affair; and the proof is that she don't come to her work as early as she
used to; and she goes away much earlier. She has assignations to keep,
no doubt. Bah! it's no use, I can't swallow this dry; it scrapes my
throat; I must have a drink! Come on, Sans-Cravate, let's go to that
other wine shop, on the right; you can say it's to be charged to you,
and they'll trust you."
"No; I don't propose to get trusted any more. When we haven't got any
money, we must drink water."
"Why, that's nonsense! on the contrary, when you haven't got any money,
you get tight to forget your troubles. Come on; I'll treat, and owe you
the money."
"No, I won't go!"
The decided tone in which Sans-Cravate spoke convinced Jean Ficelle that
it would be useless for him to insist; so he went away alone, shrugging
his shoulders contemptuously and saying:
"As you please. I'll get along without you; I can find some friend
who'll offer me a bottle."
Sans-Cravate was conscious of a secret satisfaction in not having
yielded; he rested his head on his hands again, and was soon absorbed
in thought--probably of Bastringuette, whom he had sworn to forget.
Suddenly he felt a light tap on his shoulder; he looked up and saw
Albert before him.
"What! is it you, monsieur?" he cried, overjoyed at the reappearance of
his generous customer. "Ah! it's a long while since we have seen you; I
was speaking of you only a moment ago."
"Yes, Sans-Cravate, it is I; I have been in Paris only a week, and I was
absent more than two months. But I need you at once. Are you at
liberty?"
"Always, monsieur, always at your service. You know that I am devoted to
you."
"Yes, yes; I am well aware of your zeal, and I know that I can rely on
your discretion, too; and that is why I have come for you. Listen; I
need someone who is strong and active; I have brought a lovely girl back
to Paris with me."
"Oho! I recognize you there, monsieur."
"You understand that my father must know nothing of this episode!"
"Of course not, monsieur."
"I established my young friend in a pretty little apartment, which I had
had furnished beforehand; it was in a distant quarter, on Rue de
Grenelle-Saint-Germain; I felt sure of never meeting my father in that
neighborhood. But, as luck would have it, one of his best friends had
moved while I was away, and taken lodgings directly opposite the house
to which I took the young woman I love."
"_Bigre!_ that won't do! you must change your quarters."
"I learned that fact only yesterday, and I have already hired a
delightful little apartment on Rue Grange-aux-Belles, near the canal.
This time I will answer for it that my father won't meet me! So what I
want is to have my furniture moved at once from Rue de Grenelle to Rue
Grange-aux-Belles."
"There is nothing easier."
"Here is some money; procure a wagon at once, and whatever else you
need. Here are the addresses; you will ask for Madame Albert's
apartment; that is the name I have given my young friend. The apartment
is very small, only two rooms and a dressing closet, so it won't take
you long to move everything. Let us see, how much time do you need? It's
half-past nine now."
"Well, monsieur, at two o'clock everything will be in its place on Rue
Grange-aux-Belles."
"At two o'clock; very good! you are an invaluable fellow. I am going to
take my young friend out to breakfast, so that she need not have to
undergo the annoyances of moving; and at two o'clock I will bring her to
her new lodging, where you are to wait for us; don't spare the money."
Albert walked rapidly away, and Sans-Cravate folded up his _crochets_.
"Good enough!" he said to himself; "this is more like; my best customer
has come back! how lucky that I didn't go off with Jean Ficelle! I
should have missed this job. And to think that that Paul told me to
distrust Monsieur Albert and the errands he gave me to do! Ah! the
traitor! he's the one I ought to have distrusted; he's in
Bastringuette's room, she is nursing him. She certainly must love him
pretty well, as Jean Ficelle says. To be betrayed by a friend! But this
is no time to think of that; I must go to work, for I've no time to
waste."
Sans-Cravate procured a horse and wagon, and went to the house on Rue de
Grenelle, where he asked for Madame Albert's apartment. The concierge,
who had been notified and handsomely paid by young Vermoncey, was very
zealous and obliging, and offered to help him to move the furniture.
"I can't refuse," replied the messenger, "for I didn't bring anybody
with me but the driver, and he has to stay with his horse; I counted on
your help, especially as I can give you a good _pourboire_."
"I have been well paid already," said the concierge. "That gentleman is
very generous, and I'm sorry that he's going to leave me, for I lose a
handsome profit. And then, the little woman hasn't got any maid as yet,
and my wife's been doing her housework. She don't know anything about
Paris, for she's never been here before; and my wife, who knows Paris
like a cab horse, would have shown her about."
"Is she pretty?"
"Very pretty, and something innocent and childlike about her. It's easy
to see that she comes from a long way off."
"Oh! Monsieur Albert has good taste; but let's go upstairs and get to
work."
The concierge took Sans-Cravate to a small apartment furnished with no
less coquetry than refinement; all the furniture was modern, and in the
best taste; nothing had been forgotten that could add to the charm of
the retreat; the hand of a rich and generous lover was visible in every
detail.
"_Fichtre!_ but Monsieur Albert does things in good shape!" said
Sans-Cravate, after an admiring glance at the furniture; "but we must be
careful not to break or injure anything. I'll take the responsibility."
The messenger set to work with an activity and skill which aroused the
concierge's admiration: in two hours, everything had been taken
downstairs and carefully packed on the wagon; and Sans-Cravate, having
given the concierge a _pourboire_, started for Rue Grange-aux-Belles.
He soon reached the address indicated, and found the concierge as
courteous and zealous as he of Rue de Grenelle, because Albert had
employed the same means to win his favor. To set the human machine in
motion, one need not cudgel his brains for long; it is enough to grease
the joints.
"Do you want to give me a lift with the biggest pieces?" asked the
messenger; "my orders are to give you a good _pourboire_."
"I'd have done it for nothing, but I'll take the _pourboire_," replied
the concierge, with a laugh.
"This one has been paid, too," said Sans-Cravate to himself; "but he
isn't so honest as the other; he don't say so."
They went up to the apartment hired in the name of Madame Albert: it was
on the second floor, and consisted of two pretty rooms and two
dressing-rooms; the paper was all new, the paint fresh; nothing was
lacking but the furniture.
"The deuce!" thought Sans-Cravate, as he looked over the apartment.
"This part of the job won't go all alone as the other did. All I had to
do then was to take everything I found; but I don't know where to put
the different things here. If I put a bed there, and they want it
somewhere else; if I put a commode over yonder, and a couch in this
corner, and they don't look right,--why, they won't be satisfied. The
young lady ought to be here, to tell me what to do. However, I'll just
do the best I can according to my own ideas; and when she comes, if it
ain't right, I'll change it."
The concierge approved this reasoning, and they went about their task.
Sans-Cravate worked with redoubled zeal and ardor; he was determined to
fulfil his promise and satisfy Albert. He worked so hard, and spurred on
the concierge so successfully, that the clock had not struck two when
all the furniture was in place in the new apartment.
But the perspiration poured from the face of the messenger, who was
overdone with fatigue and sorely in need of rest and refreshment.
"Monsieur Albert told me to wait," he said to the concierge, "but I
don't think I need wait in the apartment; there's a wine shop close by,
and I'll go there after I've sent the wagon away. Be kind enough to come
and tell me as soon as they arrive, and I'll be here in two strides."
"All right," said the concierge; "you can go and take a bite at the wine
shop, and I'll let you know."
Sans-Cravate paid and dismissed his carrier, then went to the wine shop,
seated himself at a table, and ordered a breakfast which he had well
earned by his labor, and which he ate with much greater zest than all
the _extras_ he had discussed with Jean Ficelle.
He had been at the wine shop a long while, and his appetite was
beginning to be appeased, when the concierge appeared and said:
"They have come, and are waiting for you; everything's all right except
one commode that they want changed."
"I'm all ready!" cried Sans-Cravate, and he made haste to pay for his
breakfast and follow the concierge. "Has Monsieur Albert come?" he
asked.
"Yes, he came with the little lady, but he went right away again; he was
evidently in a great hurry. The little lady's all alone now."
"Ah! he went away again, did he? The devil! in that case, I shan't know
whether he's satisfied. But if the lady is, that's all I want, as the
apartment's for her. Besides, he may be coming back."
"Yes, as you say, if the lady is satisfied, that's all he cares about."
When they reached the house, the concierge allowed Sans-Cravate to go up
alone.
"You know where it is," he said; "I don't need to go with you."
And the messenger went up to the apartment, saw the key in the door, and
entered the outer room, which was empty.
"The little lady is evidently in the back room," he said to himself; "I
may disturb her; but still, as she wants something moved, she must be
expecting me."
He began to cough, to let her know that he was there; then, as no one
answered, he decided to go into the other room. He saw a woman, whose
back was turned to him, as she was looking out of the window.
"Excuse me, madame," said Sans-Cravate; "it's the messenger who moved
you."
The young woman turned, and disclosed a face, which, although very pale,
was fascinating in its sweetness and simplicity. It was an assemblage of
charming features: eyes of a blue as pure as a cloudless sky, and shaded
by long, jet-black lashes; a small, well-proportioned nose; a tiny mouth
with even, white teeth; and, lastly, imparting an infinite charm to the
whole face, a something artless and touching--something which denoted
that its possessor did not know how to lie.
Sans-Cravate gazed at the young woman, and stood as if rooted to the
floor, unable, afraid, to believe his eyes. At last he stepped forward,
then stopped, looked at her again, and muttered:
"Oh! my God! is it possible? is it a dream? But, no--I am mistaken--it
cannot be her!"
But the girl, who had begun to tremble as she looked at Sans-Cravate,
and whose eyes had filled with tears, suddenly ran forward and threw
herself into the messenger's arms.
"Brother! can it be you? Mon Dieu! aren't you willing to recognize me?"
"My own sister! my Liline!" cried Sans-Cravate, taking the girl's head
in his hands, and covering her face with kisses; "so it is really you!"
But the joyous expression of his face came and went like a lightning
flash. He let his arms fall, stepped away from the girl, and continued
with an accent of utter despair:
"My sister here in Paris--with Monsieur Albert! My sister abducted--and
ruined, of course! O my God! our poor father!"
And Sans-Cravate sank upon a chair; he could not speak, he could not
see; his forehead was burning, he was completely crushed by his grief.
But his sister went to him again, she held out her arms to him, knelt at
his feet, and said in a tone that went to his heart:
"Forgive me, brother, I beseech you; forgive me!"
That sweet voice reached the lowest depths of the messenger's heart; he
raised his sister and drew her to him, saying:
"But how can it have happened? Come, tell me the whole story; don't keep
anything from me, for I must know all!"
Adeline sat on her brother's knee, and said in a faltering tone:
"Yes, I will tell you how it happened; you know that I never
lie."--Then, with an intonation of the voice and a simplicity of
language as ingenuous as her features, she told her story as follows:
"The last time that you came home to see father, I was, as you know,
living with a rich lady who had taken a fancy to me and treated me as
her daughter. Father gave his consent, for he thought the education I
should receive with her might be of use to me some day. So I was at
Clermont, with my patroness. She made me work hard--reading, and
studying music; but I often regretted our little cottage, brother, where
I could run and jump about and play when I pleased; while in my
patroness's salon I always had to be neatly dressed, to stand very
straight, and to give up all the games I had enjoyed in my childhood; in
fact, Étienne, if I must admit it, I was sometimes depressed and often
bored; but I dared not say so, for fear of seeming ungrateful. My
greatest happiness was to sit at a window looking on the road; for from
there I could see the fields and our village and our mountains; and as I
worked at my embroidery, I often looked with a sigh in the direction of
our cottage.
"About five weeks ago, while I was at the window, I saw a young man ride
by. He looked at me; I turned my eyes away, but I thought I could see
that he bowed to me. The next day, he passed again and looked up again;
and as I was sure that he bowed to me that time, I thought that it was
courteous to do as much. Several days in succession he rode by; I was
always at the window, always looking toward our village, but I knew very
well when the young man was there. The window was not very far from the
ground; he rode near and said a few words to me, which I didn't listen
to the first day, but which I answered on the second. In short--I don't
know how it happened, but, before long, Monsieur Albert--he was the
young man on horseback--told me that he loved me, and I confessed that I
loved him too. Ah! brother, if you knew how happy he looked when I told
him that; he declared that he couldn't live without me, and I urged him
to go to the village to see father and ask his permission to marry me.
The next day, he came with a very downcast air, and told me that he had
seen father, who had refused his consent to our marriage; then I told
him to see my patroness, but he said that she had other projects for me;
that he knew that she intended to marry me to a very rich old gentleman
whom she expected at Clermont any day. At that I wept, but Albert said
to me: 'There's only one way for us to avoid being parted; that is, for
you to consent to come to Paris with me; we will be married at once, and
then our parents will have to forgive us.'--I refused at first; but he
begged so hard, swearing that I should surely be his wife, and there was
so much love in his eyes and in my heart, that I ended by giving
way.--'I will take you to Paris,' he said; 'and when we are married,
I'll write to your father to join us there.'--Then I thought of you, and
I said: 'I have a brother in Paris, his name's Étienne, and he's a fine
fellow;'--but--I mustn't lie to you--I didn't tell him you were a
messenger, for at my patroness's they seemed to laugh at men who
followed that calling. I said that you were learning to make money, but
that I didn't know how, and Albert answered: 'We will find your brother,
and I will love him too.'--Well--so I allowed him to carry me off, to
bring me to Paris; I did whatever Albert wanted me to do. Forgive me,
Étienne; it was very wicked, I know. But Albert is an honorable man; he
will marry me, because he has promised to; I shall be his wife, and then
father will forgive me, too, won't he?"
Sans-Cravate listened in gloomy and depressed silence to his sister's
story; when she ceased to speak, he sat for some time, absorbed in his
grief, and seemed to be waiting for her to say something more. But he
suddenly pushed her away, sprang to his feet, and began to pace the
floor, crying:
"So this is how these fine young men behave, whose errands we do for
them! Ah! I deserve what has happened; yes, I have been doing wrong for
a long time, I too am becoming a ne'er-do-well, I allow myself to be
tempted to gamble and drink, and I forget my old home, and my father and
family! And now, this fine gentleman who pays me so generously, this
excellent customer who is always so free with his money, gives me
another big fee--and for what? to help him hide my sister, whom he has
abducted and dishonored! Ah! _crédié!_ my hands itch!"
"Oh! brother, don't be angry. Perhaps Albert doesn't know that you are
my brother."
"Oh! no, indeed he don't know it! if he had, you may be sure he wouldn't
have come for me. And then, you told him that your brother's name was
Étienne, and everyone here calls me Sans-Cravate. But heaven has
permitted me to find you in Paris; for, do you see, Liline, I am here
now, and your seducer must undo the wrong he has done, or I'll kill him
on the spot!"
"Oh! my dear brother, don't have such horrible thoughts! Why should you
suppose that Albert has deceived me? As he told me that I should be his
wife, he will certainly marry me!"
"Marry you! Poor girl; with all the fine things you learned at Clermont,
you are still very ignorant! you don't know that these young Parisian
dandies take pleasure in deceiving women who are weak enough to listen
to them--yes, and are proud of it; that they have three or four
mistresses at once; that they fall in love with every pretty face they
see."
"Oh! mon Dieu, brother! do you think Albert is like that?"
"I don't think it; I am sure of it! Haven't I served him in his
intrigues a hundred times--carried his love letters and his messages?
Ten thousand thunders! And I laughed at it, and thought that it was all
right for him to amuse himself--to deceive poor girls who were often
driven to despair by his treachery--to make sport of other people's
sufferings! Ah! I was a heartless villain; and, instead of serving him
so faithfully, I ought to have said to him: 'Monsieur Albert, what you
are doing is all wrong, and I refuse to do any more of your dirty
work.'--But when we ourselves are not injured, we don't care; it seems
nothing at all to us, and we even laugh sometimes at the rascality
practised on others! Ah! my poor Liline! Why did father let you go to
that lady's at Clermont? why didn't he keep you with him at the cottage?
and me too, instead of sending me to Paris? Ah! a man ought never to
part with his children! ain't they always better off with their parents
than anywhere else? Come, come; you are crying now; come and kiss me:
don't cry, don't despair!"
The pretty Auvergnate wept bitterly, for her brother had torn her heart
by telling her that her lover was a deceiver; but she could not believe
as yet that Albert did not intend to keep his promise, and she murmured
between her sobs:
"Oh, brother! I am very sure that he loves me; he tells me so all day
long. Why should he have brought me to Paris, if he doesn't love me?"
"Oh! he loves you enough to make you his mistress--but his wife!
remember that we are only poor folk, that I am only a messenger--while
he is a young man of high social position; he is rich; he wouldn't have
me for a brother-in-law; why, you see, even you yourself, who have had a
fine education and learned society manners, didn't dare to tell him that
your brother was a messenger."
"Oh! forgive me, brother!"
And the girl threw herself into Sans-Cravate's arms, hid her face
against his breast, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
"No, no!" she repeated; "he will not deceive me."
Sans-Cravate disengaged himself from her arms, drew the back of his hand
across his eyes, and cried:
"Well! this is no time to cry like two children; that won't help us. I
must act; I must decide what to do. But I have made up my mind."
"What are you going to do, brother?"
"I am going straight to Monsieur Albert's father, because, you see,
that's all there is to do. The son might say: 'I ain't my own master, I
don't dare, I must wait.'--But that ain't the kind of answer I want.
With the father we shall know what to expect, at all events. Besides,
they say that Monsieur Vermoncey's an honorable man; in that case, he
will understand my grief and be touched by your position; he won't be
willing that honest poor folk should be dishonored by his son; he won't
despise us because we haven't got any money, and because I'm only a
messenger. I'll say to him: 'Monsieur, we didn't go after your son, to
try to catch him; it was him that wanted my sister, and he ran off with
her and promised to marry her; and if he don't marry her, _jarni!_ it
will be bad for him, for I ain't the man to put up with such an insult.'
But Monsieur Vermoncey will understand me, and he loves his son; he's a
fine man, and he will consent--yes, I feel hopeful now, for it seems to
me that I have words in my heart that can't fail to move him. Come,
Liline, don't cry any more; cheer up; you shall marry Monsieur Albert."
"Oh! yes, brother, yes! I'm very happy that you agree with me now."
And the artless child, with whom laughter soon succeeded tears, threw
her arms gayly about his neck.
"You must stay here, Liline, and wait for me; you won't leave this
house?"
"No, brother."
"When is Monsieur Albert to return?"
"This evening."
"Then I shall be back before him, and I hope to bring you good news. If
I don't--if my prayers are rejected--then I'll take you away with me,
sister; I won't leave you with your seducer another minute. I will work
for both of us. I shan't go to the wine shop any more, that's all over;
and I'll steer clear of Jean Ficelle. I will try to save up a tidy
little sum before long, and then I'll take you back to father, and we
won't leave him again. You'll go with me, won't you, Liline?"
"Yes, brother. But Albert will marry me, his father will consent--you
said so yourself just now."
"At all events, we must hope so. Come, kiss me, sister, and pray heaven
that my attempt may not be thrown away!"
The girl threw herself into her brother's arms, and he held her to his
heart for some time; it required an effort on his part to make up his
mind to leave her; at last, summoning all his courage, he kissed Liline
once more and left her, to call upon Monsieur Vermoncey.
It was several days prior to this time that Albert's father had fallen
in with Madame Baldimer at Monsieur Grazcernitz's reception, whence he
had returned home in a state of violent agitation after listening to the
fair American's story.
From that moment, Monsieur Vermoncey had remained in his own apartment,
sunk in profound melancholy, and had denied himself to all visitors. It
seemed that some deep-rooted sorrow, which had been slumbering in the
depths of his heart, had suddenly awakened with renewed violence and was
engrossing all his thoughts.
His son's return, however, had brought a ray of light into the Vermoncey
household; but Albert, absorbed by his new passion, spent as much time
as he possibly could with the girl he had brought from Clermont; so that
Monsieur Vermoncey saw very little of his son, and he made excuses for
him, concluding that after such a prolonged absence he was hungry for
the pleasures which he found in the capital.
Sans-Cravate walked with a determined step to Monsieur Vermoncey's
house, but when he arrived there he felt that his courage failed him;
however, to revive it, he thought of his sister, to whom he had promised
good news; he thought of his old father, and of their honor, which was
in his hands; then he no longer faltered, but passed the concierge and
went up to the door of Monsieur Vermoncey's apartment, where he rang.
"What do you want?" inquired the servant, when he saw the messenger,
whose disordered dress, excited manner, and flashing eyes seemed to
point to some extraordinary occurrence.
"I want to see Monsieur Albert's father--Monsieur Vermoncey."
"What do you want of him?"
"What I want of him concerns nobody but him and me, and I am not
disposed to tell it to you."
"Did monsieur send you on some errand, and have you brought back an
answer?"
"He didn't send me anywhere; but I have something to say to him."
"Monsieur is in his study; he doesn't receive anyone."
"But he must receive me!"
"When monsieur refuses every day to receive visits from his friends, I
don't imagine he is likely to give preference to a messenger!"
Sans-Cravate spat on his hands and rubbed them together, then shook his
fist in the servant's face.