thirty-seven francs, Bernardin? As if I cared for such a trifle! Go and
have a good fish dinner at La Rapee--with some pretty wench. That will
be much better. I consider that you've paid up."
But the coal dealer, an upright, economical man, scrupulously exact in
all his dealings, always contented himself with replying:
"I owe you this money, monsieur; it's the interest on what your late
father was kind enough to give me. I say _give_, because my late
excellent master would not even let me pay him the interest."
"I know all that, Bernardin; I know all that; but, you see, I don't ask
you for the interest either. You are welcome to keep it; buy bonbons for
your children with it."
"My children have all they need, monsieur; and I make it a point to
fulfil my engagements."
"There is no real obligation in this case, as I have no note, no
receipt, from you."
"Between honest men there's no need of any writing, monsieur. I offered
your father a note, and he positively refused; just as he forbade me
ever to repay the principal on which I pay you the interest."
"And you are to pay the interest only ten years; I know that too."
"Oh! as to that, monsieur, I made your father no answer when he added
that condition; but I shall do my duty."
And the honest coal dealer took his departure, leaving with Arthur the
small sum he had brought.
When the thirty-five thousand francs a year had disappeared, and Arthur
was reduced to the necessity of turning his furniture into cash, he
received less scornfully the hundred and thirty-seven francs fifty
centimes which Bernardin never failed to bring him on the first of each
of the months when rent falls due.
One day, Cherami, having no more furniture, jewels, or horses to sell,
had taken a furnished lodging, when Bernardin brought him his quarterly
interest. The faithful coal dealer was informed as to the conduct of his
former employer's son; he had watched the young man squander in riotous
living the fortune which his parents had amassed with such unremitting
toil; sell the house they had left him; then move from a fine hotel to a
more modest apartment, and finally to furnished lodgings. Bernardin had
never ventured to make the slightest comment; but at each new downward
plunge of the young man, he heaved a profound sigh, and said to himself:
"O my poor master! it's very fortunate that you do not see your son's
conduct!"
Now, on the day in question, Arthur, being absolutely penniless, was
overjoyed when his paltry income arrived; but as Bernardin, having paid
the money, was about to leave him, he detained him, saying:
"Look you, Monsieur Bernardin, I have a proposition to make to you."
"I am listening, monsieur."
"You bring me regularly the interest on the eleven thousand francs which
you received from my father; you would be perfectly justified, however,
in ceasing to pay it; for more than ten years have passed, and----"
"I think I have told you, monsieur, that I should continue to pay it; I
should not consider that I had paid my debt, otherwise."
"Very good! Far be it from me to blame such scrupulous probity; but I am
going to propose to you a method of paying your debt once for all. Give
me a thousand crowns--three thousand francs--cash; that will gratify me,
indeed, it will be a favor to me, because with three thousand francs one
can do something, you know; whereas I can't do anything at all with your
hundred and thirty-seven francs. So give me that amount in cash, and I
will discharge you entirely and you'll have no more interest to pay me.
Is that satisfactory?"
"No, monsieur; I can't do that."
"Why not, if I am satisfied?"
"It wouldn't satisfy me to discharge a life-rent of five hundred and
fifty francs for three thousand francs; that would be usury."
"What are you talking about with your usury? if it suits me, if I ask it
as a favor----"
"No, monsieur; I must not accept this proposition."
"Very well! then give me the eleven thousand francs you received, as
you're so finical in the matter of probity. In that way, your conscience
will be altogether at rest, and we shall both be satisfied."
"No, monsieur; I will not hand you the principal sum which I received,
because your father expressly forbade me to do it. That was the first
condition on which he let me have the money; and who knows if he didn't
read the future then? if he didn't foresee that the day would come when
this small income would be his son's last resource?"
"Monsieur Bernardin, you presume to----"
"I beg your pardon, monsieur; I do not presume at all. But monsieur must
realize that I am aware of his position."
"My position? Why, pardieu! it's the position of all young men who have
lived well, who have amused themselves, and adored the ladies."
"True, monsieur; but perhaps you have been too kind, too generous, to
them."
"I have done what I chose; if I could begin over again, I would do the
same."
"I don't doubt it, monsieur; and, of course, you are at liberty to
dispose of your own property."
"Yes, to be sure I am--that is to say, I was. Come, Bernardin, won't you
give me the eleven thousand francs?"
"No, monsieur; for, from above, your father would blame me."
"Give me a thousand crowns, then."
"Not that, either; but I shall continue to pay monsieur the interest;
and if I should die to-morrow, my children would continue to pay it. Oh!
it's a sacred thing, and monsieur can rely upon it."
"Very good! pay me three years in advance: sixteen hundred and fifty
francs. You can't refuse me that?"
"Excuse me, monsieur; I do refuse, and in your own interest; for you
would spend the three years' interest in less than six months; and then
you would not have even that trifling resource."
"Monsieur Bernardin, do you refuse to make me any advance?"
"I cannot do it, monsieur."
"Very well! off with you, then; I have my cue!"
Bernardin saluted his late master's son with the utmost respect, and
took his leave.
Some time after, when he was in a most desperate plight, Arthur Cherami
had renewed his urgent solicitations to Bernardin, in the hope of
obtaining a little interest in advance or a portion of the principal;
but all his entreaties were of no avail. The old fellow was not to be
moved, and his resolution was the more inflexible because he knew that
by acting thus he was saving a modest income for his benefactor's son.
The years passed. Far from becoming wiser in the school of adversity,
the ci-devant Beau Arthur retained the same passions, the same faults,
and the same impertinence, as in his prosperous days. Doubtless
forty-six francs a month is a very small allowance; it amounts to about
thirty sous per day; and when with that amount a man must board, lodge,
and clothe himself, he must needs live very sparingly. However, in this
Paris of ours, where living is said to be so expensive, since the
opening of those beneficent establishments for the sale of soup and
cooked beef, and especially since those establishments have conceived
the happy idea of serving their own products, a man may dine for seven
sous; yes, reader, for seven sous! to wit: soup, two sous; beef, three
sous; bread, two sous. And that man will have eaten more healthful and
more nourishing food than he who, for thirty-two sous, regales himself
with soup, his choice of three entrees, dessert, bread at discretion,
and a pint of wine.
But when Monsieur Cherami received his quarterly interest, instead of
husbanding that small sum, his last resource, paying some few debts, and
dining inexpensively at one of the soup-kitchens, he would betake
himself, with head erect and an arrogant air, to one of the best
restaurants in Paris, take his seat with a great flourish, call the
waiter, and order a sumptuous dinner of the daintiest dishes and the
most expensive wines; and all in such wise that everybody who was in the
room could hear him. In short, he would resume his role of dandy,
forgetting that he no longer wore the costume of the role, yet imposing
respect on the multitude by his lordly manner.
Some said: "He's an original, who affects a shabby costume to conceal
the fact that he's a millionaire." Others: "He is some foreigner, some
eminent personage, who desires to remain incognito in Paris."
And the waiters served promptly and with the utmost respect this party
in a threadbare frock-coat, who ate truffled partridges and drank
champagne frappe; and when he paid his bill, Cherami never took the
change which the waiter brought him, even if it amounted to two or three
francs.
"All right!" he would cry; "keep that; it's for you!"
Thereupon, the waiter would bow to the ground before so generous a
patron; and he would stalk forth proudly from the restaurant, enchanted
with the effect he had produced. And the next morning he would have
nothing with which to procure a dinner.
I beg you not to believe that this character is an imaginary one; that
there are no men foolish enough to act in this way; there are, and many
of them. For our own part, we have known more than one.
But when naught remained of the small quarterly payment, he had to live
anew on loans and stratagems; he had to content himself with the very
modest fare of a cheap restaurant, where the mistress was willing to
supply him on credit because he flattered her and compared her with
Venus, although she was blear-eyed and had a purple nose. In that place
he could not order champagne and truffles, to be sure; that would have
been a waste of time; but Cherami found a way, none the less, to make a
sensation: shouting louder than anybody else, bewildering everybody with
his chatter, and always having some marvellous adventure to relate, of
which he was the hero, and in which he had performed wonderful exploits.
If one of his auditors seemed to doubt the veracity of his narrative, he
would insult him, threaten him, challenge him, insist on fighting him
instanter, and, in order to pacify my gentleman and restore peace, the
person abused must needs treat him to nothing less than a cup of coffee
followed by a _petit verre_ of liqueur. As for the waiters, as he had
nothing to give them, he treated them like dogs, and threatened them
with his switch when they did not serve him promptly enough.
If, instead of passing his time in smoking and loitering, Monsieur
Cherami had chosen to do something, he might have increased his income,
and have lived without constantly resorting to loans. He was well
informed; he retained from his early education a superficial idea of
many things; he knew quite a lot, in fact, and might have passed for a
scholar in the eyes of those who knew nothing. His handwriting was so
good that he could have obtained work as a copyist. In his youth, he had
studied music, and he could play the violin a little; he might have made
something of his talent in that direction and have found a place in the
orchestra of a second-class theatre, or played in dance-halls for the
grisette and the mechanic.
But the ci-devant Beau Arthur considered every sort of work that was
suggested to him very far beneath him; he thought that he would degrade
himself by becoming a copyist or a minstrel, and he was not ashamed to
borrow a hundred sous when he knew that he could not repay them. What do
such people understand by the word _honor_? Let us conclude that they
fashion a kind of honor for their own use, just as some painters paint
scenes from nature in which there is nothing natural, but which by
common consent are called conventional nature.
One day, when he was without a sou, having been denied by all those from
whom he had sought to borrow, and not daring to go to his cheap
restaurant, because the mistress was absent, Cherami found himself
confronted by the stern necessity of going without a mouthful of dinner,
when it occurred to him to call upon his payer of interest. So he set
out for the abode of the coal dealer, saying to himself on the way:
"Bernardin always refuses to make me the smallest advance; but,
sacrebleu! when I tell him that I have nothing with which to pay for a
dinner, it isn't possible that he will let me starve to death."
The modest tradesman was just about to sit down to dinner with his
family when Cherami appeared, crying:
"The deuce! it would seem that you are about to dine! You're very lucky!
For my part, I haven't the means to pay for a dinner. Lend me a crown,
Bernardin, so that I can satisfy my hunger, too."
"I never have money to loan," the coal dealer replied respectfully; "but
if monsieur will do us the honor to take a seat at our table, we shall
be happy to offer him a share of our modest dinner."
"Oho! that's your game! Well, so be it!" rejoined Cherami, taking his
seat without further parley.
But Bernardin's dinner was very simple; it consisted of soup, beef, and
a dish of potatoes. The wine was Argenteuil, and very new.
Cherami exclaimed that the soup was watery, the beef tough, and the wine
execrable; for dessert there was nothing but a piece of Gerome cheese,
which he declared to be fit only for masons; and he was much surprised
that they did not take coffee after the meal; in short, he rose from the
table in a vile humor, saying to Bernardin and his wife:
"You live very badly, my dears; you live like rustics; I shall not dine
with you again."
That was his only word of thanks to his hosts.
VIII
THE RESTAURANT IN PARC SAINT-FARGEAU
On the day on which our tale opens, Arthur Cherami found himself anew in
this perplexing plight, which was aggravated by the circumstance that he
had gone without dinner on the preceding day.
To be sure, he had only to go to Bernardin's, where he was very sure
that they would not refuse to give him a dinner, in default of cash. But
you know that our ex-high-liver was far from satisfied with the meal of
which he had partaken at the coal dealer's board; not only did he find
everything bad, for my gentleman, even in his poverty, was still very
hard to please, but he had discovered that at his debtor's house it
would be of no use for him to try to _blaguer_--that is to say, to put
on airs, to lie, to display his impertinence. The coal dealer's family
did not even smile at the extraordinary tales he told, and it was that
fact which had irritated Cherami even more than the simplicity of the
dinner, perhaps. At the cheap resort to which he was obliged to go
sometimes, he was content with a wretched, ill-cooked dish, because,
while he ate it, he could talk at the top of his voice, speechify, and
force most of the habitues of the place to listen to him. We know how he
compelled those who ventured not to believe all that he said to pay for
his coffee.
Arthur had no business whatever at the omnibus office, but he knew that
one frequently meets acquaintances at such places. Amid the constant
going and coming, departures and arrivals, it is no uncommon thing to
meet someone whom you have not seen for a long time, and whom you did
not know to be in Paris. So that Arthur, who had nothing to do,
frequently visited the railroad stations, where he walked to and fro in
front of the ticket offices, as if he were expecting someone; and, in
fact, he was always expecting that chance would bring there some
acquaintance from whom he could borrow five francs.
Or he would go and take his stand in front of an omnibus office, always
with the same hope. On this occasion he had, in fact, met several
acquaintances, but the result had not fulfilled his expectations. Coldly
greeted by Papa Blanquette, repulsed by Madame Capucine, he was
beginning to think that he should not make his expenses, and he said to
himself, but not aloud as usual:
"Sapristi! what times are these we live in? The world is becoming vile
beyond cleansing! No courtesy, no affability, no good manners! Formerly,
when I met a friend, my first words were: 'You must come to dine with
me.'--He might accept or not, but I had made the offer. To-day, I meet
nobody but cads, who are very careful not to offer me the slightest
thing; indeed, many of them presume to pass me by, and act as if they
didn't know me. There are others who carry their insolence so far as to
dare to ask me for some paltry hundred-sou pieces which they have loaned
me and I have not paid. Pardieu! I've loaned them plenty of 'em in the
old days; and I never asked for them, because I knew it would be of no
use. As if one ever returned money loaned among friends! As if what
belongs to one doesn't belong to the other! That's the way I understand
friendship--that noble, genuine friendship which united Castor and
Pollux, Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades.
Do we find in the _Iliad_ that Patroclus ever said to Achilles: 'I
loaned you a hundred sous, or twenty francs; I want you to pay them'?
Bah! nothing of the sort; there's no instance in history of such a
thing! And I defy all my former companions in pleasure to cite a single
one. However, I am conscious to-day that the need of eating is making
itself felt; I can't go to my little cabaret on Rue Basse-du-Temple, for
the mistress is sick; her husband takes her place at the desk, and he is
always ill-disposed toward me; he presumes to ask me for money! Vile
turnspit! do you suppose I would go to your place for food if I had
money? Ah! there's Bernardin; I am sure of a dinner there; but I am
horribly bored with those good people. And then, it wounds my
self-esteem to dine with one of my father's former clerks. Corbleu! can
it be that, like Titus, I have wasted my day?"
And Cherami, still tapping his trousers with his switch, cast his eyes
about him. Thereupon he spied the two girls who were waiting to go to
Belleville.
"There are two little grisettes, whose aspect rather pleases me," he
said to himself, throwing his weight on his left hip; "a blonde and a
brunette--meat for the king's attorney, as we used to say at the club.
They're pretty hussies both; the blonde has a rather stupid look, but
the dark one has wit in her eye.--Suppose I should try to make a
conquest by offering them a good dinner? Ten to one, they'll accept! I
know the sex; these girls are so fond of eating! Yes, but in that
case--they'll have to pay for the dinner; that might embarrass them, and
I don't want to embarrass any woman. But if I did, I should do no more
than avenge myself."
While making these reflections, Cherami had walked toward the young
women; he struck a pose in front of them, humming a lively tune, and
darted a glance at them into which he put all the seductiveness of which
he was still capable. The young women looked at each other and laughed
heartily; Mademoiselle Laurette went so far as to say, in a bantering
tone:
"That must be a smoke-pipe from the Opera-Comique that has a vent in
this neighborhood; however, it's better than an escape of gas."
"Aha! we are clever and satirical!" said Cherami, addressing
Mademoiselle Laurette; "I had guessed as much, simply by observing your
saucy face."
"Why, I don't know what you mean, monsieur!" replied the girl, trying to
assume a serious expression.
"I was simply answering the reflection in which you just indulged on the
subject of a roulade which I ventured to perform, and which, perhaps,
was not rendered with perfect accuracy."
"But, monsieur, I really didn't know that you were singing; I was saying
to my friend Lucie that we should be very late in getting to the
restaurant in Parc Saint-Fargeau, and that I didn't know whether there
was dancing there on Saturday."
"Aha! so the young ladies are going to Parc Saint-Fargeau?--That is just
beyond Belleville, I believe?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"And there's a restaurant there now, where they have dancing? Pardon me,
I ask simply for information, being a great lover of places where one
can dine well--and enjoy one's self; and it's a long while since I have
been in that neighborhood."
"In that case, you'll find great changes. Yes, monsieur; there is a
restaurant now in Parc Saint-Fargeau, with a large garden where there's
a pond. But it's no toy pond; it's big enough for a boat, and you can go
rowing; it's quite big, and there's an island in it which you can row
around if you're very careful, for the water's quite deep."
"You can be drowned in it," observed Mademoiselle Lucie.
"Oho! one has also the right to drown one's self, eh?"
"Why, yes! if you should fall into the water!"
"True. And there's a dance-hall, you say?"
"Yes, monsieur; one out-of-doors, and one inside for rainy days."
"Good; I see that everything is complete; and if, with all the rest, the
cooking is good----"
"Very good; and they give you fine _matelotes_, because they catch the
fish on the spot."
"This rustic restaurant will certainly receive a call from me very soon;
indeed, I would go there to-day--delighted to take the trip with you,
mesdemoiselles--if I were not expecting someone--who, I am beginning to
think, will not come. It's an infernal shame! we are invited to dine at
the Palais-Royal; it's almost five o'clock now, and we shall break our
engagement and they'll dine without us, all on his account!"
"You'll dine somewhere else; that's all. There's no lack of restaurants
in Paris."
"Vive Dieu! who knows that better than I! So I have no difficulty on
that score--that is to say, I don't know which to select, and if you
young ladies will do me the honor to accept a little dinner in the
suburbs----"
"Thanks, monsieur; but we don't accept dinners; besides, we are to meet
someone at Parc Saint-Fargeau."
"That's just the reason I venture to invite them," said Cherami to
himself.--"Are you young ladies engaged in business?" he asked.
"Yes, monsieur; we make feathers; we work in one of the best shops on
Rue Saint-Denis; but to-day is the mistress's birthday; that's why we
have the whole day to ourselves."
"Enchanted to have made your acquaintance. Ah! so you're in feathers--a
charming trade for a woman! They have the same volatility: birds of a
feather flock together."
"Is he talking nonsense to us?" whispered Mademoiselle Lucie in her
friend's ear.
"Why, no, stupid; not at all; that's a compliment."
"Belleville! passengers for Belleville!"
"Here's the Belleville 'bus, Laurette, and they're making signs that
there are seats for us."
"Oh! we must run, then. Bonjour! monsieur."
"What! you are going so soon! I thought--I hoped----"
The two girls were already in the omnibus, which soon disappeared.
Cherami turned on his heel, muttering:
"They were shrewd to refuse my dinner. Peste! how should I have got out
of it? I'm not sorry to have had a chat with the little dears--one's
name is Laurette, and the other's Lucie, or Lucile; they may be
desirable acquaintances, on occasion; if I ever want to buy feathers,
for instance."
IX
ANOTHER WEDDING PARTY
A young man of some twenty-five years, fashionably dressed, but whose
costume was in some disorder, suddenly appeared upon the scene. He was
walking very fast, and did not stop until he reached the porte cochere
of the Deffieux restaurant. There he halted, and gazed under the porte
cochere with every indication of anxiety, not to say distress; then
looked all about him and along the boulevard. From the pallor of his
cheeks, the distortion of his features, the expression of his eyes, it
was easy to see that he was suffering keenly, and that his distress was
augmented by the expectation of some impending event. Cherami had no
sooner espied the young man, than the latter ran to where he stood and
said, in a trembling voice:
"Have you been here some time, monsieur?"
"Why, yes, monsieur; quite a long time."
"I beg your pardon, but in that case you can tell me---- Have you
noticed a wedding party arrive at this restaurant?"
"A wedding party? Certainly, I have seen one; it's only a short time
since the carriages went away."
"They have arrived already? I thought I should be here before them."
"No; you are late."
"They have gone in?"
"Yes, monsieur; I had a very good view of the bride."
"You saw Fanny?"
"I don't know whether her name's Fanny, I'm sure; but what I do know is
that she's very pretty."
"Oh! yes, monsieur; she's charming, isn't she?"
"She's a very pretty bride, without being a beauty."
"Oh! monsieur, there's no lovelier woman on earth."
"That's a matter of taste. I don't propose to contradict you."
"Was she pale, trembling? did she look as if she had been crying?"
"Why, not at all! She was fresh and rosy and affable; she laughed as she
jumped out of the carriage; then I saw her figure, which isn't so bad,
although she's a little stout."
"Stout! why, no! she's slender and rather small."