looking from one to another, unable to understand what was taking place.
"Well! what in the deuce is going on here, my dear fellow?" said the
young doctor, when Madame Potrelle had disappeared. "Can it be that my
arrival caused all this hurly-burly and put that young woman to flight?
She seemed to be a very attractive person--not the one who went out
last, but the other. I didn't have time for a good look at her, but she
struck me as rather _chicolo_."
"You didn't recognize her, then, Balloquet?"
"Recognize her? Why, do I know her? I have no remembrance of ever seeing
her."
"Ah! I see, I see; I understand it all now."
"You are very lucky, for I don't understand a word of it."
I remembered that Balloquet had been Fouvenard's friend, and it was
probable that Mignonne had met him when she was with her seducer; and
so, when she saw a man come into my room whom she had seen with him who
had deceived her so shamefully, she concluded, doubtless, that I too was
a friend of Fouvenard. That being so, was it surprising that her
suspicions and her terror should have returned, and that she should have
refused to work for me? Poor girl! I had succeeded in winning her
confidence, and this accident had destroyed all that I had had so much
difficulty in obtaining. It seemed that, with the best intentions, I was
fated always to remain an object of terror to her.
I kept my reflections to myself; I deemed it unnecessary to tell
Balloquet that the young woman he had found in my room was she whose
shame Monsieur Fouvenard had not hesitated to proclaim. My visitor was
still standing in the middle of the room, and he cried at last,
irritated by my silence:
"Evidently I came at an inopportune moment. Excuse me. I'll come again."
But I detained him and made him sit down.
"No; you could never guess---- But let us say no more about this
incident.--You seem in better spirits, my dear Balloquet?"
"Oh! my feathers are coming out again; not enough to pay you, but that
may come in time."
"For heaven's sake, don't talk about that!"
"I have seen Satine, my sweetheart, again. She has gone into another
invention now--still in the glove line, however. She cleanses gloves;
she has invented, or someone has given her, a secret for cleansing them;
and as gloves get soiled very quickly and are rather expensive, there's
a lot of money to be made in cleansing."
"True; but I thought the process was already known."
"Yes, it is possible to have gloves cleansed; that's so; but when they
had been through the process they smelt of the cleansing
liquid--turpentine, or something else. You went into a salon and
swaggered about, playing the dandy, and people said as soon as you came
near: 'Ah! here's a man whose gloves have been cleansed!'--That was
annoying, you must admit. It took fifty per cent off your costume. Some
people concluded at once that your coat had been turned and your
trousers dyed, that your waistcoat was second-hand, etcetera, etcetera.
Conjectures went a long way, sometimes."
"And your charmer has found a way of avoiding that?"
"Yes--that is to say, not altogether; gloves cleansed by her process
have an extremely pleasant odor; they smell of rose; oh! you can smell
them a mile away; it's amazing! You go into a salon, and people think
that the Grand Turk and his whole harem have arrived; they can't smell
anything but you."
"But that may have the same drawbacks as the other process, my dear
fellow. People will wonder why you smell so strongly of rose."
"Yes; but when I arrive, I shall begin by saying: 'I adore the odor of
rose! I have lately bought some essence of rose, so strong that all my
clothes are perfumed with it'--In that way, I avert suspicion from my
gloves. However, it seems that the new process is a success. My
sentimental Satine is in funds; the odor of rose is popular. For my
part, I have had a few patients--among others, a rich old gentleman with
whom I am very well satisfied; he has had an inflammation of the lungs
for six weeks, and it doesn't seem inclined to subside. I keep it up by
means of fumigations. I have paid three creditors already with that
inflammation. To-day, as I happened to be in your neighborhood, I said
to myself: 'I may as well call on Rochebrune and give him my address;'
for I have an address for the moment. Cite Vinde, No. 4, _ter_ or _bis_.
But I'm very sorry that I put that young woman to flight. Have I such a
very terrifying aspect? I haven't any moustache."
"I repeat, Balloquet, don't think any more of that incident. You could
not have foreseen what happened.--But tell me about that girl who came
to consult you while I was in your room; you remember, don't you? the
girl who had been so maltreated by a miserable blackguard!"
Balloquet passed his hand across his brow and his face became almost
serious--a rare occurrence.
"Yes, I remember; you mean Annette?"
"Annette--that was the name. You went to see her, didn't you?"
"Yes, I visited her nearly two months."
"And then?"
"And then happened what I had anticipated from the very first: she
died."
"Died! Great God! you could not save her?"
"It was impossible. All that I could do was to relieve her suffering as
much as possible. Poor girl! she suffered too much, even then. A cancer
developed, you understand, at that place. I say again, I deadened the
pain as much as I could, but it was impossible to save her."
"It is perfectly ghastly. So the unfortunate child was tortured--yes,
murdered by that---- Oh! the infernal scoundrel! the monster!"
"Yes, it was that Bouqueton who caused the poor girl's death; I am ready
to testify to it, if necessary. But you told me, I believe, that you
know the villain?"
"I don't know him, but I know who he is."
"Well, is there no way of avenging the poor creature, of punishing her
assassin?--for the man is an assassin, and a hundred times more criminal
than those who ply their trade openly on the highroad. If we prosecuted
him before the courts, we should have no chance of proving his crime, I
fancy. The victim is dead, and there is no evidence. I asked her several
times if she had not some letter, or something that came from that
Bouqueton; it would have been invaluable. But all that she had was a
paltry ring, of no value, not even gold, which he gave her one day as
being very valuable."
"Have you seen the ring?"
"Yes; I asked Annette for it several days before she died. The poor
child, who had divined her doom, although I did my best to conceal it
from her, gave me the bauble, and said with angelic gentleness: 'You may
intend to search for the man who injured me so, and punish him; but it
isn't worth while, monsieur; after all, I have only received the reward
of my misconduct. If I hadn't left my parents to lead a disorderly life,
this thing wouldn't have happened to me. I see that I've got to die, but
I forgive the man who caused my death."
"Poor Annette!"
"I concealed my intentions from her, but I took the ring. It's all right
for the victim to forgive--but our duty is to punish. This is the ring,
Rochebrune."
Balloquet took from his pocket a little gold-plated ring, with several
colored stones of no value set in the form of a star; its only merit was
that it was easily identified by its oddity and its ugliness. I took
possession of it eagerly, crying:
"Leave it with me, my friend; let me keep it, I beg you; it will help me
some day to avenge poor Annette."
"With all my heart. But I say again, try to let me have a share in the
vengeance; don't forget me when the time comes. I saw the victim die,
and I should enjoy seeing the murderer punished."
"I promise to let you know at once, when the time comes; and if I need
you to help me----"
"Sapristi! I will be on hand then, even if I am pursued by creditors!
But my affairs will be settled in due time. Au revoir, my dear fellow!
The next time I come to see you, I'll wear a pair of my essence of rose
gloves, so that you can tell your friends and acquaintances about them."
Balloquet shook hands with me and took his leave; and I carefully put
poor Annette's ring away in my desk.
XXXI
DISAPPOINTED HOPES
Annette's death and Mignonne's unjust suspicions of me left me in a
melancholy mood; and when, as sometimes happened, Madame Sordeville's
conduct came to my mind, it did not tend to restore my self-contentment.
I was not precisely unhappy, but I was disgusted to think that I had so
misplaced my affections; and, more than all, I craved other affection.
Can a man live without love, at thirty years? Indeed, I believe, with
Voltaire, that love is necessary at every age, and that it is love that
sustains us.
I was in this frame of mind when Madame Potrelle appeared. The good
woman began with her usual profusion of reverences, and with an
abundance of apologies for the abrupt manner of her departure on the
occasion of her last visit; but she hoped that I bore her no ill will
therefor.
I reassured her, and asked if she was sent by Madame Landernoy.
"Oh, no, monsieur! she didn't send me--that is to say, not exactly; but
she knows I've come. I'll bet she's waiting impatiently for my return;
and yet, worse luck! she won't listen to a word about you; she won't
work for you; she wouldn't put her foot inside your door for--I don't
know what! She's wrong; I'm perfectly sure she's doing wrong, and that
she's mistaken in what she thinks about you. So I came to tell you what
it was that frightened her, what turned her head."
"I suspect what it was, Madame Potrelle. But, no matter, tell me what
you know."
"In the first place, monsieur, as I told you, when she came back from
buying provisions a week or two ago, my young tenant rushed into my
place, frightened to death, and singing out: 'Protect me! don't let him
come in!'"
"Yes; and afterward a middle-aged man offered you ten francs to let him
go up to Madame Landernoy's room."
"Yes, monsieur; but that last one was just one of the men who are always
following women. But, for all that, it seems he was in earnest, and he
watched her a long while after, poor child. When men are--on my word,
they're worse'n tomcats. Excuse the comparison, monsieur; I don't mean
that for you."
"Let us come to what you had to tell me, Madame Potrelle."
"You see, a woman ends by getting confused with all these blackguards.
_Dame!_ she's got to be so pretty again! I didn't lie to you about that,
did I, monsieur?"
"Your tenant is very good-looking. Above all, she has an interesting,
respectable look, which ought to protect her from the schemes of seekers
after adventures."
"Oh, no! not at all, monsieur; just the opposite! Libertines run after
virtuous women most of all. They want 'em! they must have 'em! 'Ah!'
they'll say; 'there's one that's never gone wrong; I'll just push her
down into perdition.'--Excuse me; I'll come back to the point. The other
day, when Madame Landernoy went out of here like a rocket, I ran after
her, and, _dame!_ as I didn't think she'd done right, I asked her to
explain herself; and this is what she said, word for word: 'I was right
in not having confidence in Monsieur Rochebrune; I recognized that young
man who just came in as a friend of my seducer, of the man who wasn't
content with deserting me, but tried to cover me with shame. Now,
nothing will take away my idea that Monsieur Rochebrune is one of
Ernest's friends, too. How do I know that they are not planning some
trap that they mean to lead me into? When I came home in such a fright
two or three days ago, it was because I'd met that horrible
Rambertin--the man who conceived and carried out the most outrageous
treachery! And that man ran after me and dared to talk to me again about
his passion! No, Madame Potrelle, I won't go to Monsieur Rochebrune's
again, and I won't work for him; for all that he's doing for me isn't
natural. Besides, I am sure now that he has seen Ernest, and that's
enough to make me feel something worse than fear of him.'--Those are
Madame Landernoy's very words, monsieur. I stood up for you; I told her
that it wasn't possible that you had any hand in wicked schemes against
her; and that I'd put my hand in the fire to prove it--and so I would!"
"I thank you for your good opinion of me, Madame Potrelle, and I assure
you that I deserve it in this matter."
"Oh! I don't doubt it, monsieur. But the young woman's got that idea in
her brain, and there's no way to get it out. But something came into my
head, and I told her of it. 'You think,' I says, 'that Monsieur
Rochebrune's a friend of your seducer, and you think it's strange he
should take so much interest in you and pay you more for your work than
it's worth. But how do you know Monsieur Ernest hasn't repented of the
way he's treated you? After all, he's the father of your little girl;
how do you know but what he's thinking about her, and wants her to have
everything she needs?'--That seemed to strike her; she thought a long
while, and then she says: 'Oh, no! no! when a man has tried to cover an
unhappy mother with shame, he don't repent! his heart is closed to every
honest feeling, and he never remembers that he has a child. And yet, if
by any chance--if you have guessed right---- But, no, I can't believe
it, it isn't possible!'--At that, monsieur, I saw that in the bottom of
her heart she thought I had guessed right; so I says to her: 'Well! I'll
just go to Monsieur Rochebrune, and ask him flat-footed how it is, and
I'm sure he'll answer me honest.'--So I started off, monsieur, and here
I am."
"You did well, madame, to believe that I would answer you frankly. You
may repeat what I am going to tell you to Mignonne--that is her
Christian name, and she will understand now how I know it.--I do know
Monsieur Ernest Fouvenard; he has never been a friend of mine; and if he
had been, his treatment of your tenant, of which he dared to boast in my
presence, would have been enough to put an end to our friendship. In
fact, that is just what has happened between him and the young man whom
you saw here. He was intimate with Monsieur Ernest; he broke with him
entirely as soon as he learned of this outrageous performance of his. I
was profoundly interested by Mignonne's misfortunes; and that interest
was absolutely pure, as I did not then know her. I understand why she
looked upon me at first with suspicion; when one has been so shamefully
betrayed, it is natural to suspect evil designs in the most innocent
actions. I saw your young tenant, and I did not fall in love with
her--not even after she recovered her beauty. But she aroused the
liveliest interest in me, and it would have been a very pleasant task to
me to make her lot easier. That is the whole truth; I hope that Mignonne
will deign to believe it. As a general rule, men are evil-minded; but
there are still some who do good solely for the pleasure of doing it;
the exception proves the rule."
"I believe you, monsieur; oh, yes! I believe you," said the concierge,
sadly; "but I am sorry that I didn't guess right. I wish that miserable
Monsieur Ernest had thought of his child. Whatever she may say, I am
sure the poor mother would have been pleased in the bottom of her
heart."
"I am not enough of a hero, Madame Potrelle, to give credit to another
for the little good I am able to do; besides, when that other is a
miserable wretch, a dastard, who prides himself on his infamous conduct,
it seems to me that it would be nothing less than downright fraud to
give him credit for acts which would imply that his heart was not devoid
of every worthy feeling. Mignonne was right in thinking that the man who
would have covered an unhappy mother with opprobrium is not capable of
repentance. Your supposition was born of a kind heart; but Monsieur
Ernest has one that is rotten to the core, and with such hearts there is
no resource. Now, I have told you the whole truth; Mignonne will believe
me or not; I cannot help myself. But if she does change her opinion with
regard to me, tell her that I bear no malice, and that the work I
offered her will still be at her disposal."
I dismissed the concierge. Let Mignonne think and do what she chose, I
had done all that I could to help her. I neither could nor ought to go
any further.
The spring had returned, and one fine day I had left home thinking of
Madame Dauberny, whom I would have given all the world to meet, when I
felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and recognized my former
acquaintance, Baron von Brunzbrack.
"How in der teufel are you?" said the baron, taking my hand.
"Ah! is it you, Monsieur de Brunzbrack? I am delighted to meet you. Do
you know that it is more than six months since we met?"
"Ja, I know id veil; but I could not meed you no more, pecause--you know
pecause vhy?"
"What do I know? Assume that I do not know--I shall be much obliged."
"Pecause I no longer go to Monsir Sordeville."
"Ah! you no longer go there? Faith! I had no means of knowing that, for
the very simple reason that I myself have not put my foot inside that
door since--yes, since the night we played baccarat together, against
Madame Dauberny."
"Ten you pe like me. Te loafely voman, she vill haf varned us poth."
"Warned---- Who, pray?"
"Te loafely Frederique."
"Ah! so Madame Dauberny suggested to you too not to go to Madame
Sordeville's, did she?"
"Ja! I haf one day received from her ein leedle note, vich I haf alvays
keep, pecause I vas much bleezed to receive tat note vich she haf write
herself. You shall see; I haf id alvays on my heart, in my cigar case."
And the baron, taking a dainty cigar case from his pocket, produced a
small folded paper that smelt horribly of tobacco; luckily, the tobacco
was of the best quality.
He opened the letter and handed it to me, but did not let it leave his
own hands. I recognized Frederique's hand, and I read:
"MY DEAR BARON:
"Do you care for my advice? Do not go to Monsieur Sordeville's any
more. I say this in your own interest. Later, perhaps, I shall be
able to explain my reasons. /* "Yours devotedly,
"FREDERIQUE DAUBERNY."
I could not restrain a sort of shudder as I read the last name, and
reflected that such a woman as Frederique was that man's wife. Suppose
that she knew what he was doing! But, no; she would do something
imprudent; it was better that she should not know that story until
Annette was avenged.
The baron carefully replaced the letter in his cigar case, and restored
the latter to his pocket, saying:
"Vhen I haf tat note received, I vas mad mit choy. I pelieved tat te
Frederique, she vas chealous of some voman who vent to Monsir
Sordeville, berhaps of Montame Sordeville herself. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Did you follow the advice she gave you?"
"Ach! _pigre!_ I vould haf no more gone to Sordeville's for ein embire!
But I haf called often to see Montame Dauberny; I haf hard luck; she pe
nefer in! I haf not pin aple to meed her. And you, mein gut frent?"
"I received the same advice from Madame Dauberny."
"And you opeyed, like me?"
"Not instantly; I went once more to see Madame Sordeville, but in the
afternoon."
"Ach! gut! gut!"
"Indeed, I expected to see her often; but an unforeseen event changed
all my plans. I have not been there since, and I shall never go again."
"Ach! gut! gut! Is id also to do Montame Dauberny's vish?"
"Not at all; it is for another reason, which I cannot tell you."
"Gut! gut! I no untershtand. You must not--you must not shtill pe in
loafe mit te peautiful Frederique?"
"Mon Dieu! no, my dear baron! When could I have fallen in love with her,
pray? I never see her; I never meet her."
"Gif me your hand, mein frent."
"And yet, I confess that I have the greatest desire to see her and speak
with her."
"Ach, ja! I untershtand; and so haf I; to ask her vhy she haf forbid us
to go to te Sordevilles."
"I should not be sorry to know that. But I want to talk to her about
something which interests me more."
The baron drew back with a frown, and muttered:
"You haf a teclaration to make to her--in secret--mit mystery!"
"Sapristi! you are infernally tenacious in your ideas, baron. Once more,
there is no question of a declaration! Why on earth have you taken it
into your head that I am likely to fall in love with Madame Dauberny?
Would it please you very much if I should?"
"Ach! no! no! Gif me your hand, mein frent; I haf pin wrong. I am one
pig fool!"
The baron was still holding my hand, when a caleche stopped beside us
and a voice said:
"Would you like to take a short drive with me, messieurs?"
We looked up and recognized Madame Dauberny, alone in an open caleche.
Herr von Brunzbrack turned crimson with pleasure; for my part, I was
well pleased to have met Frederique at last.
"Faith! madame," said I, "the baron and I were just talking of you."
"Ja, loafely lady; ve haf pin talking of you."
"I suspected as much; that is why I stopped. Well, messieurs, wouldn't
you rather talk with me than confine yourselves to talking about me?"
Our only reply was to enter the carriage without more ado. I seated
myself opposite Frederique, the baron by her side, and we drove away.
XXXII
A REVELATION
Unless by keeping my eyes constantly lowered, I could not avoid looking
often at Frederique; and as I had no reason to lower my eyes, and,
moreover, as I had always taken pleasure in looking at her, I was able
at that moment to enjoy that pleasure to the full.
Madame Dauberny was always dressed in good taste; that morning she wore
a gray silk gown, cut very high, which was wonderfully becoming to her.
But, after all, is it not rather the wearer who embellishes the gown?
For example: I had often noticed that Frederique's waists fitted her to
perfection, and I had rarely noticed that fact in other women. Was it
not because Frederique had a beautiful figure?
I was overjoyed to see that Madame Dauberny's face no longer wore that
cold, stern expression which she had formerly adopted with me. Her face
was entirely different; I could not say what it expressed, because,
although she looked at me often, she never fixed her eyes on mine; but
they shone with a brilliancy I had never before seen in them; they were
at once softer and merrier than of old; they no longer had, for the
moment at least, that ironical or severe expression to which I had once
become accustomed.
The baron, who seemed enchanted at first to be at Frederique's side,
soon began, I think, to be sorry that he was not where I was. He
constantly leaned forward, trying to see Frederique's face; but she wore
a broad-brimmed gray felt hat, and when the baron leaned forward to
speak to her she always turned her head, apparently in a spirit of
mischief, so that he could not have the pleasure of looking at her.
"I am very glad to have met you, messieurs," said Frederique; "in the
first place, because it gives me the greatest pleasure to see
you--both."
That _both_ she said in a curious tone, and accompanied it with a glance
in my direction. I had sufficient conceit to believe, after all, that
she still preferred my company to the baron's.
"In the second place, messieurs, I owe you an explanation for the
letters I wrote you on the subject of Monsieur Sordeville; for I
referred to him solely, and not to his wife, when I urged you to break
off your relations with that household. Monsieur Rochebrune paid little
heed to my advice.--I do not blame you, monsieur; besides, Armantine is
my friend, and, as I have told you before, I have no desire to injure
her in your esteem. If her husband is a scoundrel, I believe you to be
just enough not to include his wife in the contempt which that man must
inspire."
"Go on, madame; what is his business?"
"Haf he made ein pankrupt?"
"Oh! if it were no worse than that! But, in the first place, Monsieur
Sordeville was neither banker, nor merchant, nor solicitor; he was
nothing, and pretended to be everything. That strange state of affairs
aroused my curiosity more than once, especially as he gave parties,
lived handsomely, made a good deal of show, and yet he was not known to
have any fortune, and Armantine's dowry was very, very small. There is
one point upon which I have always liked to be well posted, and that is,
the means of existence of the people with whom I associate. Indeed, how
much confidence can one have in those who spend a great deal and earn
nothing?