On a Wednesday morning, early, toward the middle of spring, in the year 16,—such was his mode of reckoning,—at the moment when the chevalier was putting on his old green-flowered damask dressing-gown, he heard, despite the cotton in his ears, the light step of a young girl who was running up the stairway. Presently three taps were discreetly² struck upon the door; then, without waiting for any response, a handsome girl slipped like an eel³ into the room occupied by the old bachelor.  
“Ah! is it you, Suzanne?” said the Chevalier de Valois, without discontinuing his occupation, which was that of stropping his razor. “What have you come for, my dear little jewel of mischief⁴?”
 
“I have come to tell you something which may perhaps give you as much pleasure as pain?”
 
“Is it anything about Cesarine?”
 
“Cesarine! much I care about your Cesarine!” she said with a saucy⁵ air, half serious, half indifferent.
 
This charming Suzanne, whose present comical performance was to exercise a great influence in the principal personages of our history, was a work-girl at Madame Lardot’s. One word here on the topography of the house. The wash-rooms occupied the whole of the ground floor. The little courtyard was used to hang out on wire cords embroidered⁷ handkerchiefs, collarets, capes⁸, cuffs⁹, frilled shirts, cravats¹⁰, laces, embroidered dresses,—in short, all the fine linen¹¹ of the best families of the town. The chevalier assumed to know from the number of her capes in the wash how the love-affairs of the wife of the prefect were going on. Though he guessed much from observations of this kind, the chevalier was discretion¹² itself; he was never betrayed into an epigram (he had plenty of wit) which might have closed to him an agreeable salon¹³. You are therefore to consider Monsieur de Valois as a man of superior manners, whose talents, like those of many others, were lost in a narrow sphere. Only—for, after all, he was a man—he permitted himself certain penetrating¹⁴ glances which could make some women tremble; although they all loved him heartily¹⁵ as soon as they discovered the depth of his discretion and the sympathy that he felt for their little weaknesses.
 
The head woman, Madame Lardot’s factotum¹⁶, an old maid of forty-six, hideous¹⁷ to behold¹⁸, lived on the opposite side of the passage to the chevalier. Above them were the attics¹⁹ where the linen was dried in winter. Each apartment had two rooms,—one lighted from the street, the other from the courtyard. Beneath the chevalier’s room there lived a paralytic²⁰, Madame Lardot’s grandfather, an old buccaneer named Grevin, who had served under Admiral Simeuse in India, and was now stone-deaf. As for Madame Lardot, who occupied the other lodging²¹ on the first floor, she had so great a weakness for persons of condition that she may well have been thought blind to the ways of the chevalier. To her, Monsieur de Valois was a despotic monarch²² who did right in all things. Had any of her workwomen been guilty of a happiness attributed to the chevalier she would have said, “He is so lovable!” Thus, though the house was of glass, like all provincial²³ houses, it was discreet¹ as a robber’s cave.
 
A born confidant to all the little intrigues²⁴ of the work-rooms, the chevalier never passed the door, which usually stood open, without giving something to his little ducks,—chocolate, bonbons²⁵, ribbons, laces, gilt²⁶ crosses, and such like trifles adored by grisettes; consequently, the kind old gentleman was adored in return. Women have an instinct which enables them to divine the men who love them, who like to be near them, and exact no payment for gallantries. In this respect women have the instinct of dogs, who in a mixed company will go straight to the man to whom animals are sacred.
 
The poor Chevalier de Valois retained from his former life the need of bestowing²⁸ gallant²⁷ protection, a quality of the seigneurs of other days. Faithful to the system of the “petite maison,” he liked to enrich women,—the only beings who know how to receive, because they can always return. But the poor chevalier could no longer ruin himself for a mistress. Instead of the choicest bonbons wrapped in bank-bills, he gallantly³⁰ presented paper-bags full of toffee. Let us say to the glory of Alencon that the toffee was accepted with more joy than la Duthe ever showed at a gilt service or a fine equipage offered by the Comte d’Artois. All these grisettes fully³² understood the fallen majesty³³ of the Chevalier de Valois, and they kept their private familiarities with him a profound secret for his sake. If they were questioned about him in certain houses when they carried home the linen, they always spoke³⁴ respectfully of the chevalier, and made him out older than he really was; they talked of him as a most respectable monsieur, whose life was a flower of sanctity; but once in their own regions they perched on his shoulders like so many parrots. He liked to be told the secrets which washerwomen discover in the bosom³⁵ of households, and day after day these girls would tell him the cancans which were going the round of Alencon. He called them his “petticoat gazettes,” his “talking feuilletons.” Never did Monsieur de Sartines have spies more intelligent and less expensive, or minions³⁶ who showed more honor while displaying their rascality³⁷ of mind. So it may be said that in the mornings, while breakfasting, the chevalier usually amused himself as much as the saints in heaven.
 
Suzanne was one of his favorites, a clever, ambitious girl, made of the stuff of a Sophie Arnold, and handsome withal, as the handsomest courtesan invited by Titian to pose on black velvet³⁸ for a model of Venus; although her face, fine about the eyes and forehead, degenerated³⁹, lower down, into commonness of outline. Hers was a Norman beauty, fresh, high-colored, redundant⁴⁰, the flesh of Rubens covering the muscles of the Farnese Hercules, and not the slender articulations of the Venus de’ Medici, Apollo’s graceful⁴¹ consort⁴².
 
“Well, my child, tell me your great or your little adventure, whatever it is.”
 
The particular point about the chevalier which would have made him noticeable from Paris to Pekin, was the gentle paternity of his manner to grisettes. They reminded him of the illustrious operatic queens of his early days, whose celebrity⁴³ was European during a good third of the eighteenth century. It is certain that the old gentleman, who had lived in days gone by with that feminine nation now as much forgotten as many other great things,—like the Jesuits, the Buccaneers, the Abbes, and the Farmers-General,—had acquired an irresistible⁴⁴ good-humor, a kindly⁴⁵ ease, a laisser-aller devoid⁴⁶ of egotism, the self-effacement of Jupiter with Alcmene, of the king intending to be duped, who casts his thunderbolts to the devil, wants his Olympus full of follies⁴⁷, little suppers, feminine profusions—but with Juno out of the way, be it understood.
 
In spite of his old green damask dressing-gown and the bareness of the room in which he sat, where the floor was covered with a shabby tapestry⁴⁸ in place of carpet, and the walls were hung with tavern-paper presenting the profiles of Louis XVI. and members of his family, traced among the branches of a weeping willow⁴⁹ with other sentimentalities invented by royalism during the Terror,—in spite of his ruins, the chevalier, trimming his beard before a shabby old toilet-table, draped with trumpery⁵⁰ lace, exhaled⁵¹ an essence of the eighteenth century. All the libertine⁵² graces of his youth reappeared; he seemed to have the wealth of three hundred thousand francs of debt, while his vis-a-vis waited before the door. He was grand,—like Berthier on the retreat from Moscow, issuing orders to an army that existed no longer.
 
“Monsieur le chevalier,” replied Suzanne, drolly⁵³, “seems to me I needn’t tell you anything; you’ve only to look.”
 
And Suzanne presented a side view of herself which gave a sort of lawyer’s comment to her words. The chevalier, who, you must know, was a sly old bird, lowered his right eye on the grisette, still holding the razor at his throat, and pretended to understand.
 
“Well, well, my little duck, we’ll talk about that presently. But you are rather previous, it seems to me.”
 
“Why, Monsieur le chevalier, ought I to wait until my mother beats me and Madame Lardot turns me off? If I don’t get away soon to Paris, I shall never be able to marry here, where men are so ridiculous.”
 
“It can’t be helped, my dear; society is changing; women are just as much victims to the present state of things as the nobility themselves. After political overturn comes the overturn of morals. Alas⁵⁴! before long woman won’t exist” (he took out the cotton-wool to arrange his ears): “she’ll lose everything by rushing into sentiment; she’ll wring⁵⁵ her nerves; good-bye to all the good little pleasures of our time, desired without shame, accepted without nonsense.” (He polished up the little negroes’ heads.) “Women had hysterics in those days to get their ends, but now” (he began to laugh) “their vapors⁵⁶ end in charcoal⁵⁷. In short, marriage” (here he picked up his pincers to remove a hair) “will become a thing intolerable; whereas it used to be so gay in my day! The reigns⁵⁸ of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.—remember this, my child—said farewell to the finest manners and morals ever known to the world.”
 
“But, Monsieur le chevalier,” said the grisette, “the matter now concerns the morals and honor of your poor little Suzanne, and I hope you won’t abandon her.”
 
“Abandon her!” cried the chevalier, finishing his hair; “I’d sooner abandon my own name.”
 
“Ah!” exclaimed Suzanne.
 
“Now, listen to me, you little mischief,” said the chevalier, sitting down on a huge sofa, formerly⁵⁹ called a duchesse, which Madame Lardot had been at some pains to find for him.
 
He drew the magnificent Suzanne before him, holding her legs between his knees. She let him do as he liked, although in the street she was offish enough to other men, refusing their familiarities partly from decorum and partly for contempt for their commonness. She now stood audaciously in front of the chevalier, who, having fathomed⁶⁰ in his day many other mysteries in minds that were far more wily, took in the situation at a single glance. He knew very well that no young girl would joke about a real dishonor; but he took good care not to knock over the pretty scaffolding of her lie as he touched it.
 
“We slander⁶¹ ourselves,” he said with inimitable craft; “we are as virtuous⁶² as that beautiful biblical girl whose name we bear; we can always marry as we please, but we are thirsty for Paris, where charming creatures—and we are no fool—get rich without trouble. We want to go and see if the great capital of pleasures hasn’t some young Chevalier de Valois in store for us, with a carriage, diamonds, an opera-box, and so forth⁶³. Russians, Austrians, Britons, have millions on which we have an eye. Besides, we are patriotic⁶⁴; we want to help France in getting back her money from the pockets of those gentry⁶⁵. Hey! hey! my dear little devil’s duck! it isn’t a bad plan. The world you live in may cry out a bit, but success justifies⁶⁶ all things. The worst thing in this world, my dear, is to be without money; that’s our disease, yours and mine. Now inasmuch as we have plenty of wit, we thought it would be a good thing to parade our dear little honor, or dishonor, to catch an old boy; but that old boy, my dear heart, knows the Alpha and Omega of female tricks,—which means that you could easier put salt on a sparrow’s tail than to make me believe I have anything to do with your little affair. Go to Paris, my dear; go at the cost of an old celibate⁶⁷, I won’t prevent it; in fact, I’ll help you, for an old bachelor, Suzanne, is the natural money-box of a young girl. But don’t drag me into the matter. Listen, my queen, you who know life pretty well; you would me great harm and give me much pain,—harm, because you would prevent my marriage in a town where people cling to morality; pain, because if you are in trouble (which I deny, you sly puss!) I haven’t a penny to get you out of it. I’m as poor as a church mouse; you know that, my dear. Ah! if I marry Mademoiselle Cormon, if I am once more rich, of course I would prefer you to Cesarine. You’ve always seemed to me as fine as the gold they gild⁶⁸ on lead; you were made to be the love of a great seigneur. I think you so clever that the trick you are trying to play off on me doesn’t surprise me one bit; I expected it. You are flinging the scabbard after the sword, and that’s daring for a girl. It takes nerve and superior ideas to do it, my angel, and therefore you have won my respectful esteem⁶⁹.”
 
“Monsieur le chevalier, I assure you, you are mistaken, and—”
 
She colored, and did not dare to say more. The chevalier, with a single glance, had guessed and fathomed her whole plan.
 
“Yes, yes! I understand: you want me to believe it,” he said. “Well! I do believe it. But take my advice: go to Monsieur du Bousquier. Haven’t you taken linen there for the last six or eight months? I’m not asking what went on between you; but I know the man: he has immense conceit⁷⁰; he is an old bachelor, and very rich; and he only spends a quarter of a comfortable income. If you are as clever as I suppose, you can go to Paris at his expense. There, run along, my little doe; go and twist him round your finger. Only, mind this: be as supple⁷¹ as silk; at every word take a double turn round him and make a knot. He is a man to fear scandal, and if he has given you a chance to put him in the pillory—in short, understand; threaten him with the ladies of the Maternity⁷² Hospital. Besides, he’s ambitious. A man succeeds through his wife, and you are handsome and clever enough to make the fortune of a husband. Hey! the mischief! you could hold your own against all the court ladies.”
 
Suzanne, whose mind took in at a flash the chevalier’s last words, was eager to run off to du Bousquier, but, not wishing to depart too abruptly⁷³, she questioned the chevalier about Paris, all the while helping⁷⁵ him to dress. The chevalier, however, divined her desire to be off, and favored it by asking her to tell Cesarine to bring up his chocolate, which Madame Lardot made for him every morning. Suzanne then slipped away to her new victim, whose biography must here be given.
 
Born of an old Alencon family, du Bousquier was a cross between the bourgeois⁷⁶ and the country squire⁷⁷. Finding himself without means on the death of his father, he went, like other ruined provincials⁷⁸, to Paris. On the breaking out of the Revolution he took part in public affairs. In spite of revolutionary principles, which made a hobby of republican honesty, the management of public business in those days was by no means clean. A political spy, a stock-jobber, a contractor⁷⁹, a man who confiscated⁸⁰ in collusion with the syndic of a commune the property of emigres in order to sell them and buy them in, a minister, and a general were all equally engaged in public business. From 1793 to 1799 du Bousquier was commissary of provisions to the French armies. He lived in a magnificent hotel and was one of the matadors⁸¹ of finance, did business with Ouvrard, kept open house, and led the scandalous life of the period,—the life of a Cincinnatus, on sacks of corn harvested without trouble, stolen rations⁸², “little houses” full of mistresses, in which were given splendid fetes to the Directors of the Republic.
 
The citizen du Bousquier was one of Barras’ familiars; he was on the best of terms with Fouche, stood very well with Bernadotte, and fully expected to become a minister by throwing himself into the party which secretly caballed against Bonaparte until Marengo. If it had not been for Kellermann’s charge and Desaix’s death, du Bousquier would probably have become a minister. He was one of the chief assistances of that secret government whom Napoleon’s luck sent behind the scenes in 1793. (See “An Historical Mystery.”) The unexpected victory of Marengo was the defeat of that party who actually had their proclamations printed to return to the principles of the Montagne in case the First Consul⁸³ succumbed⁸⁴.
 
Convinced of the impossibility of Bonaparte’s triumph, du Bousquier staked the greater part of his property on a fall in the Funds, and kept two couriers on the field of battle. The first started for Paris when Melas’ victory was certain; the second, starting four hours later, brought the news of the defeat of the Austrians. Du Bousquier cursed Kellermann and Desaix; he dared not curse Bonaparte, who might owe him millions. This alternative of millions to be earned and present ruin staring him in the face, deprived the purveyor⁸⁵ of most of his faculties⁸⁶: he became nearly imbecile for several days; the man had so abused his health by excesses that when the thunderbolt fell upon him he had no strength to resist. The payment of his bills against the Exchequer⁸⁷ gave him some hopes for the future, but, in spite of all efforts to ingratiate himself, Napoleon’s hatred⁸⁸ to the contractors⁸⁹ who had speculated on his defeat made itself felt; du Bousquier was left without a sou. The immorality⁹⁰ of his private life, his intimacy⁹¹ with Barras and Bernadotte, displeased⁹² the First Consul even more than his manoeuvres at the Bourse, and he struck du Bousquier’s name from the list of the government contractors.
 
Out of all his past opulence⁹³ du Bousquier saved only twelve hundred francs a year from an investment in the Grand Livre, which he had happened to place there by pure caprice, and which saved him from penury⁹⁴. A man ruined by the First Consul interested the town of Alencon, to which he now returned, where royalism was secretly dominant⁹⁵. Du Bousquier, furious against Bonaparte, relating stories against him of his meanness, of Josephine’s improprieties, and all the other scandalous anecdotes⁹⁶ of the last ten years, was well received.
 
About this time, when he was somewhere between forty and fifty, du Bousquier’s appearance was that of a bachelor of thirty-six, of medium height, plump as a purveyor, proud of his vigorous calves⁹⁸, with a strongly marked countenance⁹⁹, a flattened¹⁰⁰ nose, the nostrils¹⁰¹ garnished¹⁰² with hair, black eyes with thick lashes¹⁰³, from which darted¹⁰⁴ shrewd glances like those of Monsieur de Talleyrand, though somewhat dulled. He still wore republican whiskers and his hair very long; his hands, adorned¹⁰⁵ with bunches of hair on each knuckle¹⁰⁶, showed the power of his muscular system in their prominent blue veins¹⁰⁷. He had the chest of the Farnese Hercules, and shoulders fit to carry the stocks. Such shoulders are seen nowadays only at Tortoni’s. This wealt............