am I not?"
"You are charming always--if only you would be a little more
sentimental! When I speak of my love, you change the subject."
"Why, no--for that Madame Plays has been your mistress, has she not?"
"No, I give you my word of honor."
"Come, come, don't lie about it! As if one could not detect such things
at once, however little one knows the world! Besides, Madame Plays made
no secret of it--quite the contrary; that husband of hers is so
obliging!"
"For heaven's sake, let us drop Madame Plays! I did not ask for a
tête-à-tête with you, to talk about her!"
"I fancy not. But her shawl is so pretty--and I thought that someone
said that you gave it to her."
"No, indeed! that is not true!"
"You won't admit it, of course--such a beautiful present! Were you so
very much in love with that woman?"
"Once more, madame, I assure you that you are mistaken."
"Very well--it is possible; I am willing to believe you. But, oh! what a
stunning shawl that is!"
Albert said nothing more. A thousand thoughts passed through his mind,
and his brow began to darken. Madame Baldimer, noticing it, became more
vivacious, more amiable, more tender, than ever; one would have said
that she feared that the passion she had aroused might disappear, and
that she was exerting herself to the utmost to prevent Albert's love
from escaping her. He was altogether bewildered by the cajoleries which
she lavished upon him; his hope that his flame was at last shared awoke
to new life; indeed, Madame Baldimer's conduct fully justified that
hope.
But at that moment the maid appeared in the doorway.
"Monsieur le Comte Dahlborne wishes to know if he may pay his respects
to madame?" she said.
"Why, of course; show him in," replied Madame Baldimer, with an air of
satisfaction; while Albert, whose features contracted when he heard the
count's name, exclaimed angrily:
"What! you propose to receive that foreigner? And I hoped that I was to
enjoy a tête-à-tête with you!"
"Have we not time enough to see each other again? The count was told
that I was in; to refuse to receive him would be discourteous."
"Ah! madame, if you had taken any pleasure in hearing me speak of my
love----"
"I do--but the world insists upon the observance of certain proprieties
which we cannot disregard. Besides, this foreigner is so gallant----"
"Too gallant with you, in my opinion, and his frequent visits----"
"Hush, here he is!"
Count Dahlborne entered the salon, with the stiff, formal, pretentious
air which he always maintained. He had several decorations in his
buttonhole, and all the manners of a person of good breeding; but his
long, surly face, even when he tried to be affable, seemed destined to
put pleasure and love to flight. However, Madame Baldimer greeted him
with a charming smile; he kissed her hand, bowed solemnly to Albert, and
seated himself in an armchair, like a wooden man moved by springs.
"It is very good of you, monsieur le comte, to think of coming to see
me," said the pretty widow, mincingly.
The Swede bowed, and replied with the utmost seriousness:
"Oh! I think of it all the time."
"You gentlemen who are in diplomacy, in politics, have very little time
to give to the ladies; so that they should be highly flattered when it
occurs to you to give a thought to them."
"Oh! I give many thoughts to them."
Albert could hardly restrain a smile at the Swede's phlegm and his
laconic utterances, and he did not say a word, being curious to see if
his conversation would continue in the same tone. But Madame Baldimer
was too shrewd not to try to make the count talk more freely. She
addressed him again.
"How did you like the last opéra-comique? We met there the night before
last, you know."
"I don't remember it at all," replied Monsieur Dahlborne, after
apparently trying to recall the incident.
"I should judge, then, that you didn't enjoy it very much."
The Swede made no reply, but felt in his coat pocket and produced a
superb fan of some rare and valuable wood, beautifully carved, and
enriched with inlaid work. He presented it to Madame Baldimer, saying:
"I broke yours at the theatre; will you allow me to replace it?"
The fair American took the fan and gazed at it with an enraptured
expression.
"Oh! really, Monsieur Dahlborne," she cried, "this is too beautiful. I
don't know whether I ought to accept it; it is simply magnificent! What
workmanship! what exquisite finish! it is perfectly lovely! I cannot
take it in exchange for the one I had."
"Then I will break this one too, if you give it back to me."
"Really, such gallantry--it puts all our Parisian gentlemen to the
blush.--Look, Monsieur Vermoncey, isn't this a wonderfully lovely fan?"
Albert, whose face had worn a pronounced frown ever since the count
presented the fan, barely glanced at it as he replied:
"I know very little about that sort of thing."
"It is impossible to imagine anything in better taste! Well, Monsieur
Dahlborne, I will keep it; for it would really be too bad for you to
break it."
"In that case, I am very glad that I broke the other," said the Swede,
with a bow.
Albert found it difficult to restrain his vexation and anger; he could
not keep his feet still, and seemed to be boiling on his chair. The
pretty widow, who seemed to take great delight in the young man's
jealousy and wrath, and who acted as if she desired to add to his
misery, handed the fan to him again, saying:
"Pray look at it, monsieur, and admit that you have never seen anything
so pretty and so refined."
This time the young man took the fan in his hands, held it up in the
air, opened it as if to examine it more closely, then let it fall on the
corner of his chair, whence it dropped to the floor. The dainty thing
was too frail, too delicate, to resist that twofold fall, and it broke
in several pieces.
Madame Baldimer gave a little shriek, which did not, however, indicate
intense regret; indeed, it was possible that she expected that event and
had looked forward to it. Count Dahlborne contented himself with picking
up the pieces of the fan, which he coolly placed in his pocket.
"There are others," he said; "prettier ones than that, perhaps; I shall
have the pleasure of bringing you one."
Albert's irritation increased apace; he flattered himself that by
breaking the fan he would vex Madame Baldimer and anger the Swede--in
short, he hoped for a scene, a quarrel; but the foreigner's
imperturbable tranquillity disappointed his hope; he saw that his
awkwardness--or malice, as they chose to take it--was thrown away.
Madame Baldimer addressed no reproach to him; she simply said:
"We all have our unlucky days."
Then she resumed her conversation with the count, who continued to
answer as laconically as before; in fact, she carried on the
conversation practically alone, with an occasional ironical smile at her
young adorer.
Albert paid no heed to what was being said, and he answered incoherently
such remarks as were addressed to him; but he was determined not to
abandon the field to the Swede, and not to go away so long as that
gentleman stayed. For his part, the noble foreigner seemed not at all
disposed to take his leave, although he did not appear to be enjoying
himself overmuch.
Madame Baldimer probably divined the secret thoughts of her two suitors;
and after entertaining them, as we have described, for some time, she
herself rose and said:
"Excuse me for leaving you, messieurs; but I am going into the country
for a few days, and I must make my toilet; you understand that, for a
lady, that is too important a matter not to require a great deal of
time."
The visitors understood that they must go. Both rose, and both took
leave of the young woman. The Swede kissed her hand with much gravity;
Albert contented himself with pressing it hard, saying under his breath:
"I hope to see you immediately after your return to Paris."
"I count upon it," replied Madame Baldimer, aloud. "I will write you as
soon as I return."
The two rivals went downstairs together; on reaching the street, they
saluted without a word.
Albert stood and looked after the count as he walked away, and was
strongly tempted to go up to Madame Baldimer again; but he changed his
mind and went home.
"To go back now," he said to himself, "would be a mistake. What should I
say? I broke that fan; she saw that I did it in anger, and she didn't
reprove me. But I must make that up to her. I have deprived her of one
present, so I owe her another. That cashmere she spoke about is very
expensive, I suppose, but no matter! It shall not be said that a Swede
was more gallant than I. And yet--I don't know--but it seems to me that
that woman doesn't love me;--and I thought that her acquaintance would
cost me nothing! Ah! I hoped that she would be more amiable and less
coquettish. I should do very well to forget Madame Baldimer--I know
that. Why am I so bent upon triumphing over her? Oh! vanity, vanity!"
XIV
THE MARAIS.--A MYSTERY
Sans-Cravate had quickened his pace in order to reach Rue du Temple,
into which he thought that he had seen Bastringuette turn. When he
walked at his ordinary gait, he moved almost as rapidly as a cab; so
that, as may be imagined, his double-quick step was likely to tire
anybody who attempted to keep up with him.
Jean Ficelle was compelled to run, in order not to lose sight of his
comrade. From time to time, he called out to him:
"Stop a minute, won't you! I can't keep up with you; do you want to see
my spleen swell up like a balloon? _Sacrédié!_ you ought to be a runner;
I believe you could beat the horses on the Champ de Mars!"
Sans-Cravate reached Rue de la Corderie without catching another glimpse
of the woman he had thought was Bastringuette. There he halted at last.
"It's mighty lucky," panted Jean Ficelle. "I was just going to give out;
on my word, I was blowing like a cab horse!"
"I don't see that woman," said Sans-Cravate; "it's very strange! Where
the devil has she gone to?"
"Was it really Bastringuette that you saw turn into this street? You
ain't sure of it, are you?"
"No."
"What are we going to do now?"
"As long as we're in the Marais, let's go to Rue Barbette, where my
traitor's cousin lives."
"All right, let's inspect the Marais, I'm willing; perhaps we may meet
somebody else. But we don't need to run any more, that don't help us
any. Let's walk along quiet now, arm in arm."
"Did I run just now?"
"Oh, no! of course not! not any faster than a steam engine. I'm willing
to go with you and help you in your search; for I'm your friend--and
when anyone insults you, d'ye see, it makes me madder than if it was me.
Bless my soul! a friend's a friend--that's enough for me. But that's no
reason for your breaking my wind. Besides, you know, you can find things
out much better by going slow than by running like a bullet. Look you,
I'll give you a comparison. Have you ever been on the railroad?"
"Yes; I went to Saint-Germain once, with Bastringuette."
"Well, what did you see, what did you notice on the way?"
"How do you suppose a man can notice anything when he's going like the
wind?"
"Exactly--that's what I'm coming at. That's like you--just now. How do
you expect to see anything or find out anything in the street, when
you're running like a horse with the bit between his teeth?"
"I believe you're right; give me your arm, and we'll go slowly about our
search in the Marais."
The Marais is the oldest quarter of Paris, next to the Cité; despite the
numerous changes, enlargements, and improvements which have been made in
the capital, the Marais has retained its primitive aspect more nearly
than any other quarter. There we can still find a large number of the
old houses and mansions occupied by our ancestors. It is not surprising,
therefore, that, as we stroll through that quarter, our imagination
carries us back several centuries, and our memory recalls all those
deeds of the olden time with which our childhood was entertained.
For instance, if you have studied or read our history ever so little,
you cannot pass through Rue des Tournelles without recalling the fact
that one of the king's palaces once stood on that street; that Henri II
caused lists to be constructed, reaching from the Bastille to the Palais
des Tournelles, for the tourney in which he received his death wound;
that it was in front of the Bastille that the celebrated duel took place
in the year 1578, between Quélus, Livarot, and Maugiron on the one side,
and Ribérac, Schomberg, and D'Entragues on the other. They fought at
five o'clock in the morning; Maugiron and Schomberg, who were less than
twenty years old, were killed on the spot; Ribérac and Quélus died of
their wounds shortly after. At that time, the rage for duelling was
carried to such a pitch that it not infrequently happened that a father
acted as his son's second. Still, those were the days which are called,
by common consent, the _good old time_.
If you walk through Rue Sainte-Avoye, you look for the Hôtel de Mesmes,
where lived Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, an illustrious old
man, who was mortally wounded, at the age of seventy-four, at the battle
of Saint-Denis, after unhorsing by a blow with the hilt of his sword
(the blade had been broken during the battle) the man who summoned him
to surrender.
Rue Barbette recalls Isabel of Bavaria, that queen whom France holds in
no very kindly remembrance. She had a house there, which she called her
_petit séjour_. It was thither that she generally retired during the
paroxysms of the malady of her husband, Charles VI; a custom which does
not speak highly for her wifely affection; a good bourgeoise would have
stayed with her husband, to take care of him and nurse him. But she was
a queen--and this happened in the good old time.
Pass through Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and you will be conscious of
a thrill of terror as you recall the murderous attack upon the
Connétable de Clisson by Pierre de Craon. For it was on the corner of
that street that the latter lay in hiding on the night of June 13, 1391.
He was at the head of a number of cutthroats, lying in wait for him
whose death he had sworn to compass. Although he had no other weapon
than a small knife, the constable used it with such wonderful address
and vigor that he did not die of his wounds.
If you visit Rue des Lions, your eyes will seek the buildings in which
the king's lions were confined, and your memory will at once recall the
adventure of the Chevalier de Lorges. While François I was amusing
himself by watching his lions at play, a lady dropped her glove in the
arena, and said to De Lorges:
"If you would have me believe in your love, go fetch my glove."
The chevalier went down into the arena, picked up the glove from the
midst of the lions, returned to his place, threw the glove in the lady's
face, and never spoke to her again. That, too, happened in the good old
time. To-day, our ladies do not exact such proofs of affection; with us,
gallantry is less savage, and we might even apply to it what someone has
said of music: _Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros_.
Close at hand is Rue des Nonaindières, formerly Rue des Nonains d'Hière,
because the abbey of the village of Hière still owned several estates on
that street. That was the abbey where the use of eggs was not permitted
until the fourteenth century; before that time, they were considered too
great a delicacy for nuns.
Then there is Rue Saint-Paul, which cannot fail to remind you of the
famous mansion erected by Charles V. With its gardens, it occupied all
the space between Rue Saint-Antoine and the river, from the city moat to
the church of the parish of Saint-Paul. In those days, the houses in
which kings dwelt were always flanked by huge towers, and the gardens
planted with fruit trees and vines. Rue Beautrellis and Rue de la
Cerisaye took their names respectively from a beautiful trellis and from
a plantation of cherry trees, both of which were within the confines of
the gardens of the Hôtel Saint-Paul. We have become more luxurious than
our kings of the olden time, for now no petty banker will have anything
but ornamental trees and shrubs in his park; he would blush to have you
find a plum tree or an apricot tree there.
On Rue des Trois Pavillons, one's thoughts inevitably turn to the fair
Diane de Poitiers, whom Henri II made Duchesse de Valentinois. That
street once bore her name, because she lived there; I cannot tell you
why they rechristened it, but, for my part, I prefer the name of a
pretty woman to Trois Pavillons.
Lastly, there is the Vieille Rue du Temple. Your heart contracts as you
recall the assassination of the Duc d'Orléans on that street, one
evening in the month of November, 1407, near a small house called the
Image de Notre-Dame.
But we have dwelt long enough on the memories evoked by that ancient
quarter. Although the Marais has retained down to the present day, in
some of its streets, a part of its primitive aspect, it has undergone
numerous changes; new, broad, and airy streets and elegant, even
coquettish, houses have risen on the sites of the gloomy Gothic
structures of our ancestors. As for the people of that quarter, they
bear no resemblance whatever to the Parisians who lived in the Marais at
the time of which we have been evoking the memory. Morals, customs,
manners, everything is changed, and we may well congratulate our
contemporaries that it is so; for, as we have seen, duels, murders, and
ambuscades are the subjects of most of the legends that have come down
to us. We may be less chivalrous, but, while we are no less brave, we
are more light-hearted, more amiable, and much less treacherous than our
forbears of the good old time.
To-day, the people of the Marais dress almost as well as those of the
Chaussée d'Antin; there are no districts in Paris now that are behind
the times in respect to fashions, but everybody cannot or does not
choose to follow them. A dandy of Rue Saint-Louis may make as fine a
show as he of Boulevard des Italiens, especially as there is nothing to
prevent their having the same tailor.
We ought to say, however, that there is something more of the
patriarchal rigidity of manners to be observed in the Marais than in
other quarters of the capital. The people there close their shops a
little earlier, and do not sit up quite so late as in the centre of the
city; the young women are more submissive in their demeanor toward their
parents, the young men do not as yet venture to appear in a salon when
they exhale an odor of pipe or cigar. But these shades of difference are
very slight, and, doubtless, will very soon blend with the general
color.
The two messengers walked arm in arm. Sans-Cravate seemed deep in
thought; he did not speak, but looked carefully on all sides,
scrutinizing everybody who passed; he even tried to look into the shops;
in every woman that he saw he fancied that he recognized Bastringuette,
whom he had ceased to love, as he believed, but of whom he constantly
thought. That is a very poor way of ceasing to love a person.
Jean Ficelle whistled and sang and smoked, and tried to enliven his
comrade. But he barely replied, and often without rhyme or reason, which
proved that he was not listening. Jean Ficelle tried frequently to stop
him. When they passed a wine shop, he would say:
"Shan't we go in and take a glass? the glass of friendship! no one
refuses that."
But Sans-Cravate refused; he walked on, saying:
"Later--in a minute--I don't want to drink now."
"You're getting to be a devilish queer kind of a friend," growled Jean
Ficelle; "you make me travel all over Paris dry--do you want me to catch
the pip, like a turkey?"
At last they reached Rue Barbette, and Sans-Cravate pointed out to his
comrade a small fruit shop at some little distance.
"That's where Bastringuette's cousin lives."
"That one-eyed fruit stall?"
"To be sure, as she keeps it."
"Well, let's go in and see if your girl's there."
"I wouldn't like to have her think I'm watching her. Do you go by alone,
and look in; the shop is very small, and you can easily see all the
people that are in it; I'll wait here for you."
"All right. I'll be skirmisher."
He left Sans-Cravate standing at the entrance of a passageway, and
walked toward the fruit stall at a mincing gait. He passed the shop
twice, looking in both times, then returned to Sans-Cravate.
"There's no more Bastringuette than there is crabs in the fruit store,"
he said. "Your doll ain't there."
"Perhaps you didn't look closely."
"Oh! yes, I did; it ain't hard to do. There's nobody there except the
proprietor, and an old woman who wants carrots, I fancy, for she was
hauling 'em all over."
"I want to see for myself."
And Sans-Cravate walked toward the fruit stall, in his turn. Jean
Ficelle followed him, still whistling. When they had passed the shop,
Sans-Cravate stopped, and muttered with a distressed expression:
"She ain't there!"
"Pardieu! I knew it. I've got eyes like a falcon, I have. But I don't
see what made you think Bastringuette was there. Your wench wouldn't
have rigged herself out in her prettiest togs to go to a paltry shop
where they sell burned onions and old Brie cheese. When a woman dresses
up, it means that she's going to meet a man she wants to catch; you
don't need to be a chemist to see that."
"Yes, yes, you are right."
"Oh! I know the world, my boy. Sometimes I don't say nothing, but I
think a lot. But what's to hinder your going into the shop and asking if
Bastringuette's been there to-day?"
"No; she'd find out that I'd been looking for her; she'd think that I
care what she does. I won't do it."
"It seems to me, she wouldn't be far out of the way if she thought
that."
"I tell you, I don't love her any more--I hate her; but I'd like to
catch her with the other one, just so's to say: 'You're a pair of curs,
and I despise you!'--and that's all. I tell you, Jean Ficelle, no woman
will ever be anything to me after this; they're too treacherous; I won't
have any more mistresses, I swear!"
"Don't swear--that's nonsense! Look you, I'll give you another
comparison: when a woman has a pretty cat, she always says when she's
patting him and kissing him: 'If I lose this one, I swear I'll never
have another.'--But what happens? her cat dies or gets lost, and in a
little while she's sure to get another one, and says just the same about
him that she did about the first one. Now, you see, women say just the
same thing about their lovers that they do about their cats. 'If this
one leaves me, I'll never have another.'--And when their lover leaves
'em, they always take another, just as they do a cat. Well! when a man
says: 'I won't have any more mistresses, because mine has played tricks
on me,' it's just the same story."
"But I have some character, some strength of will!" cried Sans-Cravate;
"and to prove that I don't mean to think of Bastringuette any more, I'm
going to drink and gamble and enjoy myself--go on a spree with my
friends."
"Well, well! good enough! that's what I call talking! Come along, I'll
take you to the rendezvous of the _Francs-Lapins_. You'll find some
friends there you can depend on. Have you got any cash?"
"Yes, I still have six or seven francs left of what Monsieur Albert gave
me last night."
"We must spend 'em! Anyway, we can't do any more work to-day; it's too
late, and you need amusement, and so do I. Forward--and as we go along,
I'll teach you a drinking song that goes to the tune of _Partant pour la
Syrie_, with an accompaniment of tongs beating a kettle; it has a fine
effect at dessert."
Sans-Cravate took his companion's arm. It was evident that he was doing
his utmost to overcome his chagrin and to appear hilarious. Jean
Ficelle, who believed himself to be an excellent singer, had already
begun the song with which he proposed to entertain his friend, when, as
they turned out of Rue Barbette into Vieille Rue du Temple, a young man,
who wore a round hat, and whose dress, while not fashionable, was that
of a respectable bourgeois, walked rapidly by them. He seemed much
preoccupied, and did not notice the two messengers. But they looked at
him and recognized him, and Jean Ficelle triumphantly exclaimed:
"Well! what did I tell you? Was I mistaken? You've seen him yourself.
That was Paul, dressed like a swell."
"Yes, it was him, that's sure! I can't get over it!"