assume the leadership of the liberal party in Alencon. After such a

marriage he would, of course, renounce the best society and take up
with the bourgeois class of tradesmen, rich manufacturers and

graziers, who would certainly carry him in triumph as their candidate.
Du Bousquier already foresaw the Left side.

This solemndeliberation he did not conceal; he rubbed his hands over
his head, displacing the cap which covered its disastrous baldness.

Suzanne, meantime, like all those persons who succeed beyond their
hopes, was silent and amazed. To hide her astonishment, she assumed

the melancholy pose of an injured girl at the mercy of her seducer;
inwardly she was laughing like a grisette at her clever trick.

"My dear child," said du Bousquier at length, "I'm not to be taken in
with such BOSH, not I!"

Such was the curt remark which ended du Bousquier's meditation. He
plumed himself on belonging to the class of cynical philosophers who

could never be "taken in" by women,--putting them, one and all, unto
the same category, as SUSPICIOUS. These strong-minded persons are

usually weak men who have a special catechism in the matter of
womenkind. To them the whole sex, from queens of France to milliners,

are essentially depraved, licentious, intriguing, not a little
rascally, fundamentally deceitful, and capable" target="_blank" title="a.无能力的；不能的">incapable of thought about

anything but trifles. To them, women are evil-doing queens, who must
be allowed to dance and sing and laugh as they please; they see

nothing sacred or saintly in them, nor anything grand; to them there
is no poetry in the senses, only gross sensuality. Where such

jurisprudence prevails, if a woman is not perpetually tyrannized over,
she reduces the man to the condition of a slave. Under this aspect du

Bousquier was again the antithesis of the chevalier. When he made his
final remark, he flung his night-cap to the foot of the bed, as Pope

Gregory did the taper when he fulminated an excommunication; Suzanne
then learned for the first time that du Bousquier wore a toupet

covering his bald spot.
"Please to remember, Monsieur du Bousquier," she replied majestically,

"that in coming here to tell you of this matter I have done my duty;
remember that I have offered you my hand, and asked for yours; but

remember also that I behaved with the dignity of a woman who respects
herself. I have not abased myself to weep like a silly fool; I have

not insisted; I have not tormented you. You now know my situation. You
must see that I cannot stay in Alencon: my mother would beat me, and

Madame Lardot rides a hobby of principles; she'll turn me off. Poor
work-girl that I am, must I go to the hospital? must I beg my bread?

No! I'd rather throw myself into the Brillante or the Sarthe. But
isn't it better that I should go to Paris? My mother could find an

excuse to send me there,--an uncle who wants me, or a dying aunt, or a
lady who sends for me. But I must have some money for the journey and

for--you know what."
This extraordinary piece of news was far more startling to du

Bousquier than to the Chevalier de Valois. Suzanne's fiction
introduced such confusion into the ideas of the old bachelor that he

was literallycapable" target="_blank" title="a.无能力的；不能的">incapable of sober reflection. Without this agitation
and without his inward delight (for vanity is a swindler which never

fails of its dupe), he would certainly have reflected that, supposing
it were true, a girl like Suzanne, whose heart was not yet spoiled,

would have died a thousand deaths before beginning a discussion of
this kind and asking for money.

"Will you really go to Paris, then?" he said.
A flash of gayety lighted Suzanne's gray eyes as she heard these

words; but the self-satisfied du Bousquier saw nothing.
"Yes, monsieur," she said.

Du Bousquier then began bitter lamentations: he had the last payments
to make on his house; the painter, the mason, the upholsterers must be

paid. Suzanne let him run on; she was listening for the figures. Du
Bousquier offered her three hundred francs. Suzanne made what is

called on the stage a false exit; that is, she marched toward the
door.

"Stop, stop! where are you going?" said du Bousquier, uneasily. "This
is what comes of a bachelor's life!" thought he. "The devil take me if

I ever did anything more than rumple her collar, and, lo and behold!
she makes THAT a ground to put her hand in one's pocket!"

"I'm going, monsieur," replied Suzanne, "to Madame Granson, the
treasurer of the Maternity Society, who, to my knowledge, has saved

many a poor girl in my condition from suicide."
"Madame Granson!"

"Yes," said Suzanne, "a relation of Mademoiselle Cormon, the president
of the Maternity Society. Saving your presence, the ladies of the town

have created an institution to protect poor creatures from destroying
their infants, like that handsome Faustine of Argentan who was

executed for it three years ago."
"Here, Suzanne," said du Bousquier, giving her a key, "open that

secretary, and take out the bag you'll find there: there's about six
hundred francs in it; it is all I possess."

"Old cheat!" thought Suzanne, doing as he told her, "I'll tell about
your false toupet."

She compared du Bousquier with that charming chevalier, who had given
her nothing, it is true, but who had comprehended her, advised her,

and carried all grisettes in his heart.
"If you deceive me, Suzanne," cried du Bousquier, as he saw her with

her hand in the drawer, "you--"
"Monsieur," she said, interrupting him with ineffable impertinence,

"wouldn't you have given me money if I had asked for it?"
Recalled to a sense of gallantry, du Bousquier had a remembrance of

past happiness and grunted his assent. Suzanne took the bag and
departed, after allowing the old bachelor to kiss her, which he did

with an air that seemed to say, "It is a right which costs me dear;
but it is better than being harried by a lawyer in the court of

assizes as the seducer of a girl accused of infanticide."
Suzanne hid the sack in a sort of gamebag made of osier which she had

on her arm, all the while cursing du Bousquier for his stinginess; for
one thousand francs was the sum she wanted. Once tempted of the devil

to desire that sum, a girl will go far when she has set foot on the
path of trickery. As she made her way along the rue du Bercail, it

came into her head that the Maternity Society, presided over by
Mademoiselle Cormon, might be induced to complete the sum at which she

had reckoned her journey to Paris, which to a grisette of Alencon
seemed considerable. Besides, she hated du Bousquier. The latter had

evidently feared a revelation of his supposed misconduct to Madame
Granson; and Suzanne, at the risk of not getting a penny from the

society, was possessed with the desire, on leaving Alencon, of
entangling the old bachelor in the inextricable meshes of a provincial

slander. In all grisettes there is something of the malevolent
mischief of a monkey. Accordingly, Suzanne now went to see Madame

Granson, composing her face to an expression of the deepest dejection.
CHAPTER III

ATHANASE
Madame Granson, widow of a lieutenant-colonel of artillery killed at

Jena, possessed, as her whole means of livelihood, a meagre pension of
nine hundred francs a year, and three hundred francs from property of

her own, plus a son whose support and education had eaten up all her
savings. She occupied, in the rue du Bercail, one of those melancholy

ground-floor apartments which a traveller passing along the principal
street of a little provincial town can look through at a glance. The

street door opened at the top of three steep steps; a passage led to
an interiorcourtyard, at the end of which was the staircase covered

by a woodengallery. On one side of the passage was the dining-room
and the kitchen; on the other side, a salon put to many uses, and the

widow's bedchamber.
Athanase Granson, a young man twenty-three years of age, who slept in

an attic room above the second floor of the house, added six hundred
francs to the income of his poor mother, by the salary of a little

place which the influence of his relation, Mademoiselle Cormon, had
obtained for him in the mayor's office, where he was placed in charge

of the archives.
From these indications it is easy to imagine Madame Granson in her

cold salon with its yellow curtains and Utrecht velvet furniture, also
yellow, as she straightened the round straw mats which were placed

before each chair, that visitors might not soil the red-tiled floor
while they sat there; after which she returned to her cushioned

armchair and little work-table placed beneath the portrait of the
lieutenant-colonel of artillery between two windows,--a point from