"When one bears the name of Luynes or La Trémoille, I can readily
understand the desire to continue the Luynes or the La Trémoilles; but
really when one is named Chamblard, what possible object can there be
in--Eh? Answer."
In this fashion young Raoul Chamblard talked while comfortably settled
back in a large red velvet arm-chair. This happened on the 26th of
March, 1892, in one of the parlor-cars of the express to Marseilles,
which had left Paris at 8.50 that morning. It was now five minutes past
nine. The train with much racket was crossing the bridge of Charentin.
Young Chamblard was talking to his friend, Maurice Révoille, who, after
a six weeks' leave, was going to join his regiment in Algeria.
The lieutenant of light cavalry responded to his friend's question with
a vague gesture. Raoul Chamblard continued:
"However, it's my father's fixed idea. There must be Chamblards after
me. And as papa has but one son, it's to me he looks to do what is
necessary."
"Well, do what is necessary."
"But I am only twenty-four, my dear fellow, and to marry at twenty-four
is hard. It seems to me that I'm still entitled to a little more fun,
and even a good deal."
"Well, have your fun."
"That's just what I've done up to now. I have had a first-rate time! But
I've taste only for expensive amusements. I don't know how to enjoy
myself without money, and I haven't a cent. Do you understand? Not a
cent!"
"You? You are very rich."
"A great mistake! Upon coming of age, three years ago, I spent what was
left me by my mother. Mother wasn't very rich; she was worth six hundred
thousand francs, not more. Papa made almost a love-match. The six
hundred thousand francs vanished in three years, and could I decently do
anything else as the son of my father? He is powerfully rich!"
"That's what's said."
"And it's very true. He has a dozen millions which are quite his own,
and can't be hurt by an accident; and his bank still goes on, and brings
him in, one year with another, besides the interest on his dozen
millions, three or four hundred thousand francs more. Nothing is more
solid than the Chamblard bank; it's honest, it's venerable. Papa isn't
fair to me, but I'm fair to him. When you have a father in business,
it's a good thing when you go out not to be exposed to meet eyes which
seem to say to you, 'My dear fellow, your father has swindled me.' Papa
has but one passion: from five to seven every day he plays piquet at his
club, at ten sous a point, and as he is an excellent player, he wins
seven times out of ten. He keeps an account of his games with the same
scrupulous exactitude he has in all things, and he was telling the day
before yesterday that piquet this year had brought him in six thousand
five hundred francs over and above the cost of the cards. He has a seat
in the orchestra at the opera, not for the ballet, but for the music
only; he never goes on the stage--neither do I, for that matter. Dancers
don't attract me at all; they live in Batignolles, in Montmartre; they
always walk with their mothers; they completely lack charm. In short, my
father is what one calls a good man. You see I continue to be fair to
him. Besides, I'm always right. Yes, it's a very good thing to have an
honorable father, and Papa Chamblard is a model of all virtues, and he
accumulates for me with a zeal! but I think, just at present, he
accumulates a little too much. He has cut off my income. No marriage,
no money. That's brief and decisive. That's his programme. And he has
hunted up a wife for me--when I say one, I should say three."
"Three wives!"
"Yes. One morning he came to me and said: 'This must end. Look, here's a
list--three splendid matches.' There were the names, the relations, the
dowries--it was even arranged in the order of the dowries. I had to
yield and consent to an interview with Number One. That took place at
the Salon in the Champs Elysées. Ah, my boy, Number One--dry, flat,
bony, sallow!"
"Then why did your father--"
"Why? Because she was the daughter, and only daughter, of a wealthy
manufacturer from Roubaix. It was splendid! We each started with a
hundred thousand francs income, and that was to be, in the course of
time, after realized expectations, a shower of millions! It made papa
supremely happy--the thought that all his millions in Paris would one
day make an enormous heap with all those Roubaix millions. Millions
don't frighten me, but on the condition that they surround a pretty, a
very pretty and stylish woman--a great deal of style! That's _my_
programme. I want to be able to take my wife to the theatres without
having to blush before the box-openers."
"What do you mean? Before the box-openers?"
"Why, certainly. I am known, and I've a reputation to keep up. You see,
the openers are always the same--always; and of course they know me.
They've been in the habit of seeing me, during the last three or four
years, come with the best-known and best-dressed women in Paris. Which
is to say, that I should never dare present myself before them with that
creature from Roubaix. They would think I had married for money. I tried
to explain that delicately to papa, but one can't make him hear reason.
There are things which he doesn't understand, which he can't understand.
I have no grudge against him; he's of his time, I'm of mine. In short, I
declared resolutely that I would never marry Number One. Notice that I
discoursed most sensibly with papa. I said to him: 'You want me to have
a home' (home is his word), 'but when I should have placed in that home
a fright such as to scare the sparrows, my home would be a horror to me,
and I should be forced, absolutely forced, to arrange a home outside.
Thus I should have a household at home and a household outside, and it's
then that the money would fly!' But papa won't listen to anything! He
doesn't understand that I must have a little wife who is pretty,
Parisian pretty--that is to say, original, gay, jolly, who is looked at
on the street, and stared at through opera-glasses at the theatre, who
will do me honor, and who will set me off well. I must be able to
continue my bachelor life with her, and as long as possible. And then
there's another thing that I can't tell papa. His name is Chamblard--it
isn't his fault; only, in consequence, I too am named Chamblard, and
it's not very agreeable, with a name like that, to try to get on in
society. And a pretty, a very pretty, woman is the best passport. There,
look at Robineau. He has just been received into the little club of the
Rue Royale. And why? It's not the Union or the Jockey; but never mind,
one doesn't get in there as into a hotel. And why was Robineau
received?"
"I don't know."
"It's because he has married a charming woman, and this charming woman
is a skater of the first rank. She had a tremendous success on the ice
at the Bois de Boulogne. In the society columns of all the papers there
was mention of the exquisite, delightful, and ideal Mme. Robineau. She
was in the swim at one stroke. And Robineau, he too was in the swim. He
was a member of the little club six weeks later! Papa, he doesn't
understand the importance of these things; one can't reason with him
about it; it's all Greek to him. However, as he had absolutely cut off
my supplies, I had to submit, and consent to an interview with Number
Two."
"And what was Number Two like?"
"Ah, my dear fellow, what was she like! She was the daughter of a rich
merchant of Antwerp. A Belgian article! First a provincial, and then a
foreigner! Papa doesn't like Parisians. Mamma was from Châtellerault,
and she was indeed a saint. Number Two happened to be in Paris; so last
night, at the Opéra Comique, they showed me a Fleming, who was very
blond, very insipid, very masculine--a Rubens, a true Rubens; a
giantess, a colossal woman, a head taller than I, which is to say that
materially one could not take her in a lower stage-box, and those are
the only boxes I like. On leaving the theatre I told papa that I
wouldn't have Number Two any more than Number One, and that I had had
enough, and that I wouldn't see Number Three. The discussion was heated.
Papa went off banging doors and repeating, 'No more money!' I saw that
it was serious. I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep--I thought; but I
could think of nothing to save me from the fat hands of the Antwerp
girl. Suddenly, towards three in the morning, I had an inspiration--I
had an idea that I can call, if you'll permit it, a stroke of genius."
"I'll permit it."
"Yes, genius. I knew that you left to-day for Marseilles, and this
morning I departed, English fashion, without explanation, and in a
little while, at the first stop, at Laroche--I have looked at the
time-table, I have thought of everything--I shall send the following
despatch to my father," and Raoul triumphantly pulled a paper out of his
pocket. "It's all ready. Listen. 'M. Chamblard, 8 Rue Rougemont, Paris,
Laroche station. I left on the express for Marseilles with Maurice. I am
going to make a voyage around the world. I sha'n't be more than six
months. I have engaged by telegraph a state-room on the _Traonaddy_
which leaves to-morrow for Singapore. Anything rather than a Flemish
alliance! Farewell. With regrets for leaving you, your affectionate son,
Raoul Chamblard.' My telegram's all right, isn't it?"
"It isn't bad, but do you seriously mean--"
"Yes, I shall go if, before I reach Marseilles, I haven't an answer from
papa; but I shall have one, for two reasons. In the first place, Papa
Chamblard knows how to reason, and he will say to himself: 'What shall I
gain by it? Instead of fooling round with little white women in Paris,
he will fool round with little yellow ones at Singapore.' And then
another reason, the best one, is that Papa Chamblard adores me, and he
can't do without me, and the little sentimental phrase at the end of my
despatch will appeal to his heart. You'll see how it will turn out. At
11.20 my telegram will leave Laroche; papa will receive it at half-past
twelve. And I'll bet you ten louis that at Dijon or Mâcon I'll find in
the wire screen of the station a telegram addressed to me, and worded
thus: 'Return; no longer question of Antwerp marriage.' Papa's telegram
will be brief, because he is saving and suppresses unnecessary words.
Will you take the bet?"
"No, I should lose."
"I think so. Have you the papers?"
"Yes."
They read three or four papers, Parisian papers, and read them like true
Parisians. It took a short fifteen minutes. While reading they exchanged
short remarks about the new ministry, the races at Auteuil, and Yvette
Guilbert--particularly about Yvette Guilbert. Young Chamblard had been
to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain:
"Un fiacre allait trottinant
Cahin-caha
Hu dia! Hop là!
Un fiacre allait trottinant
Jaune avec un cocher blanc."
And as the light cavalryman had never heard Yvette Guilbert sing the
"Fiacre," young Chamblard threw up his arms and exclaimed: "You never
heard the 'Fiacre,' and you had three months' leave! What did you do in
Paris? _I_ know the 'Fiacre' by heart."
Upon which Raoul began to hum again, and while humming in a voice which
became more and more slow, and more and more feeble, he settled back
into his arm-chair, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber, like the big
baby that he was.
All at once he was waked up with a start by the stepping of the train,
and by the voice of the conductor, who cried, "Ouah! Ouah! Ouah!" The
cry is the same for all stations. This time it was meant for Laroche.
And now for the telegram. Young Chamblard ran to the telegraph-office.
The immovable operator counted the sixty-seven words of that queer
despatch. "All aboard, all aboard!"
Young Chamblard had scarcely time to jump on the step of his car.
"Ouf! that's done," he said to the cavalryman. "Suppose we lunch."
So they both started on their way to the dining-car. It was quite a
journey, for two parlor-cars separated them from the restaurant-car, and
those two cars were crowded. It was the season for the great pilgrimage
of a few Parisians and a good many English towards Nice, Cannes, and
Monte Carlo. The express was running very fast, and was pitching
violently. One needed sea-legs. Then a furious wind beat against the
train, and wrapped it in clouds of dust, making the crossing of the
platforms particularly disagreeable.
They advanced, walking with difficulty through the first car, over the
first crossing, and encountering the first squall, then through the
second car; but Chamblard, who went ahead, had difficulty in opening the
door to the second platform. It resisted on account of the force of the
wind; finally it yielded, and Raoul received at the same time in his
eyes a cloud of dust, and in his arms a young blonde, who exclaimed,
"Oh, excuse me!" while he, too, exclaimed, "Oh, excuse me!" and at the
same time he received the cavalryman on his back, who, also blinded by
the dust, was saying, "Go on, Raoul, go on."
The two doors of the cars had shut, and they were all three crowded in
the little passage in the wind--young Raoul, young Maurice, and the
young blonde.
The "Oh, excuse me" was immediately followed by a "M. Maurice!" which
was replied to by a "Mlle. Martha!" The little blonde knew the
cavalryman, and perceiving that she was almost in the arms of a
stranger, Mlle. Martha disengaged herself, and backed cleverly towards
the platform of the car, saying to Maurice, "You're on the train, and
you're going?"
"To Algeria."
"We to Marseilles. I am getting a shawl for mamma, who is cold. Mamma
will be delighted to see you. You will find her in the dining-car. I'll
see you later."
"But I will accompany you?"
"If you like."
She walked on, but not without first having slightly bowed to young
Chamblard, who had remained there astounded, contemplating Mlle. Martha
with eyes filled with admiration.
She had time before going to notice that he was a good-looking young
fellow, that he wore a neat little suit, and that he looked at her with
staring eyes; but in those staring eyes a thought could be clearly read
that could not displease her: "Oh, how pretty you are!"
Raoul was, in fact, saying to himself: "My type, exactly my type! And
what style--what style in the simplicity of that costume! And the little
toque, a little on one side over the ear--it's a masterpiece! How well
she knows how to dress! What an effect she would make in an audience!
And that little English accent!"
For she had a little English accent; she had even taken a good deal of
trouble for several years to acquire that little accent. She used to say
to her governess, Miss Butler:
"Yes, of course I want to know English, but I wish especially to speak
French with an English accent." She had worked for nothing else. She had
been, fortunately, rewarded for her perseverance; her little
Anglo-Parisian gibberish was at times quite original.
While Maurice was retracing his steps with Mlle. Martha, Raoul placed
himself at a table in the dining-car. He soon saw them come back with
mamma's shawl. Maurice lingered for a few minutes at the table where the
mother and the young brother of the little blonde were lunching. Then he
came back to Raoul, who said as soon as he approached:
"Who is she--quick, tell me, who is she? Whenever one pleases I will
marry her--now, on getting down from the train. In my arms! I held her
in my arms! Such a waist! A dream! There are, as you must know, slim
waists and slim waists. There are waists which are slim, hard, harsh,
stiff, bony, or mechanically made by odious artifices in the corsets. I
have thoroughly studied the corset question. It's so important! And then
there's the true slim waist, which is easy, natural, supple. Supple
isn't sufficient for what just slid through my hands a short time ago.
Slippery--yes, that's the word. Slippery just expresses my thought--a
slippery waist!"
Raoul was quite charmed with what he said.
"Yes," he continued, "slippery; and that little pug-nose! and her little
eyes have quite a--a Chinese air! But who is she, who is she?"
"The daughter of one of my mother's friends."
"Is she rich?"
"Very rich."
"It's on account of papa that I asked you that, because I would marry
her without a dowry. It's the first time I've ever said such a thing on
meeting a young girl. And now the name."
"Mlle. Martha Derame."
"Derame, did you say?"
"Yes."
"Isn't the father a wealthy merchant who has business in Japan and
China?"
"The same."
"Ah, my dear fellow--no; one only sees such things in the comic plays
of the minor theatres, at Cluny or Dejazet."
"What's the matter with you?"
"What's the matter with me? She's papa's Number Three--yes, Number
Three. The father of that little marvel is one of papa's piquet players
at the club. And I wouldn't see Number Three, and she falls into my arms
on the platform between Paris and Lyons. You will present me after
lunch, and I shall speak to the mother and tell her all."
"How, all?"
"Yes, all; that her daughter is papa's Number Three, and that I didn't
want Number One or Two, but that I should like Number Three. Ah, dear
boy, how pretty she is--especially her nose, so charmingly turned up.
She has just looked at me, and in a certain way; I am sure I don't
displease her. Did you mention me, did you tell my name?"
"No."
"You were wrong. At any rate, right after lunch--Do you know what I
think? That this affair will go through on wheels. I shall first
telegraph papa, and then to-morrow--Oh, heavens! I hope there's a
telephone between Paris and Marseilles--"
He interrupted himself and called:
"Porter! Porter!"
"Sir."
"Is there a telephone between Paris and Marseilles?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah! That's all Thanks. The telephone, Maurice, there's the telephone!
Papa can speak for me to-morrow by telephone. It will be charming!
Marriage by express. Express, electric, telephonic, and romantic
marriage, all at the same time. You understand that between a little
phiz like that and a voyage around the world I don't hesitate. But why
haven't you thought of marrying her?"
"Oh, too wealthy--too wealthy a match for me; and then she is not the
kind of little person to go and bury in a garrison town in Algeria. She
is a Parisian, a true Parisian, who wants to amuse herself, and who will
amuse herself."
"Just what I want, absolutely just what I want. I too wish to amuse
myself. She will amuse herself, I shall amuse myself, we will amuse
ourselves."
Young Raoul was in a frenzy, and as soon as he had finished his luncheon
he scrawled a new despatch on the restaurant table to his father, and,
while writing, talked very excitedly.
"I'll send my despatch from Dijon, and I'll address it to the club; papa
will be there about five o'clock, and also the father of this little
marvel. They can immediately discuss the affair. Shall I ask for an
answer at Lyons? The time-table, pass me the time-table. Lyons, 5.25.
No, that would be too short. Answer at Marseilles. They stop at
Marseilles? Yes? For twenty-four hours? All right, so do I. At what
hotel? Hôtel de Noailles? All right, so do I. So answer Hôtel de
Noailles. My despatch is very good. You will see. As good as the
other--better, even. I've the knack of telegrams to-day. Yes, it's very
good."
He wrote and wrote; he was inspired, he was animated; he made a few more
mistakes than usual in spelling, that was all--it was emotion. He reread
his despatch with complaisance, he made Maurice read it, who could not
help thinking the incident funny. Raoul counted the words of his
despatch--there were about a hundred and fifty--and calling the waiter
of the dining-car, he said, "Send this telegram off for me at Dijon.
Here are ten francs; there will be two or three over for you."