“If Monsieur Poterne should ever dare to appear here again, I order you
to have him thrown out of doors; you may even go so far as to order the
concierge to thrash him; but you must not undertake it yourself, for you
are too old and he would return the compliment.”
Jasmin uttered a joyful exclamation, and said:
“What! really, monsieur? And without taking the monkey?”
“Oh! I forbid you above all things to take anything whatever from him.”
And Chérubin told his old servant what had happened.
“You see, monsieur,” said Jasmin, “that Poterne is an outrageous
swindler--I was sure of it. His so-called Indian preserves--I gave ‘em
to Mademoiselle Turlurette to taste; they gave her a very bad stomach
ache, and she’s been out of order ever since. I’m very much afraid,
monsieur, that everything you have bought of that Poterne is like your
watch!--And this Monsieur Daréna whose man of business he is--hum!”
“Daréna was even more furious than I with that man; he swore that he’d
thrash him. He was deceived too; it isn’t his fault.”
“All the same, my dear master, I very much prefer your other friend,
Monsieur de Monfréville. Ah! such a difference! he doesn’t borrow your
tailor; he doesn’t induce you to buy things; he doesn’t let his steward
loose on you.”
Chérubin smiled at Jasmin’s reflections, but it did not enter his mind
that Daréna could be a confederate in his agent’s wrongdoing. His heart
was too frank, too trustful, to suspect cunning and perfidy, and he
would have been unable to believe in Monsieur Poterne’s shameless
rascality had it been less abundantly demonstrated to him.
As for Monsieur Gérondif, who passed a large part of his time in sleep,
and another large part at the table, and who had adopted the habit of
reading Voltaire or Racine to Mademoiselle Turlurette of an evening,
telling her that he had composed the lines that morning, when he learned
what Monsieur Poterne had done, he exclaimed:
“That man never read _Deuteronomy_, where it says: _Non furtum facies_;
or else he mistranslated it.”
A few days after this adventure, Monfréville, returning from the
country, came at once to see Chérubin. When he spied the pack of
hounds, the parrots, the turtle, the canes, the gothic vases, and all
the alleged rare objects with which his young friend’s house was filled
to overflowing, he uttered an exclamation which was not of delight, and
said to Chérubin:
“Mon Dieu! what on earth induced you to buy all this stuff?”
“They are all bargains. I was told that they were very fine.”
“Fine! Why, they are all horrible, in wretched taste, and of no value
whatever. Your parrots are wretched cockatoos, your dogs are miserable
curs that I would not have to guard chickens! Even your canes are common
sticks of wood; this rattan is an imitation, it was never what it
pretends to be.”
“What did I say?” cried Jasmin; “that Poterne is an infernal pickpocket;
he has taken us in with everything, just as he did with the
jewels.--Tell monsieur the story of our watch, my dear master.”
Chérubin told Monfréville what had happened to him.
“If it was Monsieur Poterne who sold you all this,” said Monfréville, “I
am surprised no longer! But Daréna--do you still see him?”
“Yes,” replied Chérubin; “he was indignant at his agent’s conduct, and
he has told me since that he had beaten him and dismissed him from his
service.”
Monfréville smiled faintly; then he took Chérubin’s hand and said:
“My friend, you are still very young, and you cannot be expected to
understand men; the knowledge of the world which one acquires only by
experience and familiarity, unless one is blessed in youth with a most
observant mind, that knowledge is rather melancholy than agreeable! For
men are rarely what they choose to appear; frankness is not esteemed as
a virtue in society; on the contrary, the man would be considered a fool
or a boor who should say frankly what he thought, at the risk of
wounding the self-esteem of this one or the susceptibility of that one.
We consider those people delightful who never have any but agreeable and
flattering words in their mouths, and we do not worry as to whether they
mean what they say. In the world, every man acts as his interest or his
passions impel him, and they who make the most parade of their virtues,
their honor, their good faith, are the ones whom we should trust least;
for people who are really virtuous and upright deem it perfectly natural
to be so, and quite unnecessary to proclaim it. I have not said all this
to you earlier, for I regret to deprive you of the illusions which make
a large part of the charm of youth, and with which we begin life; but I
take too deep an interest in you not to try to put you on your guard
against the snares which may be laid for you.”
“What, my dear Monfréville,” said Chérubin sadly, “can’t we trust
anybody in the world?”
“I don’t mean to go so far as that. I do not want to make a misanthrope
of you--God forbid! But I warn you that you must be particular in the
choice of your friends.”
“Monsieur Gérondif has often told me that when a man became learned he
became a man to be feared, because a learned man can never be cheated by
anybody, as he knows more than other men.”
“I don’t know whether your tutor is very strong on his authors, but he
is rather weak in knowledge of the human heart. In the first place, a
person may be very learned without a spark of wit--we have proofs of
that every day; and in the second place, those who have the most wit
are almost always the ones who are most easily cheated; doubtless
Providence so ordained as a recompense to fools.”
“So you feel sure that people will try to cheat me?”
“You are young and rich, and you have had very little experience. There
are numbers of people who would like to take advantage of that
combination. All this that I am saying is very sad--but you will realize
later that I am right.”
“Have you been caught often, Monsieur de Monfréville?”
This artless question brought a smile to the lips of him to whom it was
addressed; he heaved a sigh, however, as he replied:
“Like other men, my friend. Take my advice and do not form an intimacy
with Daréna. I dislike to speak harshly of anyone; but the more I
observe the count, the more strongly I feel that his acquaintance is not
at all suitable for you.”
“But he is very amusing, very agreeable, very clever.”
“I know it, and that makes him all the more dangerous. He has already
borrowed money from you, has he not?”
“Why, yes--sometimes.”
“He will never pay you.”
“Do you think not?”
“I am sure of it. He will urge you to play.”
“Yes, he has often proposed it.”
“It is the most fatal of passions. He is a gambler and he has ruined
himself. When a man has reached that point, he tries too often to ruin
others; for an unlucky gambler is sometimes far from delicate in the
methods to which he resorts to obtain money, in order to gratify his
passion. Daréna has reached that point.”
“As you have so bad an opinion of Daréna, how does it happen that he is
a friend of yours? Why did he come to Gagny with you?”
“Your question is perfectly just; but in society one accepts a man’s
good qualities and does not concern oneself enough about his bad ones.
Daréna bears an honorable name; he is able to behave most becomingly
when he chooses; in fact, he has most agreeable and fascinating manners;
and nobody asks for anything more in society. But, I tell you again, one
should look for something more in a friend.”
“And the women, my dear Monfréville, the women--must I distrust them
too? Ah! that would be a great pity, women are so pretty!”
“It’s different with women! As a general rule, men are too fickle to be
exacting in the choice of their mistresses, and for that reason such
liaisons are not at all dangerous. What does it matter that you are in
love with a coquette, with a woman whose reputation is more than shady,
with an actress who will make a fool of you? That love will soon be
replaced by another, which, in its turn, will be as quickly forgotten! A
man’s reputation has nothing to fear from all that; on the contrary, the
more love-affairs you have, the more flattered the ladies will be to win
your love; that fact says more for their self-esteem than for their
hearts.”
“What do you say? to attract the women, one must deceive them?” cried
Chérubin, gazing at Monfréville with an incredulous expression. “Do you
mean that it is all the same to them whether we forget them and abandon
them?”
Monfréville turned pale, his brow darkened, and he kept his eyes on the
floor for a long while; not for some moments did he reply:
“There are women who never forgive inconstancy, but they are not
ordinarily the ones who love you the best; for true love makes one
indulgent. It forgives, provided that you return in all sincerity. I
tell you, Chérubin, that the shrewdest man knows nothing about a woman’s
heart. There has been much discussion of the subject, and no two persons
ever agreed. Tertullian declares that the devil is not so spiteful as
woman, and Confucius says that a woman’s soul is the masterwork of
creation. Cato maintains that wisdom and virtue are incompatible with
the female mind, and Tibullus that woman’s love brings us back to
virtue. How are we to form an opinion about it?--But I believe that at
this moment I am too much like your tutor, who overwhelms you with his
learning. I conclude, my young friend, by informing you that the best
way to be happy is to form no attachment. Love all women! Your life will
glide along amid pleasures and folly. But if you love only one, you must
expect much sorrow in exchange for a little happiness.”
“Love all women, you say! I ask nothing better! I fall in love with all
I see--when they are pretty.”
“But I believe that you have not yet formed any liaison? I have not
heard that you have any mistress!”
“No--you see--it seems to me that I shall never dare to tell a woman
that I love her. A man must be very bold to say that, do you know?”
“Ha! ha! this is the result of a sojourn of sixteen years with your
nurse. But you must cast off this timidity, which will be much more
injurious than advantageous to you, especially with the fair sex. You
are more than eighteen years old--you must make a start, show yourself
in society. You must not serve your apprenticeship in love with
grisettes or supernumeraries from the theatre. You will find something
better than that. In the fashionable society to which I propose to
introduce you, a thousand women will contend for your favor, and they
will do you credit, at all events. Moreover, it is high time that you
should know something besides the theatres, cafés and restaurants of
Paris; the salons are where a man gets his training, and I will take you
to those where refined manners are the rule. With your name you will be
welcomed everywhere. This is the season for receptions; Madame Célival
has resumed her assemblies, which are very brilliant affairs; the best
people in Paris go there. I will introduce you to her house.”
Chérubin trembled at the idea of going into society; he was afraid of
being awkward and clumsy, and of being unable to talk. But Monfréville
encouraged him, promised to be his guide and to stay with him, and the
young man consented to allow himself to be taken to Madame Célival’s
reception.
The day arrived too quickly for Chérubin, who, having never attended any
such function, was greatly excited at the mere thought of finding
himself in the midst of a large company, exposed to everybody’s glances
and remarks.
“What shall I say?”--That was always the result of Chérubin’s
reflections; and, pending Monfréville’s arrival, he went to Monsieur
Gérondif, to consult him as to what a young man may find to say when he
makes his first appearance in society.
Monsieur Gérondif was learning some of La Fontaine’s poetry by heart,
intending to recite it to Mademoiselle Turlurette as his own. The tutor
was not enamored of the housekeeper; he considered her over-developed
for him, and he had views elsewhere; but Mademoiselle Turlurette’s
functions included the department of preserves, sweetmeats and liqueurs,
and Monsieur Gérondif was very fond of all such dainties.
When he saw his pupil enter his room, the tutor was thunderstruck; it
was the first time that Chérubin had paid him a visit since they had
been in Paris. He imagined that he wished to resume his studies, and he
said:
“Everything is ready, my noble pupil. I am always expecting you. I have
prepared abstracts of history, mythology and geology for you. I am
always at work in your service. At this moment, as you are taking
lessons in _savate_, I am trying to find the origin of that form of
exercise in Plutarch’s lives of illustrious men. I find the _cestus_,
boxing and wrestling, but I haven’t yet found _savate_.”
“I thank you, Monsieur Gérondif,” replied Chérubin, “but that is not
what I have come about. This evening Monsieur de Monfréville is to take
me into society; he declares that it is necessary for me to go there,
that I shall acquire refined manners there; he is probably right, and I
have promised to let him take me. But what do people say at a
fashionable reception? How should one behave? Do you talk with people
whom you don’t know?--I thought that you could tell me that, you know so
many things; for as yet I haven’t been anywhere except to the theatre
and concerts, and to cafés; and I must confess that I am terribly afraid
of cutting a foolish figure in company.”
“Foolish!” cried Gérondif; “that is impossible! You forget that you are
my pupil; you are not equal to me in Horace and Virgil, but you know
some passages--you must repeat them when you are talking with men. With
the ladies, it is different; employ those figures of speech, those
metaphors, which embellish discourse; compare them to Venus, Diana,
Juno, Hebe, and you will certainly win a surprising triumph. But, if you
wish me to go with you, I will stand behind you and prompt you.”
Chérubin did not consider it necessary to be attended in company by his
tutor; he believed that Monfréville would keep his promise and would not
leave him.
Monfréville called for his young friend at the hour appointed. He was
dressed in the most perfect taste; his slender and shapely figure was
encased in an exquisitely fitting coat, which he wore with much grace.
His youthful bearing, his beautiful dark hair and his still charming
face made him seem barely thirty years old, although he was near forty.
Chérubin, who was dressed in the latest style, still retained a trace of
the awkwardness characteristic of village youths; but as he was
well-built and had a most attractive face, the awkwardness of his
carriage sometimes resembled the innocent coquetry of a schoolboy.
They entered the carriage, and Monfréville said:
“I am taking you into fashionable society, but, in order to dispel any
feeling of shyness, that may injure your prospects, say to yourself
first of all that you are of as good family as any of the people you
will see there; say to yourself in the second place, that, thanks to
your fortune and your rank, you need no support. When a person can say
that to himself, my dear Chérubin, he should be perfectly self-possessed
in society; indeed, some people are too much so. In default of the
advantages which you have, and which everybody cannot have, a
philosopher would say: ‘Why should I allow myself to be awed by this
man’s title, or by that man’s fortune? Are they not men like myself,
after all? Imagine all these vain, proud people in the costume of our
first parents in the Garden of Eden; strip them of these decorations,
these jewels, these costly clothes, in which their whole merit often
consists,--will they be so imposing to me then? No, indeed; it is
probable that they will make me laugh, and that is all.’--My dear
fellow, a few such reflections are enough to put one entirely at his
ease in the most exalted company.”
“You encourage me,” said Chérubin; “I shall talk Latin with the men, and
with the ladies I shall talk about Venus, Diana and Phœbe. Monsieur
Gérondif advised that.”
“If you want to make people laugh at you, that would be the best of all
ways. I suspected that your tutor was a fool, now I am sure of it.”
“Mon Dieu! what shall I say then, if anyone speaks to me?”
“Reply to what they say.”
“But suppose I don’t know what to reply--suppose I can’t think of
anything to say?”
“Keep silent then. A person is never stupid in society when he knows how
to keep silent; indeed there are people who owe their reputation for wit
to their silence.”
“But suppose I see any lovely women, who take my fancy?”
“Tell them so with your eyes; they will understand you perfectly.”
“But if I want to make their acquaintance, to pay court to them?”
“Say whatever comes into your head; but above all things don’t try to be
bright, for you would make yourself a terrible bore.”
“But suppose nothing comes into my head?”
“You still have the resource of silence and eloquent glances; there are
many people who stop there.”
“But this lady to whose house you are taking me?”
“True, I must tell you something about her. Madame Célival must be about
thirty-six, but she is very good-looking; she is an alluring brunette;
her eyes are most expressive, she has a lovely figure and graceful
outlines; there is something fascinating, something voluptuous in her
whole aspect, which seduces all the men. Madame Célival is a coquette,
too, and is not supposed to be too cruel to those who sigh for her; but
that is whispered only. She is her own mistress, however; she is the
widow of a general, yes, a real general, who actually lived and left her
a handsome fortune and no children. You may judge that the lovely widow
does not lack adorers.--But, attention; here we are.”