very near-sighted, my _bonnes fortunes_ have almost always ended
unfortunately. When I had been attentive to a young woman, if I went to
see her the next day, I was sure to throw myself at her mother's knees
and say sweet things to her, thinking that I was talking to the
daughter. However, one day, a lady, to whom I had been paying court with
marked ardor, consented to come to breakfast with me. Imagine my
delight! But she said to me: 'For heaven's sake, don't keep on your
spectacles, for I think you are frightfully ugly in them; I detest
spectacles.'--To satisfy her, after ordering the daintiest of breakfasts
and donning the most elegant costume you can imagine, I took off my
spectacles and awaited the visit that was to make me the happiest of
mortals. At last there was a knock at my door. I ran to open it, holding
my arms in front of me, for I could see almost nothing at all, being
short-sighted to the last degree; but I was certain that it was a woman
who came in, because I touched her dress. I didn't give her time to
speak to me--I was so madly in love! I took her in my arms; she tried to
cry out, and I stifled her shrieks with my kisses. Not until it was too
late did I hear her voice saying:
"'Mon Dieu! monsieur, whatever's the matter with you this morning? You
must have swallowed a fulminating powder!'
"Impressed by the accent of that voice, I ran for my spectacles and put
them on. Imagine my wrath! I had insulted my concierge! The excellent
woman had brought me a letter from my fair one saying that it was
impossible for her to come. Since then, I beg you to believe that I have
never made love without my spectacles."
This tale called forth hearty laughter. Then a stout party told us at
great length that his wife had been his only _bonne fortune_.
We all blessed that gentleman, who well deserved the Cross and our
esteem.
IV
THE LOST KEY
Monsieur Faisande's turn having arrived, he reflected, assumed a solemn
expression, and held forth thus:
"Love, messieurs, is not such an entertaining, enjoyable, happy-go-lucky
affair as you all seem to think. Most of you seek to enter into an
intrigue solely to amuse yourselves; but the results, messieurs, all the
results that may ensue from cohabitation between a man and a woman, from
the carnal sin, from----"
"I was perfectly sure that Monsieur Faisande would be more indecent than
the rest of us when he began upon this subject," said Balloquet; "he has
a way of preaching morality that would make a _vivandiere_ blush."
"I should be very glad to know what you consider unseemly in my
language, Monsieur Balloquet?"
"Your language is excellently well chosen; it is technical; but you
produce the effect of a medical book on me; they are most estimable
works in themselves, but young women mustn't be allowed to read them.
Pray go on, Monsieur Faisande; I am terribly sorry that I interrupted
you, you were beginning so well!"
The Treasury clerk pursed his lips and continued, emphasizing every
word:
"I have never had any _bonnes fortunes_, messieurs; and I don't propose
to begin now that I am married."
"What a hypocrite!" muttered my stout neighbor. "I don't know the
fellow's wife, but I pity her; for I am convinced that she has a mighty
poor fellow for a husband."
"What, Monsieur Faisande! not even some trivial little bit of fooling to
tell us? Come, search your memory, did nothing ever happen to you in the
Cite? in Rue aux Feves or Rue Saint-Eloy? There are plenty of frail
damsels on those streets, they say."
This time Monsieur Faisande turned green; he did not know which way to
look, and stammered a few inaudible words. Dupreval, observing his
evident discomfort, and wishing to put an end to a scene which
threatened to lose its comic aspect, hastily asked Montricourt to take
the floor.
The dandy smoothed the nascent beard that adorned his chin, then said in
a low voice, assuming a serious air:
"What I am about to tell you, messieurs, may seem improbable to you.
Understand that I have had a pair of wings made--yes, messieurs, a pair
of wings as magnificent as an eagle's. I fasten them under my arms, and
then, as you can imagine, I go wherever I choose. When a woman attracts
me, I fly in at her window, even if she lives on the fifth floor; I
carry her off, and I win her in mid-air! It's a wonderful thing!"
"I beg your pardon," said Monsieur Roland, ironically; "while you are
making love in mid-air, you can't keep your wings at work; so you must
fall. Look at the birds; they always light to do their billing and
cooing."
"I anticipated that difficulty, my dear fellow; so, before I launch
myself in the air, I always make myself fast to your balloon, which
holds me up."
This witticism ranged all the laughers on Montricourt's side, and even
Monsieur Roland decided to admit defeat.
It was now the turn of Monsieur Rouffignard, the corpulent bon vivant
who sat next to me.
"My story won't be long," he said; "I rush my love affairs through on
time; I don't like to have things drag along. I was in love with a woman
who wasn't handsome, but had a fine figure; and I'm a great fellow for
shape; I tell you, I set store by shape! To speak without periphrasis, I
prefer what's underneath to what's outside. Well! I was making love to
a lady who had little to boast of in the way of features; but such a
superb bust! such well-rounded hips! I said to myself: 'If all that's
only as firm and hard as a plum pudding, it will be all right; for,
after all, one can't expect to find marble unless he goes to a
statue.'--I would have been glad to have a chance to appraise, by means
of a slight caress, more or less innocent, the real value of what I
admired, but my inamorata didn't understand that sort of play; as soon
as I made a motion to touch her, she'd shriek and wriggle and scratch.
'I shall never triumph over such untamed virtue as this,' I said to
myself. But one fine day--that is to say, one evening, she agreed to
meet me. She gave me leave to call between ten and eleven. I took good
care to be prompt. Madame lived alone. She opened the door herself, and
admitted me; but I was surprised to find that she had no light. I
presumed that it was simply excess of modesty, and that defeat in the
dark would be less trying to her; I had the more reason to think so,
because she offered only a slight resistance. I began to grow audacious,
but fancy my disappointment; instead of what I had hoped to find, I
found nothing but _cliquettes_--that is to say, bones, of different
degrees of sharpness. My audacity gave place to alarm; I recalled the
romance of the _Monk_, and the story of _La Nonne Sanglante_; I began to
be afraid that I was alone with a skeleton. But I had in my pocket one
of those devices which we smokers use to obtain a light. I lighted it,
without warning my fair; she shrieked when she saw the flame, and I did
the same when I found that I was tete-a-tete with a beanpole. All I had
admired was false. I alleged a sudden indisposition, and fled. Since
then, whenever that lady meets me, she glares at me as if she would
strike me dead. I am very sorry for her, but one shouldn't pretend to be
a millionaire when one doesn't own a single foot of ground."
It was my turn to relate my adventures. I have had amusing ones and sad
ones; but, presuming that the sentimental sort would be misplaced on
that occasion, I determined on this:
"The scene is laid in the country, messieurs, in a delightful region
about five leagues from Paris. I had gone there to pass a fortnight with
a friend of mine who has a house in that neighborhood; he had
consumption, and was living on milk exclusively; so I leave you to guess
whether the establishment was a lively one. However, one should be
willing sometimes to make sacrifices to friendship. And then, too, there
was a house near by, occupied by several tenants, among them a charming
young widow whom I had met in society in Paris. She was a blonde, with
tender blue eyes and a languishing smile, and an expert coquette, I
assure you! You will say that all women are; but there are gradations. I
renewed my acquaintance with her; in the country, as you have lots of
time to yourself, love does its work much more quickly than in town; and
then, the delicious shade, the verdure, the charming retired nooks where
you can hear nothing but the twittering of birds--are not all these made
to incline one's heart to sentiment, to invite to love? A welcome
invitation, which it is so pleasant to hear! In a word, I made such
progress with my lovely widow, that nothing remained but to obtain a
tete-a-tete. That, however, was not so easy as you may think. The house
where my blonde lived was occupied by a lot of inquisitive, gossiping,
evil-tongued people, whose greatest delight was to busy themselves about
what others were doing. That is the principal occupation of fools in the
country; they get up in the morning to spy on their neighbors, and do
not go to bed happy if they have not done or said some spiteful thing
during the day. My attentions to the pretty widow had been remarked; so
they instantly passed the word around to watch us, to dog our steps; she
and I could not move, without the whole province knowing it. All those
bourgeois and clowns of the pumpkin family were worthy to be police-men
in Paris; and I thought seriously of recommending them to monsieur le
prefet.
"The result was that we had to act with great secrecy. The house where
my widow lived had a large garden. All gardens have a small gate; and
each tenant was supplied with a key to the little gate of the garden in
question, which opened into a lovely meadow. Several times, when talking
with my inamorata in the evening, I had urged her to give me her key, so
that I could get into the garden. By waiting until midnight, I was
certain to avoid meeting any of her fellow boarders, for all of them
went to bed at ten o'clock, as a rule. My constant refrain was: 'Let me
have the key; or else let me in at midnight.'
"At last, one evening when we had met at a neighbor's, as we left the
house my blonde came to me, took my hand, and whispered in my ear:
"'Come to-night.'
"Imagine my joy, my ecstasy! I walked quickly away from her, lest she
should change her mind. Everybody went home, myself with the rest; I
longed so for the time when they should all be asleep! My friend's old
cuckoo clock struck twelve. I left my room at once, stepping lightly,
stole from the house, and hastened to the meadow. I sat down on the
grass, a few steps from the gate, and waited impatiently until it should
open to admit me to the summit of felicity.
"Half an hour passed, and the gate did not open. I said to myself:
'Someone near her has not gone to bed yet, I suppose, and she's afraid
to come down; I must be patient.'--Another half-hour passed and the gate
remained closed. I stood up, thinking that she might have left it
unlocked so that I could go in. I ran to the gate to find out, but it
was locked on the inside. I walked back and forth, I sat down and stood
up, keeping my eyes always fixed on that gate, which did not open. I
thought of everything that could possibly have delayed my lovely widow,
or kept her from coming. One o'clock struck, then the half, then
two.--'She has made a fool of me,' I said to myself; 'she won't come at
all! But what object could she possibly have in keeping me waiting all
night? Does my love deserve such a cruel disappointment? In fact, did
she not, of her own motion, tell me to come to-night? No, it isn't
possible that she purposely makes me pass such wretched hours here.'
"I could not make up my mind to go. Still hoping, I said to myself at
the faintest sound: 'She's coming; here she is!'--But the sound ceased,
and she did not appear. Thereupon I would walk away a few steps, but
again and again I returned.
"Day broke at last, and with it my last hope vanished! For people rise
very early in the country, and, when it was light, I knew very well that
the lady would not risk her reputation by coming out to me. So I
returned to my friend's house, with despair in my heart, swearing that I
would never again address, that I would never look at, that woman who
had made such a fool of me.
"But the next day, chance, or rather our own volition, brought us
together. I was on the point of heaping reproaches on her, but she gave
me no time; with a wrathful glance, she said to me in a voice that shook
with indignation:
"'Your conduct is shameful, monsieur: the idea of making sport of me so!
of making me pass a whole night in the most intense anxiety! For I had
the kindness to believe that something must have happened to you; but I
was mistaken. Why, in heaven's name, did you ask for a thing which you
did not want? It is perfectly shocking! I detest you, and I forbid you
ever to speak to me again!'
"You can imagine my amazement at this harangue. Instead of apologizing,
I overwhelmed her with complaints and reproaches for the sleepless night
I had passed at the garden gate. My manner was so genuine and so
sincere, that the young widow interrupted me.--'What!' she exclaimed;
'you passed the night in the fields? Pray, why didn't you come in,
monsieur?'
"'Come in? by what means, madame?'
"'Why, with the key to the little gate, which I myself gave you.'
"'You gave me the key?'
"'Yes, monsieur; last night, when I spoke to you, I put it in your
hand.'
"Everything was explained. I remembered perfectly that when she
whispered to me she had taken my hand; and that was when she gave me the
key--or, rather, when she thought that I received it; but, alas! she was
mistaken; the key fell noiselessly on the grass, and neither of us
noticed it. You see, messieurs, what trifles happiness depends upon. I
asked pardon and claimed another assignation; but with women a lost
opportunity is seldom recovered.--'Try to find the key,' she said. I
hastened to the place where she had spoken to me the night before. Alas!
in vain did I scratch the ground and examine every tuft of grass; I did
not find the key. A few days later, the pretty blonde went away, and I
never saw her again."
V
FILLETTES, GRISETTES, AND LORETTES
I had performed my task; Dumouton and Fouvenard alone remained to be
heard. The latter having requested the privilege of speaking last, the
man of letters in the yellowish-green coat bowed gracefully and began:
"To speak of one's _bonnes fortunes_, messieurs, is to speak of the
ladies; with me, it is to speak of fillettes, grisettes, or lorettes;
for as to bourgeois dames or great ladies, married or single, I have
always deemed them too virtuous to be the objects of my attachment. That
is my individual opinion; opinions are free. Allow me, therefore, to
indulge in a brief digression concerning fillettes, grisettes, and
lorettes. I know that my colleague, Alexandre Dumas, has discussed this
subject; but there are subjects that are inexhaustible--always
attractive and interesting: women and love enjoy that blessed privilege.
"It has been said that Paris is the paradise of women. Ah! messieurs, he
who said that can never have visited the tiny chambers, the closets, the
attics, sometimes even the garrets, where that charming sex often lacks
the first essentials of life; sometimes by its own fault, sometimes by
the fault of destiny, or, to speak more accurately, of those cruel
monsters of men, who play so important a part in the story of these
young women.
"The _fillettes_ of Paris are the daughters of honest bourgeois or
artisans, whose parents, too much engrossed by their labor or by the
care of their business, put them out as apprentices, or as shopgirls,
or, as happens in the majority of cases, leave them at home to look
after the housework and keep house.
"Imagine a girl of fourteen to sixteen years of age, taken from her
school, and, all of a sudden, because her father has become a widower,
or because her mother sits at a counter all day, burdened with the whole
charge of the household. She has no maid to assist her; for if she had,
she would be a _demoiselle_, not a _fillette_. The _demoiselles_ have
had a good education, they have had teachers who have tried to enlighten
their minds and their judgment and to train their hearts; indeed, they
are supposed to know a great many things; but they are entitled to do
nothing at all during the day, just because they are _demoiselles_.
"The fillettes, on the contrary, have to do everything, and generally
are taught nothing. But you should see how they manage the household
that has been thrown on their hands--mere children, who were playing
with their dolls yesterday. Ordinarily, they begin by sweeping, very
early; but if the lodging consists only of a single room and a cabinet,
the housework is never finished till the end of the day--when it is
finished at all. To be sure, the fillette doesn't work long at any one
thing; she is required to change her occupation every minute; indeed, it
rarely happens that she dresses herself entirely. The young woman whom
you meet on the street early in the morning, carelessly dressed, in
shoes down at heel, with unkempt hair, dirty hands, and a modest manner,
is a fillette.
"She has just begun to sweep, and suddenly she drops the broom, which
sometimes falls against a pane of glass and breaks it; but the young
housekeeper doesn't mind that. She starts to remove her curl papers; she
removes one, she removes two--but just as she has her hand on the third,
she remembers that she hasn't skimmed the stew; so she abandons her
hair, runs to get the skimmer, and brandishes that utensil, humming
Guido's song:
"'Helas! il a fui comme une ombre!'
And to give more expression to her song, more passion to her voice, she
often holds the skimmer lovingly to her heart. But as she sings, her
eyes happen to fall on her canary's cage; she hastens thither, for she
remembers that she hasn't given the bird anything to eat for two days.
But as she is on the point of opening the cage, it occurs to her that
she would do well to think about her own breakfast; so she turns her
back on the canary, to go and visit the pantry. What she finds there
does not suit her; so she goes down to the fruit stall to buy some fresh
eggs. But on the way, she changes her mind; she prefers preserves, so
she goes into the grocer's, where she meets a young woman who has been
her schoolmate. They chat, and sometimes the chance meeting carries them
a long way.
"'Come with me a minute,' says her friend; 'I live close by, and I'll
show you a dress my fiance sent me from Lyon.'
"'Oh! so you've got a fiance, have you? are you going to be married?'
"'Yes, in two months.'
"'That's funny.'
"'Why is it funny?'
"'Because they don't ever think about marrying me.'
"'You're too young.'
"'I'm only a year younger'n you. But my folks would rather keep me at
home to do the housework.'
"'Come, and I'll give you some candy I got when I was a godmother.'
"'Have you been a godmother? Oh! what a lucky girl you are! you have
everything!'
"It is very hard to resist the invitation of a friend who offers us
candy. The fillette forgets her housework, her stew, her canary, and
even her breakfast, as she chats with her old schoolmate, who has been a
godmother and is engaged.
"When at last she goes home, just as she is entering the house, she is
saluted, and sometimes accosted, by a young man of most respectable
aspect, whom she invariably meets when she goes out. I leave you to
judge at what hour the housework will be done and the soup skimmed.
"This young man is not a lover as yet, but he closely resembles a man in
love, and if ill fortune sometimes be-falls the fillette, who is at
fault? Is she the one to be blamed? should we not charge it rather to
the parents, who so shamefully neglect those who have neither strength,
nor sense, nor experience, to resist the seductions of the world?
"Paris is swarming with these fillettes, messieurs; some remain
virtuous, although they live among dangers; as they have no fortune,
they do not always find husbands, but pass from the fillette stage to
that of an old maid, without becoming better housekeepers by the change.
"As for the _grisettes_, that's another story. The grisette loves
pleasure; she wants it, she must have it. She has at least one lover;
when she has only one, she is a most exemplary grisette. However, they
do not pretend to be any better than they are; they make no parade of
false virtue; they are neither prudish nor shy; they cultivate students,
actors, artists, the theatre, balls,--out of doors or indoors,--promenades,
dance halls, restaurants; and they do not recoil at the thought of a
private dining-room.
"The grisette is a gourmand, and is almost always hungry; she is wild
over truffles, but is perfectly content to stuff herself with potatoes;
she adores meringues, but regales herself daily with biscuit and tarts;
she would climb a greased pole for a glass of champagne, but does not
refuse a mug of cider.
"You know as well as I, messieurs, that when you have treated a grisette
to a dainty dinner, you must not conclude that her appetite is
satisfied. On leaving the table, if you are in the country, the grisette
will suggest shooting for macaroons, and will consume several dozen;
then she will ask for a drink of milk, and a piece of rye bread to soak
in it; then she will want some cherries, then beer and gingerbread. In
Paris, you will have to supply her with barley sugar, syrups, punch, and
Italian cheese.
"Let us do the grisette of Paris justice; she is active, frisky,
alluring, provoking; she is not always pretty, but she has a certain--I
don't know what to call it--a sort of _chic_, which always finds
followers. She handles the simplest materials in such a way as to make
herself a pretty little costume; she often wears an apron, and a cap
almost always; she rarely puts anything else on her head, and she is
very wise; for her face, which is captivating in a cap, loses much of
its charm under a bonnet, unless it be a _bibi_, the front of which
never extends beyond the end of her nose.
"The grisette is a milliner, or laundress, or dressmaker, or
embroiderer, or burnisher, or stringer of pearls, or something else--but
she has a trade. To be sure, she seldom works at it. Suggest a trip into
the country, a donkey ride, a bachelor breakfast, a dinner at La
Chaumiere, a ticket to the play, and the shop or workroom or desk may go
to the deuce.
"So long as we can afford her amusement, she will think of nothing else;
but when her lover hasn't a sou, she will return to her work as cheerily
as if she were going to dine at Passoir's, or to do a little cancan at
the Chateau-Rouge; for, messieurs, you may be sure of one thing--the
grisette is a philosopher, she takes things as they come, money for what
it is worth, and men for what they do for her. She loves passionately
for a fortnight; she believes then that it will last all her life, and
proposes to her lover that they go to live on a desert island, like
Crusoe, and eat raw vegetables and shell-fish. As she is very fond of
radishes and oysters, she thinks that she will be able to accustom
herself to that diet; but in a moment she forgets all about that scheme,
and cries:
"'Ah! how I would like some roast veal, and some lettuce salad garnished
with hard-boiled eggs! Take me to Asnieres, Dodolphe, and we'll dine out
of doors; and I'll pluck some daisies and pull off the petals and find
out your real sentiments, for the daisies never lie. If it stops at
_passionately_, I'll kiss you on the left eye; if it tells me that you
don't love me at all, I'll stick pins into your legs. What better proofs
of love do you want?'
"But Dodolphe finds himself sometimes on his uppers.
"'You say you haven't got any money?' cries the grisette; 'bah! what a
nuisance it is that one always has to have money to live on and enjoy
one's self! Wait a minute; I've got a merino dress and a winter shawl;
it's summer now, so I don't need 'em. They'll be better off at _my
aunt's_ than they are in my room, for there are moths there; they'll be
better taken care of, and with what I can get on 'em we'll go and have
some sport.'
"The grisette carries out her plan: she puts her clothes in pawn,
without regret or melancholy. If she had money, she would give it to her
lover. As she often spends all that he has, it seems natural to her to
spend with him all that she has: she is neither stingy, saving, nor
selfish.
"A grisette's lodging is a curious place; but she hasn't always a
lodging to herself; very often she simply perches here and there. She
will stay a week with her lover, three weeks with a friend of her own
sex, and the rest of the time with her fruiterer or her concierge. When,
by any chance, she does possess a domicile and furniture of her own, the
grisette's bosom swells with pride, even when the furniture in question
consists of nothing more than a cot, a mirror, and one broken chair. She
takes delight in saying: 'I shall stay _at home_ this evening,' or: 'I
don't expect to leave _home_ to-morrow. I have an idea of doing _my
room_ over in color; it's all the style now, especially yellow; when
it's well rubbed, it makes more effect than furniture.'
"It is she who writes on her door, with a piece of Spanish chalk, when
she goes out: _I am at my nabor's, down one flite._