CONVERSATION BY THE FIRESIDE
It was really for little Blanche that somebody was singing and
accompanying himself on the guitar. Lovers are the most imprudent of
mortals. Urbain in loving Blanche was experiencing love for the first
time, for he would have scorned to have given the name of love to those
momentary caprices of the fancy which are extinguished as soon as
gratified; and even at the early date at which we are writing, the young
men permitted themselves to have such whims; but when they loved truly
that lasted in those good old times, or so they say, much longer than it
does today, at least among the little shopkeepers. The great have always
had their privileges, in love as in everything else.
A first love causes one to commit many imprudences; but the second time
that one's heart is assailed by the tender passion, one has a little
more experience; and the third time, one knows how to hide his play. It
is necessary to become habituated to everything; and if women do not
invariably hold to their first love, are not invariably faithful to it,
it is only that they may acquire this habituation, and it would ill
become us to call it a crime in them.
But Urbain disturbed himself very little, as it will appear; he had
unceasingly before his eyes the face of the enchantress he had perceived
at the window, and he ardently desired to see her when there should be
nothing between them. What he had heard from the gossips of the
neighborhood had strengthened his hope and perhaps added to the feeling
he already experienced for her, for there was something romantic in the
history of the young orphan; extraordinary events inflame the
imagination, and that of a lover takes fire very easily.
But before seeking to surmount the obstacles which stood in the way of
gaining the one he loved it was first necessary to obtain her love,
without which all his plans could avail him nothing. One may brave the
jealousy of a rival, the watchfulness of a tutor, anger, vengeance, and
the daggers of a thousand Arguses; but one cannot brave the indifference
of the beloved object. Before that obstacle all prospects of happiness
vanish. A very much smitten lover wishes to find a heart which responds
to his own. That brutal love which is satisfied with the possession of
the body, without caring for that of the soul, could only exist among
the petty tyrants of former times, who plundered travellers and achieved
the conquest of women at the point of the sword; then, putting their
victims behind them on their horses, as a custom-house officer possesses
himself of contraband goods, went off to enjoy themselves with their
booty in the depths of their fastness, troubling themselves very little
that the unhappy creatures responded to their loathsome caresses only
with tears.
Today love is more delicate. Before everything, one desires to please;
and with his guineas the great lord wishes to touch the heart as well as
the hand of the pretty dancer; and he succeeds, because dancers
generally carry their hearts in their hands.
While taking his humble meal Urbain said to himself,--
"How shall I see her? How shall I make myself known to her?
Blanche--what a pretty name! and how well it suits her! But the barber
doesn't seem very tractable; his house is a veritable fortress. It is
necessary, before everything, that that charming girl should know that I
love her, that I adore her. This morning she listened to the musicians,
and appeared to be greatly pleased with the last romance they sang. I
know that romance; I'll go this evening and sing it under her window;
perhaps she will show herself; perhaps at night she opens her window to
take the air."
The air was a little nipping, for the season was severe; but a lover
always believes it is springtime. Delighted by the idea Urbain went
home to get his guitar, and waited impatiently, until the streets should
be deserted, to go and serenade a woman whom he did not know.
This Spanish custom was then much in fashion in France. There are still
some little towns where it is preserved, and where one may hear between
ten and eleven o'clock sentimental songs accompanied by the guitar; but
in the great capitals it is only the blind and the organ-grinders who
sing love in the streets.
The hour propitious to lovers having arrived, Urbain went to the Rue des
Bourdonnais; he had easily recognized the barber's house, having
specially noted it in the morning; a feeble light which shone between
the curtains of Blanche's window seemed to indicate that the young girl
was not yet sleeping, and, without reflecting that the other dwellers in
the house would hear him, Urbain had sung with the most tender
expression he could put in his voice.
We have seen what followed on this imprudence. At the sound of bolts
being drawn, the young man softly departed, and, hiding at the entrance
of the Rue des Mauvaises-Paroles, he heard the threats and the swearing
of Touquet.
"He's escaped," said the barber, reentering the lower room and angrily
throwing his sword on the table. These words seemed to break the charm
which held Rolande in his scabbard; and Chaudoreille, drawing his sword
suddenly, and making it flash in the air, ran precipitately into the
shop, crying,--
"And now, master singers, I'll let you see something fierce."
"Don't I tell you there's no one there," repeated Touquet, while
Chaudoreille appeared to wish to draw the bolts of the door. "I made too
much noise; the rascal heard me and ran off."
"Are you quite certain there's nobody there?" said Chaudoreille, still
brandishing his sword.
"Yes, quite sure."
"I have a great inclination to go into the street and satisfy myself as
to that."
"Do as you please about it; you are your own master."
"No; on reflection, I believe that would be a blunder; they may perhaps
come back; it will be better to let them approach without fear; then we
can fell suddenly upon them, and give them no quarter."
So saying, the chevalier put Rolande into the scabbard and returned to
the lower room, where he seated himself before the fire and again filled
his cup with wine, which he swallowed at one draught, to cool--so he
said--his anger.
The barber strode up and down; he was strongly agitated, and appeared to
have forgotten the presence of Chaudoreille, as he murmured at intervals
in a gloomy voice,--
"That which I feared has happened at last! That beautiful bud has been
seen, and they will all wish to cull it. They will seek to learn who she
is, where she comes from; there will be a thousand remarks, a thousand
inquiries, and who knows where that will lead? Bungling fellow that I
am! I well had need to guard the child. I believed I had made a master
stroke which would disarm all suspicion. I ought to have foreseen that
one day she would be sixteen, that she would be charming, and that in
order to possess her they would employ all the stratagems which I have
often used on behalf of others."
"My dear fellow," said Chaudoreille, carrying to his lips for the third
time a goblet filled to the brim, "my honest Touquet, if you don't want
to take care of the little one any longer, give her to me, and I'll
answer to you for it that no fop shall be allowed to see her face."
"What shall I give you?" said the barber, as if he had only just become
aware of Chaudoreille's presence. "What are you talking about? Answer
me!"
"Oh, by jingo, you were speaking of the young flower you have sheltered;
I heard you very plainly."
"You heard me!" cried Touquet, seizing Chaudoreille by the arm with
which he was holding his full cup; "and what did I say? What did you
hear? Speak, wretch! Speak, will you?"
"Take care! you're shaking my arm. Here's my doublet all stained with
wine now. What the deuce! You'll have to give me another."
"What have you heard?" repeated the barber in a threatening voice,
raising his closed fist on Chaudoreille, while with the other hand he
shook him so briskly by the arm that a great part of the wine covered
the jaws and neck of the chevalier.
"Nothing, nothing, I swear to you," murmured the latter, lowering his
eyes, so as to avoid the barber's gaze. "I only said to you that this
wine has a fine bouquet, and that if you wished to give me some bottles
to keep I should carefully guard it from all eyes. I believe that's what
I was saying; for, in truth, you've turned me upside down with your
irritable conduct, and I don't know what I'm saying."
Touquet loosened his hold of Chaudoreille's arm, as if ashamed of his
hasty movements, and, resuming his calmer tone, seated himself near the
latter.
"There are some things I wish to keep secret--not that they're of any
great importance; and, for the matter of that, I don't think that you
will ever allow yourself to prate about my affairs; you are too well
aware that my dagger would at once deprive you of the organ of which you
made such use."
"What the deuce do you suppose I could blab about you?" said
Chaudoreille, drying his face and his clothing with his little silk
handkerchief, and pinching his lips, as if doubting whether Touquet had
not already cut out his tongue. "You never tell me anything about your
business, and I'm not a man to invent the slightest untruth."
"I've told you what all the world knows,--that I have sheltered Blanche
since she had been left an orphan at my house, and that I know no more
than anyone else about her father or her family. She is now grown up and
pretty. Lovers will begin to come; that's what vexes me. They'll seek to
learn everything about this young girl, and assuredly they won't know
more about it than I am telling you. The one who was singing just now is
known to me; he came into my shop this morning, and stayed two hours, in
the hope that Blanche would appear. Do you hear me, Chaudoreille?"
"I hear you--if you wish me to," said the chevalier, continuing to rub
his doublet; "for I don't know if I should or if I should not hear you.
That shall be as you wish."
"I wish you weren't quite so foolish," said the barber, glancing
scornfully at his neighbor.
"No words of double meaning," answered Chaudoreille; "you know I don't
like them. This cursed wine stains, and for the moment I don't know
where to get another doublet."
"He's a mere child, a scholar, who has not yet a beard on his chin,"
said the barber after a moment's silence, which was only interrupted by
the rubbing of the handkerchief on the spots impregnated by wine. "He
shows the small experience he has had in love intrigues by coming to
sing before my door--in order to let me know who was there. The poor boy
has much need of a lesson."
"He certainly is not first-rate at the guitar.".
"I don't believe that he can be known to Blanche. No--but that romance
he was singing,--it's precisely the same as the one she mentioned to
me,--
My darling is all to me."
"That doesn't equal--
Thou hast lost thy fond dove too.
Zounds! what a difference in the melody!"
"No, Blanche is candor itself; she would not have spoken to me of that
romance had she known the young man. Why the devil haven't you taught
her something else besides that old rubbish of Louis the Twelfth's time?
If you had taught her to sing something pretty she would not have been
enraptured at the first romance sung by wandering minstrels."
"What do you say? Are you talking to me?" said Chaudoreille, raising his
head.
"Of course I am, since you call yourself a professor of singing."
"My dear Touquet, listen well to what I am going to say: I don't tease
you about your method of shaving beards, and don't you meddle with my
way of teaching music. Each one to his own trade. You know the proverb.
I teach my pupils nothing but masterpieces, and I'm not going to cram
their heads with the little gurglings of those miserable clowns who
travel from Naples here singing the same roulade."
"It's vexatious, then, that the young girls prefer these roulades to
your masterpieces. You gave Blanche a music lesson this morning, and she
tells me that you have wearied her with your villanelle."
"Had anyone but you told me that?" cried Chaudoreille, rising in
vexation. "I should have attributed it to jealousy. But it's getting
late; it's been a tiring day, and I must go to rest. If, however, you
wish me to remain here for fear the singers should return, I will
sacrifice my repose."
"No, no; it's unnecessary," said the barber, smiling. "They won't come
back; go to bed."
"You have no need of my services tomorrow evening, then?"
"No--however, if you like to be walking on the Pont de la Tournelle at
the hour agreed on, you could at any rate serve as a spy for us."
"Sufficient," said Chaudoreille, pulling his hat over his eyes; "you can
count on me in life and in death; I shall be at the rendezvous at the
exact hour, and Rolande shall be sharp. Good-by!"
So saying the chevalier passed through the passageway into the alley and
opened the door of the house. He thrust his head out into the street,
and, after glancing cautiously to the right and left, went on his way
like a stag who hears the sound of the chase.