XXIV
THE POLISH INTRIGUE
Chérubin did not see Daréna for a week; he fretted and fumed with
impatience, fearing that his intrigue with the pretty Pole had fallen
through altogether; and, as is always the case, he became immeasurably
more enamored of the object of his passion as his fear of not possessing
her increased. It was for the purpose of giving him time to reach that
climax of passion, that Daréna, who was thoroughly acquainted with the
human heart, had allowed several days to elapse without going to see
him.
At last Daréna appeared at the hôtel de Grandvilain one morning, hurried
and breathless, like a man who had galloped twelve leagues without a
halt. He pushed old Jasmin aside and almost knocked him down, when that
worthy retainer attempted to tell him that he did not know whether he
could see his master, who had not yet risen.
“I don’t care whether he’s up or in bed, he is always visible to me,”
replied Daréna imperiously. “Learn, you old donkey of a valet, to know
the persons whom your master is always delighted to receive.”
As he spoke, Daréna rushed into the young marquis’s bedroom, leaving
Jasmin propped against the wall, muttering in a voice that trembled with
wrath:
“Old donkey! he called me an old donkey! He’s an impertinent knave. The
Grandvilains, father or son, never called me that. He’s not a donkey,
but I have an idea that he’s a much more dangerous animal!”
Daréna reached Chérubin’s bedside and pulled the curtains aside, crying:
“Up, Joconde! up, Lovelace, Richelieu, Rochester! The moment of triumph
has arrived at last!--Sapristi! I can fairly say, my dear fellow, that I
have made myself ill for you! Ouf! I can do no more!”
And Daréna threw himself on a couch, and mopped his face with his
handkerchief.
“But what has become of you during these eight long days that I have not
once seen you, and have not known what to think of your silence?” asked
Chérubin, looking closely at his friend. “I thought that you had
forgotten me.”
“Ah! that is just like a man--a young man! Because things are not done
on the instant, you think that you are forgotten. Do I ever forget my
friends? Am I not absolutely devoted to you? If you have not heard from
me for a week, it is because I had nothing to tell you; but I have been
on the lookout, watching and waiting for the moment to act. It has come
at last; I have acted, and the fair Globeska is in our power.”
“Is it possible? Oh! do tell me how you did it, my dear Daréna?”
“Parbleu! by my ordinary method: I scattered money about. I know no
other way, especially as it always succeeds. Dress, and meanwhile I will
tell you how it all came about; but don’t call your valet; you will
understand that I can’t talk about it before a witness. I have already
compromised myself enough--but damn the odds!”
Chérubin rose and began to dress, saying:
“Go on, I am listening; I shall not lose a word.”
“You know that the pretty Pole lived with her husband in furnished
lodgings in the Marais; I succeeded in effecting the delivery of your
billet-doux by bribing a lady’s maid and two concierges. The Comtesse de
Globeska replied that she was mad over you and asked nothing better than
to leave her tyrant. That was all very well, but how were we to abduct
the young woman from a man who left her no more than her shadow? It was
very difficult. Seven days passed thus; Monsieur de Globeski did not
leave his wife for an instant. At last, yesterday, I learned from a
concierge, by a further use of money, that the Polish count had decided
to leave Paris, and that he was going to take his wife to Norway; of
course, if we had had to pursue our conquest to Norway, it would have
taken us too far. I instantly formed my resolution, saying to myself:
‘He shall not take her!’
“I learned--still by the lavish use of money--that the post-chaise was
to call for our Poles at eight in the evening. I arrived just before the
hour; the carriage came and stopped in front of the house, and I went
boldly up to the postilion and led him aside.
“‘I adore the woman who is going with you,’ I said. ‘I am going to
follow with two friends to a lonely place on the road, one or two
leagues from Paris; we shall pretend to attack you, and fire a few shots
with pistols loaded with powder only. You will stop; we will open the
carriage door and seize the young woman; then you will start off at full
speed with the old gentleman, and if he shouts to you to stop, you will
pay no attention until you have galloped at least two solid hours.’
“You will understand, my dear Chérubin, that I should not dare to make
such a proposition as that to a postilion, without supporting it by
convincing arguments. I handed him a thousand-franc note, and he turned
his back, saying:
“‘What do you take me for?’
“I added five hundred francs. He remarked that it was a very ticklish
business! I added another five hundred. He agreed to everything. That’s
the way things are done in Paris. I went off to choose two rascals on
whom I could rely, in consideration of five hundred francs, which I gave
to each. I also hired a post-chaise. When the Comte de Globeski started
off with his wife, we followed; and, about two leagues from here,
between Sèvres and Chaville, in a place where nothing grows but melons,
we discharged our pistols. The bribed postilion stopped. It was dark,
and everything went off as I had arranged. We kidnapped the young woman.
The old Pole defended her like a genuine demon; indeed, he inflicted a
slight dagger wound on one of our men in the scuffle, which forced me to
disburse three hundred francs more. However, we captured the divine
Globeska, and I took her to the house I have hired, where she passed the
night and is now awaiting you.”
“Oh! what a series of events, my dear Daréna! But great heaven! this
stealing a woman from her husband, and by force! Suppose it should be
known? Isn’t it a crime?”
“Bah! are you going to have scruples now?--At all events, there was no
other way, and then, if worse comes to worst, I am the only one
compromised; but my friendship is of the sort that defies danger.”
“And the pretty Pole--where have you taken her?”
“To a little house that stands all by itself near Barrière de la
Chopinette; I could find nothing better. And then I considered that to
go into the country, at a distance from Paris, would incommode you too
much. The house I have hired is in a spot where very few people pass;
the outlook is not very cheerful, but what do you care for that? You
aren’t going to shut yourself up with a woman, to look out of the
windows at people passing, are you? Isn’t one always happy when with the
person one loves?”
“Oh, yes! of course; but in what quarter is this Barrière de la
Chopinette?”
“In the quarter of La Poudrette, and of lonely promenades, in the
direction of Ménilmontant. However, we can go there in a cab. Remember,
my dear fellow, that your charmer is waiting for you; I told the
concierge of the house to order as toothsome a breakfast as he can
procure in that quarter, and some superfine wines. Make haste and finish
dressing--put on your best clothes, perfume yourself----”
“Perfume myself? Indeed, I shall not; perfumery makes me sick.”
“As you please, but put on your armor. Lucky Chérubin! you are about to
possess one of the loveliest women I have ever seen; and her Polish
accent, too, is most fascinating.”
“And she loves me, you say? she has admitted it?”
“Parbleu! how many times must I tell you? In fact, I should say that her
conduct was quite sufficient proof of it.”
“She didn’t weep when she was kidnapped?”
“Weep! She danced--she adores dancing, it seems. By the way, I need not
tell you that I have nothing left of the funds you advanced me. The
postilion and my men to pay--the hire of the post-chaise and the
house--and all the people I bribed. In fact, you owe me fifteen hundred
francs.”
“Fifteen hundred francs!” exclaimed Chérubin, as he walked to his desk;
“it costs a lot to abduct a woman!”
“To whom are you telling that? to me, who have abducted a hundred
perhaps, in the course of my life? Indeed it was in that way that I
spent a large part of my fortune; but it is a princely pleasure all the
same, in which everybody cannot indulge.”
Chérubin handed Daréna the sum that he required, and said:
“I am ready.”
“Very good; send out for a cab; you will understand that we can’t go to
your _petite maison_ with your tilbury and your groom. You should never
take your servants into the secret of a mysterious intrigue like this;
such people are too fond of talking.”
“You are right.--Holà! Jasmin!”
The old servant appeared, still with a long face, and cast an angry
glance at Daréna. Chérubin ordered him to send for a cab.
“Will not monsieur take his cabriolet?” queried Jasmin, with an
expression of surprise.
“Evidently not!” cried Daréna, laughing at Jasmin’s face; “as your
master orders a cab, he doesn’t propose to take his cabriolet. Off with
you, old ruin, and make haste, if you possibly can.”
“Old ruin!” muttered Jasmin, as he left the room. “Still another
insult--and I must swallow it all! I am very much afraid that this
ne’er-do-well will ruin my young master. I should like to know why he
makes him take a cab, when he has his own tilbury and cabriolet.”
However, Jasmin did his errand; the cab was summoned. Chérubin went
downstairs with Daréna, and they both entered the vehicle, which Jasmin
looked after, with a far from pleased expression, as it drove away.
Daréna told the driver where to take them. After quite a long drive they
stopped in front of a shabby house outside Barrière de la Chopinette, on
the outer boulevards.
“Here we are!” said Daréna, jumping out of the cab.
Chérubin looked at the house, which had but one floor above the ground
floor, with two windows on the front.
“This isn’t a very handsome house!” he exclaimed.
“It is very fine inside,” replied Daréna. “The principal thing is that
it’s isolated; the devil himself would be in it if the husband should
unearth you here! My dear fellow, when you run off with a woman, you
must take the greatest precautions. And after all, what do you care
about the house? It’s the woman that you come here to see. For my part,
I should have been perfectly happy in a shepherd’s hut, with the object
of my love.--Send the cab away; I am going to ring.”
Chérubin made haste to pay the cab-driver, who returned to his box and
drove away.
Daréna pulled a wire beside the low door that gave admission to the
house. A little fellow of some thirteen years, with an impudent
expression, whose knavish and insolent bearing harmonized well with a
very dirty costume, answered the bell, his cap over his ear, his blouse
flapping in the wind, and his hands black with dirt. He bestowed a
glance of intelligence on Daréna, who recognized little Bruno, the same
urchin of whom Poterne had tried to make a monkey, and who, on his side,
had conceived the idea of appropriating the skin which he had used in
studying his character. Later Poterne had found Bruno, who had
squandered his disguise; the business agent took the liberty of
thrashing the boy, then forgave him, and charmed by the happy talents
which young Bruno manifested, determined to employ him again when the
opportunity should present itself. In the scheme which had been devised
to dupe Chérubin, it was necessary to station some intelligent person,
who could be trusted, in the house which had been hired. Poterne
instantly thought of the urchin, to whom he did not pay much, and who
had all the qualities essential to forward their designs.
“Ah! this is the concierge’s son,” said Daréna, glancing at Bruno as
they entered the house, and leading Chérubin through a sort of
vestibule, toward the staircase. “Where’s your father, my boy? is he
away?”
“Yes, monsieur, he had to go to a place ten leagues from here, to see my
aunt, who is very sick.”
“And you are keeping the house?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Has the lady who slept here had everything that she wanted?”
“Oh, yes! monsieur; don’t you be afraid; that lady hasn’t wanted for
anything. She’s upstairs. By the way, she says that she’s beginning to
get tired of being all alone.”
“Patience! monsieur here has come to keep her company.--How about the
breakfast; is it ordered?”
“Yes, monsieur; and it will be fine, I tell you. I was the one that went
to the restaurant----”
“This little rascal is overflowing with intelligence,” said Daréna,
turning to Chérubin, “and I recommend him to you in case you need
anything.--Well, my dear friend, here you are with your charmer now, and
I will leave you.”
“What! you are going to leave me?” cried Chérubin, almost in an offended
tone.
“Why, I don’t see that there is anything more for me to do here; the
rest is your business. You are going to breakfast tête-à-tête with a
little foreigner, who is mad over you. Would not a third person be in
the way?”
“Oh, yes! of course. Well, then, au revoir.”
“Au revoir, my dear marquis, and may love crown you with its sweetest
favors!”
Daréna smiled, almost ironically, as he shook hands with Chérubin; then
he flashed a glance at Bruno and left the house, closing the door behind
him.
Chérubin felt intensely excited when he found himself in that strange
house, in a quarter which was entirely unfamiliar to him, with no other
company than a boy who stared at him with a sly expression, as he
cracked nut after nut which he took from under his blouse.
The vestibule had two doors, both of which were open, disclosing the
interior of two rooms, in one of which the only furniture was several
rickety tables, and in the other, one table and a wretched cot bed; the
windows on the boulevard were supplied with iron bars, but entirely
unprovided with curtains.
Chérubin, who had seen this at a glance, reflected that Daréna had not
spent much money in furnishing the house. Then he turned to Bruno, who
was still breaking nuts, sometimes with his teeth and sometimes with his
feet, and humming at intervals a tune of which nothing could be heard
save: _tu tu tu tu tu tu r’lu tu_.
“Where is madame la comtesse’s apartment?”
“Whose?” queried the ex-bootblack, looking up with an insolent
expression.
“I ask you where the young lady is, who has been in this house since
last night?”
The boy thrust his tongue into his cheek,--a street Arab’s trick when he
proposes to lie--and answered:
“Oh, yes; the young foreign lady, who was kidnapped, and who slept
here--_tu tu tu r’lu tu_--she’s upstairs, on the first floor, in the
finest apartment in the house, where she’s sighing and having a stupid
time--_tu tu tu r’lu tu!_”
Chérubin asked no further questions; he went upstairs--there was but one
flight--and stopped at a door, the key of which was on the outside. His
heart beat very fast at the thought that he was about to stand in the
presence of the young Pole who had consented so readily to leave her
husband and go with him; but he remembered how pretty she was, and he
decided to knock.
“Come in,” cried a voice, “the key’s in the door.”
Chérubin recognized Madame de Globeska’s accent; he opened the door and
found himself face to face with the young woman.
Chichette Chichemann wore a very simple costume, into which a few odds
and ends of lace, flowers and fur had been introduced, in an attempt to
set it off; but they produced the contrary effect in the eyes of a good
judge. But Chérubin was not as yet an expert in such matters; moreover,
a man in love pays no heed to such details. What impressed him at once
was Chichette’s pretty face, over which was perched the same velvet
toque that she wore at the Cirque; and as he entered the room she
greeted him with a pleasant smile, crying:
“Ah! here you are; that’s very lucky! for I was beginning to be awfully
bored, all alone here!”
Encouraged by this greeting, Chérubin seated himself beside the young
woman, and said to her in a very tender tone:
“Ah! madame, then you will pardon what my excessive love has led me to
undertake? You have consented to trust my honor, to fly from him
who--from him who--that is, from that gentleman who looked so ugly and
who assuredly is not worthy to--to----”
Chérubin had never said so much at one time; he stopped, for he did not
know how to finish his sentence. But Chichette gave him no time; she
instantly replied:
“Yes, yes! I’ve fled from my tyrant. But let’s talk about something
else.”
“She doesn’t want me to talk about her husband!” said Chérubin to
himself; “she wants me to talk about something else--my love, no doubt.
She is charming.--And so,” he continued aloud, “you do not regret having
entrusted to me the care of your happiness, and being here at this
moment, far from your native country [_pays_]?”
“My pays? oh, yes, I always regret my little pays! but I hope to see him
again some day. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Ah! how kind you are, madame! how lovely you are! If you knew
how--I--I--I love you!”
It required a great effort on Chérubin’s part to say that, and he dared
not look at the young woman, fearing that she would consider his
declaration rather abrupt. But Mademoiselle Chichette, far from seeming
offended, began to laugh idiotically, and replied:
“Yes, yes! I know. Ha! ha! It’s nice to love, and you have very fine
eyes. Ha! ha! I’d like right well to laugh with you.”
And the so-called Polish countess, who seemed, in truth, much inclined
to laugh, and who showed some very pretty teeth, looked at the young man
in a meaning fashion, and did not tell him to talk about something else.
For a moment Chérubin was tempted to kiss his enslaver, who almost
offered him her fresh, pink cheeks; he confined himself to taking a
hand, which he laid upon his heart and pressed it hard.
Chichette, tired perhaps of having her hand pressed to Chérubin’s heart,
said to him, still laughing:
“How your thingumbob goes tick-tack! It’s like a big clock.”
“Oh! it is emotion, madame; it is pleasure; it is----”
“Aren’t we going to breakfast?” cried Chichette suddenly; “I’m hungry, I
can hear my belly crying; it goes _flouc-flouc_!”
These words brought Chérubin back to less romantic thoughts; he ran to
the door, opened it, and shouted:
“I say, young one--what about that breakfast?”
“Here it is, monsieur, here it is! Right away, smoking hot!” replied
Bruno; “the restaurant man’s just this minute come.”
And a moment later a wine-shop waiter came up the stairs with the young
concierge. They laid a table with two covers; they produced a basket
filled with bottles, with seals of all colors; they covered the table
with freshly opened oysters, and placed several covered dishes on
another table. At sight of the oysters the so-called Pole indulged in
the most plebeian demonstrations of delight, and began to dance about
the room, crying:
“Ah! oysters! I like oysters so much! I’d let myself be hamstrung for
some oysters.”
Chérubin was amazed to hear Madame de Globeska express herself in such
terms, but he attributed it to her ignorance of the language.
The waiter was too much accustomed to such expressions to be surprised.
As for young Bruno, he contented himself with thrusting his tongue into
his cheek again and muttering:
“Thanks! that’s a fine sort of talk! This game will get spoiled!”
The breakfast was served. The waiter left the room with the urchin, and
they took care to close the door behind them. Mademoiselle Chichette did
not wait for Chérubin to escort her to the table; forgetting all the
lessons she had had in behaving like a comme il faut person, she ran and
took her seat in front of one of the covers, crying:
“Let’s eat! let’s eat! Oysters! ah! that’s good!”
“She seems to be very hungry!” thought Chérubin, as he took his seat at
the table. And he made haste to supply the young woman with oysters; but
she did not wait for him to select them for her; she put them out of
sight with wonderful rapidity, then held out her glass, saying:
“White wine, please; I’m very fond of white wine too.”
Chérubin filled her glass with a white wine from a bottle which had been
supplied with a long cork, to give it the appearance of sauterne; but it
looked as if it were not drinkable with anything but oysters.
The young man considered that they were very badly served, generally
speaking: the plates were the commonest china, the covers had not the
ring of silverware, and the linen was very far from being fine. The
wine, too, despite its yellow seal, seemed to him decidedly poor; but
his conquest thought it delicious; she swallowed oysters, emptied her
glass, called for more oysters and held out her glass to be filled,
without any perceptible interval. Chérubin could not keep up with her;
not until there were no more oysters on the table did Mademoiselle
Chichette conclude to make a little pause.
“I will call the little concierge and tell him to take these things
away,” said Chérubin.
“No, no, I’ll take ‘em away myself!” replied Chichette; she rose, and
with a turn of the hand cleared the table of plates and shells, and
brought two of the covered dishes. The young man tried in vain to
prevent the lady from performing that task; she would not listen to
him, and did not resume her seat until it was all done.
“Mon Dieu! how it distresses me to see you take all this trouble, madame
la comtesse!” said Chérubin; “but you seem to have been brought up to
household duties. In Poland, young ladies receive a less frivolous
education, I see, than in France; and your noble parents did not disdain
to teach you these little domestic details. They are dead,
doubtless--your noble parents?”
“Yes, yes! Let’s talk about something else! Let’s see what’s in this
dish. Ah! how good it smells! It’s rabbit! Oh! I’m so fond of rabbit!”
Chérubin did not fully agree with his inamorata; he did not like rabbit
himself, and he found that the breakfast which had been ordered for him
did not at all resemble what he ordinarily ate at restaurants in Paris.
But his companion was much less particular than he; she helped herself
to the rabbit and seemed to enjoy it hugely; she even exclaimed from
time to time:
“It’s mighty well fricasseed!”
Chérubin offered her some wine with a different seal. Chichette drank
red as well as white, then uncovered another dish, and shouted, leaping
up and down in her chair:
“Ah! chowder! Oh! I’m glad of that! I’m so fond of chowder!”
“It seems to me that she’s fond of everything!” thought Chérubin; “she
certainly has been very well brought up; she doesn’t play the prude!”
Chichette voted the chowder delicious; she helped herself several times
without waiting for Chérubin to offer it; she was particularly
enthusiastic over the sauce; finally she began to lick her plate,
unwilling apparently to leave the least particle of the sauce which she
liked so much.
The young man was thunderstruck when he saw the Comtesse de Globeska put
her plate to her mouth and run her tongue over it; but he concluded that
custom in Poland permitted such behavior. When Chichette noticed that
her companion was watching her, she realized that she had made a
blunder, and instantly replaced her plate on the table, saying:
“Oh! that was just a joke! I won’t ever do it again! But let’s see
what’s under that other cover.”
Chichette uncovered the last dish, which contained fried fish. She
uttered a joyful exclamation:
“Ah! gudgeons! fried gudgeons! Oh! I’m so fond of fried fish!”
“I am delighted, madame, that you find all these things to your taste,”
said Chérubin, serving his charmer to gudgeons; “but really you are not
hard to suit; to me it seems that our breakfast is not worthy of you.
Evidently there are no good restaurants in this quarter.”
“Oh, yes, yes! at La Courtille.”
“At La Courtille! I don’t know that place; did your husband take you
there to dinner sometimes?”
“My husband! Oh! let’s talk about something else. I’d like something to
drink; gudgeons make you thirsty in a minute.”
Chérubin hastened to supply his guest with a wine decorated with a
different seal, which she drank and declared excellent. The young man
would have liked to lead the conversation back to his love, but his
conquest was so busily engaged in eating and drinking that he dared not
divert her from an occupation in which she seemed to take so much
pleasure; and then he recalled his breakfast with Madame Célival and
said to himself:
“I ate heartily to drive away my bashfulness. Perhaps this pretty Pole
is doing the same; but God grant that she doesn’t end as I did!”
When there was no more fish, they passed to the dessert, which was very
modest, consisting only of biscuit, cheese and dried fruit. Again
Chérubin anathematized the restaurant keeper; but Chichette continued to
declare everything excellent; she stuffed herself with figs, raisins,
and biscuit; she drank several glasses in succession to wash it all
down; and at last she stopped eating and leaned against the back of her
chair.
“It’s strange,” she said, “but I’m not a bit hungry now.”
“It would be much stranger if she were!” thought the young man, as he
moved away from the table in order to approach his companion.
Having placed his chair close beside Chichette’s, he ventured to take
her hand.
“How fortunate I am,” he said in a hesitating tone, “to be--to be with
you! What a lucky chance it was that led me to the theatre where you
were; for, but for that, I should never have met you; and yet, my
friend, the gentleman who was with me that evening says that we were
born for each other.--Do you think that, madame?”
Chichette rose hurriedly, saying:
“I am rather full; it’s funny, for I didn’t eat very much.”
She walked several times around the room. Chérubin went to her and said:
“Do you feel ill?”
“Oh, no! it will pass off.”
Chichette sat down again, not on her chair, but on an old couch, covered
with spots, the cushions of which looked as if they were stuffed with
chips. The girl stretched herself out on it, however.
“I say, this is mighty comfortable,” she said.
Chérubin gazed amorously at her and cried:
“Oh, yes! there certainly was sympathetic attraction in our meeting. My
tutor, Monsieur Gérondif, explained it to me once. He took a little
piece of agate, rubbed it hard on his coat sleeve, then held it toward a
straw, and the straw instantly jumped at the stone and clung to
it.--‘Thus the magnet attracts iron,’ said my tutor; ‘thus sympathy
draws together two hearts that were made to love and understand each
other.’--Ah! madame, I am not a Pole, but I love you as dearly--more
dearly, perhaps; for my inexperienced heart feels a craving for love,
and if--and if----”
Chérubin paused, because it seemed to him that his words were
accompanied by a dull, rumbling sound. That sound came from the couch.
He had noticed that his pretty companion closed her eyes while he was
speaking, but he supposed that it was from modesty. However, desirous to
learn the cause of the noise he heard, he approached the young woman and
saw with surprise that she was not only asleep, but was snoring heavily.
The unfortunate lover gazed for some time at his sleeping enslaver; but
the snoring became louder with every instant; ere long it was like the
breath of a forge bellows, and Chérubin gradually drew away; he felt
that his amorous desires were vanishing; for a woman who is snoring like
a Swiss inspires infinitely less passion than one whose breathing is
soft and light.
Chérubin seated himself on a chair.
“She is asleep,” he said to himself; “she is even snoring. Evidently my
remarks did not interest her much, as she went right off to sleep while
she was listening to me! It’s very strange! This young woman has such
manners and uses such language--If Daréna hadn’t assured me that she was
a Polish countess, I should have thought her something very different.
The idea of going to sleep while I was talking to her about my love! If
that’s the way she is mad over me!--Great heaven! what snoring!
Jacquinot used to snore, but not so loud as that. Perhaps I ought to
wake her--and kiss her; but she is sleeping so soundly, it would be too
bad. And then, I believe that listening to that monotonous noise is
putting me to sleep too.”
Chérubin dropped his head on the back of his chair; he closed his eyes,
and in a moment, he was in the same condition as Mademoiselle Chichette,
except that he did not snore.
Let us leave the young couple asleep, and see what the engineers of this
whole intrigue were doing.
On leaving Chérubin, Daréna had gone in search of his friend Poterne,
who, still dressed as a Polish count, was waiting for him at a
restaurant in Ménilmontant. The two gentlemen sat down to breakfast and
discussed their plot.
“It goes as if it were on wheels,” said Daréna. “Chérubin is now with
the girl, whom he thinks that I kidnapped for him! I trust that
Chichette won’t make any slips of the tongue. But no matter! with that
accent of hers, anything will go; and besides, a lover never pays any
attention to idioms!”
“Was my little Bruno at his post?”
“Yes; he is supposed to be the concierge’s son. That boy has the look of
a famous scamp.”
“He has a lot of intelligence; he’ll go a long way!”
“So I believe.”
“Besides, for the last act of our comedy, it will be better to have
nobody there but a boy, who won’t interfere with us at all. And then,
too, it will be much more probable that I was able to force my way into
the house, if there’s nobody but a boy to guard it; for we must strike
the great blow now. A few thousand-franc notes, by the way, are all
right; but they’re gone too soon. We have an opportunity to obtain a
good round sum and we mustn’t let it slip; it won’t come again.”
“You are perfectly right, Poterne. What we are going to do to-day is not
strictly honorable; but, after all, the little fellow is rich; sixty
thousand francs won’t ruin him.”
“You don’t want me to ask for more?”
“Oh, no! we mustn’t flay him. It’s understood then--in two hours you
will go to the house.”
“Why not earlier?”
“My dear Poterne, how impatient you are! we must give the lovers time to
breakfast and to abandon themselves to the joys of love. Deuce take it!
everybody must amuse himself, after all; and consider, Poterne, that by
leaving them together longer, you will inevitably take them _in
flagrante delicto!_ That is much the shrewder way. You are supposed to
be the husband; your wife has been spirited away, and you find her in
her ravisher’s arms; you bellow and roar and swear that you will kill
them both--your wife especially! Chérubin pleads for mercy for her, and
you refuse to accord it unless he signs notes of hand for sixty thousand
francs.--You have some stamped paper, haven’t you?”
“Oh! I have all that I need. But suppose the young marquis defends
himself, suppose he refuses to sign?”
“Nonsense! a mere boy! You must threaten him with prosecution for
abducting your wife; you will have your dagger, and you can still
insist on killing her; Chérubin is too generous not to try to save her.”
“I agree with you there.”
“In all this, Monsieur Poterne, take good care not to hurt anybody! Your
dagger isn’t sharp, I trust?”
“Oh, no! there’s no danger.”
“And when you speak, assume some kind of an accent, so that he won’t
recognize you.”
“I will be careful, and I will do a great deal in pantomime.”
Everything being arranged, the gentlemen breakfasted and conversed at
great length; ordered a pipe and cigars, and smoked to pass the time
away.
More than two hours passed. Poterne replaced his green spectacles on his
nose, saying:
“Now I can go and finish up our business.”
He rose; Daréna did the same.
“Yes, it is time; let us go.”
“But I don’t need you,” said Poterne; “besides, you mustn’t go into the
house with me, it would be imprudent. If Chérubin should see you, he
would call on you to help him.”
“I know all that, you old sharper; but you don’t imagine, I presume,
that I am going to let you go off all alone with notes for sixty
thousand francs in your pocket? No, my dear fellow, I love you too
dearly to lose sight of you. I propose to watch you into the house; I
know that it has but one door; I shall keep my eye on that door, and if
it should occur to you to run away too fast, I promise you that you will
soon be overtaken.”
“Oh! monsieur le comte! you have suspicions that hurt me terribly!”
“Why, no, it’s simply _savoir-vivre_, it’s the way of the world, that’s
all! Off we go.”
The two worthies passed the city wall to the outer boulevards, and
walked toward Barrière de la Chopinette. When they were within three
hundred feet of the house where he had left Chérubin, Daréna stopped and
said to his companion:
“Now, go on alone, illustrious Poterne, and manage the business
gracefully; remember that the whole thing must be carried through with
the courtesy and formality which betray men of breeding.”
Poterne went on to the house and knocked softly at the door, which Bruno
opened.
“Are they upstairs?” queried Poterne in a low voice.
“Yes.”
“Have they had their breakfast?”
“It went up more’n two hours ago.”
“And they haven’t called since?”
“Not a call; and they don’t even make any noise--you can’t hear ‘em
move.”
“All right.”
Poterne pulled his enormous hat over his eyes, made sure that his
spectacles were secure, stuffed bunches of flax into his mouth to fill
out his cheeks, and walked toward the stairs. He stole cautiously up,
reached the door, saw the key outside, and said to himself:
“How imprudent lovers are! what a childish trick!”
He turned the knob softly, then rushed into the room, shouting:
“Ah! traitor! guilty wife! I have caught you! You must die!”
Poterne expected shrieks of despair, as he had arranged with Chichette;
but, hearing nothing at all, he walked farther into the room and was
thunderstruck to see the lovers sound asleep at an extremely respectful
distance from each other.
“Sapristi!” said Poterne to himself; “and I hoped to catch ‘em in
flagrante--as monsieur le comte said. They are amusing themselves by
sleeping! If that’s the way the young man makes love! Chichette must
have made some stupid blunder. But no matter! I must act; besides, I
surprise them together, that’s the main thing; and if they’re asleep,
it’s because it suits them to sleep.”
Thereupon Poterne began to rush about the room with shrieks and
imprecations. He pulled Chichette’s ear and she awoke; he pinched her
arm and she shrieked with him. Chérubin opened his eyes and saw that
man, whom he recognized as the Comte de Globeski, storming and
blaspheming and drawing from his breast a sort of dagger with which he
threatened the young woman. Chérubin realized at once that his charmer’s
husband had run them to earth. He trembled and turned pale, and
faltered:
“O mon Dieu! we are lost!--Don’t kill her, monsieur, I entreat you! Kill
me rather--although I have respected your wife’s honor.”
“Yes, yes, I will have my revenge, _per Diou!_ Bigre! Ah! you think,
villain, to steal my wife from me!” screamed Poterne, stamping on the
floor. “_Tarteiff sacre mein Herr!_ On the high road--stop my cab--no,
my carriage.--Ah! madame, you shall die by my hand--on the honor of a
Polish count!”
Chichette did not seem greatly alarmed; she continued to yawn and rub
her eyes; Poterne passed her and pinched her with more force; whereupon
she gave a loud yell and exclaimed:
“Oh! how stupid that is! I don’t want you to do such things to me!”
Poterne began to roar so that Chérubin might not hear what Chichette
said. He brandished his dagger with one hand, while with the other he
stuffed the flax back into his mouth, whence it had almost escaped. But
Chérubin had lost his head; the presence of that man, whose wife he
believed that he had abducted, his outcries, his oaths, and the dagger
he was brandishing, terrified the young man beyond words. Poterne,
seeing that he was in a condition to submit to whatever terms he might
impose, took the notes from his pocket, placed them on the table, found
a pen and inkstand and presented them to Chérubin.
“If you wish to save this guilty woman, god dem!” he said, “there is
only one way to appease my wrath.”
“Oh! speak, monsieur, command--All you choose.”
“Fill out these notes of hand--here are four of them--make them
twenty-five thousand francs each. _Per Diou!_ that is too _poco!_”
“Notes of hand--for a hundred thousand francs?”
“Yes, signor.”
“Oh! you want me to----”
“If you hesitate, sapermann! I will kill this guilty wife of mine, I
will kill you, I will kill everyone in the house--fichtre!--and then
myself.”
“Oh! no, no, I do not hesitate, monsieur. I will make them for whatever
sums you say.”
“Good! then you will make them for thirty thousand francs each.--Come!
write and sign--_per Dio!_”
Chérubin seated himself at the table; he took the pen in his trembling
hand and cast a sorrowful glance at his conquest, who had thrown herself
on the couch, where he believed that she had swooned, whereas she was
simply trying to go to sleep again. But Poterne returned to his side,
ground his teeth and swore blood-curdling oaths. The young lover at once
began to write; he had already filled out the body of one note, and was
about to sign it, when they heard a loud noise below; then steps
rapidly ascended the stairs, the door was thrown open, and Monfréville
appeared, followed by old Jasmin, who uttered a cry of joy at sight of
his master.
“Ah! here he is!” he cried; “God be praised! they have not destroyed
him!”
Chérubin felt as if he were born again when he saw his friend; he threw
himself into his arms, while Monfréville, observing his confusion and
bewilderment and pallor, asked him:
“Great God! my dear fellow, what are you doing here, in this house--this
den of thieves, to which a little rascal refused to admit me?”
“Ah! my friend, the fact is that--that I have been very guilty!”
Chérubin replied in a voice broken by sobs. “I abducted madame--this
gentleman’s wife; that is to say, it wasn’t I who did it--Daréna
abducted her for me. Monsieur is a Polish count, and he insisted that I
should give him my notes for a hundred and twenty thousand francs, or
else he would kill his wife! Ah! how glad I am to see you!”
While Chérubin was speaking, Poterne, who was very ill at ease, tried to
sidle toward the door; but Jasmin had stationed himself in front of it,
after taking pains to lock it.
As he listened to his young friend, Monfréville looked about the room in
keen scrutiny. He examined Mademoiselle Chichette and the supposititious
outraged husband, who acted as if he wished to crawl under the table.
Chérubin had no sooner finished speaking than Monfréville ran up to
Poterne, snatched off his hat and spectacles, and raised his cane
threateningly.
“This creature a Polish count!” he exclaimed; “why, it’s that vile
Poterne, the agent of that contemptible knave Daréna! They plotted
together this infamous scheme to extort money from you!--Ah! I am
strongly tempted to break my cane over this cur’s shoulders!”
“Poterne!” cried Chérubin; “is it possible? Poterne!”
“Why, yes,” said Jasmin, “it’s the dealer in preserves and dogs and
turtles. Ah! my dear master, I suspected that they meant to take you in
again; and that that man who called me an old donkey was fixing up some
treacherous scheme to catch you.”
When he saw Monfréville’s cane in the air, Poterne fell on his knees.
“Mercy, monsieur,” he faltered, “all this was only a joke--nothing else;
it was a comedy!”
“A jest, you villain! But your notes of hand were properly stamped! Oh!
we know now what you are capable of, you and your worthy friend, Comte
Daréna, who has fallen low enough now to blush at nothing, and in whose
eyes all methods of procuring money are all right. We agree not to treat
you as you deserve. Go and join your confederate, and tell him that this
young man is able now to judge him as he is, and that if he should ever
presume to show his face at the hôtel de Grandvilain, the servants will
be instructed to turn him out.”
“Yes, indeed, I will undertake to do it!” said Jasmin. “He called me an
old ruin too! but an honest ruin is worth more than a sharper in perfect
repair.”
Monsieur Poterne did not wait to hear any more; he picked up his hat and
spectacles, hastily opened the door, and fled; but he was not so quick
that he did not receive the toe of Jasmin’s boot in his posterior; and
the old servant said to him at the same time: “There, you thief; take
that for your preserves!”
Monfréville walked toward Chichette, who had remained on the couch,
without speaking or moving; he could not help smiling at her expression.
“And you, madame la comtesse,” he said, “in what shop do you usually
work?”
“I make Italian straw hats on Rue de Grenétat. It wasn’t my fault; they
promised me a lot of money if I’d make believe I was monsieur’s wife;
and I consented so I could put it by and marry my little pays.”
Mademoiselle Chichette drew her handkerchief and looked as if she were
going to weep; but Monfréville reassured her by saying:
“I have nothing against you, my girl; don’t cry, and go back to your
Italian straw hats. But believe me, it is much better for one in your
trade to dance the cancan than to play the great lady.”
Mademoiselle Chichette blew her nose, made several curtsies, then left
the room with a shamefaced air, not venturing to glance at Chérubin.
“And now, my friend,” said Monfréville to the young marquis, “I think
that we too may quit this wretched barrack. I believe that there is
nothing to detain us here longer.”
“Oh, no! and I am so happy, my dear Monfréville, after having such a
terrible fright! I will tell you the whole story; but first tell me how
you succeeded in learning that I was here, and how you happened to
arrive so opportunely.”
“That’s easily done; do you see that cab at the door?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the same one that brought you here. I called at your house after
you left; I found Jasmin very uneasy; he told me that you had gone away
in a cab with Daréna, whose frequent visits of late, together with his
air of mystery, had aroused my suspicions! I asked Jasmin if he had
called the carriage himself, and when he said yes, I asked him to take
me to the cabstand. There we waited more than two hours for your cab to
return. It appeared at last. I gave the driver twenty francs and told
him to take us to the place to which he had taken you; he asked nothing
better, and he brought us to this house. Knaves are very shrewd, my dear
boy, but luckily there is a concealed power shrewder than they, who
defeats the most cunningly devised schemes at the moment when their
authors deem themselves most certain of impunity. Some call that power
Providence, others chance, fatality, destiny, luck. I don’t know what
name to give it, but I bow before it and am only too glad to believe
that, if there are people here on earth inclined to do evil, there is a
power on high, ever on the watch to prevent or repair it.”
Chérubin pressed Monfréville’s hand affectionately; then they left the
house on the outer boulevard, which even little Bruno had abandoned, for
they saw no sign of anybody. They entered the cab with Jasmin, upon whom
they were almost obliged to use force, because the old fellow insisted
on riding behind.
When they reached home, Chérubin told Monfréville how Daréna had managed
the affair, and how he had urged him above all things to preserve the
most absolute secrecy about it.
“I am not surprised,” said Monfréville, “that he urged you not to
mention it to me; he knew that I would not be taken in by the story of a
Polish countess who was anxious to be abducted by a young man whom she
had seen just once, at the theatre.”
“He said that you set yourself up now as a man of strict virtue, to make
people forget your former conduct; he declared that you used to be
famous for your love-affairs, your conquests, and that your principles
then were much less severe than they are to-day.--Forgive me--I am only
repeating what he said.”
Monfréville’s brow had grown dark; his face wore an expression of deep
sorrow, and he was silent for some time. At last, fixing his eyes upon
Chérubin’s, he said in a melancholy tone:
“It is true, my friend, that in my youth I did many foolish things, and
I have some serious faults with which to reproach myself. But I was so
cruelly punished that I was cured in good season. That does not prevent
me from being indulgent to others, because I am well aware that it is a
part of our nature to be subject to passions and weakness, and to be led
astray by them sometimes. Some day, Chérubin, I will tell you a story of
my young days, which has had an influence on my whole life. You will see
that these love-affairs, which we treat so cavalierly at twenty,
sometimes have very bitter results.”
“Thus far,” said Chérubin, with a sigh, “I haven’t been lucky in my
love-affairs, and my amorous adventures have not afforded me much
enjoyment!”
XXV
A GRAND DINNER
After Monsieur de Noirmont expressed in such decided terms his
resolution with respect to Louise, Ernestine’s mother said not a word to
indicate that she still thought of dismissing the young woman; on the
contrary it seemed that, having made up her mind to submit to her
husband’s desire, Madame de Noirmont had recovered from her apparent
prejudice against Louise. She still treated her with a coldness which
sometimes approached severity; but the tone of her voice, sharp and curt
at first, often softened so far as to seem almost affectionate. One
would have said that she was vanquished by the charm with which the
girl’s whole personality was instinct, by her timid obedience, by the
eagerness with which she waited on her mistress, so that the latter was
sometimes, in spite of herself, drawn on to love her.
Louise did not know that Madame de Noirmont had thought of sending her
away. Ernestine and her father alone were aware of the circumstance, and
the former, when she learned that her mother’s determination would not
be carried out, had concluded that it would be useless to mention it to
Louise, that it would grieve her to learn that she was so far from
having succeeded in winning her mistress’s favor by her zeal, that that
mistress had intended to dismiss her. As for Monsieur de Noirmont, after
making his wishes known, he was not the man to mention such domestic
matters to anybody on earth.
But a thing that was easily noticed, and that Louise saw, together with
all the rest of the household, was that Madame de Noirmont became more
depressed and gloomy every day. A smile never appeared on her lips; she
avoided society; visits annoyed her and were a burden to her; spending
almost all the time in her apartment, she ordered the servants to say
that she was out, or not feeling well, so that she might not be
disturbed in her solitude; even her daughter’s presence seemed sometimes
to oppress and irritate her. The sweet-tempered Ernestine, who had done
nothing to forfeit her mother’s affection, was sometimes very much
distressed at being treated so coldly by her; when she went to Madame de
Noirmont, to kiss her, she would push her away impatiently, or receive
with listless indifference the marks of her affection; thereupon the
girl would turn away, forcing back the tears which rose to her eyes, but
which she would not allow to appear, for fear of angering her mother.
Louise, seeing her young mistress furtively wipe her eyes, would say to
her:
“You are unhappy, mademoiselle, and I am very sure that it’s because
your mamma hasn’t kissed you for some time past.”
Whereupon Ernestine would reply, with a deep sigh:
“That is true; I don’t know what mamma can have against me; it’s of no
use for me to try to think what I can have done to displease her; I
can’t remember anything. But for some time she hasn’t called me her dear
child or taken me in her arms. It isn’t possible, though, that she
doesn’t love me, is it, Louise? It’s her health that makes her like
this; her nerves are out of order; she doesn’t complain, but I am
perfectly sure that she is sick; besides, anyone can see that she has
changed a great deal lately.”
“That is true, mademoiselle, I have noticed it too. Yes, you are right,
it’s because madame isn’t well that she is more melancholy and doesn’t
caress you so much. But why don’t you send for the doctor?”
“Several times I have said to mamma: ‘You are pale, you must be
suffering; you ought to send for Monsieur Derbaut, our doctor;’ but
mamma always answers in a provoked tone: ‘Nothing’s the matter with me;
it’s useless to have the doctor, I don’t need him.’”
The two girls exchanged their ideas thus, seeking a way to make
themselves useful, one to her mother, the other to her mistress; for
they both loved Madame de Noirmont, despite the harshness and
capriciousness of her temper, which so often made her unjust; Ernestine
loved her with all the clinging affection of a child who refuses to see
her mother’s faults; Louise with a respectful devotion which would have
led her joyfully to undertake the most painful task, if it would have
earned her a smile from her mistress.
But Madame de Noirmont seemed carefully to avoid giving Louise any
opportunity to wait upon her; only in her husband’s presence, and when
it was impossible for her to do otherwise, would she give her an order
or two, or take something from her hand. The young lady’s maid, who
would gladly have anticipated her mistress’s slightest wish, sometimes
followed her with her eyes, in the hope of making herself useful to her;
but if Madame de Noirmont caught Louise’s glance fastened upon her, her
own expression would become sterner, and she would instantly motion to
her to leave the room.
One day, madame was in her room, as usual, holding a book of which she
read very little, because her thoughts absorbed her so completely that
she could give no attention to anything else. Ernestine was seated at a
little distance, embroidering, and from time to time glancing furtively
at her mother, in the hope of meeting her eyes and of obtaining from her
a smile, which had become a very infrequent favor. Madame de Noirmont
turned to her and said, holding out the book:
“Ernestine, bring me the second volume of this; you will find it in the
library, on the second shelf at the left.”
The girl rose quickly, took the book and left the room, eager to obey
her mother. Having found the volume for which Madame de Noirmont had
asked her, she was about to take it to her, when she found her
drawing-master, who had just arrived, waiting for her in the salon.
Ernestine gave Louise the book and told her to take it to her mother;
then she sat down by her teacher to take her lesson.
Louise took the book and went to her mistress’s room. When she was about
to turn the knob, she felt that she was trembling; she was so afraid of
offending Madame de Noirmont, who had not sent her on that errand.
However, she went in.
Madame de Noirmont was seated, her head fallen forward on her breast.
She did not raise her eyes when she heard the door open, for she had no
doubt that it was Ernestine; and Louise reached her side and handed her
the book without daring to utter a word.
But at that moment, impelled by an outburst of maternal affection, she
took the hand that offered the book and squeezed it in her own,
murmuring:
“My poor love, you must have thought me most unjust to you of late, and
you think perhaps that I no longer love you! Do not think that, my
child; I still love you as dearly as I ever did; but you cannot
understand what is taking place in my heart, and what I suffer. No, you
will never know----”
At that moment she raised her head and drew the girl toward her, meaning
to kiss her. Not until then did she recognize Louise. She was speechless
and motionless with surprise; a terrified expression appeared on her
face, from which all the blood receded, and she raised her eyes to
heaven, faltering:
“O mon Dieu! and I called her my child!”
“Forgive me, madame, forgive me,” murmured Louise, terribly alarmed at
her mistress’s condition. “It was not my fault, it was mademoiselle who
sent----”
Madame de Noirmont struggled to master her emotion, and rejoined in a
sharp, stern tone:
“Why did you come into my room? Did I call you? Why are you here? To try
to surprise my thoughts, my secrets?”
“O madame--mon Dieu! can you believe it?”
“Have I not constantly found your eyes fastened on me of late,
mademoiselle--following, watching my slightest movements? What makes you
act so? Have you some hidden motive? Come, speak, mademoiselle.”
“If I have offended you, madame, it was entirely without intention; if
my eyes have sometimes rested on you, it is because I would have been
happy to anticipate some wish of yours, to do something that would
please you, to earn a word or a kind look from you; that was my motive,
when I ventured to look at you. And then too it was a joy to me, madame;
but I will do without it, since you forbid it.”
Louise bent her head before her mistress; she was almost on her knees,
and her voice trembled so that she could hardly finish what she was
saying.
Madame de Noirmont seemed deeply moved; one would have said that a
conflict was raging in the depths of her heart; she rose, paced the
floor, walked away from Louise, then toward her. She gazed at her for a
long, very long time, but not with a stern expression; her eyes were
filled with tears. Suddenly she ran to the girl, who had remained on the
same spot, with downcast eyes and afraid to take a step; she took her
hand and drew her toward her--but almost instantly pushed her away
again, saying sharply:
“Go, mademoiselle, go; I have no further need of you.”
Louise obeyed. She left the room, saying to herself:
“Mon Dieu! what is the matter with her, and what have I done to her?”
A week after this incident, Monsieur de Noirmont informed his wife that
he proposed to give a great dinner. He named the persons whom he had
invited, fifteen in number, and added:
“I had an idea of inviting young Marquis Chérubin de Grandvilain too;
but I asked him to come to see me, and he has never come; and so, as he
has not shown the slightest desire to associate with an old friend of
his father, we will not have him.”
Madame de Noirmont could not conceal the annoyance which the
announcement of that function caused her. But Monsieur de Noirmont
continued in a very curt tone:
“Really, madame, if I should leave you to follow your own desires, we
should have no company, we should live like owls. I am not a fool--a
devotee of pleasure; but still, I don’t propose to live like a hermit.
Besides, madame, we have a daughter, and it is our duty to think about
her welfare; before long it will be time to think of marrying her, of
finding a suitable match for her; meanwhile we must not keep her
sequestered from society, of which she is destined to be an ornament
some day. Poor Ernestine! you refuse every opportunity that offers to
take her to balls or receptions or concerts. You are ill, you say. I
cannot compel you to go out, madame; but, as your health confines you
constantly to the house, we will entertain; such is my present
determination, madame.”
Madame de Noirmont made no observation, for she was well aware that as
soon as her husband had made up his mind to do a thing, nothing could
divert him from his resolution; and Monsieur de Noirmont left her,
having requested her to give the necessary orders so that everything
might be ready for the dinner, which was appointed for the Thursday
following.
Madame de Noirmont resigned herself to the inevitable; when the day drew
near, she gave her orders and superintended the preparations for the
banquet. Ernestine, when she learned that they were to entertain many
guests and give a grand dinner, rejoiced greatly and looked forward to
it with the keenest pleasure. Pleasures and amusements had become so
rare in her life, that every departure from the customary monotony
seemed a blessing. Louise hoped that the dinner would afford her an
opportunity to make herself useful, to display her zeal, and she shared
her young mistress’s childlike joy.
At last the day came when the interior of that house, ordinarily so
placid, was to echo with the voices of a numerous company. From early
morning there was a great commotion in the Noirmont mansion; the master
of the house alone spent the day as usual, working tranquilly in his
study, awaiting the hour when the guests were to arrive; but Madame de
Noirmont issued orders, overlooked the preparations, made sure that
everything that she had ordered was at hand. Ernestine followed her
mother about, dancing and laughing, anticipating great pleasure for that
day.
“You must make yourself very lovely for the dinner,” she said to Louise,
“because you are to wait at table with Comtois; that is the custom when
we have company.”
“Never fear, mademoiselle,” replied Louise; “I don’t know whether I
shall be lovely, but I promise to do my best to wait at table well, so
that madame your mother will be content with me.”
But, a few moments before it was time for the guests to arrive, Madame
de Noirmont said to her daughter:
“Ernestine, I don’t want your maid to wait at table; tell her that she
may remain in her room; we shall not need her.”
Ernestine could not understand her mother’s whim; she looked up at her
and said hesitatingly:
“But, mamma, usually, when we have company--you know----”
“I do not ask for your comments, my child; do what I tell you.”
Ernestine obeyed her mother; she went sadly to Louise’s room, where she
found her finishing her toilet.
“Do you like me in this dress, mademoiselle?” inquired Louise; “is it
suited to my position?”
“Oh! yes, yes, my poor Louise, you look very pretty!” replied Ernestine,
heaving a deep sigh; “but it was not worth while to take so much pains
with your toilet, for mamma doesn’t want you to wait at table; she says
that you can stay in your room.”
Louise’s face expressed the disappointment caused by that command;
however, she did not indulge in a single murmur.
“I will obey, mademoiselle,” she replied; “doubtless madame your mother
has good reasons for wishing me not to do it. Ala! I am afraid that I
can guess them: she doesn’t like to see me; my presence annoys her; I
will obey, she shall not see me.”
Ernestine did not feel equal to contradicting her; for, knowing that her
mother had once intended to dismiss Louise, she believed that the girl
had guessed aright. She simply pressed her hand, then left her, because
the time had come when the guests would probably begin to arrive.
Monsieur de Noirmont had invited more men than ladies; however, the wife
of a certain advocate arrived with her husband; she was a tall, large
woman, of much pretension, very fond of listening to herself talk, but,
to balance matters, little inclined to listen to others.
Another lady, young and rosy and affable, formed a striking contrast to
the first; she was the wife of a solicitor, who had just married in
order to pay for his office. The advocate had married the tall lady so
that he could afford to wait for clients. In society nowadays a marriage
is a matter of business, seldom of sympathetic sentiments.
A few serious men, two young exquisites, and Monsieur Trichet, whom we
have met before at Madame Célival’s, completed the party. Monsieur de
Noirmont received his guests with his customary phlegmatic manner.
Madame de Noirmont, who had made the best of it and had resigned herself
to receive all that company, tried not to allow her ennui to appear; she
did the honors of her salon with much grace; she forced herself to
smile; she was able, when she chose, to address a pleasant word to each
guest; and they were all the more pleased because they were not used to
it.
Ernestine recovered her spirits when she saw that her mother seemed to
have recovered hers; at her age small vexations are soon forgotten; she
loved company, and of late she had had so few opportunities to enjoy
herself, that she joyfully seized every one that presented itself. As
the young lady of the house, she listened to those complimentary remarks
which it is not safe to believe, but which are always pleasant to the
ear. They said that she had grown and improved; they did not say it to
her, but they said it to her parents loud enough for her to hear. Madame
de Noirmont listened indifferently to the compliments paid to her
daughter, but Monsieur de Noirmont was enchanted by them.
Monsieur Trichet was the same as always: talking all the time,
determined to know everything, taking part in every conversation, and
with his ear always on the alert to hear what was being said in all the
corners of the salon; that man was kept very busy in company.
Comtois announced that dinner was served, and the whole company
adjourned to the dining-room. They took their seats and began to eat,
with the silence of good breeding, which is sometimes maintained until
the dessert.
The first course was still in progress when Monsieur de Noirmont, not
being served quickly enough, looked about the room and said to Comtois:
“Where is the maid? why is she not assisting you? I am not surprised
that the service is so slow! What is she doing, pray? Didn’t you tell
her that she was to wait at table?”
Comtois was sadly embarrassed; when he called Louise, she told him what
orders she had received from her mistress. He twisted his tongue about,
and answered half audibly:
“Monsieur--I--madame said that--that it was unnecessary for----”
Monsieur de Noirmont did not allow Comtois to finish his sentence; he
rejoined shortly:
“Tell Louise to come at once; she must help you serve.”
Comtois did not wait for the order to be repeated, especially as he was
very glad, in the bottom of his heart, to have the girl assist him.
Madame de Noirmont looked at her plate and turned ghastly pale;
Ernestine gazed anxiously from her father to her mother; and Monsieur
Trichet, who had comments to make on everything, exclaimed:
“Ah! so you have a lady’s maid who doesn’t want to serve at table? You
are perfectly right to compel her to do it. Servants are amazing
nowadays! If we listened to them they would do nothing at all, and we
should pay them high wages! I am curious to see your lady’s maid.”
Louise’s arrival put an end to these remarks. The girl was much
embarrassed when she received the order sent through Comtois; she
hesitated to follow him at first, but Comtois said:
“You must come, mademoiselle; monsieur says so, and when he gives an
order, you must obey.”
So Louise decided to go with the valet. The thought that she was going
to vex her mistress by obeying her master’s commands caused her very
great distress; so that she entered the room with downcast eyes and with
her cheeks flushing hotly. But she was all the prettier so, and most of
the guests seemed impressed by her beauty.
“Upon my word,” said Monsieur Trichet, “this girl would have done very
wrong not to show herself! I have seen few servants so pretty.--What is
that you are saying, Monsieur Dernange? Oh! I hear you: you said: ‘A
Greek profile.’--True, very like it. But Greek or not, it is very
distinguished for the profile of a lady’s maid.”
The two young men did not make their reflections aloud, like Monsieur
Trichet, but they seemed not to weary of gazing at Louise, and they were
delighted to have their plates changed by her.
The tall, pretentious lady cast a disdainful glance at Louise and
muttered:
“I cannot understand how anyone can call a servant pretty!”
“That girl is fascinating!” cried the other lady; “and she has such a
modest air! Everything about her speaks in her favor.”
“Oho!” said Monsieur Trichet, “it isn’t safe to trust to such airs;
they’re often very deceptive. I know what I am talking about; I have had
two hundred maids, and they have all stolen from me.”
Madame de Noirmont made no reply to all these reflections inspired by
the sight of her pretty lady’s maid. But it was plain that she was
suffering, that she was holding herself back, that she was doing her
utmost to appear calm and amiable as before.
Ernestine was no longer in a merry mood, for she saw that something was
wrong with her mother.
As for Monsieur de Noirmont, content to be obeyed, he turned his
attention to his guests and did not observe his wife’s pallor.
The subject of conversation soon changed however, and Madame de Noirmont
was able to breathe a little more freely.
Louise performed her duty as well as she could, lowering her eyes when
she passed her mistress, not daring to look at her, and taking care
never to stand opposite her.
But suddenly Chérubin’s name fell on the girl’s ear. Monsieur Trichet,
speaking of a reception at the Comtesse de Valdieri’s, observed:
“The young Marquis de Grandvilain was not there. I have noticed too that
he doesn’t go to Madame Célival’s any more. That seems strange to me,
for everybody knows that the little marquis was making love to those
ladies; he is still too new at the game to conceal his feelings; he used
to stare at them too much--it was absurd.”
At that moment Louise had in her hands a plate of chicken with olives,
which she had been told to carry to the advocate’s tall wife. But when
she heard Chérubin’s name, Louise forgot what she was doing; she dropped
the plate on the pretentious lady’s shoulder, and a large portion of
chicken with olives fell on that lady’s dress.
“What a stupid idiot you are!” cried the tall lady, with a savage glance
at Louise. “If you don’t know how to pass a plate, you should stay in
your kitchen.”
Louise stood like a statue, confused and distressed. The men, thinking
her prettier than ever, tried to excuse her; Ernestine rose hastily and
wiped the lady’s dress, which it did not even occur to Louise to do. As
for Madame de Noirmont, when she heard Louise called stupid and an
idiot, her eyebrows contracted and her eyes shot fire for an instant;
she half rose, then fell back in her chair, as if she were dead.
Monsieur Trichet, who was beside her, exclaimed:
“Madame de Noirmont is certainly ill.--Do you feel ill, madame?”
“It is nothing, I hope,” said Madame de Noirmont, rising; “just an ill
turn; I will go and take a breath of air.”
Ernestine was already beside her mother; she supported her, gave her her
arm, and they left the dining-room together.
This episode caused Louise’s awkwardness to be forgotten, although the
tall lady continued to grumble about her dress; but nobody seemed to
listen to her. After ten minutes Madame de Noirmont returned to the
table. She was still very pale, but she insisted that she no longer
suffered. The dinner came to an end dismally enough; the accident that
had happened to the mistress of the house had dispelled all merriment.
They returned to the salon. The men conversed among themselves, and the
tall lady thought of nothing but her damaged gown. Madame de Noirmont
forced herself to smile as she listened to Monsieur Trichet; Ernestine
kept her eyes on her mother, and the young men looked frequently toward
the door, disappointed that the pretty lady’s maid did not appear again.
A game of whist was organized, but it was not kept up very long, and the
guests took their leave well before midnight, because Madame de Noirmont
was ill and must need rest.
It was two hours after midnight. All the members of Monsieur de
Noirmont’s household had long since withdrawn to their apartments, and
should have been buried in slumber. Louise, still excited by the
emotions of the day, had just closed her eyes, thinking of Chérubin, who
was said to have been in love with two women.
Suddenly someone opened the door of her room, and entered cautiously,
holding a light. Louise opened her eyes and recognized Madame de
Noirmont, in her night dress, as pale as she had been at dinner; she
walked to the bed after pausing to listen and make sure that no one was
following her.
“Mon Dieu! is it you, madame?” cried Louise; “can it be that you are
ill? that you need my services?--I will get up at once.”
“Stay where you are, and listen to me.”
As she spoke, Madame de Noirmont went to the door and closed it, then
returned to the bed, sat down beside it, took Louise’s hand and pressed
it in both of hers, saying in a broken voice:
“Louise, you must leave this house, unless you want me to die--to die of
grief. Oh! my suffering has been horrible! and I feel that I shall not
have the strength to endure it any longer.”
“What! can it be that I am the cause of your suffering, madame? Indeed I
will go; yes, be sure of it. Mon Dieu! if I had known it sooner, I would
have gone long ago and spared you much annoyance. Forgive me; for, far
from seeking to make you unhappy, I would give my life to prove my
zealous attachment to you. But no matter--I will go.”
“Poor Louise! then you do not hate me--me who have treated you so
harshly, who have never said a kind or gentle word to you?”
“Hate you, madame? Oh! that doesn’t seem possible to me; it seems to me
that it is my duty to love you.--Oh! pardon--I forget that I am only a
poor servant.”
“A servant--you! Ah! that is what is killing me, that is what I cannot
endure! You, a servant in my house! O my God! I was very guilty, I know,
since Thou hast inflicted this punishment on me; but to-day it was too
heavy.--Great heaven! what am I saying? I am losing my wits.--Louise, my
poor child, you have believed that I detested you, that that was the
reason why I was constantly trying to keep you away from me, have you
not?--Ah! if you could have read in the depths of my heart!”
“Is it possible, madame, that you do not dislike me? Oh! I am so glad!”
“Listen to me, Louise. You ought not to be a servant; you ought to be
rich and happy, poor girl! You have suffered enough for faults committed
by others; your lot will soon be changed. Here, take this letter which I
have just written, and hand it to the person whose name is on the
envelope, to whom you will go at once on leaving here. I do not know
where the--the person to whom I am sending you lives now, but you can
learn by going to Monsieur Chérubin de Grandvilain’s house; he is his
friend, and he will tell you at once where he lives. You know Monsieur
Chérubin’s house, do you not?”
“Oh, yes! I have been there twice, madame.--And the person to whom I am
to give this letter?”
“That person will--at least, I think so--restore you to your father.”
“To my father! O my God! What, madame! I shall find my parents? Do you
know them, madame?”
“Ask me nothing more, Louise; what I am doing now is a great deal. I
swore that I would never write to this person; but since I have seen
you, I have felt that it was wicked, very wicked, to deprive you of your
father’s caresses; for he will be happy to recover you! Oh, yes! I am
sure that he will surround you with love and care.”
“And my mother, madame--you say nothing of her? Shall I not see her too?
Oh! it would be so sweet to me to hold her in my arms!”
“Your mother? Oh, no! that is impossible; your father will conceal her
name from you--he must. If, however, he should disclose it, remember
that a heedless word would kill her!--But I have said enough. To-morrow,
at daybreak, before anyone in the house is up, you will go away; you
promise me that, Louise?”
“Yes, madame, I promise.”
“That is well; and now, kiss me.”
“May I?”
Madame de Noirmont’s only reply was to put her arms about Louise’s
waist, strain her to her heart, and hold her so a long time, covering
her with kisses. The poor girl was so happy that she thought that she
was dreaming, and she prayed heaven not to wake her.
But Madame de Noirmont, whose eyes were filled with tears, made a
superhuman effort, and extricating herself from the arms that enlaced
her, deposited one more kiss on the girl’s forehead and hurriedly left
the room, saying in a voice overflowing with affection:
“Do not forget anything of all that I have said to you!”
Louise lay in a sort of trance; the kisses she had received had made her
know such unalloyed happiness that she tried to prolong it; she dared
not reflect, or seek to solve the mystery of Madame de Noirmont’s
conduct; but she repeated again and again:
“She loves me! oh, yes! she loves me, for she held me to her heart a
long while, and she said: ‘Don’t forget anything that I said to
you!’--Ah! I shall never forget those words; I shall remember them all
my life.”
Louise did not close her eyes during the rest of the night. As soon as
the day began to break, she rose, dressed hastily, made a bundle of her
clothes, placed in her bosom the letter that Madame de Noirmont had
given her, and, softly opening the door, left her room, stole
noiselessly through several rooms to the staircase, and so down to the
courtyard; she knocked on the concierge’s window, he opened the gate,
and at daybreak she stood in the street.
XXVI
FEAR
Since his adventure with Chichette Chichemann, Chérubin had been less
quick to take fire; or, rather, he had begun to understand that what he
had taken for love was simply those desires which the sight of a pretty
woman arouses in a man’s heart; desires which are certain to be renewed
often in a wholly inexperienced heart, whose sensations have the charm
of novelty.
But the checks he had met with in his amorous essays had made Chérubin
even more shy and timid; instead of taking advantage of the lessons that
he had received to bear himself more gallantly in a tête-à-tête, poor
Chérubin was so afraid of being unfortunate or awkward again, that the
bare idea of an assignation almost made him tremble. On the other hand,
as love, at his age, is the first joy of life, the young marquis, not
knowing how he could procure that joy, became sad and melancholy. At
twenty years of age, with a noble name, a handsome fortune, with good
looks and a fine figure; in a word, possessed of everything that is
supposed to make a man happy, Chérubin was not happy; he lost his good
spirits and even his fresh coloring. He no longer had that bright, ruddy
complexion which people used to admire in him; for it is useless to try
to conceal the fact that, while excessive dissipation sometimes destroys
the health, excessive virtue may produce the same result; excess in
anything is to be deplored.
The young marquis no longer visited the Comtesse de Valdieri, or Madame
Célival, because the frigid greeting he received from those ladies was
equivalent to a dismissal; but he sometimes met them in society. When he
did, it seemed to him that all the ladies looked at him in a strange
fashion, that they whispered together and even went so far as to laugh
when he appeared. All this tormented and disturbed him; he told his
troubles to his friend Monfréville.
“Do you suppose that that little countess and Madame Célival have been
saying unkind things about me?” he said. “I don’t know what I have done
to them.”
“That is just the reason!” replied Monfréville, with a smile. “I beg
you, my young friend, do not persist in this apathy, which is ill-suited
to your years. You have everything that a man needs, to be agreeable to
the ladies; form other connections. Have three or four mistresses at
once, deceive them all openly, and your reputation will soon be
reëstablished.”
“That is very easy for you to say, my dear Monfréville, but, since my
misadventures, I am so afraid of being--er--awkward again with a woman,
that it makes me shudder beforehand. It is enough to kill one with shame
and despair! I prefer not to take the risk. And yet I feel that I am
terribly bored.”