went off; artificial suns began turning round; the gleam of the Bengal fires, like emeralds in colour, lighted up for the space of a minute the entire garden; and, with the last rocket, a great sigh escaped from the assembled throng.
It slowly died away. A cloud of gunpowder floated into the air. Frederick and Deslauriers were walking step by step through the midst of the crowd, when they happened to see something that made them suddenly stop: Martinon was in the act of paying some money at the place where umbrellas were left; and he was accompanying a woman of fifty, plain-looking, magnificently dressed, and of problematic social rank.
“That sly dog,” said Deslauriers, “is not so simple as we imagine. But where in the world is Cisy?”
Dussardier pointed out to them the smoking-divan, where they perceived the knightly youth, with a bowl of punch before him, and a pink hat by his side, to keep him company. Hussonnet, who had been away for the past few minutes, reappeared at the same moment.
A young girl was leaning on his arm, and addressing him in a loud voice as “My little cat.”
“Oh! no!” said he to her — “not in public! Call me rather ‘Vicomte.’ That gives you a cavalier style — Louis XIII. and dainty boots — the sort of thing I like! Yes, my good friends, one of the old régime! — nice, isn’t she?” — and he chucked her by the chin — “Salute these gentlemen! they are all the sons of peers of France. I keep company with them in order that they may get an appointment for me as an ambassador.”
“How insane you are!” sighed Mademoiselle Vatnaz. She asked Dussardier to see her as far as her own door.
Arnoux watched them going off; then, turning towards Frederick:
“Did you like the Vatnaz? At any rate, you’re not quite frank about these affairs. I believe you keep your amours hidden.”
Frederick, turning pale, swore that he kept nothing hidden.
“Can it be possible you don’t know what it is to have a mistress?” said Arnoux.
Frederick felt a longing to mention a woman’s name at random. But the story might be repeated to her. So he replied that as a matter of fact he had no mistress.
The picture-dealer reproached him for this.
“This evening you had a good opportunity! Why didn’t you do like the others, each of whom went off with a woman?”
“Well, and what about yourself?” said Frederick, provoked by his persistency.
“Oh! myself — that’s quite a different matter, my lad! I go home to my own one!”
Then he called a cab, and disappeared.
The two friends walked towards their own destination. An east wind was blowing. They did not exchange a word. Deslauriers was regretting that he had not succeeded in making a shine before a certain newspaper-manager, and Frederick was lost once more in his melancholy broodings. At length, breaking silence, he said that this public-house ball appeared to him a stupid affair.
“Whose fault is it? If you had not left us, to join that Arnoux of yours — — “
“Bah! anything I could have done would have been utterly useless!”
But the clerk had theories of his own. All that was necessary in order to get a thing was to desire it strongly.
“Nevertheless, you yourself, a little while ago — — “
“I don’t care a straw about that sort of thing!” returned Deslauriers, cutting short Frederick’s allusion. “Am I going to get entangled with women?”
And he declaimed against their affectations, their silly ways — in short, he disliked them.
“Don’t be acting, then!” said Frederick.
Deslauriers became silent. Then, all at once:
“Will you bet me a hundred francs that I won’t do the first woman that passes?”
“Yes — it’s a bet!”
The first who passed was a hideous-looking beggar-woman, and they were giving up all hope of a chance presenting itself when, in the middle of the Rue de Rivoli, they saw a tall girl with a little bandbox in her hand.
Deslauriers accosted her under the arcades. She turned up abruptly by the Tuileries, and soon diverged into the Place du Carrousel. She glanced to the right and to the left. She ran after a hackney-coach; Deslauriers overtook her. He walked by her side, talking to her with expressive gestures. At length, she accepted his arm, and they went on together along the quays. Then, when they reached the rising ground in front of the Châtelet, they kept tramping up and down for at least twenty minutes, like two sailors keeping watch. But, all of a sudden, they passed over the Pont-au-Change, through the Flower Market, and along the Quai Napoléon. Frederick came up behind them. Deslauriers gave him to understand that he would be in their way, and had only to follow his own example.
“How much have you got still?”
“Two hundred sous pieces.”
“That’s enough — good night to you!”
Frederick was seized with the astonishment one feels at seeing a piece of foolery coming to a successful issue.
“He has the laugh at me,” was his reflection. “Suppose I went back again?”
Perhaps Deslauriers imagined that he was envious of this paltry love! “As if I had not one a hundred times more rare, more noble, more absorbing.” He felt a sort of angry feeling impelling him onward. He arrived in front of Madame Arnoux’s door.
None of the outer windows belonged to her apartment. Nevertheless, he remained with his eyes pasted on the front of the house — as if he fancied he could, by his contemplation, break open the walls. No doubt, she was now sunk in repose, tranquil as a sleeping flower, with her beautiful black hair resting on the lace of the pillow, her lips slightly parted, and one arm under her head. Then Arnoux’s head rose before him, and he rushed away to escape from this vision.
The advice which Deslauriers had given to him came back to his memory. It only filled him with horror. Then he walked about the streets in a vagabond fashion.
When a pedestrian approached, he tried to distinguish the face. From time to time a ray of light passed between his legs, tracing a great quarter of a circle on the pavement; and in the shadow a man appeared with his dosser and his lantern. The wind, at certain points, made the sheet-iron flue of a chimney shake. Distant sounds reached his ears, mingling with the buzzing in his brain; and it seemed to him that he was listening to the indistinct flourish of quadrille music. His movements as he walked on kept up this illusion. He found himself on the Pont de la Concorde.
Then he recalled that evening in the previous winter, when, as he left her house for the first time, he was forced to stand still, so rapidly did his heart beat with the hopes that held it in their clasp. And now they had all withered!
Dark clouds were drifting across the face of the moon. He gazed at it, musing on the vastness of space, the wretchedness of life, the nothingness of everything. The day dawned; his teeth began to chatter, and, half-asleep, wet with the morning mist, and bathed in
