adversary in person who came and told me the result of their ill-omened
meeting! He did not leave Albert until he was certain that he had ceased
to breathe; and, as a token of his victory, he took a cigar from his
victim and brought it to me, and I have worn it here, on my heart, ever
since. It has never left me for an instant!"
Madame Baldimer began to laugh more loudly than ever, until she could
hardly speak.
"Ah! so you carry a cigar in your bosom," she faltered, at last. "I am
not surprised at this odor of tobacco, which I could not understand. Ha!
ha! ha! this is most amusing! it was a delicious joke!"
Madame Plays began to take offence at the fair American's hilarity over
her adventure.
"Really, madame," she muttered angrily, "I did not suppose that you were
so hard-hearted! to laugh because a young man lost his life for me--or,
at least, at the hands of one of my chevaliers! I cannot see what there
is to laugh at in that."
"Mon Dieu! madame, how many times must I tell you that you are mistaken?
that somebody has made a fool of you? Monsieur Albert Vermoncey did
fight a duel, it is true, at about the time you mention; but he fought
with Count Dahlborne, and I think that I can assure you that you had
nothing whatever to do with their quarrel. Monsieur Albert was the
victor in that duel; the count was slightly wounded. As for young
Vermoncey, he left Paris immediately after the affair; he travelled in
Normandie, in Belgium, and in Auvergne; and he returned to Paris
yesterday with a girl whom he has abducted and brought back with him
without his father's knowledge. You see that I am well posted, madame."
Madame Plays was stupefied, and could not find a word to say; when she
recovered herself, her first act was to take a piece of a cigar from her
bosom and throw it, with an angry gesture, under the divan on which she
was seated. When she was able to speak, she faltered:
"What, madame! can it be possible? Monsieur Albert is not dead? that
monster, that perfidious wretch, still lives? You are sure of it?"
As Madame Baldimer was about to reply, a newly arrived guest entered the
salon in which the two ladies were. It was Monsieur Vermoncey, Albert's
father, who had never before appeared at Monsieur Grazcernitz's
reunions. Having frequently met in society the wealthy stranger, who
always urged him to come to his receptions, he had considered that
courtesy required that he should attend at least one of them; and
although he had long since ceased to find any pleasure at such
functions, he had decided to pay his respects to Monsieur Grazcernitz on
the evening in question.
At sight of Albert's father, Madame Baldimer's features underwent a
transformation: her lips closed tightly, her eyebrows drew together, her
forehead became clouded, and her eyes, alight with an unaccustomed
gleam, seemed to flash fire.
Monsieur Vermoncey passed through the salon into another room; Madame
Baldimer followed him with her eyes, and, when she could no longer see
him, unable to control her feelings, she sprang to her feet, without
answering the soft-hearted Herminie, who had asked her another question
about Albert, and hastened into the room which she had seen Monsieur
Vermoncey enter. He had taken a seat beside the master of the house;
Madame Baldimer seated herself in front of them, and, while apparently
listening to the compliments of Monsieur Dupétrain, who joined her at
once, her eyes were constantly fixed on the two gentlemen facing her.
Monsieur Grazcernitz passed in review, for Monsieur Vermoncey's benefit,
the company assembled in his salons; and as a householder delights to
exhibit to you every corner of his house, even to the darkest corridor
and the smallest closet, that he may boast of all its comforts and
conveniences, so the wealthy foreigner, who was exceedingly proud of his
brilliant and crowded reception, took pleasure in singing the praises of
his guests, and did not mention a single name without adding a word or
two to give it prestige.
"Look," he said, pointing to a little old man with an intelligent and
satirical face, whose costume denoted a country gentleman; "that old
gentleman at your right is a rich landholder of Bretagne; he passes ten
months of the year on his estates, and when he comes to Paris retains
his country costume. He has two hundred thousand francs a year, and he
cares little what other people say. They wanted to make him mayor,
sub-prefect, prefect even--but he refused everything. He's a philosopher
after the pattern of Seneca, who inculcated contempt of wealth by
drinking Falernian in a gold cup. That gentleman with the decorations,
who is speaking to him at this moment, is the chief of a department,
captain in the National Guard, and member of the Council of Discipline;
he is said to be a very influential man. He doesn't despise offices, not
he; he has three now, and is a candidate for two others. This lady here
at our left is a charming person; she sings like an angel, when she is
well accompanied, but she declares that no one is ever able to accompany
her. The little brunette by her side is not pretty, but she's a
blue-stocking! she writes poetry, novels, plays, and works for the
newspapers; she's the editor of a sheet which is distributed for
nothing, and has an enormous list of subscribers. Oh! that man over
yonder is one of the leaders of fashion in Paris. See what a superb
figure he has! people fight with one another over having clothes made by
his tailor. He once shut himself up for a whole week in his room, trying
to determine whether he would wear round or pointed waistcoats. That
good-looking youth by the piano is an excellent composer, who will write
an opera as soon as he has a suitable libretto. That tall, thin
gentleman standing by the fireplace is a talented amateur on the
cornet-à-piston; he was to bring his brother, who affects the trombone;
they play duets together which are said to be very interesting. And do
you see the little, light-haired man in the next room, with a turned-up
nose and an impertinent air? He's a ballad singer of the first rank; he
imitates Levassor, Achard, and everybody else, with much skill; so that
there's a constant rivalry to secure him; he's all the rage at parties.
That stout lady with whom he is talking has a magnificent contralto
voice; unfortunately, she is never willing to sing."
Monsieur Vermoncey listened with a distraught air to his host's
comments; his eyes had met those of the fair American, and, as he looked
at her, he was conscious of a sentiment which he could not understand;
was it simply admiration of Madame Baldimer's beauty? was it curiosity?
did the sight of her awaken bitter memories in his heart? He was unable
to answer any of these questions; but as Monsieur Grazcernitz started
upon a grandiloquent eulogium of a small boy of nine, who, it was said,
already played the violin like Paganini, Monsieur Vermoncey interrupted
him.
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Grazcernitz; but who is the lady sitting
opposite us and looking at us at this moment?"
"That lady," replied the host, motioning to the boy to come to him,
"why, she's a very fine woman, indeed: tall and beautiful and well
built.--He plays on the fourth string variations on the air of _Le Roi
d'Yvetot_ which are simply fascinating, they say."
"Pardon my inquisitiveness, but there is an expression on that lady's
features which seems familiar to me."
"She's a very fashionable woman! All the men are in love with her!--He
can do something wonderful, too, on the treble string--also after the
style of Paganini."
"But her name, if you please?"
"Little Adolphe Kromiousky; he's a Pole."
"I ask you the name of the lady sitting opposite us."
"Oh! that is Madame Baldimer, commonly known in society as the fair
American."
"Madame Baldimer! Can it be that---- Ah! I am not surprised that the
sight of her caused me an emotion that I could not understand! So that
is Madame Baldimer!"
"Do you know her?"
"Oh! no, not I! But my son was very much in love with her; he fought a
duel for her."
"That doesn't surprise me. As I tell you, she turns the heads of all the
men."
"And it seems that she takes pleasure in causing her adorers to fight
among themselves. Ah! I no longer consider her beautiful; I can't bear
to look at her."
"Was your son wounded?"
"No, thank heaven! but he might have been killed, and that woman's
coquetry would have robbed me of my only remaining child."
"Would you like me to present little Adolphe Kromiousky?"
"Anything that will give you pleasure."
And Monsieur Vermoncey rose and walked hastily into another room, in his
eagerness to shun the presence of Madame Baldimer. His host followed
him, calling after him:
"Why, where are you going? young Kromiousky is in that room. He won't
play anything this evening; but he is studying a fine piece of
Paganini's, which he will play on a violin that belonged to Paganini."
Monsieur Vermoncey seated himself in a salon where people were singing
and playing the piano; he had been there but a short time, when he saw
that Madame Baldimer had again taken a seat facing him, and that her
eyes were almost always turned in his direction.
"It's very strange," thought Monsieur Vermoncey; "it looks as if that
woman were following me! She looks at me in a most extraordinary way. I
wonder if she has been told that I am Albert's father; and if she thinks
that it was by my advice that he ceased to see her? Yes, that must be
the explanation of her keeping her eyes fixed on me. Does she aspire to
force me too to do homage to her charms? I propose to show her that she
is wasting her time and trouble."
Monsieur Vermoncey left the music room and went into that where the card
playing was in progress, which few ladies visited. There was a vacant
seat at a bouillotte table, and he took it, saying to himself:
"That woman is not likely to follow me here."
But he had not been playing five minutes, when the fair American
appeared, and seated herself in a chair which was close beside his.
Monsieur Vermoncey felt unaccountably disturbed; the woman's conduct
seemed to him so strange that he was almost frightened. However, as he
was not obliged to look at her, he continued to play without turning in
her direction, courtesy not requiring him to speak to a lady whom he had
never seen before.
But several young men, among them Dupétrain the magnetizer, soon joined
the fair American and began to converse with her.
"How is this, madame? you, in the cardroom?"
"Why not, monsieur? Are ladies forbidden to come here?"
"Of course not; but the idea of watching a game of cards, when music
beckons to you, and the dance--for they have just begun to dance."
"Well, messieurs, if I prefer cards to dancing, am I not at liberty to
do so?"
"Oh! but that cannot be! A pretty woman prefer cards to dancing!"
"We have heard you say that you detested cards."
"Am I not entitled to change my mind? Ask Monsieur Dupétrain here, who
is gifted with second-sight; perhaps he can tell you what attracted me
to this salon."
"I, fair lady? Ah! I would compel you to tell us, if you would let me
put you to sleep!"
"Not at this moment; the place would be ill chosen, I should say. But
you can often render a lady a great service by putting her to sleep,
Monsieur Dupétrain. If I had known you earlier, I would have asked you
to draw the horoscope of a young girl--in whom I was very deeply
interested."
"What happened to her? Was she pretty?"
"Lovely!"
"Oh! then it must be a love story."
"Mon Dieu! yes, messieurs; it is, as you say, a love story--a story of
love, and seduction; a very commonplace story to you. But we women are
always interested in such stories."
"Pray tell us this girl's story, madame."
"I assure you that it is not likely to interest anybody who did not know
the principal actors in it. She was a young seamstress, very poor, but
perfectly virtuous, until a young man, who was little richer than she,
paid court to her. The girl allowed herself to be seduced; her heart was
given, and she fell; for the young man had made the fairest promises, as
men have a way of doing when they seek to seduce us. The poor child
became a mother; and instead of working four times harder than before,
in order to provide her with the means to bring up the child, the
seducer sent it to join the unfortunate creatures who are brought up by
public charity and who do not know their parents. Oh! that arouses your
indignation, does it not, messieurs? When the poor girl asked to see her
child, to embrace it, she was put off by falsehoods. But she learned the
truth at last; and while she, with a breaking heart, prayed that her
son--for it was a son--might be restored to her, her seducer was busily
engaged in paying attentions to a young woman of large fortune. To make
a long story short, my poor girl died; and the gentleman married, became
very rich, and was highly esteemed in society.--You see, messieurs, that
my story is in no wise different from what is happening every day."
Monsieur Vermoncey had not lost a word of Madame Baldimer's narrative;
at the outset, he had turned as pale as death; his hands shook, and
great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; he held his cards,
but did not see them, and had no idea what he played. At last, one of
the gentlemen who were playing with him said to him:
"You must be feeling ill. Pray leave the table, and go and get some
fresh air."
Monsieur Vermoncey did not know what reply he made; it seemed to him
that he had not the requisite strength to leave the room, for his knees
bent and his legs gave way under him. However, he made a mighty effort,
and attempted to leave the table; but in order to push his chair away,
he was obliged to disturb the lady who was seated so close to him.
He turned toward her, stammering some unintelligible words. Madame
Baldimer had finished her story, and all her auditors had pronounced it
exceedingly interesting. The fair American fixed her piercing eyes on
Monsieur Vermoncey, and said:
"And you, monsieur, what do you think of my story? Did it interest you
too?"
Albert's father murmured something which no one could hear, and, having
succeeded in breaking out a path, he abruptly left the salons, still
followed by Madame Baldimer's eyes, for she seemed to enjoy his
confusion and pallor.
While all this was taking place in the cardroom, Madame Plays, deserted
by Madame Baldimer, had risen and set out in search of her husband, who
had ventured to leave the whist table in order to watch the dancing. His
wife spied him at last, behind a quadrille, and, seizing his arm, led
him into a corner.
"I have found you at last," she said; "it's very lucky!"
"Excuse me, my dear love, for leaving the whist table," rejoined
Monsieur Plays, alarmed by his wife's agitated manner; "but I assure
you that I am beginning to understand; one of the players said to
another: 'We have the _odd_!' from which I conclude that the _odd_ is
like Pope Joan or the double six; so, you see, I understand whist."
"Oh! monsieur, what do I care about whist! it's something much more
important that I have to talk to you about."
"You look as if you were very warm--would you like an ice?"
"Hush! and listen to me: Albert is not dead!"
"What do you mean? that young man who was killed in a duel for you?"
"Yes, Albert Vermoncey, for whose death I blamed myself, whose sad fate
I lamented. He is alive; he is in Paris."
"Then he wasn't killed dead?"
"Mon Dieu! don't I tell you that he wasn't killed at all?"
"So much the better! for he was a very pleasant fellow; and now you
won't suffer with remorse any more, or shed any more tears over his
premature end."
"What do you say? So much the better! Why, you don't seem to understand
that I have been tricked, made a fool of, in the most indecent way! as
to Albert's not being dead--I am not sorry for that, although he behaved
very dishonorably to me! But why should that man come and tell me that
he had run his sword through him and killed him? Why bring me a cigar
which he said he had found on the body? And I had the kindness to weep
and lament and go into retirement for two months--seeing nobody but you,
and almost bored to death! and to carry in my bosom that cigar, which
was said to have been found on the dying Albert!"
"Ah! you had a cigar about you! so that's the reason that you smelt like
a--trooper, and that someone said to me this evening: 'Your wife is a
_lionne_.'"
"You see, monsieur, I have been played with in the most abominable way!
But this is not to be the end of it! I trust, monsieur, that you will
not allow people to amuse themselves at your wife's expense, and,
consequently, at your own; for to show disrespect to a wife is to show
disrespect to her husband, and I have been shamefully insulted."
"But, my dear love, what do you expect me to do about it?"
"What do I expect you to do! what a question! I expect you to challenge
the insolent villain who lied to me!"
"What! you want to have that poor Albert killed again? You have only
just learned that he's alive, and----"
"No, monsieur; I am not talking about Albert now; but of that little man
who dared to come and tell me that he had killed him in a duel. Do you
know Tobie Pigeonnier?"
"Tobie Pigeon----"
"You must have seen him here two or three times."
"Oh! yes, a little short fat man; I remember him very well. He's a very
good-looking fellow."
"He's a little blackguard, who lies with imperturbable assurance. It was
he who offered to be my chevalier and avenge me; it was he who brought
me that wretched cigar. Luckily, I didn't receive his news kindly; but,
it doesn't make any difference, he was the cause of my crying my eyes
out, and seeing nobody but you for two whole months; I will never
forgive him for that. You must hunt him up, monsieur, and demand
satisfaction."
"What, my dear love, a duel?"
"I insist upon it."
"But duelling is forbidden now."
"I don't care if it is."
"I don't know how to fight."
"Everybody knows how to fire a pistol."
"I have never tried."
"To-morrow morning I will take you to Lepage's shooting gallery; you
must spend six hours there, and when you get through you will be able to
fire well enough to fight a duel."
"But suppose Monsieur Tobie refuses?"
"Then you will have the right to punish him another way. Carry your
stick, in case you need it."
"But, Herminie----"
"But I tell you, monsieur, that I will have it so. Now, let us go home;
I shall not appear again in society until I am avenged; for it seemed to
me to-night that people avoided me, and that the young men laughed and
whispered together as they looked at me."
"Your cigar was the cause of that, madame."
"No matter! when you have chastised the man who chose to amuse himself
at my expense, others will not be tempted to imitate him. Let us go,
monsieur."
And the robust Herminie carried off her husband, who was not at all
pleased at being forced to fight, and, for the first time in his life,
was trying to think how he could manage to disobey his wife.
XXVI
A REMOVAL.--A SURPRISE
The weather was dark and damp and cold. Sans-Cravate was seated in his
usual place, as dismal and gloomy as the weather. His eyes wandered from
side to side, often resting on the spot where Paul was accustomed to
stand; then he fixed them on the ground at his feet, rested his head on
his hands, and sat perfectly motionless.
Jean Ficelle walked to and fro in front of his comrade, whistling or
humming between his teeth, and from time to time taking a bite from a
great slice of bread which he rubbed with a raw onion; but that repast
seemed to be a matter of necessity, not of enjoyment.
"_Sacrédié!_" he exclaimed suddenly, halting before his friend. "It
ain't any use for me to try to like this stuff--it's nasty! Dry bread
and onion will never be as good as roast veal. This is a beastly sort of
breakfast for a fellow to eat; but when you're breaking in two with
hunger, you must stuff your blackguard of a belly with something or
other! If I only had a drop of wine to wash it down with! but there's
not enough in my pocket to pay for the smallest kind of a glass. And
that wine shop keeper yonder won't trust me any more, on the pretext
that I owe him money now! What an old fool! Parbleu! if I didn't owe him
anything, he couldn't ever have trusted me. People ain't reasonable at
all. I say, Sans-Cravate, business has been pretty bad lately. We don't
earn hardly anything."
"That ain't surprising; when we have a few sous, you take me right off
to spend 'em! then people come and don't find us in our places, so they
hire somebody else; that's the way I've lost almost all my customers.
Oh! I know well enough that I am doing wrong; I shall never save up
money by hanging round wine shops and seeing nobody but loafers. What
can they think of me at home? I am ashamed to write to my father. And my
sister, little Liline, that I meant to save money for, to give her a
marriage portion! Damnation! I'm an infernal coward! And to think that I
haven't got the strength of mind to begin to work hard again as I used
to! Ah! when a man has grief in his heart, he's good for nothing."
"Ta! ta! ta! there you go again! You're always blaming yourself, and for
what? Sans-Cravate, you're no man! is it our fault if we don't get any
errands to do? No. But just because we go and take a drink once in a
while outside the barrier, you say we're losing our customers. That's
damned nonsense! Look you: I'll give you a comparison, to prove that
customers come all the same when we ain't here. There's Paul, that gawk
who used to stand over yonder, and hasn't showed up for two weeks
because you hit him so hard that he hurt himself a little when he
fell,--well, in the fortnight he's been away haven't they sent here for
him twenty times, to go to Monsieur Vermoncey, who wanted him? And five
days ago, when you were off on an errand, didn't monsieur himself come
and ask for him? There's a man that looks as if he was well fixed; he's
the father of your old customer, Monsieur Albert. Ah! there was a young
fellow who paid handsomely; how the money slipped through his fingers,
and what a pity he's left Paris! If he hadn't, what lots of cart-wheels
we'd have to spin!"
"But what did Monsieur Vermoncey say to you?"
"_Pardi!_ he says like this: 'Tell me, my good man; your comrade who
used to stand yonder, young Paul, is never in his place now; what has
become of him? is he sick?'--I wasn't fool enough to tell him the truth,
you understand, so I says: 'No, monsieur; he hasn't been coming here for
some time, and I think he's given up the business. But I am here,
monsieur, to do any errands you want done; tell me what you want, and
I'll go.'--'I was anxious to see your comrade and talk to him,' says he;
'I take an interest in him; where does he live? can you give me his
address?'--'Wait a minute,' says I; 'he lives in a street I don't know
the name of, but I think it's No. 2 or No. 4--an even number,
anyway.'--At that, my man went off as if he was mad, and I says to
myself: 'Sold again!'"
"But if he really has business with Paul--why not send him to him?"
"Not much! Catch me sending customers to others, when we're short of 'em
ourselves! that would be too soft. And, besides, did he ever tell us his
address, the fox? do we know where he lives?"
"No; but since that unfortunate fall, which I was responsible for, you
know that he has been living in Bastringuette's room and that she is
taking care of him; you must know it--as it was you who told me."
"Yes, to be sure he's with her. Instead of having him taken to the
hospital, where he'd have been taken care of for nothing, she took him
to her own room; she's his nurse, his _soeur de pot_. Gad! a woman
must love a man, to spend all her money in drugs and medicines for him!
But it seems she does love him--with fire and blood!"
Sans-Cravate gnawed his nails, but said nothing. After a few minutes, he
asked, in a low tone:
"How about his wound? isn't it getting better? Won't he soon be well?"
"Oh! I don't know! that is to say, yes--the wound on the head's better;
it's all healed; but it seems that the arm will take longer; he broke
something or other when he fell, and that can't be put right in a
minute."
"What surprises me," said Sans-Cravate, after a pause, "is that the
little dressmaker hasn't come once to ask us about him."