The woman in the carriage was none other than Madame Lia d’Argeles.
She was attired in one of those startling costumes which are the rage
nowadays, and which impart the same bold and brazen appearance to all
who wear them: so much so, that the most experienced observers are
no longer able to distinguish the honest mother of a family from a
notorious character. A Dutchman, named Van Klopen, who was originally a
tailor at Rotterdam, rightfully ascribes the honor of this progress to
himself. One can scarcely explain how it happens that this individual,
who calls himself “the dressmaker of the queens of Europe,” has become
the arbiter of Parisian elegance; but it is an undeniable fact that
he does reign over fashion. He decrees the colors that shall be worn,
decides whether dresses shall be short or long, whether paniers shall
be adopted or discarded, whether ruches and puffs and flowers shall be
allowed, and in what form; and his subjects, the so-called elegant women
of Paris, obey him implicitly.
Madame d’Argeles would personally have preferred less finery, perhaps,
but it would not have done for her to be out of the fashion. She wore an
imperceptible hat, balanced on an immense pyramidal chignon, from which
escaped a torrent of wavy hair. “What a beautiful woman!” exclaimed the
dazzled Chupin, and indeed, seen from this distance, she did not look a
day more than thirty-five--an age when beauty possesses all the alluring
charm of the luscious fruit of autumn. She was giving orders for the
drive, and her coachman, with a rose in his buttonhole, listened while
he reined in the spirited horse. “The weather’s superb,” added Chupin.
“She’ll no doubt drive round the lakes in the Bois de Boulogne----”
“Ah, she’s off!” interrupted M. Fortunat. “Run, Victor, run! and
don’t be miserly as regards carriage hire; all your expenses shall be
liberally refunded you.”
Chupin was already far away. Madame d’Argeles’s horse went swiftly
enough, but the agent’s emissary had the limbs and the endurance of a
stag, and he kept pace with the victoria without much difficulty. And
as he ran along, his brain was busy. “If I don’t take a cab,” he said to
himself, “if I follow the woman on foot, I shall have a perfect right to
pocket the forty-five sous an hour--fifty, counting the gratuity--that a
cab would cost.”
But on reaching the Champ Elysees, he discovered, to his regret,
that this plan was impracticable, for on running down the Avenue de
l’Imperatrice after the rapidly driven carriage, he could not fail to
attract attention. Stifling a sigh of regret, and seeing a cab at a
stand near by, he hastily hailed it. “Where do you want to go, sir?”
inquired the driver.
“Just follow that blue victoria, in which a handsome lady is seated, my
good fellow.”
The order did not surprise the cabman, but rather the person who gave
it; for in spite of his fine apparel, Chupin did not seem quite the
man for such an adventure. “Excuse me,” said the Jehu, in a slightly
ironical tone, “I----”
“I said exactly what I mean,” retorted Chupin, whose pride was severely
wounded. “And no more talk--hurry on, or we shall miss the track.”
This last remark was correct, for if Madame d’Argeles’s coachman had not
slackened his horse’s speed on passing round the Arc de Triomphe, the
woman would have escaped Chupin, for that day at least. However, this
circumstance gave the cabman an opportunity to overtake the victoria;
and after that the two vehicles kept close together as they proceeded
down the Avenue de l’Imperatrice. But at the entrance of the Bois de
Boulogne Chupin ordered his driver to stop. “Halt!” he exclaimed; “I
shall get out. Pay the extra cab charges for passing beyond the limits
of Paris!--never! I’ll crawl on my hands and knees first. Here are forty
sous for your fare--and good-evening to you.”
And, as the blue victoria was already some distance in advance, he
started off at the top of his speed to overtake it. This manoeuvre was
the result of his meditations while riding along. “What will this fine
lady do when she gets to the Bois?” he asked himself. “Why, her coachman
will take his place in the procession, and drive her slowly round and
round the lakes. Meantime I can trot along beside her without attracting
attention--and it will be good for my health.”
His expectations were realized in every respect. The victoria soon
turned to the left, and took its place in the long line of equipages
which were slowly winding round the lake. Having gained the foot-path
which borders the sheet of water, Chupin followed the carriage easily
enough, with his hands in his pockets, and his heart jubilant at the
thought that he would gain the sum supposed to have been spent in cab
hire, in addition to the compensation which had been promised him. “This
is a strange way of enjoying one’s self,” he muttered, as he trotted
along. “There can’t be much pleasure in going round and round this lake.
If ever I’m rich, I’ll find some other way of amusing myself.”
Poor Chupin did not know that people do not go to the Bois to enjoy
themselves, but rather to torment others. This broad drive is in reality
only a field for the airing of vanity--a sort of open-air bazaar for
the display of dresses and equipages. People come here to see and to
be seen; and, moreover, this is neutral ground, where so-called honest
women can meet those notorious characters from whom they are elsewhere
separated by an impassable abyss. What exquisite pleasure it must be to
the dames of society to find themselves beside Jenny Fancy or Ninette
Simplon, or any other of those young ladies whom they habitually
call “creatures,” but whom they are continually talking of, and whose
toilettes, make-up, and jargon, they assiduously copy!
However, Chupin indulged in none of these reflections. He was engaged in
noting Madame d’Argeles’s evident anxiety and restlessness. She looked
eagerly on all sides, sometimes half leaning out of her carriage, and
immediately turning her head whenever she heard the gallop of a horseman
behind her. She was evidently looking or waiting for some one, but the
person did not make his appearance, and so, growing weary of waiting,
after driving three times round the lake, she made a sign to her
coachman, who at once drew out of line, and turned his horse into a
side-path. Chupin hastened after the victoria, keeping it in sight until
he was fortunate enough to meet an empty cab, which he at once hired.
Madame d’Argeles’s coachman, who had received his orders, now drove down
the Champs Elysees, again crossed the Place de la Concorde, turned into
the boulevards, and stopped short at the corner of the Chaussee d’Antin,
where, having tied a thick veil over her face, Madame Lia abruptly
alighted and walked away.
This was done so quickly that Chupin barely had time to fling two francs
to his driver and rush after her. She had already turned round the
corner of the Rue du Helder, and was walking rapidly up the street.
It was a little after five o’clock, and dusk was setting in. Madame
d’Argeles had taken the side of the street allotted to the uneven
numbers. After she had passed the Hotel de Homburg, she slackened her
pace, and eagerly scrutinized one of the houses opposite--No. 48. Her
examination lasted but a moment, and seemed to be satisfactory. She then
turned, and rapidly retraced her steps as far as the boulevard, when,
crossing the street to the side of the even numbers, she walked up it
again very slowly, stopping before every shop-window.
Convinced that he had almost reached the goal, Chupin also crossed,
and followed closely at her heels. He soon saw her start and resume her
rapid gait. A young man was coming toward her so quickly indeed that she
had not time to avoid him, and a collision ensued, whereupon the young
man gave vent to an oath, and hurling an opprobrious epithet in her
face, passed on.
Chupin shuddered. “What if that should be her son?” he thought. And
while he pretended to be gazing into a shop window, he stealthily
watched the poor woman. She had paused, and he was so near that he
could almost have touched her. He saw her raise her veil and follow her
insulter with a look which it was impossible to misunderstand. “Oh! oh!
It was her son that called her that----” said Chupin to himself, quite
horrified. And without more ado, he hastened after the young man.
He was between two and four-and-twenty years of age, rather above the
medium height, with very light hair and an extremely pale complexion.
His slight mustache would have been almost imperceptible if it had not
been dyed several shades darker than his hair. He was attired with that
studied carelessness which many consider to be the height of elegance,
but which is just the reverse. And his bearing, his mustache, and
his low hat, tipped rakishly over one ear, gave him an arrogant,
pretentious, rowdyish appearance. “Zounds! that fellow doesn’t suit my
fancy,” growled Chupin, as he trotted along. For he was almost running
in his efforts to keep pace with Madame d’Argeles’s insulter. The
latter’s haste was soon explained. He was carrying a letter which he
wished to have delivered, and no doubt he feared he would not be able
to find a commissionaire. Having discovered one at last, he called him,
gave him the missive, and then pursued his way more leisurely.
He had reached the boulevard, when a florid-faced youth, remarkably
short and stout, rushed toward him with both hands amicably extended,
at the same time crying, loud enough to attract the attention of the
passers-by: “Is it possible that this is my dear Wilkie?”
“Yes--alive and in the flesh,” replied the young man.
“Well, and what the devil have you been doing with yourself? Last
Sunday, at the races, I looked for you everywhere, and not a vestige
of Wilkie was to be found. However, you were wise not to go. I am three
hundred louis out of pocket. I staked everything on Domingo, the Marquis
de Valorsay’s horse. I thought I was sure to win--yes, sure. Well,
Domingo came in third. Can you understand that? If every one didn’t know
that Valorsay was a millionaire, it might be supposed there had been
some foul play--yes, upon my word--that he had bet against his own
horse, and forbidden his jockey to win the race.” But the speaker did
not really believe this, so he continued, more gayly: “Fortunately,
I shall retrieve my losses to-morrow, at Vincennes. Shall we see you
there?”
“Probably.”
“Then good-by, until to-morrow.”
“Until to-morrow.”
Thereupon they shook hands, and each departed on his way.
Chupin had not lost a word of this conversation. “Valorsay a
millionaire!” he said to himself. “That’s good! Ah, well! now I know
my little gamecock’s name, and I also know that he goes to the races.
Wilkie that must be an English name; I like the name of d’Argeles
better. But where the devil is he going now?”
M. Wilkie had simply paused to replenish his cigar-case at the tobacco
office of the Grand Hotel; and, after lighting a cigar, he came out
again, and walked up the boulevard in the direction of the Faubourg
Montmartre. He was no longer in a hurry now; he strolled along in view
of killing time, displaying his charms, and staring impudently at every
woman who passed. With his shoulders drawn up on a level with his ears,
and his chest thrown back, he dragged his feet after him as if his
limbs were half paralyzed; he was indeed doing his best to create the
impression that he was used up, exhausted, broken down by excesses and
dissipation. For that is the fashion--the latest fancy--chic!
“Will you never have done?” growled Chupin.
“You shall pay for this, you little wretch!” He was so indignant that
the gamin element in his nature stirred again under his fine broadcloth,
and he had a wild longing to throw stones at M. Wilkie. He would
certainly have trodden on his heels, and have picked a quarrel with him,
had it not been for a fear of failing in his mission, and thereby losing
his promised reward.
He followed his man closely, for the crowd was very great. Light was
coming on, and the gas was lit on all sides. The weather was very mild,
and there was not an unoccupied table in front of the cafes, for it was
now the absinthe hour. How does it happen that every evening, between
five and seven o’clock, every one in Paris who is known--who is somebody
or something--can be found between the Passage de l’Opera and the
Passage Jouffroy? Hereabout you may hear all the latest news and gossip
of the fashionable world, the last political canards--all the incidents
of Parisian life which will be recorded by the papers on the following
morning. You may learn the price of stocks, and obtain tips for
to-morrow’s Bourse; ascertain how much Mademoiselle A’s necklace cost,
and who gave it to her; with the latest news from Prussia; and the name
of the bank chairman or cashier who has absconded during the day, and
the amount he has taken with him.
The crowd became more dense as the Faubourg Montmartre was approached,
but Wilkie made his way through the throng with the ease of an old
boulevardier. He must have had a large circle of acquaintances, for
he distributed bows right and left, and was spoken to by five or six
promenaders. He did not pass the Terrasse Jouffroy, but, pausing there,
he purchased an evening paper, retraced his steps, and about seven
o’clock reached the Cafe Riche, which he entered triumphantly. He did
not even touch the rim of his hat on going in--that would have been
excessively BAD form; but he called a waiter, in a very loud voice,
and imperiously ordered him to serve dinner on a table near the window,
where he could see the boulevard--and be seen.
“And now my little fighting-cock is going to feed,” thought Chupin. He,
too, was hungry; and he was trying to think of some modest restaurant
in the neighborhood, when two young men passed near him and glanced into
the cafe.
“Look, there’s Wilkie!” observed one of them.
“That’s so, upon my word!” responded the other. “And he has money, too;
fortune has smiled upon him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Why, by watching the fellow; one can tell the condition of his purse
as correctly as he could himself. If his funds are low, he has his meals
brought to his room from a cook-shop where he has credit; his mustache
droops despondingly; he is humble even to servility with his friends,
and he brushes his hair over his forehead. When he is in average
circumstances, he dines at Launay’s, waxes his mustache, and brushes his
hair back from his face. But when he dines at the Cafe Riche, my boy,
when he has dyed his mustache, and tips his hat over his ear, and
deports himself in that arrogant fashion, why, he has at least five or
six thousand francs in his pocket, and all is well with him.”
“Where does he get his money from?”
“Who can tell?”
“Is he rich?”
“He must have plenty of money--I lent him ten louis once, and he paid me
back.”
“Zounds! He’s a very honorable fellow, then.” Thereupon the two young
men laughed, and passed on.
Chupin had been greatly edified. “Now I know you as well as if I were
your concierge,” he muttered, addressing the unconscious Wilkie; “and
when I’ve followed you home, and learned your number, I shall have
richly earned the fifty francs M. Fortunat promised me.” As well as he
could judge through the windowpane, M. Wilkie was eating his dinner
with an excellent appetite. “Ah!” he exclaimed, not without envy, “these
fighting-cocks take good care of their stomachs. He’s there for an hour
at least, and I shall have time to run and swallow a mouthful myself.”
So saying, Chupin hastened to a small restaurant in a neighboring
street, and magnificently disbursed the sum of thirty-nine sous. Such
extravagance was unusual on his part, for he had lived very frugally
since he had taken a vow to become rich. Formerly, when he lived from
hand to mouth--to use his own expression--he indulged in cigars and in
absinthe; but now he contented himself with the fare of an anchorite,
drank nothing but water, and only smoked when some one gave him a cigar.
Nor was this any great privation to him, since he gained a penny by
it--and a penny was another grain of sand added to the foundation of his
future wealth. However, this evening he indulged in the extravagance of
a glass of wine, deciding in his own mind that he had fairly earned it.
When he returned to his post in front of the Cafe Riche, M. Wilkie was
no longer alone at his table. He was finishing his coffee in the company
of a man of his own age, who was remarkably good-looking--almost too
good-looking, in fact--and a glance at whom caused Chupin to exclaim:
“What! what! I’ve seen that face somewhere before--“. But he racked his
brain in vain in trying to remember who this newcomer was, in trying to
set a name on this face, which was positively annoying in its classical
beauty, and which he felt convinced had occupied a place among the
phantoms of his past. Irritated beyond endurance by what he termed his
stupidity, he was trying to decide whether he should enter the cafe or
not, when he saw M. Wilkie take his bill from the hands of a waiter,
glance at it, and throw a louis on the table. His companion had drawn
out his pocketbook for the ostensible purpose of paying for the coffee
he had taken; but Wilkie, with a cordial gesture, forbade it, and
made that magnificent, imperious sign to the waiter, which so clearly
implies: “Take nothing! All is paid! Keep the change.” Thereupon the
servant gravely retired, more than ever convinced of the fact that
vanity increases the fabulous total of Parisian gratuities by more than
a million francs a year.
“My gallant youths are coming out,” thought Chupin. “I must keep my ears
open.” And approaching the door, he dropped on one knee, and pretended
to be engaged in tying his shoestrings. This is one of the thousand
expedients adopted by spies and inquisitive people. And when a man is
foolish enough to tell his secrets in the street, he should at least be
wise enough to distrust the people near him who pretend to be absorbed
in something else; for in nine cases out of ten these persons are
listening to him, possibly for pay, or possibly from curiosity.
However, the young men whom Chupin was watching were far from suspecting
that they were under surveillance. M. Wilkie came out first, talking
very loud, as often happens when a man has just partaken of a good
dinner, and is blessed with an excellent digestion. “Come, Coralth,
my good fellow, you won’t desert me in this way? I have a box for the
Varietes, and you must go with me. We’ll see if Silly imitates Theresa
as perfectly as they say.”
“But I have an appointment.”
“Oh, well, let it wait. Come, viscount, is it agreed?”
“Ah, you do with me just as you like.”
“Good! But, first of all let us take a glass of beer to finish our
cigars. And do you know whom you will find in my box?”
At this moment they passed, and Chupin rose to his feet. “Coralth,” he
muttered, “Viscount de Coralth. He’s not one of our clients. Let me see,
Coralth. This is certainly the first time I have ever heard the name.
Can it be that I’m mistaken? Impossible!”
The more he reflected, the more thoroughly he became convinced of the
accuracy of his first impression, consoling himself with the thought
that a name has but a slight significance after all. His preoccupation
had at least the advantage of shortening the time which he spent in
promenading to and fro, while the friends sat outside a cafe smoking and
drinking. It was still M. Wilkie who monopolized the conversation, while
his companion listened with his elbow resting on the table, occasionally
nodding his head in token of approbation. One thing that incensed Chupin
was that they loitered there, when one of them had a ticket for a box at
the theatre in his pocket.
“Idiots!” he growled; “they’ll wait till the play’s half over before
they go in. And then they’ll let the doors slam behind them for the
express purpose of disturbing everybody. Fools, go!”
As if they had heard the command, they rose suddenly, and an instant
after they entered the Varietes. They entered, but Chupin remained on
the pavement, scratching his head furiously, in accordance with his
habit whenever he wished to develop his powers of imagination. He was
trying to think how he might procure admission to the theatre without
paying for it. For several years he had seen every play put upon the
stage in Paris, without spending a sou, and he felt that it would be
actually degrading to purchase a ticket at the office now. “Pay to see a
farce!” he thought. “Not I. I must know some one here--I’ll wait for the
entr’acte.”
The wisdom of this course became apparent when among those who left the
theatre at the close of the first act he recognized an old acquaintance,
who was now working on the claque, [3] and who at once procured him
a ticket of admission for nothing. “Well, it is a good thing to have
friends everywhere,” he muttered, as he took the seat assigned him.
It was a very good place they had given him--a seat in the second
gallery commanding an excellent view of the house. The first glance
around told him that his “customers,” as he styled them, were in a
box exactly opposite. They were now in the company of two damsels in
startling toilettes, with exceedingly dishevelled yellow hair, who moved
restlessly about, and giggled and stared, and tried in every possible
way to attract attention. And their stratagem succeeded. However, this
did not seem to please the Viscount de Coralth, who kept himself as far
back in the shade as he possibly could. But young Wilkie was evidently
delighted, and seemed manifestly proud of the attention which the public
was compelled to bestow upon his box. He offered himself as much as
possible to the gaze of the audience; moved about, leaned forward, and
made himself fully as conspicuous as his fair companions. Less than ever
did Chupin now forgive Wilkie for the insult he had cast in the face of
Madame Lia d’Argeles, who was probably his mother.
As for the play, M. Fortunat’s emissary did not hear twenty words of it.
He was so overcome with fatigue that he soon fell asleep. The noise and
bustle of each entr’acte aroused him a little, but he did not thoroughly
wake up until the close of the performance. His “customers” were still
in their box, and M. Wilkie was gallantly wrapping the ladies in their
cloaks and shawls. In the vestibule, he and M. de Coralth were joined by
several other young men, and the whole party adjourned to a neighboring
cafe. “These people are certainly afflicted with an unquenchable
thirst,” growled Chupin. “I wonder if this is their everyday life?”
He, too, was thirsty after his hastily eaten dinner; and necessity
prevailing over economy, he seated himself at a table outside the cafe,
and called for a glass of beer, in which he moistened his parched lips
with a sigh of intense satisfaction. He sipped the beverage slowly, in
order to make it last the longer, but this did not prevent his glass
from becoming dry long before M. Wilkie and his friends were ready to
leave. “It seems to me we are going to stay here all night,” he thought,
angrily.
His ill-humor was not strange under the circumstances, for it was one
o’clock in the morning; and after carrying all the tables and chairs
round about, inside, a waiter came to ask Chupin to go away. All the
other cafes were closing too, and the fastening of bolts or the clanking
of shutter chains could be heard on every side. On the pavement stood
groups of waiters in their shirt-sleeves, stretching and yawning,
and inhaling the fresh night air with delight. The boulevard was fast
becoming deserted--the men were going off in little groups, and female
forms could be seen gliding along in the dark shadow cast by the houses.
The police were watching everywhere, with a word of menace ever ready
on their lips; and soon the only means of egress from the cafes were
the narrow, low doorways cut in the shutters through which the last
customers--the insatiable, who are always ordering one thimbleful more
to finish--passed out.
It was through a portal of this sort that M. Wilkie and his companions
at last emerged, and on perceiving them, Chupin gave a grunt of
satisfaction. “At last,” he thought, “I can follow the man to his door,
take his number, and go home.”
But his joy was short-lived, for M. Wilkie proposed that the whole party
should go and take supper. M. de Coralth demurred to the idea, but the
others over-ruled his objections, and dragged him away with them.