XXXIII ROSETTE THE BRUNETTE

I was conscious of a secret feeling of satisfaction, which I attributed to my reconciliation with Frédérique. I was pleased to have her for a friend; there was something unique, something that appealed strongly to me, in that friendship between a man of thirty and a woman of twenty-seven; and I promised myself that I would not again so conduct myself as to break off the connection.

But I had not forgotten Saint-Bergame's words, as he passed our carriage: "So it's that fellow now! each in his turn!"—It was evident that he believed me to be Madame Dauberny's lover. I was not surprised that he should have that idea. People will never believe in the possibility of an innocent intimacy between a man and woman of our age. But Frédérique had been deeply wounded by Saint-Bergame's remark; indeed, by what right did the fellow presume to proclaim that from the housetops? Was it spite? was it jealousy? Whatever his motive, the man was an impertinent knave; and if I had not feared to compromise Madame Dauberny even more, I would have gone to him and demanded an explanation of his words. But, perhaps an opportunity would present itself; if so, I would not let it slip.

Several days had passed since my drive in the Bois, when, as I was strolling along the boulevards one morning, I halted, according to my custom, in front of one of those pillars upon which posters are displayed by permission. Being very fond of the theatre, I have always enjoyed reading the various theatrical announcements. I did not carry it so far as to read the printer's name; but, had I done so—that is a very harmless diversion!

But observe how harmless diversions may give birth to diversions that are not harmless. A young woman stopped close beside me, also to read the announcements; and I was not so absorbed by the titles of dramas and vaudevilles that the sight of a pretty face did not distract my thoughts from them.

I think that I have told you that certain faces, certain figures, possess an indefinable charm and fascination for me at first sight. The young girl who stood beside me—for she certainly was a young girl—wore a simple, modest costume, denoting a shopgirl on an errand: dark-colored dress, shawl,—no, I am mistaken, it was a little alpaca cloak,—and a small gray bonnet, without any ornament, placed on her head with no pretence of coquetry; it had evidently been put on in a hurry.

But, beneath that unassuming headgear, I saw a refined, attractive, piquant face. She was a brunette; her complexion was rather dark, but her fresh, brilliant coloring gave her a look of the Midi. Her brown hair was brushed smoothly over her temples; her eyes were black, or blue—or, more accurately, blue bordering on black. They were large, and said many things. The mouth was very pretty, and well supplied with teeth. I had thus far only caught a glimpse of the latter, but that was enough. The nose was straight and well shaped, slightly turned up at the end, which always gives a saucy look to the face. Add to all this a lovely figure, neither too tall nor too short; a pretty hand—of that I was sure, for she wore no gloves; and, lastly, a modest and graceful carriage; and you will not be surprised that I forgot the names of the plays and performers printed on the posters before me, and devoted my whole attention to that young woman.

For her part, she had glanced several times at me, as if unintentionally. She scrutinized the posters for a long while; and as I was in no hurry, I too remained in front of the pillar. I had assured myself at least twelve times that La Grâce de Dieu was to be given at the Gaîté, and it seemed to me that my neighbor also kept reading the same thing over and over again.

However, she walked away at last along the boulevard. We were then in front of the Gymnase. There was nothing to detain me there, for I was thoroughly posted concerning the programme at the Gaîté. Furthermore, that grisette took my eye. I believed that I could safely classify her as a grisette, with liberty to do her justice later, if I had insulted her. Why should I not try to make her acquaintance? For some time, my behavior had been virtuous to a degree which accorded neither with my tastes nor with my habits. Being obliged to eschew sentiment with my former acquaintances, I was conscious of a void in my heart which I should be very glad to fill.

I walked after the young woman. One is sometimes sadly at a loss to begin a conversation in the street; but for some reason or other, I did not feel the slightest embarrassment with that girl. She walked so slowly that I easily overtook her. She did not precisely look at me; but I was fully persuaded that she saw me. Should I begin with the usual compliments: "You are adorable! With such pretty eyes, you cannot be cruel!" or other remarks of the same sort? No, they were too stupid and worn too threadbare; so I addressed her as if we were already acquainted, and said:

"Do you like the theatre, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, monsieur, very much!"

She answered without the slightest affectation, and with no indication that she was offended by my question. I took that as a good omen, and continued:

"Would you like to go to-night?"

"To-night? Oh, dear, no! But I was looking for the Palais-Royal advertisement; I wanted to know what they were playing there, and I can't ever find it."

"I am sorry I didn't know that sooner, for I would have shown it to you."

"After all, it don't make any difference."

"But if you like the theatre, won't you allow me to give you some tickets?"

"Tickets! Do you have theatre tickets? for what theatre?"

"It doesn't make any difference: I have some for them all. Perhaps you may think that I am lying, that I say this to trap you, when my only purpose is to make your acquaintance. But I assure you, mademoiselle, that I shall be only too happy to be useful to you. Allow me to send you some tickets; that doesn't bind you to anything."

The girl stopped. We were then near Porte Saint-Denis. She hesitated a moment, then replied:

"Well! send me some tickets; I'll accept them; but don't send them to my house; that'll never do, because I live with my aunts. I have a lot of aunts, and I am not free."

She smiled so comically as she said this, that I saw a double row of lovely teeth. I ventured to take her hand; that was going ahead rather fast, but, for some unknown reason, although I had not been talking with her five minutes, I felt as if I knew her well. She let me hold and press her hand, which was plump and soft; it did not seem to vex her in the least.

"Where shall I send the tickets?"

"To my employer's."

"What is your trade?"

"I mend shawls and fringes. I'm a very good hand at it, I promise you!"

"I don't doubt it, mademoiselle."

"Just now I'm doing an errand for my employer; she always sends me on errands, I don't know why; she says that the dealers aren't so strict with me! It's a bore sometimes to go out so often; but sometimes it's good fun, too."

"Will you tell me your name?"

"No."

"Will you come to a restaurant with me and breakfast?"

"No; in the first place, I haven't got time; they're waiting for me, and I must go back. In the second place, I wouldn't go, anyway, like that, with someone I don't know."

"That's the way to become acquainted."

"Suppose anyone should see me go into a restaurant with you—one of my aunts, for instance! I've got seven aunts!"

"Sapristi! that's worse than Abd-el-Kader! No matter! come and have breakfast with me at my rooms, and you will see at once who I am—that I am not a mere nobody, a man without means or position."

"Oh! I didn't say you were, monsieur."

"I live on Rue Bleue, No. 14; that isn't very far away. If you will trust me, I promise you that I won't even kiss the end of your finger."

"Perhaps not, monsieur; but I tell you, I haven't got time; I must go back; I am late already, and I shall be scolded."

"Very well! where shall I send you a ticket, then?"

"At Madame Ratapond's, No. 48, Rue Meslay; just give it to the concierge. Mark it: For Mademoiselle Rosette, at Madame Ratapond's."

"And you are Mademoiselle Rosette?"

"Perhaps. When will you send the ticket?"

"Whenever you choose."

"To-morrow, then."

"To-morrow, very good!"

"How many seats?"

"I will send you a box with four seats."

"Ah! splendid! That will be fun."

"But you will go?"

"To be sure!"

"And I may speak to you?"

"Dame! I don't know about that. If I am with my employer, you must be careful. But I'll go out in the entr'acte."

"Then I will make an opportunity to say a few words to you. And you won't come and breakfast with me? An hour passes so quickly!"

"Oh, no! no! Adieu, monsieur! You won't forget—Mademoiselle Rosette, at Madame Ratapond's, No. 48, Rue Meslay."

"No, mademoiselle, there's no danger of my forgetting."

She walked away, and I did the same. I was enchanted with my new acquaintance. Mademoiselle Rosette was altogether charming, and in her eyes, in her answers, I saw at once that she was no fool. Suppose that I had fallen upon a pearl, a treasure! It was impossible to say. The things we find without looking for them are often more valuable than those we take a vast amount of trouble to obtain.

XXXIV THE UMBRELLAS.—THE POLKA

Love and poetry—these are what make hours seem like minutes. Be an author, a poet, a novelist, or a lover, and for you time will have wings. I thought of Mademoiselle Rosette all day, I dreamed of her all night, and the next morning I set about fulfilling my promise. There is nothing so easy, in Paris, as to obtain theatre tickets; it is not necessary to know authors or managers; it is enough to have money. With money one can have whatever one desires. I was on the way to a ticket broker's, when I found myself face to face with Dumouton, the literary man, who was of the dinner party at Deffieux's.

Poor Dumouton had not changed; he was still the same in physique and in dress. The yellowish-green or faded apple-green coat; the skin-tight trousers of any color you choose. But I noticed that he had two umbrellas under his arm, although there were no signs of rain. He offered me his hand, as if he were overjoyed to meet me, crying:

"Why, Monsieur Rochebrune! bonjour! how are you? It's a long while since I had the pleasure of meeting you."

"Very well, thanks, Monsieur Dumouton! indeed, I believe we have not met since Dupréval's dinner."

"True. We had a fine time at that dinner; everybody told some little anecdote; it was very amusing."

"Are you still writing plays?"

"Still. But one can't find such a market as one would like. There is so much intriguing at the theatres! The writing of a play isn't the most difficult part, but the getting it acted. Speaking of theatres, you don't happen to need an umbrella, do you?"

"No, thanks, I have one. Are you selling umbrellas now?"

"No—but—it happens that I bought one yesterday; and, meanwhile, my wife had bought one, too. So you see, we have too many; I would be glad of a chance to get rid of one; I would sell it cheap."

"If I hadn't one already, I might make a trade with you; but as I don't need it——"

"Still, it's often convenient to have two or three; for you lose one sometimes, or lend it to somebody who doesn't return it. That has happened to me a hundred times; and then, when you want to go out, it rains; you look for your umbrella, and it isn't there. That is very annoying; so it's more prudent to have two."

"But you apparently don't think so, as you want to sell one of yours."

"Oh! we have five in the house now."

"That makes a difference; but I don't quite understand why you bought another."

Dumouton scratched his nose; I could not help thinking of Rosette's seven aunts, and that Dumouton could shelter them from the rain with his seven umbrellas.

"What do you suppose I would like to have at this moment?" I asked him, as he sadly shifted his umbrellas from his right arm to his left.

"A cane, perhaps? I have one with a crow's beak head that would please you."

"No, no! I never carry a cane. What I would like at this moment is a theatre ticket for this evening."

Dumouton's face fairly beamed.

"For what theatre?" he cried.

"Faith! that makes no difference; but I would like a whole box."

"I have what you want, I have it right in my pocket. See, a box at the Gymnase!"

"The Gymnase it is!"

Dumouton took from his pocket an old notebook, or wallet, or, to speak more accurately, two pieces of leather—just what to call it, I do not know; but it contained a mass of papers, some old and soiled, others clean and new. He produced from it a pink one, which proved to be a ticket for a box at the Gymnase. I took the ticket and read at the foot of it the name of one of our most popular authors.

Dumouton restored his papers to his pocket, put his umbrellas under his left arm once more, and looked at me with an anxious expression, murmuring:

"Don't you want it?"

"Yes, indeed! But I was reading the name on it."

"Oh! that's of no consequence; I asked for it for him, but he can't go. You'll take it, then, will you?"

"Yes, gladly."

"There's only one thing. I have promised a box to some people to whom I am under obligations, and I can't break my word. It's too late to go to the theatre to ask for one, so I must buy one of a ticket broker; and I don't know whether——"

I did not let him finish the sentence.

"I don't propose that you shall be put to any expense on my account. How much will the ticket cost you?"

"Oh! a hundred sous, I suppose."

"Here's the money; and I am your debtor."

Dumouton pocketed the five francs with a radiant air. But he took his umbrellas in his hand again and held them out to me.

"I am sorry that you won't take one of these," he said.

I glanced at them, and replied:

"But neither of them is new."

"Oh! that may be; we bought them at second-hand. But they are good ones, and not dear. I will give you your choice for ten francs."

It was clear to my mind that poor Dumouton was sadly in need of money. Why should I not gratify him by buying an umbrella? That was simply a roundabout way of asking a favor. I took one of the umbrellas at random, and said:

"Well, if it will relieve you,—and I can understand that these two are a luxury, if you have five at home,—give me this one. Here's the ten francs."

Dumouton took the money and slipped one of the umbrellas under my arm so rapidly that I thought that he had run it into me; and fearing perhaps that I would change my mind and go back on my bargain, he left me on the instant, saying:

"I am very glad you needed an umbrella. Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! hope to see you again soon!"

He disappeared, running. I examined the article I had purchased: it was a very good umbrella, with a laurel-wood stick; the head was a trefoil with silver trimmings, and the cover dark green silk. After all, I had not made a bad bargain; but I would have been glad not to have it on my hands just then, for the weather was fine, and it makes a man look very foolish to carry an umbrella under such circumstances.

But I had my ticket. I entered a café and called for paper and ink. I put the ticket in an envelope, with this superscription: For Mademoiselle Rosette, at Madame Ratapond's.

I carried the missive myself, for the name Ratapond did not inspire confidence. Moreover, I was not sorry to ask a few questions and find out a little more about Mademoiselle Rosette.

I arrived at Rue Meslay, and found the designated number. I passed under a porte cochère and was walking toward the concierge's lodge, when an enormous woman, who reminded me of one of the handsome sappers and miners who change their sex during the Carnival, came toward me from the farther end of the courtyard.

"Who do you want to see, monsieur?" she demanded.

"Does Madame Ratapond live in this house, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur; fifth floor above the entresol, the door opposite the stairs."

"I beg your pardon, madame; but what is that lady's business?"

As I asked the question, I felt in my pocket and took out a two-franc piece, which I slipped into the hand of the colossus, who instantly assumed a coquettish, mincing air and seemed to diminish in size until she reached my level.

"Oh! monsieur," she replied, "Madame Ratapond's a very respectable woman; she sends shawls into the departments and on the railroads."

"Has she many workgirls?"

"Six, and sometimes more."

"Do you know one of them named Mademoiselle Rosette—a pretty brunette, with a shapely, slender figure?"

"Oh! yes, monsieur. Mamzelle Rosette! To be sure, I know her; she goes up and down twenty times a day. She often does errands. Does monsieur happen to have brought her a ticket to the theatre? She told me this morning she expected one to-day, but she didn't count much on it."

"That is just what I have brought for her."

"Oh! won't she be glad, though! I tell you, monsieur, you can flatter yourself you've given her a lot of pleasure. She'll dance for joy when I tell her!"

"She doesn't live in the house, does she?"

"No, monsieur; she comes about eight o'clock or half-past."

"At what time does she go away?"

"Why, when the others do. Usually about eight, unless they're working late; then it's as late as ten, sometimes."

"Here is the letter, madame, with the ticket; will you be kind enough to hand it to mademoiselle in person?"

"Yes, monsieur, I understand. You see, I'm sure it won't be long before she comes in or goes out, and she always speaks to me when she passes."

"I rely upon you, then, madame."

The colossus cut several capers by way of courtesies; I left her standing on one leg, and went my way. I had found that the girl had not deceived me in what she told me; that was something. I did not suppose that I was dealing with a Jeanne d'Arc, but I did not care to fall into the other extreme. I determined to go to the Gymnase, and to have a little note in my pocket, appointing a meeting, which I would slip into Mademoiselle Rosette's hand if I was unable to talk freely with her.

I was on my way home, when I heard my name called. I turned and recognized Monsieur Rouffignard, the stout, chubby-faced party, who also was one of the dinner party at Deffieux's.

"Parbleu!" I said, as we shook hands; "this is my day for meetings!"

"Bonjour, Monsieur Rochebrune! have you seen our friend Dupréval lately?"

"Not for a long while! I have not done right; but I have been told that since Dupréval was married he has entirely renounced pleasure and gives all his attention to business; so that I have been afraid of disturbing him."

"It is true, he has become a regular bear; he thinks of nothing but making money. For my part, I make it, but I spend it too!"

"And I spend it, and don't make any. Such is life: everyone follows his tastes, or the current that carries him along; if we all did the same thing, it would be too monotonous."

"I have just met a man who was at our dinner party at Deffieux's, and who can't be very well content with his lot at present; I don't know whether that will make him less rigid in the matter of morals."

"Whom do you mean?"

"Monsieur Faisandé, the clerk in the Treasury Department, who was shocked when he heard anything a little off color."

"What has happened to him?"

"He has lost his place, that's all."

"Dismissed?"

"Yes, and he certainly hasn't embezzled. I heard all about it from a man who is a clerk in the same bureau. Would you believe, Monsieur Rochebrune, that that individual, who was so virtuous, so pure in his language, sometimes passed a fortnight without showing his face at his desk? If it had been on account of sickness, no one would have said a word; but, no, the man wasn't even at home; he didn't show himself there any more than he did at the bureau; not even at night; and his wife and child expecting him all the time! He passed a fortnight away from home!"

"What a cur!"