"Anything that will give you pleasure."

And Monsieur Vermoncey rose and walked hastily into another room, in his eagerness to shun the presence of Madame Baldimer. His host followed him, calling after him:

"Why, where are you going? young Kromiousky is in that room. He won't play anything this evening; but he is studying a fine piece of Paganini's, which he will play on a violin that belonged to Paganini."

Monsieur Vermoncey seated himself in a salon where people were singing and playing the piano; he had been there but a short time, when he saw that Madame Baldimer had again taken a seat facing him, and that her eyes were almost always turned in his direction.

"It's very strange," thought Monsieur Vermoncey; "it looks as if that woman were following me! She looks at me in a most extraordinary way. I wonder if she has been told that I am Albert's father; and if she thinks that it was by my advice that he ceased to see her? Yes, that must be the explanation of her keeping her eyes fixed on me. Does she aspire to force me too to do homage to her charms? I propose to show her that she is wasting her time and trouble."

Monsieur Vermoncey left the music room and went into that where the card playing was in progress, which few ladies visited. There was a vacant seat at a bouillotte table, and he took it, saying to himself:

"That woman is not likely to follow me here."

But he had not been playing five minutes, when the fair American appeared, and seated herself in a chair which was close beside his.

Monsieur Vermoncey felt unaccountably disturbed; the woman's conduct seemed to him so strange that he was almost frightened. However, as he was not obliged to look at her, he continued to play without turning in her direction, courtesy not requiring him to speak to a lady whom he had never seen before.

But several young men, among them Dupetrain the magnetizer, soon joined the fair American and began to converse with her.

"How is this, madame? you, in the cardroom?"

"Why not, monsieur? Are ladies forbidden to come here?"

"Of course not; but the idea of watching a game of cards, when music beckons to you, and the dance--for they have just begun to dance."

"Well, messieurs, if I prefer cards to dancing, am I not at liberty to do so?"

"Oh! but that cannot be! A pretty woman prefer cards to dancing!"

"We have heard you say that you detested cards."

"Am I not ent.i.tled to change my mind? Ask Monsieur Dupetrain here, who is gifted with second-sight; perhaps he can tell you what attracted me to this salon."

"I, fair lady? Ah! I would compel you to tell us, if you would let me put you to sleep!"

"Not at this moment; the place would be ill chosen, I should say. But you can often render a lady a great service by putting her to sleep, Monsieur Dupetrain. If I had known you earlier, I would have asked you to draw the horoscope of a young girl--in whom I was very deeply interested."

"What happened to her? Was she pretty?"

"Lovely!"

"Oh! then it must be a love story."

"Mon Dieu! yes, messieurs; it is, as you say, a love story--a story of love, and seduction; a very commonplace story to you. But we women are always interested in such stories."

"Pray tell us this girl's story, madame."

"I a.s.sure you that it is not likely to interest anybody who did not know the princ.i.p.al actors in it. She was a young seamstress, very poor, but perfectly virtuous, until a young man, who was little richer than she, paid court to her. The girl allowed herself to be seduced; her heart was given, and she fell; for the young man had made the fairest promises, as men have a way of doing when they seek to seduce us. The poor child became a mother; and instead of working four times harder than before, in order to provide her with the means to bring up the child, the seducer sent it to join the unfortunate creatures who are brought up by public charity and who do not know their parents. Oh! that arouses your indignation, does it not, messieurs? When the poor girl asked to see her child, to embrace it, she was put off by falsehoods. But she learned the truth at last; and while she, with a breaking heart, prayed that her son--for it was a son--might be restored to her, her seducer was busily engaged in paying attentions to a young woman of large fortune. To make a long story short, my poor girl died; and the gentleman married, became very rich, and was highly esteemed in society.--You see, messieurs, that my story is in no wise different from what is happening every day."

Monsieur Vermoncey had not lost a word of Madame Baldimer's narrative; at the outset, he had turned as pale as death; his hands shook, and great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; he held his cards, but did not see them, and had no idea what he played. At last, one of the gentlemen who were playing with him said to him:

"You must be feeling ill. Pray leave the table, and go and get some fresh air."

Monsieur Vermoncey did not know what reply he made; it seemed to him that he had not the requisite strength to leave the room, for his knees bent and his legs gave way under him. However, he made a mighty effort, and attempted to leave the table; but in order to push his chair away, he was obliged to disturb the lady who was seated so close to him.

He turned toward her, stammering some unintelligible words. Madame Baldimer had finished her story, and all her auditors had p.r.o.nounced it exceedingly interesting. The fair American fixed her piercing eyes on Monsieur Vermoncey, and said:

"And you, monsieur, what do you think of my story? Did it interest you too?"

Albert's father murmured something which no one could hear, and, having succeeded in breaking out a path, he abruptly left the salons, still followed by Madame Baldimer's eyes, for she seemed to enjoy his confusion and pallor.

While all this was taking place in the cardroom, Madame Plays, deserted by Madame Baldimer, had risen and set out in search of her husband, who had ventured to leave the whist table in order to watch the dancing. His wife spied him at last, behind a quadrille, and, seizing his arm, led him into a corner.

"I have found you at last," she said; "it's very lucky!"

"Excuse me, my dear love, for leaving the whist table," rejoined Monsieur Plays, alarmed by his wife's agitated manner; "but I a.s.sure you that I am beginning to understand; one of the players said to another: 'We have the _odd_!' from which I conclude that the _odd_ is like Pope Joan or the double six; so, you see, I understand whist."

"Oh! monsieur, what do I care about whist! it's something much more important that I have to talk to you about."

"You look as if you were very warm--would you like an ice?"

"Hush! and listen to me: Albert is not dead!"

"What do you mean? that young man who was killed in a duel for you?"

"Yes, Albert Vermoncey, for whose death I blamed myself, whose sad fate I lamented. He is alive; he is in Paris."

"Then he wasn't killed dead?"

"Mon Dieu! don't I tell you that he wasn't killed at all?"

"So much the better! for he was a very pleasant fellow; and now you won't suffer with remorse any more, or shed any more tears over his premature end."

"What do you say? So much the better! Why, you don't seem to understand that I have been tricked, made a fool of, in the most indecent way! as to Albert's not being dead--I am not sorry for that, although he behaved very dishonorably to me! But why should that man come and tell me that he had run his sword through him and killed him? Why bring me a cigar which he said he had found on the body? And I had the kindness to weep and lament and go into retirement for two months--seeing n.o.body but you, and almost bored to death! and to carry in my bosom that cigar, which was said to have been found on the dying Albert!"

"Ah! you had a cigar about you! so that's the reason that you smelt like a--trooper, and that someone said to me this evening: 'Your wife is a _lionne_.'"

"You see, monsieur, I have been played with in the most abominable way!

But this is not to be the end of it! I trust, monsieur, that you will not allow people to amuse themselves at your wife's expense, and, consequently, at your own; for to show disrespect to a wife is to show disrespect to her husband, and I have been shamefully insulted."

"But, my dear love, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"What do I expect you to do! what a question! I expect you to challenge the insolent villain who lied to me!"

"What! you want to have that poor Albert killed again? You have only just learned that he's alive, and----"

"No, monsieur; I am not talking about Albert now; but of that little man who dared to come and tell me that he had killed him in a duel. Do you know Tobie Pigeonnier?"