The house that Lansade had purchased for his retirement was one of
those ordinary country mansions which are so dear to the _petits
bourgeois_ of Paris. Situated on the summit of a small eminence,
it could be seen at a considerable distance. This modest elevation
had been preferred by the merchant to sites of a more commanding
description, and which could have been obtained at a more
advantageous price. The fortunate purchaser was persuaded that all
persons who journeyed from Paris to Versailles, and from Versailles
to Paris, would eagerly inquire,--
“To whom does that pretty piece of property belong? Who resides in
that charming cottage on the hill yonder?”
And then some well-informed traveller would respond,--
“It is the chateau of M. Lansade, a very rich merchant, who has
retired from business.”
This idea seemed to fascinate Lansade, and he was never weary of
trying to improve the aspect of his house.
The “retired merchant” was seated in front of his mansion, watching
for the arrival of his guests, in order to enjoy their astonishment
at the sight of his splendid establishment. As soon as he caught
sight of them, he shouted,--
“Hurry, my young friends; breakfast is waiting. I had ceased to
look for you, upon my word. I was about to go to the table. What do
you think of my little establishment?”
The painter and Bonnaud went into ecstasies, the first for
politeness, and the second in honest admiration. Eusebe was silent.
After considerable trifling chat, the party seated themselves at
the table.
Those who reside in the suburbs of Paris are wholly ignorant of the
charms of a rural repast: they live as they would live in the city.
Those who live on the borders of the Seine eat no other fish than
those purchased in the market of Paris. Let any one who does not
credit this singularity go to Asnières or to Chaton, and he will be
convinced.
Lansade pressed his guests to satisfy their appetite, and made
earnest inquiries as to the quality of the dishes.
“How do you find that capon?”
“Delicious,” answered Buck, who was obliged to keep up the
conversation while Bonnaud ate and Eusebe mused. “Delicious! Your
poultry-yard is, then, already populated?”
“Not at all. But I have a friend in the market of the Vallée.
When I wish to obtain game or poultry, I can always procure the
best. I have only to write three days previous. Will you try the
_matelotte_?”
“Directly. You are in a convenient place for fresh fish.”
“Yes, the river is quite near; but the fishermen prefer to send
their fish to Paris: they may get a lower price there, but they are
sure of a sale. As to fruits, however, the case is different: none
can be procured in the whole _commune_.”
“That is a trifling misfortune.”
“Monsieur Martin, what is the matter with you? You appear sad!”
“No.”
“You do not eat?”
“Pardon me, my dear Lansade.”
“It is true,” said Bonnaud: “monsieur is quite abstracted.”
“Eusebe,” cried Buck, “these gentlemen speak truly. You have
something concealed from us. Are you unhappy? Are you home-sick, my
boy? are you anxious to behold your native meadows? Do these maples
awaken in you a desire to see once more your tall chestnuts? and
the good things spread before us by our friend Lansade, do they
remind you of your own rural repasts in the paternal mansion?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you have left, seated on the banks of the Vienna, a
young shepherdess, who sadly awaits your return?”
Lansade laughed rather boisterously. He and his mercantile friend
had drank very little, but nevertheless more than usual.
“Well,” continued Buck, “let Eusebe swear to us that he is not in
love, and I will leave him in peace.”
“I never swear.”
“Then admit that you are in love, my melancholy friend.”
“It is true,” replied Eusebe.
This confession was made with some reluctance, because delicate
souls always dislike to allow a third person to intrude between
them and the object of their affection. But Eusebe did not know
how to lie, and did not wish to learn. As he felt his heart
swelling and his eyes moistening, he arose and went out. He seated
himself in a chair in the garden; and there Paul soon rejoined him.
“I gave you pain, my gentle savage,” said the painter. “Pardon me,
I beg of you. I am sorry, above all, that I was not more guarded
before those vulgar fellows. You are angry with me?”
“No: I even intended to tell you every thing,--but at another time.
I know not whether it was because of the presence of our friends,
or because I was not prepared, but your persistence provoked me.”
“Ah! I am grieved. I do not like to meddle with the palette of a
comrade: each to his own color. But, since we have touched upon the
subject, tell me all. I can serve you, perhaps. I also have loved.”
“Is that true?” said Eusebe, rising.
“At least ten times; perhaps more.”
Eusebe sank back upon the seat, saying, sadly,--
“It is useless. You will not comprehend me.”
Paul insisted. His friend finished by yielding to his
importunities, and related all that had occurred to him, and all he
had felt. Buck, notwithstanding his frivolity, became grave and
serious as he listened to the details of this affair of the heart.
“Poor fellow!” said he. “It is unlucky that your first love should
be inspired by a comédienne, and, above all, by this one.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons. You must see her no more.”
“Impossible!”
“Ay, I know what you would say. If you could not see her any more,
you would die.”
“I might not die; but I could not live.”
The voice of Lansade was now heard:--
“Come, messieurs: the coffee is getting cold.”