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[Illustration: _THE EX-BEAU MEETS THE FEATHER-MAKERS
"What! you are going so soon! I thought--I hoped----"
The two girls were already in the omnibus._
Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Son]
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME II
MONSIEUR CHERAMI
PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS
THE JEFFERSON PRESS BOSTON NEW YORK
I
AN OMNIBUS OFFICE
The office in question stood near Porte Saint-Martin, at the corner of
the Boulevard and Rue de Bondy, in the same building as the Deffieux
restaurant, which was one of the most popular establishments in Paris in
respect of wedding banquets; so that one who passed that way during the
evening, and often after midnight, was likely to find the windows
brilliantly lighted on the first or second floor, on the boulevard or on
the square, and sometimes on both floors and on both sides; for it
happened not infrequently that Deffieux entertained four or five wedding
parties the same evening. That caused him no embarrassment, for he had
room enough for all; indeed, I believe that, at a pinch, he would have
set tables on the boulevard.
And there was dancing everywhere, on all sides: in this room, a
fashionable ball; in that, a bourgeois affair; on the floor above,
something not far removed from the plebeian; but it is likely that the
latter was not the least enjoyable of the three, to those who took part
in it; certainly, there was more noise made, at any rate.
What a home of pleasure! It seems to me that those who live in such
places ought to be always in high spirits, and to have one leg in the
air, ready to dance. That would be tiresome perhaps, but how can one
avoid a longing to be merry when one has constantly before one's eyes a
crowd of merry folk, dancing, eating, drinking, singing, making soft
eyes at one another, or shaking hands with all the warmth of the most
sincere regard! Man is so expansive toward the end of a hearty meal! At
such a time, we all attract and love one another.
You will tell me, perhaps, that these sentiments rarely outlast the time
necessary for digestion; that even those joyous wedding feasts, during
which the newly married pair look at and speak to each other with such a
world of love in their eyes and of tender meaning in their voices, do
not even wait till the end of the year before they become transformed
into gloomy and depressing pictures. There are many people who have gone
so far as to say that there are only two pleasant days in married life:
that on which the husband and wife come together, and that on which they
part; just as there are but two to the traveller: the day of departure,
and the day of return.
But people say so many things that are not true! I have known many
travellers who have enjoyed travelling; they were never in a hurry to
return to their firesides.
I love to believe that it is the same with husbands and wives, and that
there are some who enjoy the married state and have no desire to quit
it.
But what, in heaven's name, am I chattering about, when we ought already
to have entered the omnibus office, whence public conveyances started
for Belleville, La Villette, Saint-Sulpice, Grenelle, and a multitude of
other places, each farther from Paris than the last?
One could also purchase at the office in question small bottles of
essence, flasks of perfumed vinegar, blacking, and pomade. Commerce
slides in everywhere! There is no harm in that. Commerce is the life of
nations and of individuals. Everybody is engaged in commerce, even
those who do not suspect it.
It was a beautiful day, in the middle of June, and a Saturday; three
circumstances which could not fail to result in bringing a large crowd
to the omnibus office, as well as to Deffieux's restaurant. That
restaurant attracts me; I keep going back to it, in spite of myself.
That is to say, that I go back to it, not in spite of myself, but with
all my heart, for one is very comfortable there. Now, you know, or you
do not know--but I should be very much surprised if you didn't,--I
resume: you know that Saturday is the day on which more wedding feasts
occur than on any other day in the week. Why? I fancy that I have
already told you, somewhere or other; but, no matter! let us go on as if
I had never told you. Saturday is the day before Sunday, and therein
lies the whole secret; on Sunday, the government clerks do not go to
their offices, and they are great fellows for marrying; on Sunday, the
mechanics do not work, and the mechanic, too, is very fond of taking
unto himself a housekeeper; lastly, Sunday is the day of rest, and
people say that on the day after one's wedding one needs to rest.--Why
so? Go to! do not ask me such questions! This much is certain--that the
night between Saturday and Sunday is one of the finest nights in the
week, even when there is no moon.
But, sapristi! here I am still at the restaurant!--You will end by
thinking that I am much addicted to such places. Well, frankly, you are
not mistaken. I frequent them not a little. I often hear people say:
"Don't talk to me of restaurant cooking; it's execrable!"--And those
people think that nothing is good but beef stew, a leg of mutton, and
roast beef. True classics those, in the matter of dishes. O Robert! O
Brillat-Savarin! O Berchoux! Not for such as these did ye write and
compound such delicious things! But be comforted, ye men of refined
taste to whom we owe so much! there are still palates which relish your
merit, which appreciate your skill, and which do not make faces at your
succulent conceptions.
Again, Saturday, in summer, is the day which many people select for a
trip to the country, to remain until Monday. On the day of which we
write, therefore, the omnibuses were largely patronized; for everyone
was in a great hurry to get to some railroad station, or to the point
where they could take stages for some more or less distant destination.
So that there was a great crowd at the office by Porte Saint-Martin, and
the clerk whose duty it was to distribute tickets did not know which way
to turn; he had to be constantly on the alert, in order to avoid
mistakes, especially as the travellers did not always confine themselves
to asking for an exchange check or a number, but added irrelevant
reflections, questions, and, in many cases, complaints.
"An exchange check for La Villette."
"Here you are, monsieur."
"When do we start?"
"When the 'bus comes, monsieur."
"Will it be long before it comes?"
"I don't think so, monsieur."
"A ticket for Belleville, please."
"Here it is, madame."
"Ah! mon Dieu! number seventy-five! Are there seventy-four ahead of me?"
"No, madame; we begin at fifty."
"Then there are twenty-five ahead of me?"
"Some of them haven't waited; they won't answer the call, and that puts
the others ahead."
"A check for Saint-Sulpice."
"Here you are."
"Where's the 'bus?"
"It will come along."
"Oh! I've got to wait; that isn't very pleasant."
"_Dame_! monsieur, we can't have 'buses ready to start every minute."
"Why not? It would be much pleasanter for the passengers; but nothing is
ever done to please the passengers; I must complain to the management."
"Complain, if you choose, monsieur; that's none of our business."
"Why, yes, it is your business, too; it ought to be your business, as
you're the one we deal with. What sort of a way is that to answer? Is
that the way you treat passengers here? It seems to me that you ought to
show more respect."
The man who is going to La Villette approaches the clerk once more.
"Tell me, have I got time to go to the pastry-cook's to buy a cake?"
"Why, monsieur, no one interferes with your going.--Here's the Grenelle
'bus--passengers for Grenelle--take your places!"
"I ask you if I have got time to go to get a cake before my 'bus comes?"
"Place des Victoires! All aboard for Place des Victoires!"
"Tell me about getting my cake!"
"Yes, monsieur; yes, yes, go to the pastry-cook's!"
And the clerk turns to his comrade, muttering:
"What a nuisance the fellow is with his cake!--Where should we be if
everybody asked questions like that?"
A woman, of forty years or thereabout, who could not easily have found a
compartment large enough to hold her, entered the office, leading two
small boys, one of eight and one of four years, who were dressed like
the little trained dogs that do tricks on the boulevards, and whose
noses had evidently been overlooked because of their hurried departure
from home.
A servant, laden with an enormous basket, from which protruded divers
fishes' tails and bunches of leeks, and with an insecurely tied
pasteboard box, bulging as to the sides and split in several places,
sulkily followed her mistress, hitting everybody with her basket and
box, without a word of apology, but apparently rather inclined to make
wry faces at her victims.
"I want two seats for Romainville, monsieur--for me and my maid; my boys
don't pay, because we hold them in our laps."
"Madame, this boy is certainly more than five; he must pay."
"But, monsieur, I tell you, I hold him in my lap; so we only fill one
seat."
"That must annoy your neighbors."
"I don't suppose people ride in omnibuses to be
comfortable!--Aristoloche, where are you going? Stay with your nurse,
sir! Adelaide, do look out for the child; you know how fretful he is!"
Mademoiselle Adelaide, who looked more like a cook than a lady's maid,
had gone with her packages and planted herself on a bench, between an
old gentleman and an old woman, causing them to jump into the air as if
they were elastic. The shock was so violent that the old woman
shrieked, thinking that she had been electrified. The man, irritated
beyond words by the manner in which the servant had plumped down beside
him, and perceiving that the fishes' tails which protruded from her
basket were caressing the sleeves of his coat, pushed the basket away
with his elbow, exclaiming:
"What sort of way is that to sit down, throwing yourself onto people?
Pay attention to what you are doing, mademoiselle, and be good enough to
move your basket; I have no desire to have your fish rub against my
sleeves and make them smell like poison."
"What! what do you say? What's the matter with the old fellow?"
"I tell you to move your basket; I don't want it under my nose."
"Where do you want me to put my basket, eh? On the floor perhaps, so
that someone can steal it! Oh, yes! we should have a nice time in the
country, where there's never anything to eat. What harm does the basket
do you?"
"It smells like the devil!"
"Nonsense, it's yourself!"
"I pity the passengers in the 'bus with you; they'll have a fine time!"
"Shut up, you old cucumber! you'd like to be as fresh as my fish!"
The epithet old cucumber touched the old man to the quick; he got up and
walked away, muttering:
"If you weren't a woman, I'd stuff your words down your throat!"
"Oh, indeed! you'd have plenty to do then, for I feel like saying a good
deal more to you."
"But, Adelaide, I beg you, look out for Aristoloche; he's going out of
the office."
"Well, I can't help it, madame; I can't attend to everything; I have
quite enough to do with your box and your basket--and with talking back
to this veteran."
"Veteran! I believe that you had the face to call me _veteran!_"
"La Villette--all aboard!--Monsieur, you're for La Villette; hurry up!"
These words were addressed to the old man who was disputing with
Adelaide, and who, as he left, bestowed a crushing glance on the
servant, who laughed in his face and administered a cuff to young
Aristoloche, the child of four, who, despite his mamma's orders,
persisted in trying to leave the office.
II
A BLONDE AND A BRUNETTE
"Well, monsieur," said the corpulent dame, pulling over her eldest son's
eyes a small gray felt hat, with a Henri IV crown, and surrounded on all
sides by feathers which drooped like palm-leaves; "we can get tickets
for Romainville, I hope?"
"We don't sell tickets for Romainville, madame, but for Belleville;
there you'll find the Romainville stage."
"Oh! you don't sell tickets for Romainville here; that's very
unpleasant. Shall we have to pay again when we change?"
"Yes, madame; but if you take checks, it will be only four sous twenty
centimes."
"For each?"
"To be sure."
"That's very dear. Narcisse, do pull your hat down, or you'll lose it;
you know it fell off just now on the boulevard, and somebody almost
stepped on it; your fine Henri IV hat is very pretty, you know."
"I hate it; the feathers make me squint."
"Hold your tongue, bad boy; your aunt bought that hat for you; you won't
get another for two years!"
"Take off the feathers, then!"
"Hush! you don't deserve to be so fine!"
"Fine! oh, yes! all the boys make fun of me and say I look like a
_chienlit_."[A]
"They're little villains! They say that from envy, for they'd like right
well to have a hat like yours.--Say, monsieur, can you promise me a seat
in the other 'bus?"
"Oh! I can't promise you; but if there's no room in that, there's sure
to be in the next one."
"Do they start often?"
"Every twenty minutes."
"Wait twenty minutes! why, that's horrible! Oh! how sorry I am I
promised my aunt to dine with her to-day!"
"Especially," muttered the servant, "as we have to carry our own dinner
when we dine with her.--A pretty kind of invitation! She don't ruin
herself giving dinner parties!"
"Here, give me two tickets for Belleville."
"Here they are, madame."
"Come here, Aristoloche; come here this minute! Oh! how these children
do torment me! They're like little snakes!"
"All aboard for Belleville!"
"Belleville, why that's ours! Take Aristoloche's hand, Adelaide."
"That's very convenient, when I have a basket and a box already!"
But before the stout woman, with her servant and the two children, had
left the office, the Belleville omnibus had started off; there was but
one vacant seat, and twenty people were waiting for it. You should have
seen the disappointment depicted on all those faces then. Several
persons, tired of waiting, decided to walk. Others remained in the
square; but the majority returned to the office, where all the benches
were already filled. These public carriages are surely an excellent
invention; but let us admit that they are not equal to the most modest
of char-a-bancs, which is entirely at your service, even when you only
hire it.
Finding no place to sit inside the office, the dame with the little boys
seated herself and them on a bench outside. As for the servant, she
succeeded in finding room inside; the fish in her basket was of much
assistance to her in inducing others to make room; there was a general
rush to get as far away from her as possible.
The party with the cake returned, and ran up to the clerk.
"Well! isn't it about time for us to start?"
"Where are you going, monsieur?"
"You know perfectly well--to La Villette."
"The 'bus started three minutes ago."
"What! it didn't wait for me! I asked you if I had time to go to buy a
cake, and you said _yes_. You ought to have said _no_, if I hadn't."
"You shouldn't have been so long about it, monsieur."
"I thought there was a pastry-cook on Carre Saint-Martin, but I couldn't
find anything but pork-shops."
"You can take the next 'bus."
"How soon does it start?"
"In seven minutes."
"Then I've got time to go to drink a glass of beer to wash down my cake.
Cafes aren't like pastry-cooks--you can find them anywhere."
"Be careful, monsieur; seven minutes at the outside."
"You can keep it waiting a minute if I'm not here."
"They never wait, monsieur."
Two rather attractive young women entered the office; they were modestly
dressed, and their hats were so small, and set so far back on their
heads, that they looked to be nothing more than caps. Their general
appearance was that of grisettes. Some writers who study present-day
manners in their studies, or at table in a cafe, claim that there are no
grisettes now; but I assure you that that is not true; if you do not
find any, it is because you have not made a thorough search. There will
always be grisettes in Paris, where the more or less flighty young
work-girl of the Latin quarter does not pass at one bound from her
modest chamber to the boudoir of a kept mistress.
One of the young women who entered the omnibus office was a brunette,
with a retrousse nose, defiant eye, smiling mouth, teeth a little too
far apart--but that is better than having false teeth; the other was a
blonde, one of those blondes who have received a light touch of fire;
but that color never yet prevented a woman from being pretty. If you
doubt what I say, go to England or Scotland; auburn-haired women are in
the majority there, and, as a general rule, they are very fascinating.
The blonde grisette was pretty; but she had a sort of stupid expression
which might at first sight pass for modesty; but on talking with her,
you soon discovered that it was really stupidity; therein she formed a
striking contrast to her companion, who had a bright, wide-awake manner.
"Monsieur," said the brunette, addressing the clerk, "have you any seats
for Belleville?"
"You must take your turn, mademoiselle."
"But will our turn be long in coming?"
"Not very; a good many people have gone."
In truth, the odor exhaled by the whiting stuffed into Mademoiselle
Adelaide's basket, and the fear of having to travel with her, had led
many persons to start for their destinations on foot.
"Here, mesdemoiselles, take these two tickets; your turn will come."
"Say, Laurette, suppose we walk?" said the pretty blonde.
"Thanks, and tire ourselves out, and arrive all drenched--what fun! For
my part, I don't like to sweat; it uncurls my hair. Mon Dieu! what a
crowd! It's all the rage now; no one is willing to go on foot, and there
aren't enough 'buses."
"Belleville! Faubourg du Temple!"
"Ah! here it is! here it is!"
Further evolutions performed by the stout woman, the two boys, and the
servant, but with no greater success; there were four vacant seats, but
there were other numbers before theirs. The two girls also came forward.
"There's no more room, except on top," said the conductor.
"All right! we don't care; we'll go on top."
"Pardon! ladies are not allowed there."--And the conductor added, with a
wink: "It isn't my fault, you know; nothing would suit me better."
"I believe you," said a man in a blouse; "if women were allowed to climb
up there, there's lots of men who would pay to be conductors."
"Why do they say that?" the blonde asked her companion; "what good would
it do the conductors to have women ride in the three-sou seats?"
"Oh! what a fool you are, Lucie! What! don't you understand?"
"Why, no."
"Oh! you make me weary."
"Never mind; tell me why?"
"My dear girl, it's a matter of the point of view; that's all."
III
THE YOUNG MAN FROM PLACE CADET
An awkward, loutish youth entered the office.
"Place Cadet, monsieur?"
"This isn't the office; it's out on the boulevard, at the left, just at
the corner."
"Exceedingly obliged; will there be a seat?"
"How do you expect us to know, when this isn't the office?"
"Oh! of course; and that is where I must go for a number? Suppose you
give me one, wouldn't that amount to the same thing?"
"Why, no, monsieur; the 'bus doesn't stop here."
"The 'bus is what I want to go on."
"You can go on it or under it; it's none of our affair."
"Do you mean that one can ride underneath?"
The clerk concluded to turn his back on the stupid idiot who asked such
questions. Mademoiselle Laurette, having overheard the dialogue, burst
out laughing, as she said:
"I'd have sent that fellow to the deuce in short measure. What a booby!
You must need a good stock of patience to answer all those questions!"
"Ah! mademoiselle, if you were employed in an omnibus office, you'd hear
many things like that!"
"Really! do you mean to say that there are others like him in Paris?"
"There are everywhere, mademoiselle."
Meanwhile, the individual who wished to go to Place Cadet had left the
office; then he halted on the square, looking about him with a confused
air. He spied the stout woman sitting on a bench, between Messieurs
Narcisse and Aristoloche, one of whom was trying all the time to push
away the feathers that adorned the front of his hat, while the other
confined his energies to persistently stuffing one of his fingers into
his nose. Our friend went up to the dame and said, touching his hat:
"A ticket for Place Cadet, madame, if you please."
"Do you take me for an omnibus clerk, monsieur?" replied the dame,
sourly; "can't you go to the office?"
"Pardon me, madame; I just went there, and they told me to apply on the
left, in a corner."
"Well, monsieur, am I a corner, I should like to know?"
"_Dame!_ I don't know; they told me to go to the left; I don't see the
office; I don't see the 'bus."
And the youth returned to the office he had just left, crying:
"Where is that place where you get tickets for Place Cadet? I can't find
it; can't you come and show me the way?"
"Well, this caps the climax! If we had to act as guides for everybody
who goes astray, then there would have to be a corps of messengers
attached to the office.--Over yonder, I told you, monsieur; on the other
side of Boulevard Saint-Denis."
"What! have I got to go all the way to Saint-Denis to get to Place
Cadet?"
"La Villette! all aboard for La Villette!"
All those who were bound for that destination hurried from the office,
and in the confusion jostled the youth who wished to go to Place Cadet,
and who persisted in remaining in the office where he had no business,
looking at everybody as if he were disposed to weep.
"Why do you stay here, monsieur," inquired Mademoiselle Laurette, "when
they told you to go to the office on Boulevard Saint-Denis?"
"I don't know Boulevard Saint-Denis, mademoiselle; and I am afraid of
losing my way."
"The trouble is that you ought not to have been let go out alone; some
parents are very imprudent! I'll tell you what you ought to do: go to
one of the messengers over by Porte Saint-Martin; take his arm and give
him ten sous, and he'll take you to Place Cadet; he'll carry you even,
if you're tired."
"Ten sous! oh! that's too much. You're not going to Place Cadet, are
you, mademoiselle?"
"Oh! no, monsieur; we're going to the country."
"Ah! do the omnibuses take people to the country too?"
"They take you everywhere, monsieur."
"Really! I have such a longing to see the sea; do the omnibuses give
transfer checks for the seashore?"
"You have only to ask, and you'll find out."
The tall clown was on the point of returning to the clerks, but he was
pushed aside by the man who had gone to get a glass of beer, and who
returned to the office with a joyous air, saying:
"Ah! this time I think I haven't been long; is my La Villette 'bus
coming?"
"La Villette!--it's just started, monsieur."
"Oh! that is too much. Why couldn't you make it wait?"
"They never wait, monsieur."
"When will there be another one now?"
"In about ten minutes."
"Oh! then I have time enough to get a cup of coffee--and a glass of
liqueur to wash down the beer."
With that, he returned to the cafe, followed by the tall youth, who
shouted to him from afar:
"Monsieur, a ticket for Place Cadet?"
IV
ONLOOKERS AND LOITERERS
A line of carriages, with white-gloved coachmen, semi-bourgeois
equipages, had halted on the square in front of the restaurant; still
another wedding party intending to banquet at Deffieux's.
A number of people had gathered in front of the door, to watch the
bridal couple enter. Inquisitive folk abound in Paris; perhaps it would
be more accurate to say that they abound everywhere. Why this general
desire to see a bride, when she has not as yet performed all the duties
which that title devolves upon her? Is it simply to see whether she is
pretty, and to read upon her features whether or not she is looking
forward joyfully to becoming a wife? This is a simple question that we
ask, but we will not undertake to answer it.
Among the persons who had halted there, some in passing, others coming
from the omnibus office, others on the way there, was a tall man, in the
neighborhood of forty-five years, standing very straight, even bending
back a little from the hips, with head erect, nose in air, and his hat
on one side, in true roistering style.
This person, whose chestnut hair was beginning to be sprinkled with
gray, had very irregular features. His eyes were small and deep-set, of
a pale green shade, but full of fire and animation. His nose was
crooked, slightly turned up, and might almost have been called flat. His
mouth was large, but his teeth were fine, and not one was missing; so
that his smile was not unattractive, especially as he was not over
lavish of it. His chin retreated slightly, his cheek-bones, as a
contrast, were exceedingly prominent; his complexion was high-colored
and blotched, although he was thin both in body and face. With this
unpromising exterior, my gentleman seemed none the less to consider
himself an Apollo. He wore bushy mutton-chop whiskers, which almost met
in the middle of his chin, leaving between them only a very narrow
space, cleanly shaven, which he often caressed with affection, and which
he called his dimple. His manners denoted no less self-assurance than
familiarity with the world; and they would even have borne some traces
of refinement, had he not adopted a sort of mincing gait not unlike that
of a drum-major; but, instead of a great baton, this gentleman had a
slender switch, curved at the top, which seemed to have been painted and
gilded long before, but had lost a large part of its decoration. It was
a very pliable switch, with which he constantly tapped his
trousers-legs.
His costume did not indicate the dandy, although its wearer affected the
manners of one. His linen trousers, of a very large check, seemed to
have been cut from the skirt of some concierge. His waistcoat was also
of a check pattern, but its colors did not harmonize at all with those
of the trousers; nothing was wanting except the plaid to give him
altogether the aspect of a Scotch Highlander; but, instead of the plaid,
he wore a nut-brown frock-coat, with ample skirts, which he often left
unbuttoned the better to display his slender figure, and in which he
sometimes encased himself hermetically, as if it were a cloak. It is
needless to say that this costume was entirely lacking in freshness.
This personage, who had a habit of speaking always in a very loud tone,
so that everybody could hear what he said and presumably be struck with
admiration by his wit,--a method of attracting attention which enables
you to divine instantly the sort of man with whom you have to do--this
personage pushed and jostled some of the loiterers, exclaiming:
"What's all this? what's all this? a wedding party, eh? Mon Dieu! is a
wedding party such a very strange thing that everybody must stop and
push and crowd, to see the couple? Triple idiots of Parisians! On my
word, one would think they had never seen such a thing before!"
"What's that! what makes you push me so hard to get my place, if there's
nothing to look at?" said a youngster in a blouse, whom the other had
pushed away with some violence.
"Who is it that presumes to speak to me? God forgive me! I believe that
this little turnspit dares to complain! Look out that I don't teach you
whom you are talking to!"
"In the first place, I ain't a turnspit; do you hear, you long
flag-pole?"
That epithet caused the gentleman in the Scotch nether garments to
quiver with rage; he threw himself back and raised his cane, and, in the
course of that evolution, trod on the feet of an old woman who stood
behind him leading a small dog, which was doing its best to avoid being
present at the arrival of the wedding party.
"Ah! monsieur, take care, for heaven's sake! you're treading on me. A
little more, and you'd have crushed Abdallah!"
"Very sorry, madame; but I have no eyes in my back. Ah! the rascal who
had the effrontery to reply to me has fled. I will not chase him,
because he's only a child; if he had been a man, he'd have felt my
switch on his shoulders before this."
"Monsieur, do take care; Abdallah is under your feet!"
"What's that! what, in God's name, is this Abdallah of yours, madame?"
"My dear little King Charles.--Come here, come, you runaway!"
"That beast a King Charles? He's a very ugly water-spaniel, and I
wouldn't give two sous for him. How stupid some people are with their
dogs! Ah! there's the bride, no doubt.--Peste! how lightly we jump down!
Very good! I have my cue. She'll wear the breeches; I can see that at a
glance."
A young woman, in the traditional bridal costume, had, in fact, alighted
from one of the carriages; she did not wait for the arm which a stout,
chubby-faced papa, already perspiring profusely, who, however, was not
one of the groomsmen, was preparing to offer her.
The bride was apparently about twenty years of age; she was short and
plump, with light hair, a white skin, and a rosy complexion; she was not
a beauty, but her face was piquant and attractive, with a pleasant smile
of the sort that almost always denotes a quick wit; but smiles do not
invariably fulfil their promises.
The stout papa, who had come forward too late to assist the bride to
alight from her carriage, was also too late for another lady who
followed her; and he missed a third likewise, because he was very busily
occupied in wiping the perspiration from his brow.
The gentleman with the check trousers, having turned his eyes upon the
stout man, rushed toward the carriage, exclaiming:
"Pardieu! I am not mistaken, it's my good Blanquette! Dear Monsieur
Blanquette! Hola, there! I say, Pere Blanquette! Hola! is it possible
that you don't know your friends? Just turn your eyes this way!"
The stout papa, being thus noisily addressed, ceased to wipe his brow,
and, looking in the direction of the crowd, speedily distinguished the
person who had hailed him. Thereupon his face assumed an expression
which denoted annoyance rather than pleasure, and he answered his
interlocutor's greetings with cold and constrained courtesy.
"Oh! good-day, Monsieur Cherami--glad to see you."
"So you're of the wedding party, Papa Blanquette?--All in full dress,
eh? You were in the same carriage with the bride."
"Well, it would be a strange thing if I wasn't of the party, when it's
my nephew who's being married!"
"Your nephew? Oho! then I understand; I have my cue. What! that dear
little Adolphe--who never wanted to do anything--who didn't take to
anything, as I remember."
"But he has taken to marriage very readily.--Besides, Adolphe is a big
fellow now."
"What! it is your nephew whose wedding you are celebrating, and I did
not know it? Such an old friend as I am, too--for you know, Papa
Blanquette, how devoted I am to you! You have seen me in an emergency;
and you let me know nothing about it, and I am not invited to the
wedding! Do you know, Monsieur Blanquette, that I might justly be
offended by such actions, if I were sensitive? But I am not--I leave
that foible to idiots."
For some moments, the stout man had been listening with but one ear to
the individual whose name we now know. The bridegroom's uncle was
watching the carriages, and, another one having taken the place of that
from which the bride had alighted, he was determined not to be
behindhand again in offering his hand to the ladies; so he hurried to
the door, leaving Monsieur Cherami still talking, and confined himself
to an inclination of the head as he muttered:
"Excuse me, monsieur; but I have no time; there are some ladies whom I
must assist--I cannot talk any longer."
Monsieur Cherami compressed his lips, frowned, and shrugged his
shoulders, saying:
"Ah! this is your way of being polite, is it, you old numskull! He puts
on airs because he's made a little money in Elbeuf broadcloth; as if
that were such a wonderful thing! And to think that I have sent him more
than fifty customers,--my tailor, among others!--and he acts as if he
hardly knew me! All because he has money! a lot of merit in that! for
who hasn't money now? It has become so common that persons of
distinction don't want it."
"In that case, I fancy that tall, lanky fellow must be very
distinguished!" whispered Mademoiselle Laurette to her friend; for the
two girls had left the omnibus office to see the wedding party, and they
were near enough to Monsieur Cherami to hear what he said. That was an
easy matter, by the way, even at a distance, for our friend talked as
_Mangin_ does when he is describing his drawings in public.
Meanwhile, the four wedding carriages had discharged their freights, who
had entered the restaurant; then the carriages drove away, and the
bystanders dispersed, except those who had business at the omnibus
office.
V
THE CAPUCINE FAMILY
Monsieur Cherami remained on the square, staring at the porte cochere of
the restaurant, and tapping his legs with his switch, with a nervous,
jerky movement; he seemed undecided as to the course he had better
pursue, and muttered, quite loud enough, however, to be overheard:
"I don't know what restrains me; I am tempted to join that wedding
party; I have a perfect right to force myself on that crowd. If I were
dressed, I'd do it. On my word of honor, I'd do it! not that I care so
much for the banquet; I know what a feast is; I've had a hand in a few
of them in my time, God knows! and some that this one can't hold a
candle to. Sapristi! what is this that I feel against my legs?"
"Don't move, monsieur, I beg you! Abdallah's string has got tangled
round your legs; I'll untwist it."
"Corbleu! madame, that's a most insufferable dog of yours! When you're
leading a dog, you shouldn't give him so much string."
The old woman, having succeeded in disentangling her spaniel from our
friend's legs, concluded to take Abdallah in her arms, then went away,
glaring fiercely at all those in her neighborhood.
But Monsieur Cherami, being rid of the dog, turned about and spied the
stout woman and the two small boys, who were still awaiting an
opportunity to go to Belleville. Thereupon he exclaimed anew, saluting
profusely, and shouting so loud that he attracted the attention of
everybody within hearing:
"God bless me! do I see Madame Capucine? What a fortunate meeting! I
didn't expect such good fortune. What! you have been here all the time,
madame, and I did not see you!"
"Yes, Monsieur Cherami; here I am, and here I've been a long, long time,
alas! I'm getting pretty impatient, I tell you; think of having to wait
an hour for seats in an omnibus!"
"Don't speak of it; it's intolerable! That's the reason I always walk,
myself; I can't make up my mind to wait. Ah! there are the two dear
boys, Narcisse and Aristoloche; they improve every day--they'll be
superb men--they're the living portraits of their mother!"
A smile, to which she strove to give an expression of modesty, played
about Madame Capucine's lips, as she replied affectedly:
"Oh! there's a look of the father, too!"
"Do you think so? No, I can't see it; Capucine isn't a handsome man; an
insignificant face; while his wife---- Ah! the rascal showed taste in
his choice, on my word! But I don't understand how you ever made up your
mind to marry him; if I were a woman, I'd never have done it; it's Venus
and Vulcan over again."
"Oh! you always exaggerate, Monsieur Cherami; to hear you talk, one
would think my husband was hunchbacked."
"If he isn't, he ought to have been."
"What! what do you mean by that?"
"Sh! I know what I mean. Ah! if Capucine wasn't a friend of mine!"
"Adelaide! Adelaide! I think that's a green 'bus coming; come here,
quick!"
The servant left the office, with her basket. Monsieur Cherami greeted
her with an affable bow, which she barely acknowledged, muttering:
"Bah! there goes the rest of our money! I wonder if that man's coming to
dine with us? If he is, there'll never be enough to eat."
"Are you going into the country, Madame Capucine?"
"Yes, monsieur; we're going to Romainville."
"Have you bought a summer house, a villa, in that neighborhood?"
"No, monsieur; my Aunt Duponceau has a little place there, and we're
going to pass Sunday with her."
"You begin the day before, I see."
"She made me promise to come Saturday with the children. Capucine will
join us to-morrow."
"Ah! he isn't with you?"
"It wasn't possible; we can't all leave at once, on account of the
business; it's stretching a point for me to go away with my servant."
"But you have your clerk?"
"Monsieur Ballot? Oh! yes, he's still with us; we're very lucky to have
him--a very intelligent fellow, and full of ideas."
Monsieur Cherami smiled maliciously, as he replied:
"Yes, yes, I saw at once that he attended to your business very well.
I'm sure that you'll push that young man ahead."
"Oh! he'll push himself all right. He's coming to Romainville to-morrow
with my husband."
"The party'll be complete, then; but, meanwhile, you are without an
escort to give you his arm, to look out for you."
"There is no danger on this little trip."
"A lovely woman is always in danger. All the men are tempted to carry
her off. They don't always yield to the temptation, but they feel it, I
promise you. Pardieu! I have my cue--a charming plan suggests itself to
my mind: suppose I go with you to Romainville? Your Aunt Duponceau won't
be sorry to see me, I'm sure. Indeed, I believe she urged me one day to
go to see her in the country--yes, she certainly did. What do you think
of that plan, lovely creature?"
Madame Capucine, having carefully scrutinized her friend's costume,
seemed not at all anxious to take with her to the country a cavalier
whose attire would not do her honor; and so, instead of answering his
question, she observed:
"By the way, Monsieur Cherami, my husband told me, if I should happen to
meet you, to remind you of that little bill--you know, eh? It's for some
flannel vests, and it's been running a long while. You promised to pay
it; I believe it's about a hundred and thirty francs."
Monsieur Cherami made a wry face, and struck his hat with his hand,
muttering:
"Oh! madame, I know very well that I owe you a small account, a trifle,
a mere nothing; but I have had much more important matters than that to
think about."
"It's been running at least three years."
"What if it were twenty years! it's a trifle, none the less."
"Madame, madame! they're calling our numbers; there are some seats."
"Ah! mon Dieu! I must go. Come, Aristoloche; come, I say. Bonjour!
Monsieur Cherami; think of us when you have time. Mon Dieu! I don't say
it to hurry you, you know. Here I am, conductor."
Madame Capucine and her boys ran after the servant, and soon all four
were in the omnibus.
"There are two more seats, mesdemoiselles," said the clerk to the two
grisettes, who also had numbers for Belleville; but Mademoiselle
Laurette shook her head.
"Thanks," she replied; "we'll give up our chance; we'll wait for the
next; I don't travel with fish. In a boat, it's all right; but in a
carriage it scents you up too much."
As for Monsieur Cherami, he had hardly responded to Madame Capucine's
farewell; he looked after her with a disdainful air, saying:
"What a beast that haberdasher is! to talk to me about the balance of an
account, in the street, in broad daylight, when I am kind enough to pay
her compliments and to call her two little brats pretty! Go and sell
your cotton nightcaps, you Hottentot Venus! for that woman strikes me as
a caricature of Venus. Fine stuff her flannel vests are made of; I've
only worn them three years, and they're torn already! I see plainly
enough why you don't care to have me go to Aunt Duponceau's--that might
interfere with your little tete-a-tetes with your clerk Ballot. Oh! poor
Capucine! when I told that huge woman that her husband ought to be
hunchbacked, she knew what I meant. However, I'd be glad to know where I
shall dine to-day; indeed, to express my meaning more frankly, for I can
afford to be frank with myself, I would like to know if I shall dine at
all to-day."
VI
MONSIEUR CHERAMI
It is a very sad thing to have reached the point where one wonders
whether one will have any dinner. And yet there are every day in Paris
people who find themselves in that predicament; but it is comforting to
know that such people generally end by dining; some very meagrely, to be
sure, others moderately well, and others very well indeed and as if they
were still prosperous. Those who succeed in dining well generally
accomplish that end by some stratagem, by some new exertion of the
imagination, which, however, must well-nigh have exhausted its
ingenuity. What seems to me most surprising is that they dine gayly,
with an excellent appetite, and with no concern for the morrow. One
becomes accustomed to everything, they say; if that is philosophy, I do
not envy the philosophers.
Especially when one has fallen into adversity by his own fault, his
misconduct, his dissipated life, it would seem that adversity must be
most painful, most bitter, most difficult to endure, and that shame must
be his constant companion.
Those who are really victims of the injustice of fate, or of the
stupidity of their contemporaries, can, at all events, hold their heads
erect and refrain from blushing because of their poverty. Such were
Homer, who was not appreciated during his life; Plautus, who was reduced
to the necessity of turning a potter's wheel; Xylander, who sold his
work on Dion Cassius to obtain a crust of bread; Lelio Girardi, author
of a curious history of the Greek and Latin poets, who was reduced to a
similar extremity; Usserius, too, a learned chronologist; Cornelius
Agrippa, who wrote on the vanity of learning, and the excellent
qualities of womankind; and the illustrious Miguel Cervantes, to whom we
owe the admirable romance of _Don Quixote_.
We may add to this list Paul Borghese, who died of hunger; Tasso, who
lived a whole week on a crown, which someone loaned him: true, he ceased
to be poor, but only on the eve of his death; Aldus Manutius, who was so
poor that he became bankrupt simply by borrowing money enough to ship
his library from Venice to Rome, whither he had been summoned; Cardinal
Bentivoglio, to whom we owe the history of the civil wars of Flanders:
he did not leave enough to pay for his burial; Baudoin, translator of
almost all the Latin authors; Vauglas, the grammarian; Du Ryer, author
of tragedies, and translator of the Koran; all these lived in indigence.
But we will pause here; examples are not lacking, but they would carry
us too far; and then, they are not cheerful, and are out of our usual
line; it was Monsieur Cherami's plight which induced us to cite so many.
Let us now return to that gentleman.
Monsieur Cherami, whom we have seen so poorly dressed, and uncertain as
to whether he will have any dinner, had once occupied a brilliant
position, and had been noted for his dress, his bearing, and his gallant
adventures. His father, who had been an eminent figure in the magistracy
during the Consulate, had no other child. Arthur (such was Monsieur
Cherami's baptismal name) had been petted, fondled, worshipped, spoiled,
and his parents had proposed to make a great man of him. Poor parents!
who believe that they can make their son an eminent personage, just as
they would make him a tailor or a bootmaker. Arthur did become great,
but in stature only. They sent him to school and gave him an excellent
education; young Cherami learned readily enough; he was intelligent and
quick-witted; he became especially strong in such elegant
accomplishments as fencing, riding, and gymnastics; but he had the
greatest aversion for serious work of every sort, and when his parents
asked him: "Do you want to be a lawyer, a doctor, a man of letters, a
broker, or a general?" Arthur replied: "I prefer to walk on the
boulevards and smoke big eight-sou cigars."
This reply, which left nothing to be desired in the way of frankness,
indicated a most generous inclination to consume the fortune which his
parents had so laboriously amassed in business, and which, in fact, they
left to their beloved son without undue delay. At the age of twenty-two,
Arthur, who had as yet done nothing else than promenade and smoke, found
himself an orphan and possessed of thirty-five thousand francs a year.
Thereupon, he abandoned himself to his taste for pleasure, augmented by
a very keen penchant for the fair sex; and the fair sex is never
ungrateful to a rich and open-handed man. Arthur was not handsome: his
crooked nose, his small eyes, and his pointed chin, did not tend to make
him a very attractive youth; however, the women told him again and again
that he was charming, adorable, irresistible, and he believed it. We are
so ready to believe anything that flatters our self-esteem! And yet,
Arthur was no fool; indeed, he had his share of wit; but he was totally
lacking in common sense, and without common sense, wit, as a general
rule, serves no other purpose than to make one do foolish things. La
Rochefoucauld makes this reflection with respect to women; for my part,
I consider it perfectly applicable to both sexes.
At thirty years, Beau Cherami had spent, consumed, swallowed, his entire
inheritance. But he had been noted for his costumes, his horses, his
conquests, his love affairs. Eight years to run through a fortune worth
thirty-five thousand francs a year--that is not such a very rapid pace;
we often see young men who use up three times as much in much less time;
to be sure, young Arthur did not gamble on the Bourse.
Being obliged then to sell his furniture, horses, and silverware,
Cherami lived some time longer on the product of the sale; but his
friends already began to find him less clever and amiable, and the women
no longer called him their handsome Arthur. That was because he could no
longer make them beautiful presents; and instead of loaning money to his
friends and paying their shares of the expense of an orgy, he asked them
to pay for him, and often applied to them for loans.
At thirty-five, Arthur was what these good friends of his called utterly
_degomme_: in other words, ruined. After he had lived for some time on
credit, his tailor, his shirtmaker, his bootmaker, refused to trust him
any more; whereupon he was obliged to wear garments that were worn and
faded, and eventually threadbare; hats that had turned from black to
rusty; worn boots that were rarely polished. When Cherami, in this garb,
said to one of his former acquaintances: "I have left my purse at home;
lend me twenty francs, will you?" the acquaintance would make a wry face
and loan him five francs instead of twenty, and sometimes nothing at
all; for a man in a threadbare coat does not inspire confidence. We loan
money to the rich, because we think that they will return it.
After some time, Beau Arthur found that this last source of income was
exhausted. He had said so often to his quondam friends: "I have
forgotten my purse," or: "I have just discovered that there's a hole in
my pocket," that they fled as soon as they saw him; many of them even
ceased to return his bow, and pretended not to know him. Misfortune is
the reef on which friendship is wrecked.
However, Cherami still possessed a remnant of his handsome fortune; a
very small remnant, but enough to keep him from starving; and chance had
decreed that the ci-devant beau could not dispose of it, otherwise he
would not have failed to make away with it like the rest.
VII
THE COAL DEALER
The father of our spendthrift had, shortly before his death, obliged one
of his employes by loaning him eleven thousand francs to start in the
coal business. And the creditor, knowing his debtor's probity, had made
the loan subject to no other condition than this: "You will pay my son
the interest on this sum at five per cent. That makes five hundred and
fifty francs a year that you will have to pay him so long as it doesn't
inconvenience you; and, in any event, not more than ten years. After
that time, your debt will be paid. But it must be understood that I
forbid you ever to repay the principal."
These conditions were witnessed by no written contract; the merchant had
declined to take his debtor's note. But the latter had faithfully
carried out his former employer's intentions. Every three months, he
brought Arthur one hundred and thirty-seven francs fifty centimes, the
stipulated interest of the money he had received. In his prosperous
days, when he still had an income of thirty-five thousand francs, young
Arthur had often said to Bernardin--that was the coal dealer's name: