Frederic And Bernerette Part 1

Frederic and Bernerette.

by Alfred de Musset.

CHAPTER I.

TOWARD the close of the Restoration, a young man from Besancon, Frederic Hombert by name, came to Paris to study law. His family was not rich and made him only a modest allowance. But as he was very careful, a little was sufficient. He roomed in the Latin quarter so as to be near his work. His tastes and inclinations were so sedentary that he hardly ever visited the promenades, the squares and the monuments, which, in Paris, are the chief objects of curiosity to the stranger.

The society of some young men with whom he was thrown in contact at the Law School and a few houses whose doors had been opened to him by letters of introduction, were his only distractions. He kept up a regular correspondence with his parents and sent them word of his success in examinations as he pa.s.sed them. After having worked a.s.siduously for three years, at length, the time arrived for him to become an advocate. He had only to write his thesis, and had already fixed the time for his return to Besancon, when an unexpected event for a time disturbed his plans.

He lived in the Rue de la Harpe, on the third floor, and on his window sill were some flowers which he looked after carefully. While watering them one morning, at a window opposite him, he noticed a young girl who bagan to laugh. She watched him so gaily and openly that he could not help nodding his head. She graciously returned his salutation, and from this moment they became accustomed to wish each other "good morning" every day from one side of the street to the other. One day, when Frederic had risen earlier than usual, after having saluted his neighbor, he took a sheet of paper which he folded in the form of a letter and showed it to the girl, as if to ask if he could write to her. But she shook her head as a sign of refusal and disappeared as though offended.

The next day he chanced to meet her in the street. The young lady was returning home, accompanied by a young man whom Frederic did not know and whom he could not remember ever having seen among the students. From the appearance and dress of his neighbor, in spite of the fact that she had on a hat, he judged her to be what is known in Paris as a grisette. Her cavalier, of about his own age, was no doubt a brother or a lover, and in all probability the latter. Whichever it was, Frederic resolved to think no more of the matter. Winter having set in, he removed his flowers from the place they occupied in the window. But, in spite of himself, he could not help looking out from time to time. He brought the desk, at which he worked, nearer to the window and arranged the curtains so that he could see without being himself perceived.

His neighbor no longer appeared in the morning. She was sometimes to be seen shutting the blinds at five o'clock in the evening after having lighted the lamp. Frederic made bold enough to send her a kiss one day. He was surprised to see her return it as gaily as she had before returned his first salute. He again took up the piece of paper which had remained folded on his table and, explaining by signs as well as he could, asked her to write to him or to receive a note from him. But the reply was not more favorable than the first time. The grisette again shook her head and the same thing happened for eight days. Kisses came readily enough, but as for letters, he had to give them up.

At the end of a week, Frederic, vexed at these repeated refusals, tore up the paper before his neighbor's eyes. At first she laughed, remained for some time undecided, and then drew from the pocket of her ap.r.o.n a letter which she showed to the student. You may well understand that he did not shake his head. Unable to speak, he wrote in big letters on a large sheet of drawing-paper these three words: "I adore you." Then he placed the sheet on a chair and arranged a lighted candle on each side. The lovely grisette, with the aid of a lorgnette, was thus enabled to read her lover's first declaration. She answered with a smile and motioned to Frederic to go down and get the note she had shown him.

It was dark and a heavy mist was rising. The young man hurriedly descended, crossed the street, and entered his neighbor's house. The door was open and the young lady was at the foot of the stairs. Frederic, throwing his arms round her, was quicker to kiss her than to speak. She ran away trembling.

"What have you written to me?" he asked. "When and how can I see you again?"

She stopped, retraced her steps, and slipping her note into Frederic's hand replied: "Here, take it, and do not pa.s.s your nights away from home."

The fact is, the student, in spite of his wisdom, had for some time, been spending his nights away from his lodgings and the grisette had noticed this.

When two lovers agree, obstacles count for little. The note handed to Frederic enjoined the greatest precaution, spoke of hidden danger, and asked where they could meet each other. It could not be, she said, in the young man's room. So they must find a room somewhere in the neighborhood. The Latin quarter is full of them. The first meeting was arranged, when Frederic received the following letter: "You say you adore me, but you do not say if you think me pretty. You have scarcely seen me and, to be able to love me, you must see me better. I am going out with my servant. You go out too and meet me in the road. You will approach me, as an acquaintance, say a few words and, during this time, look at me well. If you do not think me pretty, tell me so, and I shall not be angry. It is quite simple, and, besides, I am not so bad.

"A thousand kisses.

"BERNERETTE.".

Frederic obeyed the orders of his mistress, and I need only say the result was satisfactory. Yet Bernerette, by a refinement of coquetry, instead of loading herself with all her finery for this meeting, appeared in negligee, her hair done up under her hat. The student saluted her respectfully, told her that he thought her more beautiful than ever, and then went home delighted with his new conquest. But she appeared still more beautiful the following day, when she came to the rendezvous, and here he saw that she could dispense with all finery and was equally as charming in the simplest costume.

CHAPTER II.

FREDERIC and Bernerette had given way to their love almost before they had exchanged a single word and, from the very start, began to thee and thou each other. Wrapt in each other's arms they sat near the fireplace, where a small fire was burning. Here Bernerette, leaning on her lover's knees her checks aglow with pleasure, told him who she was. She had played in comedy in the provinces.

Her real name was Louise Durand and Bernerette was but an a.s.sumed one. She had been living for two years with a young man whom she no longer loved. At all costs, she wished to get rid of him and change her mode of life, either by returning to the stage if she found some one to protect her, or by learning a trade. Apart from this, she said nothing about her family or the past. She simply announced her determination to break the bonds that held her and which were insupportable. Frederic did not wish to deceive her and told her exactly his position. Not being rich, and acquainted with few people, he could help her but little.

"As I can not support you," he added, "I did not wish, under any pretext, to cause a rupture. But, as I could not endure the thought of sharing you with another, I shall leave you, much to my regret, and cherish in my heart the memory of a happy day."

At this unexpected declaration, Bernerette burst into tears. "Why go?" said she.

"If I break with my lover, it is not you who will have been the cause, since I have made up my mind for some time. If I go and serve my apprentices.h.i.+p in a laundry, will you no longer love me? It is a pity you are not rich, but what of it? We will do the best we can."

Frederic was about to reply, but a kiss checked him.

"Let us think no more about it, nor mention it," said Bernerette. "When you want me, signal to me from your window and do not bother about the rest, which in any case does not concern you."

During about six weeks, Frederic hardly worked at all. His theme lay on his table, hardly commenced, and, he added a line, from time to time. He knew that if a desire for enjoyment came to him, he had but to open the window. Bernerette was always ready and when he asked her how she managed to have so much liberty, she always answered that it was no business of his. He had a few savings in his drawer which he rapidly spent. At the end of two weeks, he was obliged to have recourse to a friend to enable him to take his mistress out to supper.

When this friend, who was named Gerard, learned of Frederic's new mode of life he said to him: "Be careful, you are in love. Your grisette has nothing and you have not much more. In your position, I would be shy of an actress from the provinces. These pa.s.sions lead to more than one would think."

Frederic laughingly replied that it was not a question of pa.s.sion, but of a pa.s.sing love. He told Gerard how he had come to know Bernerette, thanks to the window. "She is a girl who thinks of nothing but laughter," said he to his friend. "There is nothing less dangerous than she, and nothing less serious than our liaison."

Gerard yielded to this reasoning, but still urged Frederic to work. The latter a.s.sured him that his theme would soon be finished, and to prove it, in fact, he worked hard for a few hours; but, that very evening, Bernerette was awaiting him. They went together to La Chaumiere and work was neglected.

La Chaumiere is the Tivoli of the Latin quarter and the rendezvous of the students and grisettes. It follows, that it is a place for good company and a resort of pleasure. Drinking and dancing are indulged in: a frank gaiety, somewhat noisy, animates the a.s.sembly. The Elegantes are there in their round bonnets and the Fas.h.i.+onables in velvet waistcoats. One smokes, touches gla.s.ses in sign of friends.h.i.+p and makes love openly. If the police should forbid the entrance to this garden of those on their rolls, it would perhaps be here only that the old life of the students of Paris might continue, that life so free and happy, the memories of which fade day by day.

Frederic, as a provincial, was not one to grumble at those he met there; and Bernerette, who only wished to enjoy herself, would not have noticed anything.

One must have a certain knowledge of the world to be able to tell where to amuse one's self. Our happy couple did not reason over their pleasures. When they had danced all the evening, they went home tired and content. Frederic was such a novice that his first youthful follies appeared to him happiness itself. When Bernerette, leaning on his arm, walked with him down the Boulevard Neuf, he could imagine nothing sweeter than to live like this day by day. They wondered how it would all end, but neither could answer the question clearly. The rent of the furnished room near the Luxembourg was paid for two months: this was important. Sometimes, on arriving, Bernerette would have under her arm a cake wrapped up in paper and Frederic a bottle of good wine. They would then have a regular feast: the young girl at dessert would sing verses from the vaudevilles in which she had appeared. If she forgot the words, the student improvised verses in honor of his friend, and when he could not find the rhyme, a kiss sufficed. And in this way, they pa.s.sed the night together, without a thought of time.

"You no longer do anything," Gerard would say, "and your pa.s.sing fancy will last longer than a genuine pa.s.sion. Take care: you are spending money and you neglect the means of making any more."

"Rea.s.sure yourself," answered Frederic, "my theme is progressing and Bernerette is about to apprentice herself to a laundry. Let me enjoy a moment of happiness in peace, and do not worry about the future."

But the time for printing the thesis was rapidly drawing near. It was finished in haste but was no worse on that account. Frederic was admitted to the bar and sent to Besancon several copies of his dissertation, together with his diploma.

His father answered the happy news by sending him a sum of money much more than sufficient for his return home. Paternal joy, in this way and without knowing it, came to the a.s.sistance of love. Frederic was able to repay his friend the money he had borrowed and to convince him of the uselessness of his remonstrances. He wished to make Bernerette a present, but she refused.

"Take me out to supper," said she to him; "all I want from you is yourself."

With a character gay as that of this young girl, when she experienced the least trouble, it was easy to perceive. Frederic found her sad one day and asked her the reason. After some hesitation, she drew a letter from her pocket. "It is an anonymous letter," said she. "The young man who lives with me received it yesterday and gave it to me saying that he took no notice of accusations that were unsigned. Who has written this? I do not know. The spelling is as bad as the style, but it is no less dangerous for me. I am denounced as a lost woman and the very day and hour of our last meeting is mentioned. It must be some one in the house, a porter or a chambermaid. I do not know what to do nor how to escape the danger that threatens me."

"What danger?" demanded Frederic.

"I believe," said Bernerette, laughing, "that it is no less than a question of my life. I have to deal with a man of violent temper, and if he knew I deceived him, he would be quite capable of killing me."

In vain, Frederic read the letter a second time and examined it in a hundred different ways; he could not recognize the writing. He went home very much alarmed and resolved not to see Bernerette for a few days, but he soon received a note from her.

"He knows all," she wrote. "I do not know who has told him, but think it must be the porter. He is coming to see you and wants to fight with you. I am unable to say anything else- I am more nearly dead than alive."

Frederic spent the entire day in his room. He awaited his rival's visit or at least some provocation. He was surprised to receive neither the one nor the other. The next day, and during the week, the same silence. At length, he learned that M. de N--, Bernerette's lover, had come to an understanding with her, after which, she had left the house and sought safety with her mother.

Alone, and in despair over the loss of a mistress he had loved to distraction, the young man had gone out one morning and had not been heard from again. At the end of four days, not seeing him return, the door of his apartment had been forced. He had left a letter on the table announcing his fatal design. It was a week later that the remains of this unfortunate man were discovered in the forest of Meudon.

CHAPTER III.

THE impression the news of this suicide made on Frederic was profound. Although he did not know this young man, and had never spoken to him, he knew his name, which was that of an ill.u.s.trious family. He saw his parents arrive, his brothers in sorrow, and he knew the sad details of the search they had to make to find the body. The seals were affixed; soon after, the furniture was removed. The window, near which Bernerette had worked, remained open and now revealed only the walls of an empty room.

One does not feel remorse unless one is culpable, and Frederic had nothing serious with which to reproach himself, since he had deceived no one, and had never even clearly understood the state of affairs between the grisette and her lover. But he felt himself filled with horror at being the involuntary cause of such an unfortunate calamity. "Why did he not come and see me?" he said to himself. "Why did he not turn against me the weapon of which he made such terrible use? I do not know how I should have acted, nor what would have happened; but my heart tells me that such an occurrence would not have taken place. Why did I not know he loved her so much? Why was I not witness to his grief? Who knows? I should, perhaps, have gone away. I might have convinced him, cured him and brought him to reason by frank and friendly words. In any case, he would still be living, and I would rather he had broken my arm than to think that, while killing himself, he perhaps p.r.o.nounced my name."

In the midst of these sad thoughts, he received a letter from Bernerette: she was ill and in bed. During his last interview with her, M. de N-- had struck her and she had sustained a serious fall. Frederic went to see her, but lacked courage. To keep her as his mistress, seemed like committing a murder. He decided to leave. After having settled his affairs he sent the poor girl what he could spare, promised not to abandon her if she were in need, and returned to Besancon.

The day of his arrival, as you may imagine, was quite a holiday. He was congratulated on his new t.i.tle and overwhelmed with questions about his stay in Paris. His father proudly introduced him to all the people of note in the town.

He was soon informed of a plan conceived in his absence. They had thought of his marriage and proposed a young and pretty girl of honorable fortune. He neither refused nor accepted: in his heart was a sadness that nothing could remove. He allowed himself to be led where they pleased, answered, as well as he could, those who questioned him and even forced himself to make love to his intended.

But it was without pleasure and almost in spite of himself that he performed these duties. Not that Bernerette was dear enough to him to make him refuse an advantageous marriage, but the last events had produced too strong an effect on him to be so soon forgotten. In a heart troubled by memories there is no place for hope. These two feelings, in their extreme keenness, exclude each other. It is only on losing their power that they become reconciled, and finish by intermingling.

The young lady in question was of a very melancholy disposition. She felt neither sympathy nor repugnance for Frederic. It was in her case, as in his, simply that she obeyed her parents' wishes. Thanks to the ease with which they could converse, they both learned the truth. They felt that love would not come to them, but friends.h.i.+p had come without any effort. One day, when the two united families had gone into the country, Frederic, on returning, gave his arm to his intended. She asked him if he had not left some object of his affections in Paris and he gave her his history. She began by finding it amusing and treating it as a mere nothing. Frederic spoke of it all as but a folly of small importance, but the finish of the story appeared serious to Mademoiselle Darcy, the young lady's name. "Good G.o.d," said she, "but it is very cruel! I understand what you must have felt and I think all the more of you. But you are not to blame; let time do its work. Your parents are just as anxious as mine to bring about our marriage; but leave yourself in my hands. I will spare you as much as possible and, in any case, the pain of a refusal."

With these words, they parted. Frederic suspected that Mademoiselle Darcy, on her side, had a confession to make. He was not mistaken. She loved a young and penniless officer who had asked her hand and been rejected by the family. She, in her turn, was frank and Frederic swore that she should not regret it. They came to a tacit understanding to resist their parents, while appearing to submit to their wishes. They were incessantly seen together, dancing at the ball, chatting in the drawing-room, or walking alone. But, after having acted all day like two lovers, they shook hands in parting, and every night repeated that they would never marry.

Such situations are extremely dangerous. They possess a charm that leads one on and the heart yields with confidence. But love is a jealous G.o.d, who becomes irritated as soon as he is no longer feared, and one sometimes loves simply because one has promised not to love. After a time, Frederic recovered his spirits. He said to himself that, after all, it was not his fault that a slight intrigue had come to such a sinister ending, and that any other in his place would have acted as he did and, in fact, that one must forget what it is impossible to remedy. He began to find pleasure in seeing Mademoiselle Darcy every day: she appeared more beautiful than he had at first thought. He did not alter his conduct toward her, but, little by little, he put more warmth into his speech and protestations of love, a warmth which could not be mistaken. And the young lady was not deceived: her feminine instinct promptly warned her of what was happening in Frederic's heart. She was flattered and almost touched; but, either because she was more constant than he, or because she wished to keep her word, she determined to entirely break with him and to remove all hope. For this, it was necessary that he should explain himself more clearly, and the occasion soon presented itself.

One night, when Frederic had seemed more ardent than usual, Mademoiselle Darcy, during tea, went and sat in a small adjoining room. A certain romantic disposition, often natural to women, invested her glance and words with an indescribable charm. Unconscious of her feelings, she was sensible of the power to produce a strong impression and yielded to the temptation to use that power, even though she were to suffer herself. Frederic had seen her go into the next room. He followed and approached her and, after a few words, regarding the sadness he noticed in her, said: "Well, mademoiselle! Do you not think the day is approaching when you must make up your mind? Have you found any means of eluding this necessity? I have come to consult you on the matter. My father questions me incessantly and I hardly know what to reply. What objection can I make to this union, and how can I say I do not want you? If I pretend not to think you beautiful enough, nor wise, nor gay, no one will believe me. I must, therefore, say I love another and the longer we wait the greater the falsehood in saying this. How could it be otherwise? Can I always see you with impunity? Can not the image of an absent one fade away when you are present? Tell me, then, what I must answer and what you think yourself.

Have not your intentions changed? Will you allow your youth to consume itself in solitude? Will you remain faithful to a memory and will this memory suffice you?

If I judge from my own experience, I must acknowledge that I do not believe it.

For I feel that it is but deceiving oneself to resist the promptings of one's heart and a common destiny, which wishes us to forget and love. I will keep my word if you wish, but I can not help telling you that this obedience will be cruel. Know, then, that on you, alone, now depends our future: p.r.o.nounce our fate."

"I am not surprised at what you tell me," answered Mademoiselle Darcy, "it is the language of all men. For them, the present is everything, and they would sacrifice their whole existence to the paying of a pretty compliment. Women also have similar temptations but the difference is that they resist them. I was wrong to leave myself in your hands and it is but just that I should pay the penalty. But while my refusal may wound you and cause resentment toward me, you will learn from me something of which you will later admit the truth. It is that one loves but once in this life, that is, if one is capable of loving at all; those who are inconstant do not love: they play with the heart. I know that for a marriage, it is said that friends.h.i.+p suffices. In certain cases, this is possible, but how could it be possible for us, since you know I am in love with some one else? Supposing that today you abuse my confidence, in order to force me to marry you, what use will you make of this secret when I am your wife? Will it not be enough to make happiness impossible for both of us? I wish to believe that your Parisian love affair is only a youthful folly. Do you think that it has given me a good opinion of your heart, and that it is of no consequence to me, to know you to be of such a capricious character? Believe me, Frederic," she added, taking the young man by the hand, "believe me, you will one day fall in love, and on that day, if you think of me, you may perhaps hold in some esteem she who has dared to address you thus. You will then know what love really is."

With these words, Mademoiselle Darcy rose and left the room. She had noticed how troubled Frederic was and what an effect her words had produced: she left him very sad. The poor boy was too inexperienced to suppose that, in such a formal declaration, there might be a trace of coquetry. He was not aware of the strange motives which sometimes govern a woman's actions. He did not know that she who wishes to refuse, will say merely, "No," and that she who explains more fully, in truth, wishes to be convinced.

However it may be, this conversation had the worst possible influence over him.

Instead of attempting to persuade Mademoiselle Darcy, during the following days, he avoided being alone with her. Too proud to yield, she allowed him to remain away in silence.

He went to his father and spoke of the necessity of completing his preparations for admission to the bar. As to the marriage, it was Mademoiselle Darcy who first broached the subject. She did not dare to refuse absolutely, for fear of offending her family, but she asked for time to reflect, and persuaded them to leave her alone for a year. So, Frederic prepared to return to Paris. His allowance was slightly increased and he left Besancon feeling even more sad than when he arrived. The memory of his last conversation with Mademoiselle Darcy pursued him like a bad omen and, while the stage was carrying him away from his father's house in the country, he kept repeating to himself, "You will then know what love really is."

CHAPTER IV.

HE did not return to the Latin quarter. His profession led him to the Palais de Justice and he took a room near the Quai aux Fleurs. Hardly had he arrived, when he received a visit from his friend Gerard. During Frederic's absence, he had inherited considerable wealth. The death of an old uncle had made him rich. He had rooms in the Chaussee-d'Antin, a carriage and horses. He also kept a pretty mistress, received much company, and, in fact, lived a gay life at his house all day and often all night. He was seen at the b.a.l.l.s, at all spectacles and on the promenades. In a word, from a modest student, had sprung a fas.h.i.+onable young man.

Without giving up his study, Frederic was drawn into the whirlpool that enveloped his friend. He soon learned to despise the pleasures of La Chaumiere: this was no place for the gilded youth of Paris. They were often in worse company, but little matters; custom sanctions it and it was considered more n.o.ble to amuse oneself at Musard's with the bad company there than at the Boulevard Neuf with honest people. Gerard insisted on taking Frederic with him wherever he went. The latter resisted as much as he could, and finished by allowing himself to be led. He, thus, came to know a world of which he before was totally ignorant. He saw actresses and dancers and the society of these divinities has a great effect on a provincial. He mingled with gamblers and people who laughingly mentioned two hundred louis they had lost the night before. He pa.s.sed the night with them and saw them at daybreak, after twelve hours of drinking and card-playing, asking themselves, while dressing, what were to be the pleasures of the day. He was invited to suppers where each one had, at his side, a woman of his own, to whom not a word was said, and who was taken with one on leaving as one would take one's stick or hat. In short, he took part in all these fancies, in all the pleasures of this free and thoughtless life, under the shelter of sadness, which the elite, alone, possess and which appear to appertain to the rest of the world, only by means of pleasure.

At first, he enjoyed it all, from the fact that he lost all trace of sadness and all unwelcome memories were blotted out. And, in fact, in such a sphere it is impossible to be preoccupied: one must enjoy oneself or depart. But Frederic was doing himself an injury, as he was losing his practise of reflection and his orderly habits, those supreme safeguards. He had not sufficient means to play for long, but, nevertheless, he played. Unfortunately, he began by winning and had all the more to lose. His clothes were made by an old tailor at Besancon who had for a number of years worked for the family. He wrote that he no longer intended having his clothes made by him and patronized a fas.h.i.+onable Paris tailor. He soon found he had no time to go to the Palais de Justice; how could he, while in the company of young men who, in their busy idleness, could not even spare the time to read the newspapers? So, he prepared for his examination on the boulevards. He dined at the cafes, went to the Bois, had fine clothes and his pockets full of money. Nothing was lacking but a horse and a mistress to make him an accomplished dandy.

This is not saying little, it is true. In times gone by, a man was not a man and did not really know what it was to live, except when possessed of three things, a horse, a woman and a sword. Our prosaic and pusillanimous century, first of all, did away with the most n.o.ble, the surest and the most inseparable of these three friends to a man of heart. No longer do we have a sword at our side; and, alas! but few people possess a horse, while there are those who boast of living without a mistress.

One day, when Frederic had some pressing debts to pay, he found himself obliged to apply to his companions in pleasure, who were, however, unable to accommodate him. He finally obtained, from a banker who knew his father, three thousand francs on his note of hand. With this sum in his pocket and feeling happy and relieved from his embarra.s.sment, he strolled down the boulevard before returning home. When pa.s.sing the corner of the Rue de la Paix to return by the Tuileries, a woman, arm in arm with a young man, began to laugh: it was Bernerette. He stopped and followed her with his eyes. She turned round several times; he changed his route, hardly knowing why, and went to the Cafe de Paris.

He had been walking for an hour, and was about to go to dinner, when Bernerette pa.s.sed once more. She was alone. He stopped her and asked her to dine with him.

She accepted and took his arm, but begged him to take her to a place not so well known.

"Let us go to a cabaret," said she gaily. "I do not care to dine in the open air."

They drove away in a cab, and as before, kissed each other a thousand times before inquiring the news.

The tete-a-tete was happy and sad memories were banished. Nevertheless, Bernerette complained of Frederic's not having come to see her: he only replied that she should well know why. She read her lover's eyes and understood that the subject must be dropped. Seated near a roaring fire as on the first day, they dreamed only of enjoying the happy chance that had once more drawn them together. The champagne animated their gaiety and elicited from him those tender proposals, inspired by this wine of poetry, but disdained by the epicure. After dinner, they went to the theater. At eleven, Frederic asked Bernerette where he should take her: she was silent for a time, half ashamed and half alarmed. Then, throwing her arms round the young man's neck, she timidly whispered in his ear: "With you."

He was somewhat surprised to find her free.

"And what if I am not: do you not think I love you? But I am," she immediately added, seeing Frederic hesitate. "The person who was with me just now has, perhaps, caused you to think. Did you look at him?"

"No, I saw only you."

"He is an excellent fellow, a dealer in novelties and rich. He wants to marry me."

"To marry you! Are you serious?"

"Very serious. I have not deceived him, he knows the whole story of my life, but is in love with me. He knows my mother, and proposed a month ago. My mother would not interfere with my affairs, although she was provoked when she learned that I had told him everything. He wishes me to look after his accounts. It would be a good position, for he makes fifteen thousand francs a year; unfortunately, it is impossible."

"Why? Is there some obstacle?"

"I will tell you all about it, but let us first go home."

"No. Speak frankly to me, first."

"Are you going to laugh at me? I esteem and like him; he is the best man in the world, but he is too fat."

"Too fat? What folly!"

"You have never seen him. He is both fat and short and you have such a fine figure!"

"And what of his face?"

"Not so bad. He has one merit and that is to appear good and to be so. I am more grateful to him than I can tell you, and if I had wished, even without marrying me, he would have a.s.sisted me. Nothing in the world would make me vex him, and, if I could render him a service, I would do it with all my heart."