"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 s.e.x; 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 G.o.d! 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 mult.i.tude 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 a.s.sociated 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 embarra.s.sment:

"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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.s 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 princ.i.p.ally 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 n.o.body else ever mentions it."

"And are these monsieur's only t.i.tles to the admiration of his contemporaries?"