Frederique Volume I Part 60

Mignonne opened one of the drawers in the commode, and hastily made up a bundle, which she wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. She was still engaged in that occupation, when I heard my doorbell, and a moment later a familiar voice in the reception room.

"There's no need of announcing me, my boy; I'll go right in without ceremony. A doctor may always go in."

At the same instant, the bedroom door opened and Balloquet appeared.

"Bonjour, my dear fellow!" he said; "I beg your pardon; I interrupt you, perhaps. But if I intrude, tell me so, and I'll go away."

I had just taken Balloquet's hand, and told him to remain, when Mignonne, who had made haste to tie up her bundle, and was about to leave the room with Madame Potrelle, glanced at the new-comer and suddenly changed color; then, trembling with agitation, she threw her bundle on the floor, seized the old woman's arm, and cried:

"Come, come, madame! Let us go at once; I can't stay here another minute! Oh! it's shameful! It was a trap!"

"Well, well! what makes you throw all that linen on the floor? Why don't you carry it away?" murmured the old woman, aghast at Mignonne's action.

"I won't take the work. I refuse it! I'll never come here again, never!

never! Come, madame! let us go at once!"

As she spoke, the young woman ran to the door and went out, refusing to listen to what her companion said; and she, utterly unable to understand what she saw, decided to follow her, crying:

"What on earth's the matter with her? What's got into her? Refuse work, when she needs it! Refuse the offers of an honorable man, who wishes her nothing but good! Faith! it's sickening! Much good it does to take an interest in folks! Excuse me, monsieur, I must follow her; but she's got to explain all this. Excuse her, monsieur; it's some crazy idea she's got in her head. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! to refuse a gentleman like monsieur--there's no sense in it!"

The concierge left the room at last. As for myself, I was so thunderstruck by Mignonne's conduct that it had not occurred to me to ask her for an explanation.

Balloquet, meanwhile, had remained standing in the middle of the room, looking from one to another, unable to understand what was taking place.

"Well! what in the deuce is going on here, my dear fellow?" said the young doctor, when Madame Potrelle had disappeared. "Can it be that my arrival caused all this hurly-burly and put that young woman to flight?

She seemed to be a very attractive person--not the one who went out last, but the other. I didn't have time for a good look at her, but she struck me as rather _chicolo_."

"You didn't recognize her, then, Balloquet?"

"Recognize her? Why, do I know her? I have no remembrance of ever seeing her."

"Ah! I see, I see; I understand it all now."

"You are very lucky, for I don't understand a word of it."

I remembered that Balloquet had been Fouvenard's friend, and it was probable that Mignonne had met him when she was with her seducer; and so, when she saw a man come into my room whom she had seen with him who had deceived her so shamefully, she concluded, doubtless, that I too was a friend of Fouvenard. That being so, was it surprising that her suspicions and her terror should have returned, and that she should have refused to work for me? Poor girl! I had succeeded in winning her confidence, and this accident had destroyed all that I had had so much difficulty in obtaining. It seemed that, with the best intentions, I was fated always to remain an object of terror to her.

I kept my reflections to myself; I deemed it unnecessary to tell Balloquet that the young woman he had found in my room was she whose shame Monsieur Fouvenard had not hesitated to proclaim. My visitor was still standing in the middle of the room, and he cried at last, irritated by my silence:

"Evidently I came at an inopportune moment. Excuse me. I'll come again."

But I detained him and made him sit down.

"No; you could never guess---- But let us say no more about this incident.--You seem in better spirits, my dear Balloquet?"

"Oh! my feathers are coming out again; not enough to pay you, but that may come in time."

"For heaven's sake, don't talk about that!"

"I have seen Satine, my sweetheart, again. She has gone into another invention now--still in the glove line, however. She cleanses gloves; she has invented, or someone has given her, a secret for cleansing them; and as gloves get soiled very quickly and are rather expensive, there's a lot of money to be made in cleansing."

"True; but I thought the process was already known."

"Yes, it is possible to have gloves cleansed; that's so; but when they had been through the process they smelt of the cleansing liquid--turpentine, or something else. You went into a salon and swaggered about, playing the dandy, and people said as soon as you came near: 'Ah! here's a man whose gloves have been cleansed!'--That was annoying, you must admit. It took fifty per cent off your costume. Some people concluded at once that your coat had been turned and your trousers dyed, that your waistcoat was second-hand, etcetera, etcetera.

Conjectures went a long way, sometimes."

"And your charmer has found a way of avoiding that?"

"Yes--that is to say, not altogether; gloves cleansed by her process have an extremely pleasant odor; they smell of rose; oh! you can smell them a mile away; it's amazing! You go into a salon, and people think that the Grand Turk and his whole harem have arrived; they can't smell anything but you."

"But that may have the same drawbacks as the other process, my dear fellow. People will wonder why you smell so strongly of rose."

"Yes; but when I arrive, I shall begin by saying: 'I adore the odor of rose! I have lately bought some essence of rose, so strong that all my clothes are perfumed with it'--In that way, I avert suspicion from my gloves. However, it seems that the new process is a success. My sentimental Satine is in funds; the odor of rose is popular. For my part, I have had a few patients--among others, a rich old gentleman with whom I am very well satisfied; he has had an inflammation of the lungs for six weeks, and it doesn't seem inclined to subside. I keep it up by means of fumigations. I have paid three creditors already with that inflammation. To-day, as I happened to be in your neighborhood, I said to myself: 'I may as well call on Rochebrune and give him my address;'

for I have an address for the moment. Cite Vinde, No. 4, _ter_ or _bis_.

But I'm very sorry that I put that young woman to flight. Have I such a very terrifying aspect? I haven't any moustache."

"I repeat, Balloquet, don't think any more of that incident. You could not have foreseen what happened.--But tell me about that girl who came to consult you while I was in your room; you remember, don't you? the girl who had been so maltreated by a miserable blackguard!"

Balloquet pa.s.sed his hand across his brow and his face became almost serious--a rare occurrence.

"Yes, I remember; you mean Annette?"

"Annette--that was the name. You went to see her, didn't you?"

"Yes, I visited her nearly two months."

"And then?"

"And then happened what I had antic.i.p.ated from the very first: she died."

"Died! Great G.o.d! you could not save her?"

"It was impossible. All that I could do was to relieve her suffering as much as possible. Poor girl! she suffered too much, even then. A cancer developed, you understand, at that place. I say again, I deadened the pain as much as I could, but it was impossible to save her."

"It is perfectly ghastly. So the unfortunate child was tortured--yes, murdered by that---- Oh! the infernal scoundrel! the monster!"

"Yes, it was that Bouqueton who caused the poor girl's death; I am ready to testify to it, if necessary. But you told me, I believe, that you know the villain?"

"I don't know him, but I know who he is."

"Well, is there no way of avenging the poor creature, of punis.h.i.+ng her a.s.sa.s.sin?--for the man is an a.s.sa.s.sin, and a hundred times more criminal than those who ply their trade openly on the highroad. If we prosecuted him before the courts, we should have no chance of proving his crime, I fancy. The victim is dead, and there is no evidence. I asked her several times if she had not some letter, or something that came from that Bouqueton; it would have been invaluable. But all that she had was a paltry ring, of no value, not even gold, which he gave her one day as being very valuable."

"Have you seen the ring?"

"Yes; I asked Annette for it several days before she died. The poor child, who had divined her doom, although I did my best to conceal it from her, gave me the bauble, and said with angelic gentleness: 'You may intend to search for the man who injured me so, and punish him; but it isn't worth while, monsieur; after all, I have only received the reward of my misconduct. If I hadn't left my parents to lead a disorderly life, this thing wouldn't have happened to me. I see that I've got to die, but I forgive the man who caused my death."

"Poor Annette!"

"I concealed my intentions from her, but I took the ring. It's all right for the victim to forgive--but our duty is to punish. This is the ring, Rochebrune."