"My husband's? He sells sponges, at wholesale; we're going to keep a
sponge shop."
"That must be a good business."
"_Dame!_ I don't know anything about it. I shan't like it very much to
be among sponges all the time. But we won't have any dog, anyway; that
was one of the first conditions I made."
"Ah! you don't want a dog; I judge that you dislike dogs?"
"Mon Dieu! no, I like all kinds of animals. But it's on account of the
song."
"Ah! is there a song about dogs?"
"About the _Sponge Man's Dog_! Don't you know that song?"
"No; I must admit that it is entirely unknown to me."
"It's a comic song; every verse ends like this: 'And it was the sponge
man's dog.'--Everybody knows that refrain, and pa says to Pamphile: 'If
you had a dog, people would always sing that song when they saw him.
That might injure your business.'--And Pamphile says: 'I'll never have a
dog, I swear,' and I married him. Pa did well, didn't he?"
"I admire Monsieur Bocal's foresight."
"He insisted, too, that my mother-in-law shouldn't live with us."
"In that respect I applaud him; for mothers-in-law seldom agree with
their daughters-in-law."
"Especially as Madame Girie---- Why, she's a woman that would set
mountains to fighting if she could; and yet, she says she adores her
children! it's amazing how happy they've been with her! Pamphile's
younger brother was very delicate, so she said; she insisted on his
purging himself all the time, taking cathartics and enemas. When he came
home at night after dining out, Madame Girie was always waiting for him
on the stairs, with a syringe. If he refused to have an enema, she'd
chase him through all the rooms. The next day, she'd purge him without
telling him, by putting something in his coffee. In fact, she pestered
the poor boy so with what she called her little attentions, that one
fine morning he went off and enlisted in the dragoons; he preferred that
to being syringed."
"Faith! I believe that I would have done the same if I had been in his
place."
"Madame Girie said he was an ingrate. She didn't want her other son,
Pamphile, to marry, so's he could stay with her. You can see that that
prospect didn't tempt him, especially as Madame Girie wanted to run the
business, and as she found a way to quarrel with all the customers. One
day, she refused to sell a man sponges, because he didn't bow to her
when he came in; another time, it was a woman who spoke to her as if she
was a servant. In fact, if she'd stayed with Pamphile a while longer, it
would have been all up with his business; for no one would come there
to buy. Well! here we are married. We make Madame Girie an allowance,
but it won't be enough for her, you see! she's never had any idea how to
take care of money, she always runs right through it.--Ah! it's our
turn, monsieur; this is the _poule_."
When the _poule_ figure was at an end, the bride said to me, with an
ironical air:
"It don't seem to me that there's any need of my holding myself so
straight to dance with you. They said you were such a fine dancer!"
"Cousin Ravinet was mistaken, madame, in saying that I danced well."
"Oh! as to that, if you were dancing with the lady you had a little
while ago, you'd jump higher, I suppose."
"I beg you to believe that no partner could induce me to jump any
higher."
"Freluchon dances mighty well, I tell you; he bounds like a rubber
ball."
"That is a gift of nature, and I would not contend with the gentleman.
Is he a relation of yours?"
"Freluchon? No; he's head salesman in pa's shop. He cried when he heard
I was going to be married."
"The deuce! was it with pleasure?"
"Well, I guess not! it was with something else. But I consoled him; I
told him I'd be his friend as long as we live, and that he could kiss me
every Sunday."
"I can imagine, madame, that such a prospect dried his tears."
"It's our turn! it's our turn!"
The quadrille was over at last. I escorted the bride to her place, and
dodged the glasses of mulled wine that were circulating in all
directions. Someone seized my arm; I jumped back in dismay, fearing that
it was either Monsieur Bocal again or little Ravinet.
But it was Balloquet, who led me to a corner of the room, where we sat
down upon an unoccupied bench. My medical friend seemed to be in very
high spirits. He began to laugh before he spoke to me.
"Well! my dear Rochebrune, I should say that we had succeeded in our
undertakings, eh? What an excellent idea it was of mine, that we should
join these wedding parties!"
"True; but suppose I hadn't appeared with Monsieur Bocal's
landlord--what then? It seems to me that you were in for a bad quarter
of an hour! What the devil had you been doing?"
"Nothing; it was just a joke. The little woman I was talking with just
now had excited me; and then, the way they drink here is something
terrific. Faith! while I was dancing with the bride, my hand went
astray. That idiot of a Pamphile did nothing but say to us: 'I've
married an apple! My wife's as solid as one!' And I just wanted to see
if it was true. I give you my word that he flatters himself. But that's
all gone by now; the husband adores me. What do you think of this
party?"
"I prefer the one I belong to."
"How did you arrange your affair?"
"I was sorely embarrassed; but two charming women took me under their
protection. Afterward, I found a gentleman there who knew me. But, for
all that, my dear Balloquet, don't be imprudent enough to come into the
other ballroom. The company is very different from this; you might be
questioned, and----"
"Never fear; I'm very well off here, and I shall stay. In the first
place, there's to be a supper, and I have always had a weakness for that
sort of amusement. And, secondly, I have my hands full: I am at work on
a brunette--the one I was colloguing with just now. I like her
immensely; I propose to give her my custom. She's a Madame Satine,
Boulevard des Italiens; a fashionable quarter, where gloves are very
dear. She says she's a widow; all the attractions at once. She's no
light-footed nymph, but good, solid flesh and blood, and no prude,
either. We dine together to-morrow; that's already arranged."
"I congratulate you; you do business promptly."
"And you--have you found anything to make it worth your while?"
"I have made the acquaintance of a charming woman; but I don't know yet
whether it will go any further."
"The one who came here with you?"
"No; that was my second protectress."
"Do you know that she has a regular--military air. _Bigre!_ how she
looked at me!"
"Yes, there is a touch of decision in her manners. She is clever and
original; but she's not the one I am making up to."
"I say! who in the devil is this old woman standing in front of us and
making faces?"
I looked up and recognized Madame Girie, who had halted in front of
Balloquet and myself and had her eyes fixed upon us, raising her
eyebrows, smiling--in a word, indulging in a pantomime which was
certainly intended to compel us to speak to her.
There was no way of escaping her; for, as soon as I raised my eyes,
Madame Girie made a minuet courtesy and stepped forward, saying in a
tone in which she clearly intended to announce the mistress of the
feast:
"Have you had some punch, monsieur, or some _bischoff_? Have you taken
anything?"
"Yes, madame; I am infinitely obliged to you, I have taken many things."
"You see, Monsieur Bocal is so heedless! He talks a great deal and makes
a lot of noise, and acts as if he wanted to manage everything; but, as
a matter of fact, he don't do anything at all; and if I wasn't here to
look after things---- I am the bridegroom's mother, monsieur."
"You are quite capable of being, madame," said Balloquet, rising and
bowing to Madame Girie; then he walked away and left me to my fate. I
would have been glad to follow Balloquet's example; but Madame Girie at
once took his seat by my side and seemed disposed to remain there. I
felt a cold perspiration break out all over me. The bridegroom's mother
turned toward me and continued the conversation:
"Yes, monsieur, I am the bridegroom's mother. That magnificent boy is my
son; he looks like me, don't he, monsieur?"
"Yes, madame; he has your expression."
"My expression--that's it exactly; you've struck it! He wanted to marry.
I wanted to be everything to him. 'Stay with your mother,' I says;
'you'll be much happier! What more do you need?'"
"But, madame, it seems to me that a mother can hardly take the place of
a wife; and I imagined that a mother's greatest happiness was to live
again in her grandchildren."
Madame Girie took from her pocket a handkerchief redolent of snuff, and
rejoined:
"Oh! certainly, monsieur, a man can marry; but he'd ought to make a good
choice, and that's so hard!"
"Do you mean that you are not satisfied with the choice your son has
made?"
"Hum! hum! I don't want to speak unkind of my daughter-in-law, monsieur;
I ain't capable of it; but if I was inclined to! In the first place,
she's as stupid as a pot, that little Petronille is. But you've been
dancing with her, and you must have found it out."
"Why, no, madame; I found her _naive_ and natural."
"Ha! ha! silly [_niaise_] enough, ain't she? You're frank, you are!
However, Pamphile was cracked over her, and I don't know why; for she
ain't pretty."
"She's very fresh."
"_Dame!_ if a girl wasn't fresh at her age! But she's running to fat,
and I won't give her three years before she's a sight. And then, she's
been brought up in such a curious way! Having no mother, she's done just
as she chose, you see. Alone all day long with the clerks; young men,
too--I actually believe she went down into the cellar with 'em! Fie!
fie! what actions! catch me choosing that hussy for my son's wife! But
he wouldn't listen to me, when I says to him: 'You'll repent of your
bargain.'--You just wait a little while, monsieur, and you'll see.
There's a certain Freluchon,--one of Monsieur Bocal's clerks,--who was
dead in love with Petronille. Everybody knows that; why, she didn't
conceal it herself, but just laughed about it!--a modest girl doesn't
laugh at such a thing.--This Freluchon taught her to swim--do you hear,
monsieur?--to swim, in the river; she went into deep water with him!
Fine doings! And Pamphile thinks that's all right. 'Look out what you're
doing!' I says to him.--Oh, monsieur! what fools men are when they're in
love!"
"That is a profound truth, madame; but it does little honor to your sex;
if women really were what men suppose them to be when they're in love,
men wouldn't be such fools to love them."
Madame Girie pursed up her lips, shook her head, and smiled, as she
said:
"Thank God! all women ain't Petronilles!"
"And all mothers-in-law aren't like you, madame!"
I don't know whether Madame Girie took that for a compliment, but she
bowed low. For my part, I had had quite enough of the excellent dame's
chatter, so I left my seat and the ballroom, where the odor of mulled
wine and punch was beginning to be insufferable.
XIV
A YOUNG DANDY.--A DELIGHTFUL HUSBAND
Returning to the Dablemar function, I drew a long breath of delight; a
pleasant odor of patchouli and muslin replaced the fumes of mulled wine,
which were intensified on the other side of the corridor by a multitude
of other emanations. The temperature, too, was endurable, and the faces
of the guests did not glisten with drunkenness and perspiration, which
impart to the countenance a gloss that does not embellish it.
My first care was to look about for Madame Sordeville. I discovered her
talking with her friend Frederique, and with them was a young man whom I
had not yet seen.
This new personage was twenty-eight to thirty years of age, and was
dressed in the height of fashion. He was very dark, and his hair,
artistically parted and curled, was beautifully glossy. A long, pale
face, regular features, black eyes somewhat sunken, a small, tightly
closed mouth, a slight, carefully trimmed moustache, made him a very
good-looking fellow; but a self-sufficient, conceited air, which almost
amounted to impertinence--that too I observed in my scrutiny of that
young man, who, at the very outset, and for some reason which I could
not explain, made a most unpleasant impression on me.
We often feel sympathies or antipathies for persons we do not know; and
when we are in a position to become better acquainted with such persons,
it rarely happens that the instinctive prevision of our hearts is not
justified. So that we must have a sort of second-sight, of the heart,
which warns us when we are in presence of a friend or an enemy.
This gentleman was talking with the two ladies, with a familiarity that
seemed to denote a close intimacy. Was he probably the lover of one or
the other? Suppose he were of both? Such things have been seen. One
thing was certain, and that was that there was no trace of the discreet
lover about him.
You will consider that I have a low opinion of women. It is not of women
alone, but of the world in general that I have such an opinion. It is
not my fault; why has it so often given me reason to think ill of it?
I did not approach them, for the presence of that handsome dandy annoyed
me; but I watched them. I must have been very dull-witted not to
discover with which of the two ladies he was on most intimate terms.
There are many little nothings by which people always betray themselves,
unless they are constantly on their guard; and even then!
Ah! my mind was made up! A hand placed a little too familiarly on the
fellow's knee, a long glance, which said things that are not said in
public, told me that he was intimately associated with Madame Dauberny.
I was conscious of a joyful thrill, for I had feared for a moment that
it was with my charming partner, and, frankly, that would have
distressed me. Therefore, I was certainly in love with her.
I walked toward the group, and spoke to Madame Sordeville, who replied
with her usual affability. But while I was talking with her I noticed
that my fine gentleman with the moustache eyed me from head to foot with
something very like impertinence! I wondered how long that would last.
There are such people in society; people whose impertinent glances force
you to pay them back in their own coin in a way which is almost a
challenge, and which signifies plainly:
"Have you anything to say to me? I am waiting, and I am all ready to
reply."
As that superb _lion_ did not cease to stare at me, I stared back at him
in the manner I have described. He lowered his eyes and turned his head.
That was very lucky! But you may be quite certain that from that moment
my gentleman and I could not endure each other.
As it seemed to annoy him to see me talk and laugh with the charming
Armantine, I put all the more fire into my conversation; and as she
laughed very readily, I continued to incite her to laughter.
Madame Dauberny whispered in the young man's ear; I noticed that he
frowned slightly and compressed his lips. Was she telling him what she
had done to help me out of my predicament? What difference did it make
to me whether her action pleased or displeased the fellow? Madame
Frederique no longer seemed to me so attractive as before; no, she
certainly was not pretty. Moreover, what she had said to me in our last
interview had cooled my feeling for her considerably.
Madame Sordeville was engaged for the next contra-dance, but she
promised me the next but one. Her partner came to claim her. The superb
Frederique stood up with her dark-eyed swain. What was I to do during
that quadrille? It is a terrible bore not to dance at a ball in polite
society, where you know no one.
I concluded to find Monsieur Sordeville, remembering the advice Madame
Dauberny had given me before her cicisbeo's arrival.
I discovered Armantine's husband in an adjoining salon, in a group of
men, most of whom were decorated; he was not talking, but listening to
the others. I walked toward him, and he came to meet me.
"Aren't you dancing, Monsieur Rochebrune?"
"I am resting."
"I'll wager that my wife isn't; she is indefatigable!"
"Madame Sordeville is dancing, it is true; and Madame Dauberny,
too--with a young man whom I had not noticed before--a dark young man
with a moustache."
"Ah, yes! Saint-Bergame. He came very late, as usual; one produces a
greater effect by making people wait for one. Ha! ha! But you must know
him, if you have been a friend of Madame Dauberny from childhood. You
must have met him often at her house."
Again Monsieur Sordeville's smile was tinged with mockery. I answered,
this time without embarrassment:
"I saw nothing of Madame Dauberny for a long time, until very recently."
"Then it must have been during that time that she made Saint-Bergame's
acquaintance; their liaison is hardly six months old. But he is on a
very intimate footing with her, none the less; however, that is easily
seen."
The tone in which Monsieur Sordeville said this left me in no doubt that
he had the same opinion that I myself had formed concerning the
relations between these two. But if he believed it, it seemed strange to
me that he should allow his wife to be so intimate with Madame Dauberny
as she seemed to be. Was there not reason to fear that the evil example
might be contagious? or was Monsieur Dauberny's conduct such as to
excuse his wife's? or again, was Monsieur Sordeville one of those
philosophical husbands who look upon all such things as mere trifles
undeserving of their attention? I was tempted to believe that the last
conjecture was nearest the truth.
"Who is this Monsieur Saint-Bergame?" I asked, after a moment.
"Hum! I have no very definite idea. However, he represents himself as a
journalist. But nowadays, you know, a man is a journalist just as he is
an advocate. Everybody writes for the newspapers, or at least tries to
create that impression."
"I know that the profession of journalist is an honorable one, when it
is carried on without prejudice or passion, when one writes with
impartiality. I will not say, with spirit and good taste, for those
qualities should be indispensable prerequisites of admission to the
guild. Unluckily, it is not always so. Since newspapers have become so
numerous, all the unappreciated poets, all the unsuccessful authors,
have turned journalists. These gentry, having failed to induce anyone to
produce their plays, fall furiously upon those authors who succeed.
Luckily, the real public does substantial justice; often, indeed, the
very extravagance of the insults heaped upon a man of talent simply
intensifies the public interest in him. And, after all, it is a pitiable
thing, it seems to me, to pass one's life tearing to tatters those who
produce! It is the old story of the he-goat in the fold: he does
nothing, and attacks whoever wants to work."
"You don't seem to be fond of journalists?"
"I think very highly of them when they are intelligent and their
criticisms are decent. I once knew a very popular literary man, who
laughed till he cried over the savage attacks that the journalists made
upon his works. 'If I were not successful,' he would say, 'those fellows
would not honor me with their hatred. They would not say anything about
me unless it were to offer me some patronizing compliment. Ah! my dear
fellow, congratulate me! Everybody cannot have enemies.'--But, to
return to Monsieur Saint-Bergame: for what newspaper does he write?"
"Really, I can't tell you; for some new sheet--more than one, perhaps.
He has the reputation of being very bitter, and prides himself on it."
"He has no reason to. Nothing is so easy as to say unkind things; the
conversation of cooks and concierges is principally made up of them."
"I believe, too, that Saint-Bergame has had a long play in verse
accepted at the Odeon, or at the Francais, or perhaps at the
Theatre-Historique. But he's been talking about it a long, long while,
and nobody else ever mentions it."
"And are these monsieur's only titles to the admiration of his
contemporaries?"
"I know of no others. However, he's a good-looking fellow, dresses well,
and follows all the fashions. He's a _beau cavalier_; so you must not be
surprised if all the ladies fight for the honor of capturing him."
"Oh! I am surprised at nothing."
"But do you not cultivate the arts, Monsieur Rochebrune? I should say
that I had heard of songs and ballads of which you are doubly the
author, having composed both words and music."
"Yes, monsieur, that is true. But one is no more a literary man because
one can write a ballad, than one is a composer because one has composed
an air and worked out a piano accompaniment for it."
"Mere modesty on your part, monsieur; you can't make me believe that a
man can compose an air without being a musician."
"One may be like Jean-Jacques, who had not the slightest conception of
counterpoint."
"I don't know whether Rousseau was a consummate musician, but I wish
that somebody would give us something equal to his _Devin du Village_."
"I am with you there, monsieur, although it should have a new
orchestration."
"My wife is a fine performer on the piano, and she has a good voice; we
have music at our house on Thursdays; that is the day the music lovers
assemble. If it would be agreeable to you to hear them and to join
them----"
"You are too kind, monsieur; it will be a very great pleasure to me. I
can listen to music twelve hours at a time, without tiring."
"We shall rely upon you, then, monsieur, on Thursdays especially. But
you will be welcome at any time. Do you know our address?"
"No, I do not."
"Here is my card."
Having handed me his card, Monsieur Sordeville walked away. On my word!
a charming husband! he anticipated my dearest wish. And yet, he did not
act like a simpleton. Oh, no! he certainly was not one of those obliging
husbands who see nothing of what goes on under their roofs. Madame
Frederique was right in her prediction that he would invite me. I was
decidedly puzzled; but I could see nothing in it at all that augured ill
for me. Madame Sordeville was very pretty, very captivating. I felt that
I should love her passionately. I did not know whether she was inclined
to follow her friend Frederique's example, but I had permission to call
at her house, and that was something.
As soon as the quadrille was at an end, I once more approached the spot
where the two ladies had established themselves. Monsieur Saint-Bergame
was still with them; but he did not frighten me--he bored me, that was
all.
I cannot say whether the invitation I had just received had given me an
air of triumph; but when she saw my face, Madame Sordeville smiled and
exchanged a glance with her friend. I would have given--I cannot say how
much, to know the meaning of that glance.
Monsieur Saint-Bergame said to Madame Dauberny, with a curl of the lip,
and an affectation of familiarity:
"Do you expect to stay here long?"
"Why not? I am in no hurry; my mind is at rest; Monsieur Dauberny won't
sit up for me."
"This party seems to me intolerably dull."
"You are exceedingly polite! For my part, I am enjoying myself
immensely."
"Oh! you enjoy yourself everywhere, madame!"
"That is creditable to my temperament, at all events."
"There's a curious mixture of faces here--it's not homogeneous."
"Very good! try to write an amusing article about it; it will be a
windfall to you."
"On my word, you are very sharp this evening!"
"I thought that you were used to it."
"The next contra-dance is mine, you know, madame?" I said to Madame
Sordeville.
"Yes, monsieur, to be sure; I have not forgotten it."
Her manner as she made that reply was charming. Women have a way of
saying the most trivial things which gives them enormous value in our
eyes. That depends considerably, however, on one's frame of mind.
The orchestra began to play a polka. I looked disconsolately at my
pretty partner.
"Do you polk?" I asked.
"No. I waltz, but I don't polk."
"But I do," said Madame Dauberny, holding out her hand. "And you know
how well we danced together. Suppose we see if we can succeed as well
here as at Monsieur Bocal's ball?"
What an extraordinary woman! she said that as if we had known each other
ten years. She was very pretty in my eyes at that moment. I hastened to
take her hand, and we began to dance. I enjoyed it all the more because
I had observed Saint-Bergame's horrible scowl.
We danced for some time without speaking, and, vanity aside, I believe
we performed very creditably. After we had twice made the circuit of the
room, I could contain myself no longer.