“What difference does it make? When I show her anything, in two days she
does it better than I do. Oh! I am sure that mamma will congratulate me
for engaging her.”
Louise’s modest and serious manner eventually won Monsieur de Noirmont’s
good-will as well as his daughter’s, and he spoke to her less coldly.
Comtois was delighted with his new fellow-servant, and the cook was
never tired of extolling her extreme sweetness of temper. As for
Ernestine, although she sometimes lost her patience and cried out, when
her maid was awkward about dressing her, the next moment she would run
to her and kiss her, and beg her not to be offended by her quick temper.
In fact, each day that passed increased her affection for Louise, and
the latter would have been happy in her new position, had not the
thought of Chérubin constantly filled her mind. But she was beginning to
lose all hope of seeing him in Paris, for she very rarely left the
house, and only to do errands for her young mistress in the shops
nearby.
Louise had been in Ernestine’s service three weeks, when her mistress
said to her one morning:
“Mamma is coming home at last! Papa has just told me that she will be
here in three days. I am awfully glad, for she has been away nearly six
weeks, and I long to see her. Oh! what joy! Then I shall have everything
I want. And mamma will like you too; I am sure that she will be as
pleased with you as I am.”
Louise made no reply, but she felt deeply moved; she could not
understand her own perturbation when she learned that she was to see
Madame de Noirmont.
XXI
THE FIRST RENDEZVOUS.--THE PERFUMERY
Chérubin followed Daréna’s advice; he wrote a very amorous, but very
timid, note for the young woman he had seen at the play. On the
following day Daréna called upon his friend in good season and found him
finishing his lovelorn espistle.
“Are you writing to the lovely foreigner?” asked Daréna, dropping into
an easy-chair.
“Yes, my dear fellow, I have just finished my letter, which you have
promised to forward to its destination.”
“Parbleu! cannot one do anything with money? Do not all obstacles vanish
before it? Valets, maid-servants can be bribed, duennas and concierges
corrupted. I will spend money in profusion.”
As he spoke, the count slapped his pockets, then exclaimed:
“But in order to spend it, I must have it, and I find that my pockets
are empty.”
Chérubin went to his desk and took out several rouleaux of gold pieces,
which he handed to Daréna, saying:
“Take this, my dear fellow, take this; don’t spare it. Reward generously
all who help to forward my love.”
“You do not need to give me that injunction; I will play the
magnificent, the Buckingham! After all, you are rich, and if you did not
use your fortune to gratify your wishes, really it wouldn’t be worth
while to have it. Is your note very ardent?”
“Why, I think that it is very honorable----”
“Honorable! that’s not what we want, my dear friend.--Come, read me what
you have written, and let me see if it’s all right.”
Chérubin took up the letter and read:
“‘I ask your pardon, madame, for the liberty that I take in writing
you, but----’”
Daréna’s roar of laughter interrupted Chérubin, who inquired:
“What are you laughing at? Isn’t it all right?”
“Ha! ha! ha! Your innocence is enchanting; one would think that it was a
letter from a boy to his aunt on her birthday. Let’s hear the rest.”
Chérubin continued:
“‘But I should deem myself most fortunate if I might have the
pleasure of making your acquaintance. My family is well known, I am
received in the best society, and----’”
“Enough! enough!” cried Daréna, rising. “That won’t do, my dear fellow;
you are on the wrong track!”
“Do you think that my letter is too bold?”
“On the contrary, it isn’t bold enough! She would laugh at you when she
read it.”
“Remember that this is the first time I ever wrote a billet-doux, and I
don’t know how they are usually expressed.”
“Take your pen again and write what I dictate.”
“All right, I prefer that.”
Chérubin seated himself at his desk again and Daréna dictated:
“O woman more than adored! I burn, I wither, I languish! Your eyes
are the flame, your smile the brazier, my heart the conflagration!
You have set fire to my whole being. A word of love, of hope, or I
will not answer for the consequences--I will kill myself at your
feet, before your eyes, in your arms! Derision! damnation! if you
do not answer!”
Chérubin ceased to write.
“Great heaven, my dear count!” he exclaimed; “why, that is horrible!”
“It is what you need.”
“And then, I must admit that I don’t clearly understand the letter.”
“If you understood it, the charm would be destroyed.”
“Why not write simply, as one speaks?”
“Because three-fourths of the women, who are impervious to seduction by
what is simple and natural, are delighted when a man seems to have lost
his head for love of them. Trust me; this note will deliver the heart of
the lovely Pole into your keeping. Sign that and give it to me.”
Chérubin did as he was told.
“By the way,” said Daréna, as he took the letter, “don’t mention this
intrigue to your Monsieur de Monfréville.”
“Why not?”
“In the first place, because an intrigue with such distinguished persons
as these Poles requires to be conducted with the utmost secrecy.
Monfréville is very inquisitive and very talkative; he would want to see
the lovely foreigner and that would spoil everything.”
“But you are very much mistaken; Monsieur de Monfréville is neither
inquisitive nor talkative; on the contrary, he is a most sensible man,
and he gives me excellent advice.”
Daréna bit his lips, seeing that it was useless for him to try to
destroy Chérubin’s good opinion of Monfréville.
“Monfréville, sensible, virtuous!” he retorted in a sarcastic tone. “At
all events, he hasn’t always been; I remember a time when he was the
greatest ne’er-do-well; nothing was talked about but his conquests. To
be sure, it was fifteen or eighteen years ago. When the devil grows old,
he turns hermit. For my part, I am not changed, at all events; as I
always have been, so I propose to remain; I prefer that. However, my
dear fellow, I tell you again that, if I consent to act for you in your
love-affair with the young Pole, I do it solely on account of my
friendship for you; but you understand that the slightest indiscretion
would compromise me. I demand secrecy, or I will have nothing to do with
it.”
Chérubin swore that he would not mention his new conquest to a soul, and
Daréna left him, promising to return as soon as he should have anything
to tell him.
Daréna had hardly left his young friend, when Jasmin entered his
master’s presence. The old servant’s manner was important and
mysterious, and at the same time showed much satisfaction with the
errand he had to perform. He tried to walk on tiptoe, as if he was
afraid of being overheard; he went close to his master, nearly falling
upon him because he lost his balance trying to lean over him, and said,
with an expression at once serious and comical:
“There’s a woman here, monsieur, who wishes to speak to us--that is to
say, to you--if you are alone.”
Chérubin could not help laughing at his old servant’s expression and at
the malicious meaning which he tried to impart to his message.
“Who is the woman, Jasmin? Do you know her?”
“Yes, monsieur, I recognized her from having seen her in her mistress’s
antechamber; you go to the house sometimes.”
“What do you say?”
“Why, yes, she’s a lady’s maid. Oh! she doesn’t come on her own account,
it’s her mistress who sends her--I know all about it. Many of them used
to come to see monsieur le marquis, your father, before he was married.
There was sometimes a line waiting in our little salon. Ha! ha! I used
to toy with all the maids.”
“Well, from whom does this one come?”
“Didn’t I tell monsieur? From Madame de Valdieri.”
“The pretty countess! Show her in at once, Jasmin.”
Chérubin was very curious to know what Madame de Valdieri could possibly
want of him. Jasmin went to call the maid, a tall, stoutly-built girl of
some twenty years, with red cheeks and rather an attractive face, who
seemed not at all abashed at calling at a gentleman’s apartments. After
ushering her into his master’s room, the old servant, imagining
doubtless that he had gone back to the time when they used to stand in
line at Chérubin’s father’s door, essayed, as he left the room, to put
his arms about the waist of the pretty lady’s maid; but his foot
slipped, and, to avoid falling, he was obliged to cling tightly to her,
whom he had intended simply to caress; luckily the girl was firm on her
legs, and able to sustain the weight of the old fellow, and she merely
laughed in his face as he slunk from the room in dire confusion.
As soon as Jasmin had gone, the maid took from the pocket of her apron a
tiny scented note, which she handed to the young marquis, saying:
“Madame told me to hand this to monsieur, and to request an immediate
answer.”
Chérubin quivered with pleasure as he took the note, and while the maid
discreetly stepped back, he eagerly read the pretty countess’s missive,
which contained these words:
“You are not agreeable; I have not seen you for several days. To
make your peace with me, will you give me a moment this morning,
and tell me your opinion of some verses which have been sent to me?
I shall expect you at one o’clock.”
Chérubin was beside himself with joy; he read that pleasant epistle once
more, then said to the maid:
“I accept your mistress’s invitation with great pleasure, mademoiselle;
I will be with her at one o’clock; I shall not fail.”
“Then monsieur will not write his answer?” asked the maid.
Chérubin hesitated; he walked toward his desk, realizing that it would
be better policy perhaps to seize the opportunity to write something
agreeable to his charming friend; but he remembered that Daréna had just
told him that he did not know how to write a love letter. Fearing that
he might make some blunder, he tossed his pen aside, crying:
“No, I think not; I haven’t time to write. Besides, I have too many
things to say to your mistress; I should not know where to begin; simply
assure her that I will not keep her waiting.”
The maid smiled, made a pretty little curtsy, and seemed to be waiting
for the young man to slip something into her pocket and take on her
cheek an earnest of what he was to take from her mistress. But, finding
that he did nothing of the sort, she shrugged her shoulders
imperceptibly and left the room, taking pains, as she passed through the
reception room, not to approach the old servant, who seemed inclined to
try again to pull her over.
“The servant is terribly old,” she said to herself, “but the master is
very young!”
Chérubin was in an ecstasy of delight. Madame de Valdieri’s note had
caused him to forget the Polish lady altogether. At nineteen years it is
common enough to think of present happiness only; the new love expels
the old; it is not always necessary to be nineteen years old in order to
experience that phenomenon; but can all these sentiments which are
constantly replacing one another properly be called love?
Chérubin glanced at his clock; it was half after eleven; he was not to
be at Madame de Valdieri’s until one, but he proposed to make an
extremely careful toilet. He rang for Jasmin, he rang for his other
servant, he ordered several suits to be brought, and could not determine
which one to wear. He had his hair dressed, crimped and curled, rising
constantly to look in a mirror. He told his old servant to perfume his
handkerchief, upon which Jasmin emptied several phials, smiling
cunningly, and murmuring: “What did I say? Our _bonnes fortunes_ are
about to begin. We are going to have some sport now! We are quite
good-looking enough for that.”
As he dressed, Chérubin thought of the pretty woman with whom he was
soon to be alone for the first time; he was not very composed in mind,
for he was wondering what he should say to her. He was well pleased to
have the assignation, but he regretted that Monfréville was not there to
tell him how one should behave with a lady of the most fashionable set,
who invites one to read poetry to her.
It was too late for him to consult Monfréville; the appointed hour was
drawing nigh. Chérubin completed his toilet, but did not notice that
Jasmin had saturated him with perfumery: his coat was scented with
essence of rose, his waistcoat with patchouli, his handkerchief with
Portugal water; and, in addition, all his other garments smelt of musk.
He looked himself over, concluded that he was becomingly arrayed,
stepped into his tilbury, and soon reached the countess’s abode.
He was admitted by the same maid, and instead of taking him to the
salon, she led him through several secret passages to a delicious
boudoir, where the light was so soft and mysterious that one could
scarcely see. However, after a few seconds, Chérubin’s eyes became
accustomed to that doubtful light, and he spied the pretty countess
half-reclining on a couch at the back of a little curtained recess,
which seemed intended to perform the functions of an alcove.
Chérubin made a low bow and said:
“I beg pardon, madame, but I did not see you at first, it is so dark
here.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined the fair Emma affectedly. “I don’t like
broad daylight, it tires my eyes.--It is very kind of you, Monsieur
Chérubin, to consent to sacrifice a few moments to me--you are in such
great demand everywhere!”
“It is a great pleasure to me, madame, and I--I--really I cannot promise
to read poetry very well. I am not much used to it.”
The countess smiled and motioned him to a seat beside her. Chérubin was
exceedingly perturbed in spirit as he entered the delicious little
recess and seated himself on the couch, which was not very broad, so
that he was necessarily very close to the other person upon it.
There was a moment’s silence. Emma, flattered by Chérubin’s evident
emotion and embarrassment in her presence, decided to begin the
conversation, which she was not accustomed to do.
“How do you like my boudoir?”
“Exceedingly pretty, madame; but it seems to me to be a little dark for
reading poetry.”
The little lady arched her eyebrows slightly and rejoined:
“Do you like Madame Célival’s boudoir better?”
“Madame Célival’s boudoir? Why, I have never been in it, madame; I don’t
know what it is like.”
“Oh! what a fib!”
“I assure you, madame----”
“You are lying!--However, I cannot blame you; discretion is the first
condition one should exact in love.”
“Discretion----”
“Oh! you play the innocent to perfection; but I am not taken in by that
ingenuous air. Mon Dieu! there is such a strong smell of perfumery
here--a mixture of scents. Have you essence of rose about you?”
“Rose? I don’t know; it is possible. Does it affect you unpleasantly?”
“My nerves are so sensitive! but it will pass away.”
The pretty countess lay back a moment, put her handkerchief to her face,
and drew a long breath.
Chérubin looked at her, and dared not stir. There was another long
pause; the young man would have liked to say a multitude of things, but,
as he did not know how to express himself, he inquired at last:
“Is your husband well, madame?”
The pretty creature burst into laughter which seemed a little forced,
and replied:
“Yes, monsieur, my husband is singing! So long as he is making music,
that is all that he wants.--Mon Dieu! there’s a smell of patchouli here,
too, and musk. Ah! it gives me a sort of vertigo!”
And whether as a result of the vertigo, or for some other reason, the
young woman half-reclined against Chérubin, so that her face almost
touched his, and he would have had to move very little nearer to kiss
her; but, deeply moved to find that lovely mouth so near to him that he
could almost feel her breath, he dared not move a muscle, and finally he
faltered:
“Madame, I believe that I was to read poetry to you.”
The little countess abruptly raised her head and rested it on the back
of the couch, as she replied with a touch of spite in her voice:
“Mon Dieu! what a memory you have, monsieur!--Well, take that album in
front of you and read.”
Chérubin took up an album that lay on a chair, opened it and saw a
medley of drawings, poems, portraits--everything, in short, that one
finds in a woman’s album; and, after turning the leaves a moment, he
glanced at the countess and asked timidly:
“What do you want me to read to you, madame?”
“Mon Dieu! whatever you choose, it makes no difference to me!”
Chérubin opened the album again, at random, and read:
“Fair countess, on this page,
You bid me pen some verse:
Quick your commands engage;
For you the universe
Would rhyme.--But clear to see
My lines good sense ignore.
How could it other be?
You’ve reft me of its store.”
“Oh! that is that absurd Monsieur Dalbonne!” murmured Madame de
Valdieri, twisting about impatiently on the couch. “He is forever
writing such nonsense; he adores all women.--Are you like that, Monsieur
Chérubin?”
“I, madame!” Chérubin replied in confusion; “oh, no! I--I--But I
continue:
“‘STORY OF A MOUSE.’”
“Ah! this is much longer.”
The fair Emma, who evidently did not care to hear the story of a mouse
read at length, and who thought that Chérubin was making sport of her,
determined to resort to violent measures; she fell back on the couch,
murmuring:
“Oh! I can’t stand it any longer! these different scents set my nerves
on edge; I am fainting!”
Chérubin uttered a cry of alarm, dropped the album, and gazed at the
lovely blonde, who had chosen the most bewitching attitude that a
coquette could devise in which to faint, and whose half-closed eyes wore
an expression which did not indicate any very serious danger. But
instead of admiring it all, Chérubin rose and ran about the room,
looking for smelling-bottles and crying:
“Great God! you are losing consciousness, and I am the cause of it! I am
so distressed. I will call for help.”
“No, no, monsieur, just unlace me!” murmured the countess, with a sigh.
“Unlace you! Why, I don’t know how; still, if you think----”
And Chérubin returned to the pretty creature, to do what she suggested;
and she, seeing him lean over her, closed her eyes altogether, presuming
that that would give him more courage and that he would succeed at last
in behaving himself more becomingly; but, when he saw that the countess
had closed her eyes entirely, Chérubin jumped back, ran to a bell cord
and jerked it violently, and cried:
“She has fainted completely! what a bungler I am! As it’s this perfumery
that I have about me that has caused Madame de Valdieri’s illness, of
course she won’t recover consciousness so long as I am here.”
The maid appeared, vastly surprised to be summoned so suddenly. Chérubin
pointed to her mistress stretched out on the couch, and said:
“Come quickly and attend to madame la comtesse. I am going away; the
perfumery I have about me is what made her feel faint, so of course I
must not stay with her. Pray tell her that I am terribly distressed at
what has happened.”
And Chérubin took his hat and hastened from the boudoir, leaving the
lady’s maid in utter amazement and the pretty little countess with her
eyes wide open.
Chérubin returned home, cursing Jasmin for turning him into a perfumery
booth. He found Monfréville waiting for him, and told him what had
happened.
When the young marquis had concluded, Monfréville looked at him with a
curious expression, and said:
“My dear fellow, I have always been perfectly frank with you, and I must
tell you therefore that in this whole business you acted like an idiot.”
“An idiot!” cried Chérubin.
“Yes, like the most idiotic of idiots! When a young and pretty woman
deigns to receive you alone in her boudoir, it is with the purpose of
having you make love to her, not to read. The poetry was only a
pretext.”
“Do you think so? Mon Dieu! I had that idea, too, but I dared not
venture to think--But if she had not fainted----”
“Why, that was the time above all others when victory was in your grasp.
What! a lovely woman tells you to unlace her, and you ring for her maid!
Ah! my poor Chérubin, if this adventure becomes known, it will do you a
deal of harm in society.”
“Great heaven! you distress me! But I didn’t know--However, I will
repair my blunder; in the first place, the next time that I go to see
the lovely Emma in her boudoir, I will have no perfumery at all; and
then--oh! I will be very enterprising.”
“I trust that you may be able to set yourself right with the countess,
but I doubt it.”
“Why so?”
“Because with women, especially coquettes, a lost opportunity never
recurs. So I will bet that Madame de Valdieri won’t speak to you again
and won’t make any more appointments with you.”
“Do you think so? But what if I ask her for one?”
“She will refuse it.”
“Oh! I can’t believe that! What! just because I was afraid of making her
ill by staying with her?”
“Poor Chérubin! what a child you are still!--But I’ll tell you--let us
go to Madame Célival’s to-night; the little countess is usually there,
and if she is, you will find out at once whether I am right.”
Chérubin accepted this suggestion; he waited impatiently for the
evening, for he was burning to see Madame de Valdieri again. He was
convinced that Monfréville was mistaken, and he could not believe that
he would be ill received because he had hurriedly left her when he
discovered that perfumery was unpleasant to her.
The hour to go to the reception arrived. Monfréville called for his
young friend, and they went together to Madame Célival’s. The salons
were already filled with people, but the young countess was not there,
and Chérubin, who was on the watch for her and hoped to see her whenever
the door of the salon opened, was restless and preoccupied to a degree
that did not escape Madame Célival. The sprightly widow declared war on
him and tried to keep him by her side; but at last Madame de Valdieri
appeared with her husband.
Never had the little countess been dressed with better taste, with more
grace and coquetry; never had she worn a costume which set off her
charms to greater advantage; one would have said that the fascinating
Emma had sworn to make more conquests than ever that evening, in order
to be revenged for her discomfiture during the day.
All the men vied with one another in extolling the charms of the new
arrival. Chérubin did not say a word; but he could not tire of gazing at
Emma, and he said to himself:
“And I was sitting beside her this morning--and we were alone in her
boudoir--and her head was almost on my shoulder--and--Gad! I believe
that Monfréville is right; I was a great fool.”
Chérubin waited until the countess had received the homage which men
hasten to lay at a pretty woman’s feet. When Madame de Valdieri was no
longer surrounded, he seized an opportunity to go to her, and said in an
almost familiar tone:
“Well, madame, are you better this evening? Your indisposition had no
serious results?”
The little countess bestowed a contemptuous glance on Chérubin, and
answered in an ironical tone:
“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur!”
“You don’t know what I mean? Why, this morning----”
The countess rose, as if she did not choose to listen to Chérubin, and
seated herself beside a lady with whom she speedily began a very lively
conversation, judging from the frequent bursts of laughter with which it
was interspersed.
The young man was speechless with amazement.
“What a tone! what an expression!” he said to himself as he took a seat
in a corner. “One would think that she did not know me.”
Monfréville, who had taken his place at a card table, was not at hand to
console his friend, and Chérubin had been sitting by himself for quite a
long time, when a hand was laid gently on his shoulder, and a
penetrating voice said, almost in his ear:
“What are you doing here? sulking? Madame de Valdieri doesn’t seem to
treat you very well this evening.”
“Ah! is it you, madame?”
“Haven’t I guessed right, that you are at odds with the countess?”
“Oh! I assure you that you are mistaken; I am not sufficiently intimate
with that lady to----”
“You are discreet--that is right, and it will be a recommendation with
the ladies.”
“Well, well!” thought Chérubin, “they all seem to be agreed on that
point; Madame Célival says almost the same thing that the countess
said.”
The lovely widow seated herself for a moment by Chérubin’s side, and
said in a very low tone:
“You must have done something very bad, to be treated so--to be looked
at like that?”
“I, madame? Why, I give you my word that I have done nothing at all.”
“Bless me! how innocently he answers! One would take him for a little
saint.”
“Well, she asked me if your boudoir was prettier than--than hers. I told
her that I knew nothing about it, and she told me that I lied; but you
know that I told the truth.”
“Ah! so she asked you if my boudoir was prettier, did she?” said Madame
Célival in an irritated tone. “You admit then that you go to her
boudoir? Ah! that little countess! But, on my word, I consider it very
inquisitive of her to ask you if you had seen mine!--And you said no?”
“Why, I don’t see how I could have said yes, madame; that would have
been a lie.”
“Great heaven! what an astonishing creature you are with your scruples!
As if people never lied in society! Why, you must know that one is
driven to it sometimes, that it is absolutely necessary. However, I
propose that you shall make the acquaintance of my boudoir, so that you
can answer that lady when she questions you again.--Come to breakfast
with me to-morrow.”
“Oh! how kind you are, madame!”
“Will you come? will you be allowed?”
“Will I be allowed! Am I not my own master, pray?”
“Perhaps.--I shall expect you then to-morrow, at twelve o’clock; and we
will breakfast in my boudoir; so that you may have plenty of time to
make its acquaintance, and to tell madame la comtesse what you think of
it.”
“Oh! I am willing to bet in advance that it is prettier than hers, and
not so dark.”
Madame Célival smiled, placed her hand softly in Chérubin’s, and walked
away, murmuring almost inaudibly:
“Until to-morrow!”
Chérubin, enchanted with his new assignation, incontinently forgot
Madame de Valdieri’s disdain; he recovered his spirits and his
assurance, sought out Monfréville, who was at the card-table, and
whispered:
“I have another, my friend.”
“Another what?”
“Why, another appointment, in a boudoir, for to-morrow.”
“With the same person?”
“No, with Madame Célival.”
“You are a lucky dog! Pray try to carry it off better than before.”
“Oh! make your mind easy! I shan’t put on any perfumery at all this
time.--Are you going to play much longer?”
“Yes, we are just beginning a game of whist; I shall play two rubbers at
least.”
“I will leave you then; I am going home to bed.”
“I don’t see why you should be tired.”
“Madame de Valdieri keeps looking at me with that contemptuous
expression; I prefer to go.”
So Chérubin disappeared from the salons and went home, thinking
exclusively of Madame Célival, and engrossed by the appointment she had
made with him for the next day.
XXII
THE PLUMS
One wakes early when one is in love and has an assignation with the
object of one’s love. It is not absolutely certain that Chérubin loved
Madame Célival; indeed, it is probable that he felt for all his
conquests only those fleeting desires which all young men feel in the
presence of a pretty woman; a form of disease with which we often
continue to be afflicted when we have attained the age of maturity, and
of which it is very pleasant to be unable to cure oneself as one grows
old. But Chérubin was still too inexperienced to be able to draw
distinctions in his sensations; he believed himself to be passionately
in love with Madame Célival.
He was no sooner awake than he rang. Jasmin, despite his years, was
always one of the first to answer his master’s bell; but Chérubin did
not desire his services again to assist him to dress.
“You made a fine mess of it yesterday, Jasmin,” he said.
“What did I do, monsieur?” asked the old servant, dismayed by Chérubin’s
irritated manner.
“Why, you drenched me with perfumery, Jasmin; you put it on all my
clothes; I was a regular walking scent-bag.”
“Did not monsieur smell good?”
“Why, yes! I smelt too good--that is to say, too strong! In fact, I went
to people’s heads. Nervous ladies can’t endure that sort of thing, and
you are responsible for a lady’s fainting away. It was exceedingly
unpleasant.”
Jasmin was in despair. To repair his blunder of the previous day, he
suggested putting camphor in all his master’s pockets, because he had
been told that that was very good for the nerves, and he supposed that
it would cure the illnesses caused by perfumery. But Chérubin would not
have it; he expressly forbade Jasmin to perfume him in any way, and he
was obliged to lose his temper in order to deter his old servant from
slipping lumps of camphor into his pockets.
When his toilet was completed, Chérubin assured himself that he did not
smell of anything at all; and, while waiting for the hour at which he
was to go to Madame Célival’s, he thought about the lovely widow and
went over in his mind what he could say to her. The thing that worried
him most was the breakfasting with her.
“When you breakfast with a lady you’re in love with,” he said to
himself, “I wonder if you should eat, if you should satisfy your
appetite? Mon Dieu! I forgot to ask Monfréville for instructions on that
point. I’m afraid I shall make more stupid blunders.--But after all,
what is it that I am always blamed for? For being too timid. If I don’t
eat, I shall look like a fool; on the other hand, if I eat and drink
freely, it will give me assurance and presumption. Yes, I certainly must
eat.”
The breakfast hour arrived at last. Chérubin betook himself to Madame
Célival’s; his heart throbbed violently as he followed the maid to the
boudoir, but he said to himself:
“Well, I won’t be timid to-day, at all events, and I’ll eat a lot.”
The fair widow’s boudoir was a charming retreat, hung on all sides with
violet velvet. A soft, thick carpet covered the floor, and the threefold
curtains allowed very little light to enter.
“Evidently these ladies are very fond of the darkness,” thought
Chérubin, as he entered the room; “but I am not to read poetry to-day,
and I can see well enough to eat breakfast. And then, I understand--the
darkness should make one bolder--that is the reason, no doubt, why these
ladies expel the daylight from their rooms.”
Madame Célival was awaiting Chérubin; her dress was simple, but well
adapted to display her good points to advantage: her lovely black hair
fell in long curls on each side of her face, and the amaranthine bows
that adorned the dainty little cap she wore gave even more animation to
her eyes, which were full of fire.
The fascinating widow gave Chérubin such a pleasant welcome that any
other than he would at once have felt at his ease. He did what he could
to overcome his embarrassment, and the most judicious thing that he did
was to stand in rapt contemplation of the charms of his hostess.
“Well, Monsieur Chérubin,” said Madame Célival, after a moment, “what do
you think of my boudoir? not so pretty as the countess’s, I suppose?”
“Why, yes, madame, yes, I assure you, I like yours quite as well--in
fact, I think it even prettier.”
“Oh! you say that to flatter me!”
“But they are equally dark.”
“A bright light makes my eyes ache; I detest it.”
“But, madame, you should not dread being seen; when one is so
lovely----”
Chérubin dared not go on; he was tremendously surprised that he had said
so much; but Madame Célival, to whom the compliment seemed quite
natural, replied with a smile:
“Really! do you think me lovely? Oh! but it costs you men so little to
say things that you don’t mean!”
And, as she spoke, Madame Célival leaned carelessly on the cushion of
the violet velvet couch on which she was half-reclining, and her bosom
rose and fell rapidly as she gazed at Chérubin, who was sitting on a
chair by her side; he lowered his eyes, dared not look at her, and held
his peace.
After a long pause, Madame Célival, finding that Chérubin did not speak,
exclaimed:
“But I am forgetting our breakfast! Perhaps you are hungry?”
“Why yes, madame, I am very hungry,” Chérubin at once replied.
“And it seems that your appetite deprives you of the power of speech,”
said Madame Célival with a smile. “Mon Dieu! why didn’t you remind me? I
don’t want to see you fall dead from starvation. Please ring that bell.”
Chérubin pulled a cord and a maid appeared.
“Serve breakfast,” said Madame Célival.--”We will breakfast here,” she
added, turning to Chérubin, “because then we shall not be disturbed by
anybody; if any unwelcome visitor calls, they will say that I’m not at
home. Do you think that I have done well?”
“Oh, yes, madame, it will be much pleasanter!”
Madame Célival smiled again; perhaps she thought that their tête-à-tête
would become pleasanter; but this is mere conjecture.
The maid quickly laid the table with two covers. Chérubin noticed that
she placed the dessert on a small table beside the large one, which was
covered with dishes.
Then Madame Célival dismissed her, saying:
“If I want you, I will ring.--And now,” said the fascinating brunette,
offering her hand to the young man, who continued to gaze at her
admiringly, “take your seat, monsieur le marquis, and excuse me for
treating you so unceremoniously; but this is not a formal breakfast.”
Madame Célival’s informal breakfast consisted of a _terrine de Nérac_, a
stuffed partridge, small birds _aux pistaches_, and a superb dish of
crabs; and on the small table were pastry, preserves, and a compote of
plums, for dessert; lastly, several decanters of choice wines indicated
that the hostess did not propose that her young guest should retain his
self-possession unimpaired.
Chérubin was seated beside Madame Célival, who helped him to everything,
but ate very little; by way of compensation, the young man ate for two.
After he was at the table, he felt much less embarrassed, more inclined
to talk; he concluded that he had guessed aright, and that to eat and
drink freely would give him assurance; so he did honor to everything
that was set before him and drank whatever was poured into his glass.
Madame Célival was very lively; she knew the art of keeping the
conversation from flagging; and she seemed delighted by the way in which
her companion did honor to the breakfast.
“Really,” she said laughingly, “I am not surprised that you didn’t say
anything just now, that you seemed so taciturn! It was because you were
dying of hunger.”
“It is true, madame, that I have an excellent appetite; and then, with
you, it seems to me that one must needs always be hungry.”
“Oh! I don’t feel sure whether I ought to take that for a compliment or
not! There is a proverb which would rather work against me.”
“What is the proverb, madame?”
“As you don’t know it, I won’t tell you.--Now, we will proceed to the
dessert; I had it put within our reach, so that we need not ring; all we
have to do is to change tables. Don’t you think that that is
pleasanter?”
These last words were accompanied with such a tender glance that
Chérubin was greatly confused; to recover his self-possession, he
hastily pushed away the table on which they had breakfasted and replaced
it by the smaller one on which the dessert was all set out.
Madame Célival, who was desirous that the breakfast should come to an
end, made haste to serve her guest, and offered him everything. Chérubin
scrutinized the compote of plums and asked:
“What is that?”
“Plums. Do you mean to say that you don’t know this dish?”
“Mon Dieu! no, I never saw it before. At my nurse’s we never ate it.”
Madame Célival laughed heartily.
“At your nurse’s!” she repeated; “that is lovely! an excellent joke! One
would think, to hear you, that you had remained out at nurse to this
day.”
Chérubin bit his lips; he thought that he had made a foolish speech, and
was overjoyed to find that she took it for a good joke. He accepted the
plums which Madame Célival offered him.
“Well!” said the lovely widow, after a moment, “how do you like what you
never had at your nurse’s?”
“Very well! delicious!”
“Will you have some more?”
“With pleasure.”
Madame Célival served him again to plums, and he said, as he ate them:
“But you are eating nothing, madame.”
“Oh! I am not hungry.”
“Why not?”
“Why not! what a strange question! Because women aren’t like men, and
when they have anything on their mind, they live on their thoughts and
their feelings, and those are all they need.”
These last words were uttered in a tone of annoyance, for Madame Célival
was beginning to think that Chérubin passed an unduly long time at the
table; however, she continued to offer him the different dishes, like a
woman of breeding, who knows how to do the honors of her house.
“Thanks,” said Chérubin, “but I like the plums better than anything.”
“Very well, take some more.”
“Really--if I dared----”
“You are not going to stand on ceremony, are you? I shall be offended.”
Chérubin remembered that he must not be timid, that it was that which
had been so harmful to him. So he helped himself to plums; in a moment
he took some more; and as Madame Célival laughed heartily over his
passion for plums, and he was delighted to entertain her, he did not
stop until the dish contained no more.
The lovely widow seemed very well pleased when the plums were exhausted,
and the words: “That is very lucky!” escaped from her lips; but they
were almost inaudible, and Chérubin did not hear them.
Meanwhile the pretty hostess had softly moved her chair away from the
table; she drank a few spoonfuls of coffee, placed her cup on the
mantel, then resumed her seat on her couch, saying to the young man, in
a voice that went to his heart:
“Well! aren’t you coming to sit by me?”
Chérubin began to understand that the time had come when he must turn
his attention to something besides plums; he left the table and walked
about the salon, admiring divers lovely engravings, the subjects of
which, while not too free, were well adapted to appeal to the passions.
He went into ecstasies before Cupid and Psyche, the river Scamander, and
an Odalisk lying on her couch; and finally he seated himself beside
Madame Célival, who said to him:
“Do you like my engravings?”
“Yes, all those women are so lovely--especially the Odalisk!”
“The painter has hardly clothed her; but to enable us to admire her
beauty, it was necessary to show her to us unclothed. That is allowed in
painting; artists have privileges; we pardon everything in talent--or in
love.”
These last words were accompanied by a sigh. Chérubin looked at the
lovely widow, and she had never seemed to him more alluring; for her
eyes shone with a fire that was at once intense and soft, and her
half-closed lips seemed inclined to reply to many questions. The young
man ventured to take a hand which was relinquished to him without
reserve; he gazed fondly at that soft, plump, white hand, with its
tapering fingers; he dared not put it to his lips as yet, but he pressed
it tenderly, and not only was it not withdrawn, but a very warm pressure
responded to his. Encouraged by that symptom, Chérubin was about to
cover that hand with kisses, when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in the
intestinal region.
Chérubin was thunderstruck.
“What’s the matter?” queried Madame Célival, amazed to find him holding
her hand in the air, without kissing it.
“Nothing, oh! nothing, madame!”
And the young man tried to dissemble a wry face caused by a second pang,
less sharp, it is true, but followed by internal rumblings which
portended a violent tempest.
Meanwhile, being completely engrossed by his sensations, and disturbed
by the thought of the possible sequel, Chérubin ceased to take any part
in the conversation and dropped Madame Célival’s hand on the couch.
“In heaven’s name, what is the matter, monsieur?” murmured the pretty
widow, in a half-reproachful, half-melting tone. “You seem distraught,
absent-minded; you say nothing to me. Do you know that that is not
agreeable on your part?”
“Mon Dieu, madame, I assure you that nothing is the matter; you are
mistaken.”
And Chérubin did what he could to mask another contortion; he was
attacked by gripes which fairly tortured him; he realized that he had
the colic, and not for anything on earth would he have had Madame
Célival guess what had happened to him.
However, it is not a crime to feel indisposed! But we weak mortals, who
seek sometimes to exalt ourselves to the rank of gods, we blush because
we are subject to all the infirmities of the simplest of God’s
creatures; there are times when we are sorely embarrassed to be at once
the man of the world and the natural man. Poor Chérubin found himself in
that predicament; the plums were playing him a very treacherous trick.
Madame Célival could not misunderstand the young marquis’s tone. Piqued,
too, because she could no longer read in his eyes either affection or
desire, she exclaimed after a moment:
“Evidently, monsieur, you find it dull with me.”
“Why, madame, I swear to you that that is not true--far from it;
but----”
“But you would prefer to be with Madame de Valdieri, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, no! that is not where I would like to be at this moment!”
“Indeed! where would you like to be at this moment, monsieur?”
Chérubin did not know what to reply; he endured with difficulty another
sharp pain, and felt the cold perspiration standing on his forehead. He
cut a very sad figure at that moment, and did not in the least resemble
a lover.
Madame Célival looked at him; she compressed her lips angrily, and
cried:
“Oh! what an extraordinary face you are making! Such a thing was never
seen before--by me, at all events. Come, monsieur, speak, explain
yourself; something is the matter, certainly.”
And the fair widow, still impelled by the tender sentiment which spoke
in Chérubin’s favor, walked toward him and would have taken his hand;
but he hastily drew back, faltering in a stifled voice:
“Oh! don’t touch me, madame, I implore you!”
“What does that mean, monsieur? I beg you to believe that I have not the
slightest desire to touch you,” retorted Madame Célival, offended by the
alarm depicted on the young man’s face. “But, monsieur, I am justified
in being surprised by the ill humor that has suddenly taken possession
of you; I did not expect that I should--er--frighten you by showing you
what pleasure it gave me to entertain you.--Ha! ha! it is most amusing,
on my word!”
Instead of replying to what she said, Chérubin abruptly sprang to his
feet, muttering:
“Excuse me, madame, excuse me--but an appointment I had forgotten--I
absolutely must go.”
“What, monsieur! you made an appointment when you knew that you were to
breakfast with me! That is extremely courteous of you! You cannot make
me believe that it is so urgent that you must go at once.”
“Oh! yes, madame, yes! it is horribly urgent; I cannot postpone it any
longer. Adieu, madame, adieu!”
And Chérubin, after running madly about the boudoir three times, in
search of his hat, spied it at last, seized it, rushed at the door,
threw it open with such force that he nearly broke it, and fled through
all the rooms of the suite, as if he were afraid of being pursued,
leaving Madame Célival aghast at his manner of taking leave of her.
Chérubin reached home at last cursing the plums and the ill-fortune
which seemed to pursue him in his love-affairs.
Toward evening Monfréville called upon his friend; he was curious to
know if he acquitted himself more creditably at his last assignation
than at the first. When he saw the young marquis, still pale and
exhausted, he smiled and said:
“I see that your good fortune was complete this time, and that you won a
grand victory.”
Chérubin looked at his friend with such a piteous expression that he did
not know what to think. After carefully closing the door of his
apartment, Chérubin told Monfréville what had happened in his second
amorous tête-à-tête. Monfréville could not keep a sober face as he
listened to the story; and although Chérubin did not share his
merriment, it was a long time before he could restrain it.
“So you consider it very amusing, do you?” said Chérubin, with a sigh.
“Faith, my dear fellow, it is very hard not to laugh at the plight in
which you found yourself.”
“Agree that I am very unlucky.”
“It is your own fault. When you breakfast tête-à-tête with a lady, you
should not stuff yourself with plums, especially after you have already
eaten heartily, as you seem to have done.”
“I did it to give myself courage, nerve!”
“What you did give yourself was very agreeable.”
“Well, no such accident will happen in my next tête-à-tête with Madame
Célival; I shall have better luck next time.”
“Oh! don’t flatter yourself that you will obtain a second assignation
from the fair widow. You are ruined in her esteem, as well as in the
little countess’s. That makes another conquest that you must abandon.”
“Do you think so? How unfair! Does a woman cease to love us because we
are suddenly taken ill?”
“Not for that reason, but because you behaved so clumsily.”
“What would you have done in my place?”
“I would have said frankly that my breakfast was disturbing me, that I
was feeling very sick; then she would have understood and excused my
departure.”
“Oh! I would have died of shame rather than say that!”
“That is very poor reasoning, my dear fellow; remember that a woman will
forgive everything except contempt or indifference to her charms.”
Chérubin was very much cast down during the rest of the day; it seemed
to him that there was a sort of fatality about his love-affairs, and he
was afraid that it would continue to pursue him. But that same evening
Daréna came to his house, to apprise him of the results of his
negotiations with the charming woman he had seen at the Cirque.
“Victory!” cried Daréna, bringing his hand down on the young marquis’s
shoulder; “it’s going on finely, my friend; your business is in good
shape.”
“Well, have you obtained an appointment for me?” inquired Chérubin, with
an almost frightened expression.
“Deuce take it! not yet; such things don’t go so fast as you think; the
young Polish countess is closely watched, surrounded by duennas and
Cerberuses.”
“Is she a Polish countess?”
“Yes, the Comtesse de Globeska, wife of the Comte de Globeski, a man of
high social position who had to flee from his country because he was
accused of high treason. He’s as jealous as a tiger! he’s the kind of
fellow that talks of nothing but stabbing his wife if she should give so
much as one hair to a man!”
“This is terrible!”
“It’s of no consequence at all! Women haven’t the slightest fear of
daggers; on the contrary, they love to defy danger. I succeeded in
getting your letter to the fair Globeska. It was a hard task; I had to
scatter gold lavishly, and I did so; in fact, I borrowed some, as I had
not enough. I know that you will make it up to me, and I thought that
you would not blame me for being zealous in the service of your love.”
“Oh! far from it, my dear Daréna; I thank you. But did the pretty Pole
write me a word in reply?”
“No, she didn’t write you; perhaps she doesn’t write French very
well--that is excusable in a foreigner; but women abound in self-esteem;
they are afraid of being laughed at if they make a mistake in grammar;
in fact, the enchanting Globeska replied by word of mouth, and what she
said is worth all the billets-doux that ever were written.”
“What did she say?”
“She said to her maid, whom I had seduced--I mean that I bribed her with
money: ‘Say to this young Frenchman who has written me, that I share his
passion. Since I saw him, I dream of him all the time, even when I am
not asleep.’”
“Did she say that? Oh! what joy!”
“Let us finish: ‘I am bound to a tyrant whom I detest. Let this
Frenchman devise some way to carry me off, and I am ready to go with
him--I will throw myself into his arms.’--Well, what do you say to that,
my lucky Lovelace? I should say that you had turned her head!”
“Yes, my friend, I am very glad; for I feel that I like that young woman
better than all the rest. With her it seems to me that I shall be more
at my ease than with the women in fashionable society, who always
intimidate me.”
“You will be very much at your ease, I promise you; the Poles are very
unceremonious.”
“But she talks about my carrying her off. Can that be done? Is it
allowable to carry off a man’s wife?”
“Oh! what a child! In the first place, you don’t ask leave; and
secondly, you see that she herself wants it done. Never fear, I will
look after the abduction; I make that my business.”
“My dear Daréna, how much I am indebted to you!”
“But the main point is to know where I shall take your charmer. You will
understand that it would be neither proper nor prudent to bring her to
this house, where your servants will see her, and----”
“Oh! certainly not. But where can we take her then?”
“Nothing can be simpler. All that we have to do is to hire a little
house near Paris, in the suburbs, in some lonely and quiet spot. Do you
wish me to attend to that too?”
“Oh, yes! I beg that you will.”
“Very good, I will hire a house. If it isn’t furnished, I will send some
furniture. Give me some money; I shall want quite a great deal.”
Chérubin ran to his desk, took out some bank-notes, and handed them to
Daréna, saying:
“Here, here are two thousand, three thousand francs--is that enough?”
“Yes; but you may as well give me four thousand at once; I must not fall
short. Now, let me manage the affair. I will make sure of a house, first
of all, and have it arranged to receive your inamorata; then I will
watch for a favorable opportunity; as soon as it comes, I will abduct
the lady, then I will come here and tell you. All that you will have to
do will be to pluck the fruit of the victory, and that will not be an
unpleasant task.”
“It is delightful!”
“But, above all, not a word of this to Monfréville, or I will have
nothing more to do with it.”
“Never fear, that is understood.”
“When your charmer has escaped from her tyrant’s hands, I will take care
to order a dainty repast sent to your little retreat. It is always
essential that a lady should find something to eat when she arrives.”
“Yes, my friend, order a supper. But no plums, I beg! No plums! I have a
horror of them!”
Daréna stared at Chérubin in amazement as he replied:
“Never fear. I was not aware of your aversion for plums; they are said
to be very healthful.”
“If I see any on the table, I shall run off at once.”
“All right--don’t get excited. I will see that none are served.”
And the count left his young friend, after pocketing the bank-notes.
“Well,” said Chérubin, “this conquest shall not escape me, and it will
make up to me for all that I have lost.”
XXIII
A FAMILY INTERIOR
As Ernestine had announced to Louise, Madame de Noirmont returned home
on the day that she was expected. Her arrival was a festal occasion for
Ernestine, who flew to meet her mother the instant that she caught sight
of her, and threw herself into her arms. Madame de Noirmont responded
lovingly to her daughter’s caresses; it was easy to see that she was
touched by them, and that she was genuinely happy to be at home once
more.
Monsieur de Noirmont did not rush to meet his wife; such tokens of
affection were not in accordance with his nature; he feared that, by
indulging in them, he should compromise his dignity. However, when he
learned that she had returned, he went to her room and greeted her
pleasantly, but did not kiss her.
“Did you have a pleasant journey, madame?”
“Yes, thanks, monsieur.”
“And how is your aunt, Madame Dufrénil?”
“She is much better, monsieur; her health is entirely restored. But it
was time for me to return, or I should have been really ill with ennui,
from being away from my daughter so long. I was very sorry that you did
not allow me to take her with me, monsieur.”
“The result of that, madame, is that you have the greater pleasure in
seeing her again, and I trust that it will make you love her dearly.”
With that, Monsieur de Noirmont saluted his wife and returned to his
study.
When her husband had gone, Madame de Noirmont drew her daughter to her
and pressed her to her heart again and again:
“Your father thinks that I do not love you,” she murmured. “Do you think
so too, my love?”
“Oh, no! indeed I don’t, mamma,” cried Ernestine. “But papa doesn’t
think so, either; I am sure of it. I know that you love me; and why
shouldn’t you? am I not your daughter?”
Madame de Noirmont’s features contracted nervously; her brow darkened,
and she hastily extricated herself from Ernestine’s arms. But the cloud
soon vanished and she drew the girl to her again, saying in a melancholy
tone:
“Oh, yes, yes! I love you dearly!”
“I have never doubted it, mamma, and if you have sometimes--as you had
just now, for instance--moments when my caresses seem tiresome to you, I
am sure that it’s just because you have a headache, or because you’re
thinking about something else; but you don’t love me any less, do you?”
“No, of course I never love you any less. Did the time seem long to you
while I was away?”
“Oh! yes, mamma! But luckily I have had a new maid for three weeks.
Father must have written you that he discharged the other one, didn’t
he?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh! I like the new one ever so much better! If you knew how nice she
is! and not a bit stupid, nor vulgar! She speaks very correctly, and yet
she came right from her village; she has never lived out, but she
learned her duties instantly.”
“Who brought her here?”
“Comtois. He had excellent recommendations.”
Madame de Noirmont smiled at the serious tone in which her daughter
spoke.
“My dear girl,” she replied, “I know that we may rely on Comtois.--What
is your new maid’s name?”
“Louise--Louise Fré--Frénet--I never can remember her other name. But no
matter, she’s a very nice girl, I tell you, mamma; I am sure that you
will like her too. I am going to call her, to show her to you. She’s
very shy, that is why she hasn’t come to pay her respects to you.”
“Mon Dieu! my dear love, I have plenty of time to see your maid; there
is no hurry about it.”
“Oh, yes! I want you to see her right away, mamma.”
Ernestine rang a bell; in a moment the door opened and Louise appeared
in the doorway, timid and with downcast eyes.
“Did madame ring for me?” she murmured.
Madame de Noirmont scrutinized the girl, whom she then saw for the first
time; she was struck by her beauty, by the dignified expression of her
features, by her modest and reserved demeanor, by her whole aspect,
which was not what one ordinarily sees in a lady’s maid. She could not
tire of looking at her.
Ernestine leaned toward her mother and whispered:
“Well! what do you think of her?”
“Lovely, my child, lovely; she has an air of distinction too; no one
would think that she was a servant.”
“I didn’t flatter her, did I?--Mamma thinks that you are lovely,
Louise,” continued the girl; “she likes you too. I told you that she
would like you.”
Louise made a curtsy and murmured:
“Madame is very kind; I will do my best to satisfy her, and mademoiselle
too.”
“I don’t doubt it, my child,” replied Madame de Noirmont; “everything
prepossesses me in your favor, and I am convinced that my daughter is
not mistaken in all the good that she has told me of you.”
While Ernestine’s mother was speaking, Louise raised her eyes and looked
at her. At sight of that beautiful, noble and stern face, of that pale
and haughty brow, of those great black eyes wherein one could always
detect a melancholy expression, the girl felt deeply moved and
impressed; her heart beat violently, whether with pleasure or fear she
did not know; she could not define her feelings, but she did not speak
or move. For some moments after Madame de Noirmont ceased speaking, she
continued to listen; they motioned to her that she might retire, and she
remained. At last Ernestine had to touch her arm and say: “You may leave
us, Louise,” before she came to herself and left the room, casting a
last furtive glance at Madame de Noirmont.
After a few more words concerning the new lady’s maid, Madame de
Noirmont turned all her attention to taking up the threads of her usual
domestic occupations, and to superintending her daughter’s education and
her studies with the different teachers who came to the house to give
her lessons.
Madame de Noirmont’s life was very regular; she rarely went out and
received few visits; she devoted herself to her daughter, overlooked her
studies and read a great deal: that was her greatest pleasure, her most
agreeable means of distraction.
Monsieur de Noirmont passed the whole day in his study; his wife and
daughter saw little of him before dinner. At that repast they met, and
not infrequently some old friend of Monsieur de Noirmont dined with
them, but they very rarely had more than one guest. During dinner Madame
de Noirmont talked very little, while her husband discussed politics or
economic matters with his guest. Ernestine alone did anything to enliven
the party. She succeeded very well; her childish sallies and
observations often made her mother smile; and even Monsieur de Noirmont,
despite his gravity, could not always keep a sober face. In the evening,
the ladies worked, made tapestry, or sang, and the men played chess or
backgammon. When there were no guests at dinner, Monsieur de Noirmont
often went out in the evening to some party or reception; sometimes his
wife and daughter accompanied him, but rarely. Madame de Noirmont
preferred to remain at home with Ernestine; and when her husband was not
there, she seemed less serious, less pensive, and she manifested her
affection for Ernestine more freely.
Louise’s duties were very pleasant in that family, where the ladies did
not go to balls and received very little company. Comtois alone waited
at table. The young lady’s maid assisted the ladies to dress; then,
during almost all the remainder of the day, she worked in her room,
making dresses for mademoiselle or keeping the linen of the household
in order. In the evening, she served at tea, then looked to it that her
mistresses had everything in their room that they required. This was not
very wearisome, and Louise sometimes told Ernestine that they did not
give her enough work to do; but the girl would reply, with a smile:
“What makes you work so fast? We no sooner give you a piece of sewing to
do than it is done. Mamma says that your activity and skill are most
unusual. Other lady’s maids don’t work so fast, I promise you!”
Louise felt a thrill of pleasure whenever she was told that Madame de
Noirmont was pleased with her. And although that lady always preserved a
grave and serious manner with her servants, which made the slightest
approach to familiarity impossible, she felt drawn to love her, and it
seemed to her that it would be a source of deep grief to her if she
should now be compelled to leave her.
Meanwhile three months had passed since she came to Paris, and she had
not once seen Chérubin. But since Madame de Noirmont’s return, Louise,
engrossed by the desire to please her, had felt her love-pangs less
sharply; although she still loved her old playmate as dearly as ever,
another sentiment had glided into her heart, to distract her thoughts
from her troubles.
Monsieur Gérondif had called several times to inquire of Comtois what
Louise’s employers thought of her, and each time the old servant put
forth all his eloquence in praise of the young lady’s maid and begged
the professor to thank old Jasmin for the present he had sent them.
Monsieur Gérondif went away overjoyed that he had brought Louise to
Paris, although Chérubin, entirely absorbed by his _bonnes fortunes_,
had forgotten about going to see Nicole.
One morning, when Monsieur Gérondif called at Monsieur de Noirmont’s to
ask Comtois if they were still content with Louise, the valet replied:
“Yes, indeed; Mademoiselle Louise is a model of virtue and industry. If
you would like to see her, monsieur, she is alone at this moment; the
ladies have gone out to do some shopping. She is working in her room,
and there is no reason why you should not go up and bid her
good-morning.”
Monsieur Gérondif joyfully accepted the proposition; he followed
Comtois, who led him to Louise’s chamber and left him with her.
Louise manifested the keenest delight at sight of the tutor, for she
would have an opportunity to talk with him about all those who were dear
to her. Monsieur Gérondif, who was, like most pedants, a conceited fool,
took to himself a pleasure of which he was the pretext simply; he
believed that he had kindled a tender sentiment in the breast of the
pretty lady’s maid, and he smiled as if he would dislocate his jaw as he
took his seat beside her.
Louise began by inquiring for her adopted mother.
“She is perfectly well, and she is overjoyed that you are in such a fine
position in Paris,” replied the tutor, lying with imperturbable
coolness; for he had not been to the village since Louise left it.
“And Monsieur Chérubin?” continued Louise, “is he pleased to know that I
am in Paris as he wished? Hasn’t he any desire to see me? Doesn’t he
ever speak to you about me? Did he send you here to-day?”
The tutor scratched his nose, coughed, spat, wiped his forehead, all of
which operations required much time with him, during which he considered
what he should say. Having made up his mind at last, he said to Louise:
“My dear child, it rarely happens that childish loves come to a good
end. I might cite Paul and Virginie and a thousand other examples _ad
hoc_; I prefer to tell you _ex abrupto_--which means, without
preamble--that you are making a mistake to give any further thought to
Monsieur le Marquis de Grandvilain, because that young man never gives a
thought to you. In the first place, when you came to see him at his
house--when you came to Paris with Nicole----”
“Well, monsieur?”
“Well, the young marquis was at home; but as he didn’t want to see you,
he gave his concierge orders to tell you that he was away.”
“O mon Dieu! is it possible?”
“Amid the debauchery in which he is plunged, how do you expect him to
remember a young country girl with whom he used to play
puss-in-the-corner, and other more or less innocent games? He has become
a great rake, has my pupil; he has a lot of mistresses. It isn’t my
fault. He receives so many billets-doux that it’s perfectly scandalous,
and I should have left his house before this if my financial interests
did not oblige me to close my eyes,--which however, does not prevent my
seeing whatever happens.”
Louise put her handkerchief to her eyes and faltered:
“So it’s all over--he doesn’t love me at all! Who would have believed it
of Chérubin?”
“One must believe everything, expect everything from a beardless youth,”
replied the tutor.
Then, drawing his chair close to the girl’s, and laying his hand on her
knee, Monsieur Gérondif tried to assume a mellifluous voice and began,
weighing his words:
“I have made the wound, and it is for me to apply the balsam, otherwise
called the remedy.--Lovely Louise, although young Chérubin has not been
true to your charms, there are others who will be too happy to offer
incense to them, to cultivate them. I go straight to the point: I love
you, divine maiden! and I am not fickle, because, thank heaven, I am a
grown man. I have not come to make any base propositions to you--_retro,
Satanas_! which means: I have only honorable views. I offer you my hand,
my heart, my name, my rank and my title; but we will wait two years
before we marry. I will try to restrain my passions for that length of
time, which I require in order to amass a tidy sum of money. You will
contribute your wages, your savings; they are much pleased with you
here, and it is probable that you will receive a handsome present at New
Year’s. We will put it all together and buy a little house in the
outskirts of Paris; I will take a few pupils to keep my hand in; we will
have a dog, a cat, chickens, all the pleasant things of life, and our
days will be blended of honey and hippocras.”
During this harangue, Louise had pushed away the hand that Monsieur
Gérondif had laid on her knee, and had moved her chair away; and as soon
as he had finished speaking, she rose and said to him in a courteous but
determined tone:
“I thank you, monsieur, for condescending to offer me, a poor village
girl, without name or family, the title of your wife; but I cannot
accept it. Monsieur Chérubin no longer loves me; I can understand that,
monsieur, and indeed I was mad to imagine that, in Paris, in the midst
of pleasures, living in the whirl of society, he would remember me. But
it is altogether different with me! I have not become a great lady, and
the image of the man I love can never be effaced from my heart. I love
Chérubin; I feel that I shall never love anybody else! So, monsieur, it
would be very wicked of me to marry another man, as I could not give
that other my love.”
Monsieur Gérondif was greatly surprised by this speech; he recovered
himself, however, and replied:
“My sweet Louise, _varium et mutabile semper femina_; or, if you prefer:
'_souvent femme varie, bien fol est qui s’y fie_.’--Woman changes ever;
he is a great fool who trusts her.--The latter lines are by François I;
I prefer Beranger’s.--Tiresias declares that men have only three ounces
of love, while women have nine, which enables them to change oftener
than we do; and yet, with only three ounces, we do pretty well.”
“What does all this mean, monsieur?”
“It means, my dear love, that you will do like the others: you will
change; your love will pass away.”
“Never, monsieur.”
“Never is a word that means nothing at all in love. However, you will
have plenty of time to think about it, as I give you two years for
reflection. Until then, allow me to hope.”
“Oh! it is useless, monsieur.”
“I beg pardon; by hoping one lives content, and I cling to my hope.
Adieu, fair Louise; continue to behave becomingly; your remuneration
will be increased doubtless, and I shall continue to put mine aside;
and, as a very trivial but very shrewd popular proverb says: ‘Let’s let
the mutton boil!’--I lay my homage at your feet.”
Monsieur Gérondif took his leave, and Louise was at liberty to weep
without restraint. She did not bestow a thought on the tutor’s offers,
she thought only of Chérubin, who no longer loved her, who had ceased to
think of her, and who had mistresses. She had been afraid for a long
time that he had forgotten her; but now she was certain of it, and it
is a far cry from fear to certainty, in love.
The return of Madame de Noirmont and her daughter forced Louise to
conceal her tears. She hastily wiped her eyes and tried to dissemble her
depression, for she felt that she must not betray the secret of her
heart.
On that day Monsieur de Noirmont went out after dinner. Ernestine
remained with her mother, to whom, as they worked, she said whatever
came into her head, especially as she saw that it was one of her moments
of good humor. When Madame de Noirmont smiled at her daughter’s
speeches, the latter was so delighted that she often laid her work aside
to throw her arms about her mother’s neck, who sometimes held her
lovingly to her heart for some moments.
Louise, for whom they rang to order tea, entered the salon at one of the
times when Madame de Noirmont’s arms were about her daughter; and the
sweet child, in her joy at being so fondled, cried out:
“See how happy I am, Louise! see what a dear, good mother I have!”
Louise stood still in the middle of the salon; she was glad for
Ernestine’s happiness, and yet, in the touching picture before her eyes,
there was something that hurt her, she did not understand why. Two great
tears escaped from her eyes; but she turned quickly, so that they might
not see her weeping.
Meanwhile Madame de Noirmont had resumed her grave demeanor, and
Ernestine had had to return to her seat. Louise served the tea as
quickly as possible, then left the room, fearing that her sadness would
be noticed.
Despite all her efforts to be calm, Louise was still crying when
Ernestine entered her room to ask her some question, before going to
bed. Seeing that Louise’s face was wet with tears, her young mistress
ran to her, and said with the most touching interest:
“Mon Dieu! crying, Louise! What’s the matter?”
“Oh! excuse me, mademoiselle. I know that I should not weep here, where
everyone is so kind to me; but I could not help it!”
“Have you some reason for being unhappy? You would not cry like this for
nothing. Louise, I insist on knowing why you were crying.”
“Well, mademoiselle, it is because, when I saw you in your mother’s arms
to-night, the picture of the happiness you enjoy made me feel more
keenly than ever the misery of my position. Oh! mademoiselle, it isn’t
envy that makes me say it! I bless Heaven for making you so happy; but I
could not help crying when I remembered that my mother never kissed me,
that I shall never be able to throw my arms about her!”
“What’s that you say, my poor Louise? Doesn’t your mother love you?”
“It isn’t that, mademoiselle. But listen, I am going to tell you the
truth, for I don’t know how to lie. And then, I don’t understand why I
should make a mystery of it; you won’t be any less kind to me when you
know that I am a poor girl, abandoned by her parents.”
“Is it possible? you haven’t any parents?”
“At all events, mademoiselle, I don’t know them.”
Thereupon Louise proceeded to tell Ernestine the story of how Nicole had
been employed to take care of her, and of the kindness of the village
people, who had kept her and treated her like their daughter, when they
found that she was abandoned by her mother.
Ernestine listened to the story with the deepest interest. When Louise
had ceased to speak, she kissed her affectionately, saying:
“Poor Louise! Oh! how glad I am you have told me that! It seems to me
that I love you even more since I know that your parents have abandoned
you. And that dear, good Nicole! those kind peasants! Ah! what splendid
people they are! I will tell mamma all about it to-morrow! I am sure
that it will interest her too.”
“Oh! that isn’t worth while, mademoiselle; Madame de Noirmont may not
like it because I have told you about my troubles.”
“I assure you, on the contrary, that, for all her serious manner, mamma
is kind and good; and, besides, she likes you very much. She has said to
me several times that your manners were just what they should be, and
that is great praise from her, I tell you!--Well, good-night, Louise,
sleep soundly, and don’t cry any more. If you haven’t any parents, you
have some people here who love you dearly and who will take good care of
you.”
Ernestine left Louise, to go to bed, and the latter felt less unhappy
when she saw her young mistress’s affection for her--an affection which
she shared with all the sincerity of her soul.
The next morning the Noirmont family met at the breakfast table.
Ernestine had not seen her mother since the preceding night, because a
headache had kept Madame de Noirmont in bed later than usual; but her
father, who rarely appeared at breakfast, had just taken his seat, when
Ernestine, after kissing her mother, said in a mysterious tone:
“I have something very interesting to tell you this morning, and I am
glad papa came to breakfast, to hear what I am going to say.”
“Really?” said Monsieur de Noirmont, smiling, and in a tone of mild
raillery. “From the way in which you say that, I imagine that it must
really be something most serious.”
“Why, yes, papa, it’s very serious! Oh! you look as if you were laughing
at me, but when you know what it is, I’ll bet that you will be as
touched as I was last night when I found poor Louise crying!”
“What! is it something about Louise?” asked Madame de Noirmont, with an
air of deep interest; “can it be that anything has gone wrong with her?
I should be extremely sorry, for the girl is a very good girl indeed,
and seems to deserve our kindness.”
“This is what it is; listen. Louise didn’t want me to tell you; but I am
very sure that you won’t blame her for it; it isn’t her fault.”
Monsieur de Noirmont, whose interest was aroused by this exordium, said
impatiently:
“Come, my child, go on, explain yourself.”
“Well, papa, last evening, when Louise came to the salon to serve the
tea, she found me in mamma’s arms, and we were kissing each other.”
“That is well, my daughter; what next?”
“At night, when I went up to bed, as I couldn’t find a fichu that I
wanted, I went to Louise’s room to ask her where she had put it. I found
her crying hard, and I asked her why she was crying. She replied,
sobbing: ‘Oh! mademoiselle, because, when I saw you in your mother’s
arms to-night, I felt more keenly than ever my misfortune in never
having been kissed by my mother, and in being only an abandoned child.’”
“An abandoned child!” murmured Madame de Noirmont, whose face instantly
became deathly pale.
“But,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, “if I am not mistaken, Comtois told us
that the girl’s parents lived in the outskirts of Paris--I don’t
remember in what village.”
“Yes, papa, that is what Comtois was told when Louise was brought here;
but that was a lie that her friends thought they ought to tell. Louise
thought it was better to tell the truth.”
“She is right. But call your maid, Ernestine; I want to hear the whole
story from her own lips. It has roused my curiosity. And you,
madame--are not you curious to hear this girl’s story?”
Madame de Noirmont replied with a few almost unintelligible words; it
was as if she were oppressed by some secret suffering, which she was
doing her utmost to conceal.
Meanwhile, Ernestine had not waited for her father to repeat his
request; she had run off to call Louise, who soon appeared before the
assembled family.
Monsieur de Noirmont looked at her with more interest than he had
previously displayed; Ernestine smiled at her affectionately; Madame de
Noirmont lowered her eyes and became paler than ever. From the
disquietude that had taken possession of her, from the anxiety that
could be read upon her features, one would have taken her for a criminal
awaiting judgment.
“Come, Louise, come nearer,” said Monsieur de Noirmont, motioning to
her; “my daughter has told us of what you told her last evening. Do not
tremble, my child; we shall not reproach you for telling us what was not
true when you entered our service.”
“Oh! it was not I, monsieur!” murmured Louise.
“I know it, it was the person who obtained the situation for you, who
thought it his duty to tell that falsehood.--So you do not know your
parents, my poor girl?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Where were you brought up?”
“At Gagny, monsieur.”
“At Gagny. Ah! that’s it; I had forgotten the name of the village that
you told me when you came here.--And the people who brought you up?”
“A kindhearted peasant woman, Nicole Frimousset. She was nursing
Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain at the time.”
“Indeed! so this woman was the young Marquis de Grandvilain’s nurse?”
“Yes, monsieur, he is my foster-brother, and in my childhood we played
together all the time.”
“Very good! But that doesn’t tell us how you went to Gagny.”
“Mon Dieu! monsieur, it was a lady--my mother, I suppose--who carried me
to dear Nicole’s, and begged her to take me to nurse. I was then a year
old; she left some money with Nicole and went away, saying that she
would come again. The next year she sent a little more money by a
messenger from Paris; but she didn’t come to see me, and no one ever
after came to inquire for me.”
“But what was the lady’s name; where did she live?”
“Nicole didn’t think to ask her any of those questions; for she could
not dream that she would abandon me, that she would never come again.
The messenger from Paris did not know who the lady was who hired him on
the street, he could not tell my good nurse anything.”
“But was no paper, no mark found on you or on your clothing?”
“Nothing, monsieur, absolutely nothing.”
“That is very strange.--Don’t you agree with me, madame?”
As he asked this question Monsieur de Noirmont turned to his wife, whom
he had not looked at while questioning Louise; Ernestine, whose eyes
followed her father’s, uttered a piercing shriek.
“Oh dear!” she cried, “mamma has fainted!”
Madame de Noirmont’s head had fallen against the back of her chair; she
had in fact lost consciousness, and the livid pallor of her face made
her condition seem most alarming.
They hastened to her assistance; Ernestine wept and lamented as she
kissed her mother again and again. Louise shared her distress; she lost
her head, did not know what to do, and did not hear what was said to
her. But Monsieur de Noirmont, who retained all his presence of mind,
called Comtois, and, with his assistance, carried his wife to her room
and laid her on her bed.
After some time, Madame de Noirmont came to herself; but there was a
look of gloom and anxiety in her eyes, which indicated that the cause of
her trouble still existed. She turned her eyes slowly on her husband and
her daughter; then, as she caught sight of Louise, who was a little
farther away and who seemed to share the general anxiety, she closed her
eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow.
“Mamma, dear mamma, how do you feel now?” cried Ernestine, squeezing her
mother’s hand.
“Better, my dear, I feel better.”
“What was the cause of your sudden illness, madame?” asked Monsieur de
Noirmont with interest. “You gave us a terrible fright.”
“Why, I have no idea, monsieur. I had a sudden feeling of suffocation;
then a cold perspiration broke out all over me, and I lost the use of my
senses.”
“You didn’t feel well this morning, you had a headache,” said Ernestine.
“Yes, that is true,” replied Madame de Noirmont hastily. “I felt poorly
this morning, and that is the cause, no doubt----”
“And then Louise’s story must have grieved you, made your heart ache.
That probably made you worse.”
“Do you wish me to send for the doctor, madame?”
“No, monsieur, it is not necessary; I need nothing but rest and
quiet--and a little sleep, perhaps.”
“We will leave you, then.”
“But I shall be close by,” said Ernestine, “and I will come at the
slightest sound.”
Madame de Noirmont seemed most desirous to be left alone. All the others
went away, Ernestine still deeply moved because she had seen her mother
in a swoon, and Louise very much cast down because she feared that the
story of her misfortunes had touched her mistress too deeply.
Madame de Noirmont passed the rest of the day in her room; she kept her
bed and expressed a wish to be alone. The next day passed in the same
way; and for several days she did not leave her bed.
She refused to see a doctor, however, and declared that her trouble
required no other remedy than rest.
But from the first moment of her illness, it was evident that Madame de
Noirmont’s humor had changed: she hardly spoke; sometimes her daughter’s
presence seemed irksome to her; she answered her curtly and received her
caresses without warmth. As for Louise, while her mistress kept her
room, she persistently declined her services on the pretext that she did
not require them.
Poor Louise was greatly distressed.
“Madame your mother,” she said to Ernestine, “will not let me wait on
her, or even go into her room. I am afraid that I have displeased her,
mademoiselle; perhaps she does not like to have in her house a girl
whose parents are not known.”
Ernestine tried to comfort her, saying:
“You are wrong. Why should you think that mamma has anything against
you? No, it is this trouble of hers, it’s her nerves that make her
depressed and irritable. Why, she even pushes me away now when I kiss
her, and she doesn’t kiss me; that makes me unhappy too, but I am sure
that mamma still loves me.”
As she spoke, the sweet child shed tears, and Louise mingled hers with
them, for she could think of no other consolation to give her.
Madame de Noirmont made up her mind at last to leave her room, and she
went down to the salon. The first time that Louise saw her, she longed
to ask about her health, but she dared not; her mistress’s eyes seemed
to avoid hers, and she did not display her former kindliness to her. For
the merest trifle, Madame de Noirmont lost patience, scolded and became
angry; sometimes she gave Louise ten contradictory orders in the same
minute. The poor girl lost her head, was bewildered, did not know what
to do, while Ernestine gazed at her mother with a surprised and grieved
expression, when she saw her treat her protégée so harshly.
Sometimes, however, a violent change seemed to take place in that
strange creature; after speaking sharply and severely to Louise, Madame
de Noirmont, remarking the poor girl’s heartbroken expression, would
suddenly change her tone; her eyes would fill with tears and follow
Louise’s every movement; then she would call her in a gentle,
affectionate, even tender voice, and the girl would return instantly,
joyous and eager; but her mistress’s face would already have resumed its
stern expression, and she would motion her away, muttering curtly:
“What do you want? I didn’t call you.”
Several weeks passed in this way. One morning, Madame de Noirmont, who
seemed even more thoughtful than usual, said to her daughter when she
came to kiss her:
“Really, I don’t propose to keep your maid; the girl is good for
nothing; we must dismiss her. We will pay her two or three months’ wages
more than is due her. Tell her, and advise her to return to her village;
I think that she made a great mistake in coming to Paris to seek
employment. Do not try to change my decision, it would do no good.”
Ernestine was in despair; she was very fond of Louise, and it would be a
real sorrow to her to part with her; but her mother had spoken in such a
stern and decided tone that the poor child dared not reply. She said
nothing, but lowered her eyes with a sigh, and left the room to perform
the distressing duty with which her mother had entrusted her. As she
left her mother’s apartment, Ernestine met Monsieur de Noirmont, who
came up to her and kissed her, and said, observing her sorrowful air:
“What is it, my child? You look as if you had been crying!”
“It’s nothing, papa.”
“You know, Ernestine, that I do not like evasions or mysteries; I insist
upon knowing at once what makes you unhappy this morning.”
“Well, papa, it’s because mamma is going to send Louise away, poor
Louise, our maid, who is so sweet, and whom I love so dearly. But mamma
doesn’t like her any more; she says that Louise isn’t good for anything;
but Louise works just as much as she ever did, and she sews like an
angel. But as mamma insists, I am going to tell Louise, so that
she----”
“Don’t go to her, my child, it is not necessary; Louise will stay in
this house.”
“But, papa, when mamma told me----”
“I tell you the opposite, my child, and I am the only master here.”
Ernestine said no more, for her father had assumed a severe expression
which in him denoted that he had formed a resolution which no one could
change. Monsieur de Noirmont then went to his wife and said to her in a
cold and impressive tone:
“Your humor is very capricious, madame, as anyone may see by the way in
which you treat your daughter sometimes; but you extend it to
defenceless servants also, and that is what I cannot endure. This young
Louise, who came here to wait upon Ernestine, is honest and virtuous;
her appearance is as becoming as her manners; I think that it would be
difficult to find another so satisfactory; and yet you propose to
dismiss her, madame--you expect me to turn a good girl out of my house,
because, for some unknown reason, she has ceased to please you; because
your fanciful humor makes you more difficult than ever to serve!--No,
madame, that shall not be; I propose to be just before everything, and
this girl shall remain in my house, because it would be unjust to send
her away.”
Madame de Noirmont had not a word to say in reply; she hung her head and
seemed completely crushed.