X.

THE following day Mere Rafut arrived. Bijou had expected to have her

for a week, and was very much disappointed when the old woman told her

that she could only give her five days, as the theatre opened again on

the first of September, and she would have to be there at her post as

dresser.

Jeanne, therefore, proposed to help with the work, and Bijou accepted

her offer.

"That's a capital idea!" she said; "if we are both together we shall

not be dull! we can talk to each other without troubling about Mere

Rafut."

Accordingly, every day, whilst the marchioness and Madame de Rueille

were doing what Jean de Blaye called "a visiting tour," the two young

girls installed themselves in Bijou's boudoir, which was converted

into a sewing-room, and were soon busy with their cutting out and

sewing, whilst chattering together, too intent on their conversation

to pay much attention to the old sewing-woman.

"Are you going to the race-ball?" Bijou asked her friend.

"Yes," said Jeanne; "it seems that as I am now engaged it is not quite

the thing; but I am going all the same, as Franz wants to see me

arrayed in my ball-dress, and he wants to waltz with me, too; he

waltzes very well, you know."

"Ah! and yet he looks so austere? Tell me, don't you mind in the least

marrying a Protestant?"

"Not in the least! without being bigoted, I am a thorough Catholic,

and he is a devoted Protestant, but not bigoted either. We shall each

of us keep to our own religion, for we have no wish whatever to

change; but neither of us has any idea of trying to convert the

other."

Bijou did not speak, and Jeanne continued:

"I am not at all sorry that I am going to have a husband who is a

Protestant, and I will confess that, for certain things, I feel more

satisfied that it should be so. It's quite true, what you were saying

yesterday--Protestants have certain ideas about the family, and about

constancy; in fact, they have stricter principles about such things

than Catholics."

"Yes; tell me, though, what dress are you going to wear for the race

ball?"

"I don't know yet! I haven't one for it!"

"Why, how's that? what about the white one with the little bunches of

flowers all over it?"

"Papa does not think it is nice enough; the race ball is to be at the

Tourvilles, you know, this year; and it will all be very grand!"

"Oh, yes!"

"We do not know them at all; it will be the first time of our going to

Tourville, and if I were to be dressed anyhow, it would not be very

nice for your grandmamma, who got us invited; and so papa told me to

have a dress made, and he gave me two pounds."

"What are you going to have made?"

"I don't know at all; advise me, will you?"

For the last minute or two Bijou had seemed to be turning something

over in her mind.

"If you like," she said at last, "we might be dressed in the same way,

you and I; that would be awfully nice!"

"What is your dress?"

"My dress does not exist yet; it is a thing of the future! It will be

pink, of course--pink crepe--quite simple--straight skirts, cut like a

ballet-dancer's skirts, so that there will be no hem to make them

heavy, three skirts, one over the other, all of the same length, of

course--three, that makes it cloudy-looking; more than that smothers

you up; and it will fall in large, round _godets_. Then there will be

a little gathered bodice, very simple; little puffed sleeves, with a

lot of ribbon bows and ends hanging, and then ribbon round the waist,

with two long bows and long ends--ribbon as wide as your hand, not any

wider.'

"It will be pretty."

"And it would suit you wonderfully well."

"But shouldn't you mind my being dressed like you?" asked Jeanne,

rather timidly.

"On the contrary, I should love it! Would you like us to make the

dress here? I would try it on, and like that we should be sure that it

was right."

"How sweet you are! Plenty of other girls in your place would only

trouble about themselves."

"Listen, supposing you wrote for the crepe to be sent to-morrow." And

then she added laughing, "M. de Bernes asked me yesterday evening if I

had not any commissions for Pont-sur-Loire. I might have given him

that to do!"

"He would have been slightly embarrassed."

"Why? It is easy enough to buy pink crepe with a pattern."

Mere Rafut, who had been busy sewing, without uttering a word, but

just pulling her needle through the work with a quick regular

movement, now lifted her face, all wrinkled like an old apple, and

remarked drily:

"And even without!"

"Without what?" asked Bijou.

"Without a pattern. Oh, no, it isn't he who'd be embarrassed! Why, he

always helps to choose Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud's dresses."

"Lisette Renaud, the singer?" asked Jeanne eagerly, whilst Denyse,

very much taken up with her work, did not appear to have heard.

"No, mademoiselle, the actress."

"Well, that's what I meant. Ah! and so M. de Bernes knows her?"

The old sewing-woman smiled.

"I should just think he does. He's known her more than a year and a

half."

"Ah!" said Jeanne, evidently interested, "she is so pretty, Lisette

Renaud! I saw her in _Mignon_ and in the _Dragons de Villars_ too."

"Oh, yes!" said Mere Rafut, "she is pretty, too, and as good as she is

pretty! If you only knew!"

"Good?" repeated Jeanne, "but--"

"Ah, yes! For sure, she isn't a young lady like you, mademoiselle! But

ever since she has known M. de Bernes, I can tell you, she won't look

at anyone else. And he's the same, as far as that goes, and that's

saying a good deal, for, nice-looking as he is, there's plenty of

ladies after him, ladies in the best society, too, in officers'

families; and they do say the Prefect's wife admires him! Oh, my, he

doesn't care a snap for them all, though! He's got no eyes for anyone

but Lisette; but you should see him when he's looking at her--it's

pretty sure that if he was an officer of high rank he'd marry her

straight off, and he'd be quite right, too--"

"Jeanne!" interrupted Bijou, "that's the first bell for luncheon." And

when they were out of the room she said, in a very gentle voice, with

just a shade of reproach: "Why do you let Mere Rafut tell you things

you ought not to listen to?"

"Oh, goodness!" cried Jeanne, blushing and looking confused, "her

story wasn't so very dreadful; and then, even if it had been, how do

you think I could help her telling it?"

"Oh! that's easy enough, the only thing to do is not to reply or pay

any attention; you would see that she would soon stop."

"Yes, you are right," and throwing her arms round Bijou, Jeanne kissed

her.

"You are always right," she said; "and I, although I look so serious,

am much more thoughtless than you, and much weaker-minded, too; I

never can resist listening if it is anything that interests me."

"And did that interest you?"

"Very much, indeed."

"Good heavens! what could you find interesting in it all?"

"Well, I don't exactly know; I was curious to hear about it, in the

first place, and then I always notice everything, and this little

story explained exactly something I had observed."

"When?"

"Why, during the last four or five months, ever since I have begun

going out a little."

"What had you observed?"

"I had observed that M. de Bernes never pays attention to any woman,

that he never even looks at anyone, that he scarcely takes the trouble

to be pleasant, even with the prettiest girls; and the proof of all

this is, that he has not tried to flirt with you even."

"Oh, not at all," answered Bijou, laughing; "but just because he has

not tried to flirt with me, you must not conclude that with others."

"No, Mere Rafut must be right, and, after all, I am not at all

surprised about it--this story, I mean; you have no idea how charming

she is, this Lisette Renaud. Something in your style; she is much

taller than you, though, and not so fair; but she has the most

wonderful eyes, and a lovely, graceful figure, almost as graceful as

yours; in short, I can quite understand that, when anyone does care

for her, they would care for her in earnest; then, added to all that,

she has a great deal of talent and a beautiful voice--a contralto. I

am sure you would like her."

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"I don't like women who act comedy--those who act well, at least; it

denotes a kind of duplicity."

"Oh, I don't think so; it denotes a faculty of assimilation, a very

sensitive nature, but not duplicity."

"I can't help it, my dear, but I do not see things in the same light

as you; still, that does not prevent Mademoiselle--what is her name?"

"Lisette Renaud."

"Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud from being an exception, and she may be a

very charming creature; for my part, I only hope that is so for the

sake of M. de Bernes."

"You don't care much for him, do you?" asked Jeanne.

"What makes you think that?--he is quite indifferent to me, and I

always look upon him as being just like everyone else."

"Oh, no; that is not true--I see him pretty often at Pont-sur-Loire;

he is very intelligent, and very nice, and then, too, very

good-looking; don't you think so?"

"I assure you that I have never paid much attention to M. de Bernes

and his appearance," and then Bijou added, laughing: "The very first

time I see him, I will look at him with all my eyes, and I will

endeavour to discover his perfections to please M. de Clagny."

"You like him very much, don't you--M. de Clagny?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I do."

"I noticed that at once; ever since my arrival you have only talked of

him; and yesterday, when he came, you were delighted."

"Yes, he is so good, and so kind to me."

"But everyone is kind to you, everyone adores you."

"Everyone is much too good and too indulgent, as far as I am

concerned; I know that very well; but M. de Clagny is better still

than the others. I have only known him three days, and now I could not

do without him. Whenever I see him, I feel gay and happy at once; and

I wish he were always here. I'll tell you what--I should like to have

a father or an uncle like him. Doesn't he make the same kind of

impression on you?"

"Oh, as for me, you know, it would be impossible to imagine myself

with any other father than papa. Just as he is I adore him; perhaps to

other people he may seem nothing out of the common but you see he is

my father; all the same I like M. de Clagny, and he is very nice--he

must have been charming."

"I think he still is charming."

The two girls had reached the hall by this time, and Jeanne went to

the door.

"How very warm it is," she said, and then, shading her eyes with her

hand, she looked out into the avenue. "Why, there's a mail-coach!" she

exclaimed. "Whoever would be coming with a mail-coach?"

"M. de Clagny, of course," cried Bijou, rushing out on to the steps in

her delight; "he told grandmamma that if he possibly could he should

come and ask her to give him some luncheon."

"And he has managed to," remarked M. de Rueille drily, as he, too,

approached the hall door; "we've seen a great deal of him these last

three days; certainly, he is very devoted to us," he added

sarcastically.

The sight of the horses, which were just being pulled up in front of

the steps, somewhat appeased him, however.

"By Jove! what horses!" he exclaimed, in admiration, "and he knows how

to drive, too; there's no mistake about that, he's a born aristocrat."

* * * * *

After luncheon, Pierrot declared that his foot hurt him just at the

end of each toe, and he did not know what it could be.

"I know, though," remarked Jean de Blaye; "his boots are too short."

"Too short!" exclaimed M. de Jonzac, "oh, no, that's impossible"--and

then, after a moment's reflection, he added in terror: "unless his

feet have got bigger still--"

"Which they probably have," said Jean, laughing; "anyhow, his toes are

turned up at the ends and curl back over each other, I am sure; you

have only to look at his feet, now, to tell. Look at the lumps in his

boots; they look like bags of nuts."

"I must get him some more boots to-day," said M. de Jonzac.

"The best thing, uncle, would be to send him to Pont-sur-Loire to be

measured; there's sure to be a decent bootmaker there."

"M. Courteil is going just now to take a letter to the bishop and get

an answer to it," remarked Madame de Bracieux; "he might take Pierrot

with him."

"Well, then," said Bijou, "they might take our omnibus, so that Jeanne

and I could go too; we have some errands to do."

"What are they?" asked the marchioness.

"Well, first, some crepe--we want some crepe for Jeanne; and then some

pencils and paints that I am short of; in fact, there are a lot of

things."

"Would you like me to take you all?" proposed M. de Clagny; "I have

some business with a lawyer at Pont-sur-Loire at three o'clock. You

could do all your errands, and then I would bring you back; it's on my

way to The Noriniere."

"Oh, what fun!" exclaimed Bijou, delighted. "I have never been on a

mail-coach; you don't mind, grandmamma?"

Madame de Bracieux seemed rather undecided.

"Well, I don't know, Bijou dear; you see at Pont-sur-Loire you will be

noticed very much perched up there, and for two young girls I don't

know whether it is quite the thing--"

"Oh, grandmamma," protested Bijou, "not the thing! and with M. de

Clagny there!"

"Yes, with me," put in the count, with emphasis, his face suddenly

clouding over, "there is no danger; I am safe enough."

"Yes, certainly," replied Madame de Bracieux with evident sincerity;

"but at Pont-sur-Loire everyone is so fond of gossip and scandal."

"Oh, grandmamma," Bijou said, in a beseeching tone, "don't deprive us

of a treat, which you don't see any harm in whatever yourself, just

because of the Pont-sur-Loire people, about whom you do not care at

all."

"Yes, you are right. Go, then, children, as you want to, for, as you

say, there is no harm whatever in amusing yourselves in that way."

"Is there any room for me?" asked M. de Rueille.

"For you, and some more of you," answered M. de Clagny; "we are only

six at present."

The marchioness turned towards Bertrade.

"What do you say about going with them to look after the girls?"

Madame de Rueille glanced at her husband, who appeared to be studying

the floor attentively at that moment.

"Oh, Paul will look after them very well!"

"I must ask if you would mind not starting before three o'clock?" said

Bijou, advancing towards the window, "because there is M. Sylvestre

coming to give me my accompaniment lesson; he is just coming up the

avenue."

"The poor fellow!" exclaimed the marchioness, glancing out of the

window, "he is actually walking in spite of this terrible heat!"

"He always walks, grandmamma."

"Five miles; that is not so tremendous," remarked Henry de Bracieux.

"No, not for you--driving!" said Bijou.

"Well, but when we are out shooting, we do a lot more than that!"

"But you are enjoying yourself when you are out shooting; that's quite

different. I know very well that if I could, I should send M.

Sylvestre back always in the carriage."

"If you like, we can drive him back to-day," said M. de Clagny.

"I should just think I should like to! You are very good to offer me

that, because, you know, he is not very, very handsome--my

professor--and he will not be any ornament on your coach!"

"Do you think I care anything about that? I am not snobbish, Bijou;

not the least bit snobbish."

"But he isn't bad-looking, this fellow," said Jean de Blaye. "He has

very fine eyes; they are wonderfully limpid and soft."

"I never noticed that," answered Bijou, laughing; "but even if they

are, they could not be seen very well on the top of a coach. And he is

very queerly dressed; he wears clothes that are too small, and which

cling to him; and then long hair that is very lank; he looks rather

like a drowned rat."

A domestic appeared at this instant to announce that M. Sylvestre had

arrived.

"Have you told Josephine?" asked Madame Bracieux.

"Yes, Josephine is there, madame," replied the servant.

Jeanne Dubuisson rose, but Bijou stopped her.

"No, don't come with me," she said; "when I feel that there is anyone

listening, that is, anyone beside Josephine, I don't do any good." And

then, just as she was going out of the room, she turned round, and

added: "At three o'clock I shall appear with my hat--and M.

Sylvestre."

When Bijou entered her room, Josephine, the old housekeeper, who had

seen two generations of the Bracieux family grow up, was sewing near

the window, whilst, in the little room adjoining, the musician was

arranging the music-stand, and taking his violin out of the case.

On seeing the young girl, his blue eyes lighted up, and seemed to turn

pale against his red face. He was a young man of about twenty-eight

years of age, very thin, very awkward, and dressed wretchedly enough;

but there was something interesting about his face, an expression

that was congenial, and yet, at the same time, told of anxiety and of

trouble.

"How warm you are, Monsieur Sylvestre!" said Bijou, as she held out

her hand to him; "and they have not brought you anything to drink yet!

Josephine!" she called out, as she moved towards the door between the

two rooms, "will you tell them to bring--ah, yes, what are they to

bring? What will you take, Monsieur Sylvestre?--beer, lemonade, wine,

or what? I never remember!"

"Some lemonade, if you please; but you really are too good,

mademoiselle, to trouble about me."

"I forgot to buy the music you told me to get when I was at

Pont-sur-Loire," said Denyse, interrupting him. "You will scold me."

"Oh! mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, in a scared way, "_I_ scold you?"

"Yes, you! If you do not scold me you ought to. Now, let me see! What

are we going to play? Ah! I was forgetting! I am going to ask you if

you will begin by accompanying me at the piano; it is just a silly

little song I am learning."

"What song is it?"

"'Ay Chiquita'! it is quite grotesque, isn't it? But we have an old

friend who adores it, and he asked me to sing it for him."

"Oh! as to that!--'Ay Chiquita'--it isn't so grotesque; but it has

been worn out, that's all. Ah!" he added, looking at the music, "you

sing it in a higher key. I was wondering, too--"

"Yes, I sing it higher; that makes it more dreadful still. Oh, dear!

how I do wish I had a deep voice; they are so lovely--deep voices, but

there are none to be heard!"

"They are rare, certainly; but there are some, nevertheless."

"I have never heard one," said Bijou, shaking her head.

"Well, but you might hear one if you liked."

"Where?"

"Why, at the Pont-sur-Loire theatre. Yes, Mademoiselle Lisette Renaud,

a young actress, with a great deal of talent, and she is very pretty,

too, which is not a drawback, by any means."

"She has a beautiful voice?"

"Very beautiful! I hear her, on an average, three times a week,

without reckoning the rehearsals with the orchestra, and, I can assure

you, I have never had enough."

"Ah! Do you think she would sing at private houses?"

"Why, certainly! She does sing sometimes at Pont-sur-Loire."

"I will ask grandmamma to have her here. Where does she live?"

"Rue Rabelais. I do not remember the number, but she is very well

known."

After a short silence, the professor asked:

"Why should you not go to the theatre to hear her? That would interest

you much more."

"Grandmamma would never let me."

"I know, of course, that society people do not go to the

Pont-sur-Loire theatre--it is not considered the thing; but there are

circumstances,--for instance--in a fortnight from now there is to be a

performance for the benefit of disabled soldiers, organised by the

_Dames de France_; everyone will go to that."

"And they will play things that will be all right?"

"Oh! some comic opera or another, and varieties from other things; but

I am sure Lisette Renaud will be on the programme, and several times,

too. These are the best sort of things that we have at the theatre."

"You are not drinking anything, Monsieur Sylvestre," said Bijou,

approaching the tray which had been brought in, and pouring out the

lemonade for the young man.

The glass which she passed to him showed the effect of the contact of

her hand.

"Are you not still too warm to drink?" she asked. "This lemonade is

very cold."

He took the glass with a hand that trembled slightly, and stood there,

with his arm stretched out, looking at Bijou with passionate

admiration.

"Monsieur Sylvestre," she said, smiling, "a penny for your thoughts."

The young man's face, which was already red, flushed deeper still. He

drank his lemonade at a draught, and hurried to the piano.

"Let us begin, mademoiselle! shall we?" he said, and he played the

short symphony of the song in a hesitating way, as though his fingers

refused to act. This was so noticeable, that Denyse asked him:

"What is the matter with you? you are not in form to-day, at all."

"Oh, it's nothing, mademoiselle; I--it is so warm."

Being rather short-sighted, and never using a lorgnette, Bijou was

obliged to bend forward to read the words of the song, and sometimes,

in doing so, she touched the professor's hair or shoulder. This

served to increase his agitation, and at times he could scarcely see

what he was playing, whilst his fingers would slip off the notes.

"Really, you are not at all in form to-day," repeated Bijou,

surprised.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I--I don't know what is the matter

with me."

"Nor I either; I can't tell at all," she said, laughing.

He was getting up from the piano, but she begged him to sit down

again.

"No! if you don't mind," she said, "I should like to work up two or

three old songs."

She began at once to read at sight, bending over in order to see

better, whilst the poor young man, who was now pale, did his best to

follow her, in spite of the buzzing in his ears and the clamminess of

his fingers.

When the lesson was over, Bijou went to fetch her hat, and then came

back and put it on at the glass near the piano.

Instead of putting his violin into its case, M. Sylvestre stood

watching her as she lifted her arms, and drew her pretty figure up

with a graceful swaying movement.

"Be quick!" she said, "we are going to take you back to

Pont-sur-Loire, or rather M. de Clagny, one of our friends, is going

to take you on his coach." Denyse saw that he did not understand, so

she went on to explain: "It's a large carriage, and holds a good

number of people."

"Are you going, too?" he asked excitedly.

"I am going, too--yes, Monsieur Sylvestre."

He was just taking from his violin-case a little bunch of

forget-me-nots and wild roses, which were already drooping their poor

little heads. He held them out timidly to Bijou.

"As I came along, mademoiselle, I--I took the liberty of gathering

these flowers for you."

She took them, and after inhaling their perfume for a minute or two,

put them into her waistband.

"Thank you so much for having thought of me," she said.

He followed Bijou downstairs, step by step, happy in the present,

forgetting all about his poverty, and as he appeared, tripping along

behind the young girl, his violin-case in his hand, M. de Clagny

turned to Jean de Blaye, and remarked:

"You were right; he has a nice face."

The mail-coach had just appeared in front of the steps when the

marchioness called out:

"Bijou! I have a commission for you. Go to Pellerin the bookseller,

and ask him--stop--no--send Pierrot here."

"Pierrot," said Denyse, returning to the hall, "grandmamma wants you."

"I'll bet it's some errand to do," remarked the youth, making a

grimace, "and errands are not much in my line." And then, whilst Bijou

and the others were clambering up on to the coach, he went back to

Madame de Bracieux. "You wanted me, aunt?" he said.

"Yes. Will you go to Pellerin's? do you know which is Pellerin's?"

"The book shop."

"Yes. Ask him for a novel of Dumas' for me. It is called 'Le Batard de

Mauleon.' What are you looking at me for in that bewildered way?"

"Because I have never seen you reading novels, and--"

"You will not see me reading this one either; it is for the cure, I

have promised it him. He adores Dumas, and he does not know 'Le Batard

de Mauleon.' You will remember the title?"

"Yes, aunt."

"You are sure? You would not like me to write it for you?"

"'Tisn't worth while."

"You will forget it!"

"No danger."

He rushed off, looking down on the ground, and then, as he climbed on

to the coach, he trod on the feet of various people, nearly smashed M.

Sylvestre's violin-case, and excused himself by saying:

"Oh, by Jove! I've nearly done for the little coffin."