Floromond and Frisonnette, who were giddy with a sense of wealth
when they acquired three rooms, and had flowers growing on their own
balcony, and sat upon chairs that they had actually bought and paid
for, held a reception one fine day. The occasion was a christening.
Floromond and Frisonnette were, of course, monsieur and madame
Jolicoeur, and they dwelt in the part of Paris that was nearest to
Arcadia. Among those present were monsieur Tricotrin, the unadmired
poet, monsieur Pitou, the composer of no repute, monsieur Lajeunie,
whose stirring romances so rarely reached a printing office, and
monsieur Sanquereau, the equally distinguished sculptor.
Though the company were poor in pocket, they were rich in benevolence,
and since the dearth of coppers forbade silver mugs, they modelled
their gifts upon the example of the good fairies. Advancing graciously
to the cradle, the bard bestowed upon the female infant the genius of
poesy: "Epics, and odes," he declared, "shall fall from her lips like
the gentle dew from Heaven." "And, symphonies," said the musician, "she
shall drop as nimbly as the newly rich drop needy friends." That she
might be equipped more fully yet for the stress of modern life, the
novelist endowed her with the power of surpassing narrative, while the
sculptor, in his turn, contributed to her quiver the pre-eminence of
Praxiteles.
Then Frisonnette hung over her baby, saying, "And one boon, besides:
let her marry her sweetheart and always remember that a husband's love
is better than an ermine cloak!"--an allusion which moved Floromond to
such tenderness that he forthwith took his wife in his arms, regardless
of us all; and which reminded your obedient servant of their story.
* * * * *
When Floromond beheld her first, she was in a shop window--the most
tempting exhibit that a shop window had displayed to him, in all
his five-and-twenty years. If he had stayed in the quarter where he
belonged, it would not have happened. It was early on a spring morning,
and she was posing a hat, for the enticement of ladies who would tread
the rue La Fayette later in the day. Floromond, sunning himself like
a lord, though he was nothing better than a painter, went on to the
Garden of the Tuileries, noting how nicely the birds sang, and thinking
foolish thoughts. "Had I a thousand-franc note in my pocket, instead of
an importunate note from a washer-woman," ran his reverie, "I would go
back and buy that hat; and when she asked me where it was to be sent, I
would say, 'I do not know your name and address, mademoiselle.' Then,
having departed, without another word, leaving her speechless with
amazement and delight, I should never see her any more--until, not too
long afterwards, we found ourselves, by accident, in the same omnibus.
Ciel! how blue her eyes were."
And, though he did not omit to reprove himself, in the most
conscientious manner, and the weather changed for the worse, his
admiration drew him to the rue La Fayette, at the same hour, every day.
Frisonnette's demeanour, behind the plate glass, was propriety itself.
But she could not be unconscious that the young man's pace always
slackened in the downpour, as he approached madame Aureole's--she could
not be insensible of the homage of his gaze. That Tuesday morning,
when, dripping, he bowed, his salutation was so respectful that she
felt she would be inhuman to ignore it.
So the time came when they trod the rue La Fayette together, making
confessions to each other, after the shop shut.
"I used to wonder at first whether you noticed me as I went by," he
told her wistfully.
"I noticed you from the beginning," she owned, "you have such a funny
walk. The day that you were late----"
"My watch was in pawn. Sapristi, how I raced! It makes me perspire to
think of it."
"I took five minutes longer than usual to dress the window, waiting for
you."
"If I had guessed! And you didn't divine that I came on purpose?"
She shook her head. "I used to think you must be employed somewhere
about."
"What! you took me for a clerk?" asked the artist, horrified.
"Only at the start. I soon saw you couldn't be that--your clothes were
too shabby, and your hair was so long."
"I could have wished you to correct the impression by reason of my air
of intellect. However, to talk sensibly, could the prettiest girl in
France ever care for a man who had shabby clothes, and a funny walk?"
"Well, when she was beside him, she would not remark them much," said
Frisonnette shyly. "But I do not think you should ask me conundrums
until you have talked politics with my aunt; I feel sure she would
consider it premature."
"Mademoiselle," said Floromond, "I am rejoiced to hear that your aunt
has such excellent judgment. Few things would give me greater pleasure
than to agree with her politics as soon as you can procure me the
invitation."
And one day Floromond and Frisonnette descended the steps of a certain
mairie arm in arm--Frisonnette in a white frock and a nutter--and the
elderly gentleman in the salle des mariages, to whom brides were more
commonplace than black-berries, looked after this bride with something
like sentiment behind his pince-nez. A policeman at the gate was
distinctly heard to murmur, "What eyes!" And so rapidly had the rumour
of her fairness flown, that there were nearly as many spectators on
the sidewalk as if it had been a marriage of money, with vehicles from
the livery stables.
The bride's aunt wore her moire antique, with coral bracelets, and at
breakfast in the restaurant she wept. But, as was announced on the
menu, wedding couples and their parties were offered free admission
to the Zoological Gardens; pianos were at the disposal of the ladies;
and an admirable photographer executed GRATUITOUSLY portraits of
the couples, or a group of their guests. At the promise of being
photographed in the moire antique, a thing that had not occurred to her
for thirty years, the old lady recovered her spirits; and if Tricotrin,
in proposing the health of the happy pair, had not digressed into
tearful reminiscences of a blighted love-story of his own, there would
have been no further pathetic incident.
Floromond and Frisonnette, like foreigners more fashionable, "spent
their honeymoon in Paris," for, of course, Frisonnette had to keep
on selling Auréole's hats. Home was reached by a narrow staircase,
which threatened never to leave off, and after business hours the
sweethearts--as ridiculously enchanted with each other as if they had
never been married--would exchange confidences and kisses at a little
window that was like the upper half of a Punch and Judy show, popped
among the chimney-pots of the slanting tiles as an afterthought.
"It is good to have so exalted a position," said Frisonnette; "there is
no one nearer than the angels to overlook us. But I pray you not to
mention it to the concierge, or our rent will soon be as high as our
lodging. The faint object that you may discern below, my Floromond, is
Paris, and the specks passing by are people."
"They must not pass us by too long, however, Beloved," said Floromond;
"I am a married man and awake to my responsibilities. It would not suit
me, by any manner of means, to share you with millinery all your dear
little life. More than ever I have resolved to be eminent, and when the
plate glass can never separate us again, you shall have dessert twice a
day, and a bonne to wash the dishes."
"My child," murmured Frisonnette, "come and perch on my lap, while I
talk wisdom to you, for you are very young, and you have been such
a little while in Paradise that you have not learnt the ways of its
habitants. It chagrins you that you cannot give me dessert, and
domestics, and a cinema every Saturday night. But because I worship
you, my little sugar husband, because every moment that I pass away
from you, among the millinery, seems to me as long as the rue de
Vaugirard, I do not think of such things when we are together. To be in
your arms is enough. Life looks to me divine--and if I find anything at
all lacking in our heavens it is merely a second cupboard. Now, since
you are too heavy for me, you may jump down, and we will reverse the
situation."
"I have strange tidings to reveal to you," said Floromond, squeezing
the breath out of her--"I adore you, Frisonnette!"
They remained so blissful that many people were of the opinion that
Providence was neglecting its plain duty. Here was a thriftless
painter daring to marry a girl without a franc, and finding the course
of wedlock run as smooth as if he had been a prosperous grocer with
branches in the suburbs! The example set to the Youth of the quarter
was shocking. And a year passed, and two years passed, and still the
angels might see Floromond and Frisonnette kissing at the attic window.
Then one afternoon it happened that a French beauty, hastening along
the rue La Fayette with tiny, toppling steps, as if her bust were
too heavy for her feet, found herself arrested by a toque on view at
Auréole's--and entering with condescension, was still more charmed
by the assistant who attended to her. The chance customer was no one
less important than the wife of Finot--Finot the dressmaker, Finot the
Famous--and at dinner that night, when they had reached the cheese, she
said to the great man:
"My little cabbage, at a milliner's of no distinction I have come
across a blonde who could wipe the floor with every mannequin we boast.
She is as chic as a model, and as bright as a sequin; she is just the
height to do justice to a _manteau;_ her neck would go beautifully with
an evening gown; and she has hips that were created for next season's
skirt."
"Let her call!" said the great man, adding a few drops of kirsch to his
_petit suisse_.
"She would be good business, I assure you," declared the lady; "she
talked me into taking a toque more than twice the price of the one I
went in for--_me_! Well, I shall have to find a pretext for speaking to
her--I must go back and see if there is another hat that I care to buy."
"It is not necessary," replied her husband; "go back and complain of
the one you bought."
So the lady talked to Frisonnette in undertones, and Frisonnette
listened to her in bewilderment, not quite certain whether she was
twirling to the top of her ladder, or being victimised by a diabolical
hoax. And the following forenoon she passed by appointment through
imposing portals that often she had eyed with awe. And Finot, having
satisfied himself that she had brains as well as grace--for they are
very wide of the mark who think of his pampered mannequins as elegant
mechanical toys--signified his august approval.
Frisonnette went home and described the splendours of the place to
Floromond, who congratulated her, with a misgiving that he tried to
stifle. And later on she told him of the dazzling déjeuners that were
provided, repasts which she vowed stuck in her throat, because he was
not there to share them. And, not least, she sought to picture to him
the gowns that she wore and sold. O visions of another world! There
are things for which the vocabulary of the Académie Francaise would be
inadequate. Such clothes looked too celestial to be touched. But she
was a woman. Though her head was spinning, as Finot's mirrors reflected
her magnificence, though she was admiring herself inimitably, she
accomplished so casual an air that one might have thought she had never
put on anything cheaper in her life.
And, being a woman, she did not suffer from a spinning head very long;
she soon became acclimatised.
In the daytime, Frisonnette ate delicate food, and sauntered through
stately show-rooms, robed like a queen--and in the evening she turned
slowly to her little old frock, and supped on scraps in the garret. And
now her laughter sounded seldom there. Gradually the contentment that
had found a heaven under the tiles changed to a petulance that found
beneath them nothing to commend. Her gaze was sombre, and often she
sighed. And the misgiving that Floromond had tried to stifle knocked
louder at his heart.
By and by the little old frock was discarded and thrust out of view,
and she wore costumes that made the garret look gaunter still, for with
her increased salary, and commissions, she could afford such things.
Floromond knew no regret when she ceased to speak of bettering their
abode instead--his pride had revolted at the thought of astonishing
their neighbours on his wife's money--but the smart costumes made her
seem somebody different in his eyes, and moodily he felt that it was
presumption for a fellow in such a threadbare coat to try to kiss her.
"What a swell you are nowadays!" the poor boy would say, forcing a
smile.
And Frisonnette would scoff. "A swell? This rag!" as she recalled with
longing the gorgeous toilettes that graced her in the show-room.
One treasure there she coveted with all her soul. It was an ermine
cloak, so beautiful that simply to stroke it thrilled her with ecstasy.
Only once had she had an opportunity of luxuriating in its folds; under
its seductive caress she had promenaded, on the Aubusson carpet, for
the allurement of an américaine, who, after all, had chosen something
else. The mannequin used to think that she who possessed it should be
the proudest woman in the world, and twice the painter had been wakened
to hear her murmuring rhapsodies of it in her sleep.
"If I could sell my 'Ariadne' and carry her away to some romantic
cottage among the meadows!" he would say to himself disconsolately.
"Then she would see no more of the fangles and folderols that have
divided us--she would be my sweetheart, just as she used to be."
But the best that he could do was to sell his pot-boilers; and a
romantic cottage among the meadows looked no nearer to his purse than a
corner mansion in the avenue Van-Dyck.
That the fangles and folderols had indeed divided them was more
apparent still as time went on--so much so that frequently he passed
the evening at a café, to avoid the heartache of watching her repine.
But it was really waste of coppers, for he thought of the change in her
all the while; and when he lagged up the high staircase, on his return,
he was remembering, at every step, the Frisonnette who formerly had
run to greet him at the top.
"You are a devoted companion," she would remark bitterly, as he
entered. "What do you imagine I do with myself, in this hole, all the
evening, while you stay carousing outside?"
"I imagine you sit turning up your nose at everything, as you do when I
am with you," he would answer, hiding his pain.
Then Frisonnette would cry that he was a bear; and Floromond would
retort that her own temper had not improved, which was certainly true.
And after she had exclaimed that it was false, and stamped her foot
furiously to prove it, she would burst into tears, and wonder why she
remained with a man who, not content with forsaking her for cafes, came
home and calumniated her nose, and her temper besides.
Meanwhile Finot had been contemplating her performances on the Aubusson
carpet with rising respect. His versatile mind was now projecting the
winter advertisements, and he determined to entrust to his best blonde
one of those duties which, from time to time, rendered the luckiest of
his mannequins objects of unspeakable envy to all the rest. Finot's
advertisements were conducted on a scale becoming to a firm whose
annual profits ran into millions of francs.
"Mon enfant," he said to her, "you have been a very good girl. And
though you may think you are rewarded royally already, as indeed you
are"--and here followed an irritating dissertation upon the softness
of her job, to which she listened with impatience--"I am preparing a
treat for you of the first order. How would it please you to travel,
for a couple of months or so, a little later on?"
"To travel, I?" she stammered.
"You and one of the other young ladies. Monte Carlo, Vienna, Rome?"
"Rome?" ejaculated Frisonnette, who had never dreamed of reaching any
other "Rome" than the one on the Métropolitain Railway.
"Mademoiselle Piganne would contrast most effectively with your tints,
I think?" He screwed up his eyes. "Y-e-s, we could hardly evolve
a colour scheme more delicious than you and mademoiselle Piganne!
Whatever capitals we may decide on, you will stay at the hotels of the
highest standing; all matters like that you will do best to leave to
the judgment of the chaperon in attendance on you both, otherwise you
might have the unfortunate experience to find yourself in an hotel
not exclusively patronised by the cream of Society. Your personal
wardrobe, for which you will be supplied with from twelve to fourteen
trunks, will consist of those creations of my art which best express
my soul, and your affair will be to attract sensational attention
to them, while preserving an attitude of the severest propriety.
That is imperative, remember! No English or American mother, with
her daughters beside her, must for a single instant doubt that you
are morally deserving of her closest stare. An open carriage in the
park, where the climate permits--a stage box at the opera, when the
audience is most brilliant, will, of course, suggest themselves to
your mind. But, again, the duenna and the man-servant will organise
the programme as skilfully as they will look the parts. All that will
be required of you is a display, brilliant and untiring; the rest will
be done by others. Every woman everywhere will instruct her maid to
find out all about you, and your own maid--an employee of the firm in a
humble capacity--will have orders to whisper that you are a princess,
travelling incognito, and that your dresses come from Me."
Frisonnette could do no more than pant, "I will speak about it at
home, monsieur, at once!" And because she foresaw with resentment that
Floromond's approval would be far from warm, she broached the subject
to him very diffidently.
At the back of the little head that Finot's finery had turned, she
knew well that if her "bear" betook himself too often to cafes, it was
mortified love that drove him to them; so she made haste to tell him:
"It might be the best thing for you, to get rid of me for a couple of
months--I should return in a much better humour and you would find me
quite nice again."
"You think so, Frisonnette?" said Floromond, with a sad smile.
"What do you mean?" she asked, paling.
"I mean," he sighed, "that after the 'brilliant display,' it is not our
ménage under the tiles that would seem to you idyllic repose. Heaven
knows it goes against the grain to beg a sacrifice, but if you accept
such luxury, I feel that you would never bear our straits together
again. Do not deceive yourself, little one; you would be leaving me,
not for two months, but for ever!"
Deep in her consciousness had lurked this thought too, and she turned
from him in guilty silence. "You are fond of me, then," she muttered at
last, "in spite of all?"
"If I am fond of you!" groaned Floromond. "Ah, Frisonnette,
Frisonnette, there is no moment, even when you are coldest, that I
would not give my life for you. I curse the poverty that prevents me
tearing you from these temptations and making you entirely mine once
more. If I were rich! It is I who would give you boxes at the opera,
and carriages in the park; I would wrap you in that ermine cloak, and
pour all the jewels of Boucheron's window in your lap."
"I will not go!" she cried, weeping. "Forgive me, forgive the way I
have behaved. I have been wicked, yes! But I repent, it is ended--I
will not go!"
And that night she was proud and joyful to think she would not go. It
was only in the grey morning that her heart sank to remember it.
"I must decline," she said to Finot hesitatingly. "I have a husband.
I--I could not take my husband?"
"Mon enfant, your husband would not grudge you the little holiday
without him, one may be sure."
It was like being barred from Eden. "And the ermine cloak," she
faltered, "could I take the ermine cloak?"
The tempter smiled. "One cannot doubt that, among fourteen trunks,
there would be room for the ermine cloak," he told her suavely.
One November evening when Floromond came in, his wife was not there. He
supposed she had been detained in the show-room--until he groped for a
match; and then, in the dark, his hand touched an envelope, stuck in
the box. He trembled so heavily that, before he could light the lamp,
he seemed to be falling through an eternity of fear.
He read: "I am leaving you because I am frivolous and contemptible. I
dare not entreat your pardon. But I shall never make you wretched any
more...."
When he noticed things again, from the chair in which he crouched, he
found that the night had passed and daylight filled the room. He was
shuddering with cold. And he got feebly up, and wavered towards the bed.
* * * * *
"She did not ponder her words," babbled the aunt, who came to him
aghast--"she will return to you. When the two months are over and she
is back in Paris, you will see!"
"She pondered longer than you surmise, and she will never return to
me," he said. "And what is more, a man with nothing to offer can never
presume to seek her. No, I have done with illusions--she will be no
nearer to me in Paris than in Monte Carlo; Frisonnette's Paris and
mine henceforth will be different worlds."
Floromond lived, without Frisonnette, among the clothes that she had
left behind; the dainty things that she had prized had been abandoned
now that she was to be decked in masterpieces. They hung ownerless, the
_peignoir_, and _tricot_, and dresses--the pink, and the mauve, and the
plaid--gathering the dust, and speaking of her to him always.
"She has soared above you, dish-clouts!" he would cry sometimes, half
mad with misery. "It was you who first estranged us--now it is your
turn to be spurned." And, as he tossed sleepless, his fancy followed
her; or pacing the room, he projected some passionate indictment,
which, on reflection, he never sent.
"You should try to work," his reason told him. "If you worked, you
might manage to forget in minutes." And, setting his teeth, he took
palette and brush and worked doggedly for hours. But he did not forget,
and the result of his effort was so execrable that he knew that he was
simply wasting good paint.
Then, because work was beyond him, and his purse was always slimmer,
he began to make déjeuner do for dinner, too. And not long after that,
he was reducing his rations more every day. It was a haggard Floromond
who threaded his way among the crowds that massed the pavements when
some weeks had passed. The boulevards were gay with booths of toys
and trifles now; great branches of holly glowed on the _baroques_ of
the flower-vendors at the street corners; and the restaurants, where
throngs would fête the _Réveillon,_ and New Year's Eve, displayed
advice to merry-makers to book their tables well ahead.
"My own rejoicings will be held at home!" said Floromond.
And, during the afternoon of New Year's Eve, it was by a stroke
of irony that the first comrade who had rapped at the door since
Frisonnette's flight came to propose expenditure. "Two places go
begging for the supper at the Café des Beaux Esprits," he explained
blithely, "and it struck me that you and your wife might join our
party? Quite select, mon vieux. They promise to do one very well, and
five francs a cover is to include everything but the wine."
"My wife has an engagement that she found it impossible to refuse,"
said the painter, huddled over the fading fire. "And as for me, I am
not hungry."
The other stared. "There is time enough for you to be hungry by
midnight."
"That is a fact," assented Floromond; "I may be most inconveniently
hungry by midnight. But I am less likely to be scattering five francs.
In plain French, my dear Bonvoisin, if you could lend me a few sous, I
should feel comparatively prosperous. I am like the two places at the
Beaux Esprits--I go begging."
Bonvoisin looked down his nose. "I should have been overjoyed to
accommodate you, of course," he mumbled, "but at this season, you know
how it is. What with the pestilential tips to the concierge, and the
postman, and one thing and another, I am confoundedly hard up myself."
"All my sympathy!" said Floromond. "Amuse yourself well at the
banquet." And he sprinkled a little more dust over the dying _boulets_
in the grate, to prolong their warmth.
Outside, big snowflakes fell.
"The man who has never known poverty has never known his fellow-man,"
he mused; "I would have sworn for Bonvoisin. He has inspired me with
an apophthegm, however--let us give Bonvoisin his due! And, to take a
rosy view of things, turkeys are very indigestible birds, and, since
I lack the fuel to cook it, I am spared the fatigue of going out to
buy one for my mahogany to-morrow. Really there is much to be thankful
for--the only embarrassment is to know where it is to be found. If I
knew where enough tobacco for a cigarette was to be found, I would be
thankful for that also. How the Mediterranean sparkles, and how hot the
sun is, to be sure! We shall get freckles, she and I. Won't you spare
me half of your beautiful sunshade, Frisonnette? Upon my word, I could
grow light-headed, with a little encouragement; I could imagine that
the steps I hear on the staircase now are hers! Fortunately, I have too
much self-control to let fancy fool me."
Nevertheless, as he leant listening, his face was blanched.
The steps drew nearer.
"I know, of course, they go to the room on the other side; a moment
more, and they will pass," he told himself, holding his breath.
But the steps halted, and a timid tap came.
"It is a child with a bill--the laundress's child. I know thoroughly
it is the laundress's child--I do not hope!" he lied, tearing the door
open.
And Frisonnette stood there, asking to come in.
"I have run away," she quavered. Her teeth were chattering, and
her fashionable coat was caked with snow. "I should have come long
ago--only, I was ashamed."
"You are real?" said Floromond, touching her. "You are not a dream?"
"Every day I have longed to be back with you, and at last I could bear
no more. Do you think you might forgive me if you tried?"
"There is a tear on your cheek, and your dear little nose is pink
with the cold, and the snow has taken your feathers out of curl," he
answered, laughing and crying. "Let us pretend there are logs blazing
up the chimney, and we will draw one chair to the hearth and tell each
other how miserable we have been--or better than that, how happy we
are!"
But still she clung to him, shivering and condemning herself.
"And so," she repeated, "I ran away. It is a habit I am acquiring.
Finot is furious; he has dismissed me; I have no job and no money. I
have come back with nothing, my Floromond, but the clothes I stand up
in. And--and why do I find you with an empty coal-scuttle?"
"Ma foi!" he stammered, loath to deepen her distress, "as usual, that
imbecile of a charbonnier has neglected to fulfil the order."
"He becomes intolerable," she faltered. "Is that why I notice that your
tobacco-pouch is empty, too?"
"Oh, as for the tobacco-pouch," said the young man, "in this ferocious
weather I have been reluctant to put on my hat."
"It is natural," murmured Frisonnette. But her eyes were frightened,
and she investigated the cupboard. And when the cupboard was discovered
to be as empty as the pouch and the coal-scuttle, she rushed to him in
a panic.
"You are starving!" she moaned. "You have starved here, while I----Mon
Dieu, I have not come home too soon!"
"Tut, tut," said Floromond; "are you trying to pose me for a hero of
romance? I have been an idle vagabond, that is all. The cat is out of
the bag, though--you have come home, ma Frisonnette adorée, and I have
nothing for your welcome but my embrace!" And thinking of the want that
lay before her, he broke down.
"I love you, I love you, Floromond," she wept.
"I love you," he sobbed, "I love you, Frisonnette."
Then, in the fading daylight, arose a plaintive cry--the wail of the
itinerant wardrobe dealer: "_Chand d'habits!_"
"_Chand d'habits_!" she gasped, and darted to the window. "_Chand
d'habits_!" she screamed--and stripped the smart costume from her
and stood triumphant in her petticoat. Before the dealer's aged legs
had toiled up half the stairs, she was back in the little old frock
that had been cast aside. "Hook me, my Floromond!" And her eager arms
were laden, and her frozen hands showered raiment on the floor: the
_peignoir_, and _tricot_, and dresses--the pink, and the mauve, and the
plaid. "We dine to-night!" she laughed. "Enter, _Chand d'habits!_"
* * * * *
"And, word of honour," observed Floromond, when the clocks of Paris
had sounded twelve, and the pair sat digesting their beef-steak, and
toasting their toes, and she rolled another cigarette for him, "word of
honour, you have never looked more captivating than you do now--that
frock becomes you marvellously. At the same time, the fine clothes I
have been gobbling lie somewhat heavy on my sensibilities, particularly
the fascinating ribbons of the _peignoir_. If only I had kept my nose
to the grindstone! Ah, if only we had something better to expect than
this hand-to-mouth existence! Alas, on New Year's Day, I cannot give
you even a bunch of flowers."
And, at that moment, hurrying feet approached the house--young and
excited voices were heard below. And what should it prove to be Well,
what it _should_ have proved to be was, that his "Ariadne" had, in some
ingenious way, been purchased, for a large sum, without his knowledge,
and that a contingent of the quarter had arrived to proclaim his
affluence; but, as a matter of semi-sober fact, it was only a posse of
exhilarated students, wishing everybody the compliments of the season,
and playing _Le Chemin de l'Amour_ on a trombone.
Still, there was a beautiful morning, as we know, when Floromond and
Frisonnette had flowers on their own balcony, and three rooms, and
chairs that they had actually bought and paid for--to say nothing of
the baby. The Moral of which is, that there are more New Year's Days
than one and it's never too late to hope. So let us all hope now!