the world go round! And here's a young spark as has laid in a good stock
of it. Well, Paul, even if you give yourself a stiff neck standing like
that, with your head in the air, you won't succeed in opening the
windows on the fourth floor, if Mademoiselle Dumanchon, the dressmaker,
wants 'em to stay shut. Mademoiselle Dumanchon don't let her girls go
out to walk the streets; indeed, she has plenty of work, because, they
say, she knows her business. She makes dresses that give a bust to women
without any, and that hide the hips of those who have too much. That's
genuine talent! I am surprised that she lives on the fourth floor; to be
sure, lodgings in this quarter are pretty high.--Come, Paul, tell me,
haven't you seen your little girl to-day?"
The young messenger who was looking in the air turned to Sans-Cravate
and replied:
"My little girl? What do you mean? I don't understand you."
"Oh, well! if we're going to play the stupid, if we have secrets from
our friends--that's a different matter, and you'd better say so. Do you
suppose I don't know that you're in love with one of the dressmaker's
apprentices, a pretty little thing named Elina, who takes short, quick
steps when she passes us, which doesn't prevent her casting a sly glance
in your direction?"
"Really, Sans-Cravate! do you think she looks at me when she passes?"
"You don't see her yourself, I suppose, you fox?"
"Oh! I assure you, Sans-Cravate, that I have never said a word to that
young woman which could make her suspect that I dare to think of her. I
think her very pretty, that is true; and then, she is so pleasant and so
courteous when she gives me an errand to do! There are so many people
who treat us messengers as if we were brutes or savages!"
"When anybody takes that tone with me, I pay him back in his own coin.
If people are decent, I am amiable; if they're insolent, then I'm
brutal! and be damned to 'em!"
"But when one is obliged to work for his living, he must work for
everybody."
"Not at all! I choose my patrons. Indeed, I very often fold my arms."
"Several times Mademoiselle Elina has taken me with her to carry boxes,
and she always talks to me so kindly---- Ah! it makes me forget that I
am only a poor messenger."
"In short, you are in love with the girl; that's the whole story."
"Oh, no! Sans-Cravate, you're mistaken; and, anyway, what good would it
do me to love that charming creature? Can a man of my class, one of the
common people, presume to raise his eyes to someone who will not come
down to his level?"
"Look you, a man always presumes, and does his reasoning afterward. And
then, it don't seem to me that a dressmaker's apprentice is such a very
great personage; and, even if you are a messenger, aren't you as good a
man as another? If a duchess would have me, I'd adore her, duchess and
all.--Great God! if Bastringuette should hear me, she'd make me go
without tobacco."
"Yes," said Paul, with a sigh, "a messenger's trade requires that he be
an honest man. I don't blush for my calling, I assure you. And yet,
there was a time when I was justified in hoping that I might occupy a
higher station. A most excellent man, happening to see me, when I was
ten years old, in the charitable institution where I was brought up,
took a fancy to me and offered to take charge of me, as he needed
someone to do errands for him. Monsieur Desroches was a respectable
tradesman, and his proposition was thankfully accepted. I left that
refuge of the unfortunate, where I had passed my childhood, and went to
live with my new patron, in the Marais. As he was satisfied with the
zeal and promptitude with which I did the errands he gave me to do,
Monsieur Desroches had me taught to read and write and cipher, and
employed me in his office; and every day he would give me a friendly tap
on the shoulder, and say: 'You're doing well, Paul; keep on, and you'll
make your way.'"
"Good! He was what I call a fine old cove! And that's how it is that you
know so much, and that you're so much better set up than the rest of us.
Well, why didn't you stay with that fine old fellow? I suppose you
played some prank or other. _Dame!_ boys will be boys!"
"Oh, no! not that at all! I would never have left good Monsieur
Desroches. But after I had lived with him eight years, he and his wife
treating me like their own child, my benefactor was utterly ruined by a
bad failure; and the poor man died of grief, because he was compelled to
ask for time to pay his notes."
"Sapristi! you ought to have kept some of that man's seed. His kind are
not common in the market."
"I was eighteen years old at that time. I tried to find a place, to get
into some business house; but I couldn't find anything. However, I had
to earn money, for one must live; so I soon made up my mind: I bought a
pair of _crochets_ and started in as a messenger."
"And you did well. There is no foolish trade, as one of the old
troubadours said! But how did you happen to come into this quarter
instead of staying in the Marais, where you were known?"
"That was just the reason. People there had seen me every day,
dressed--I might almost say, fashionably, and I didn't care to have them
see me in this jacket. For, I tell you, Sans-Cravate, although you may
set your mind on making the best of it, there are times when you can't
help remembering the past."
"I understand your feeling, especially as I myself---- Mine is another
kind; but the idea's the same. I mean that I sometimes think of my
father, and my poor mother, and my sister Adeline, or Liline, as I call
her--such a pretty creature she is. Ah! I might have stayed with them
all, in our little village in Auvergne. My father often said to me:
'Stay with us, Étienne (they didn't call me _Sans-Cravate_ there), stay
with us and take care of my little farm. We have enough to live on. What
are you going to do in Paris?'--But, damnation! my feet itched; I
couldn't stay still. I said to my father: 'Let me go; I mean to make my
fortune, and bring back a big marriage portion for Liline.'--So he let
me go, and it's amazing how I pile up the money! I never have a sou! I
tell you, Paul, when I think of that, I am ashamed of myself; I would
give myself a good thrashing, if I could."
"Don't get excited, my dear Sans-Cravate; if your father has enough to
live on, of course he doesn't count on you."
"I went to see them two years and a half ago; I knew it would please
father, and I myself was glad enough to see 'em all and give 'em a kiss.
I had succeeded in saving thirty francs, and I said to myself: 'With
thirty francs and a good stick, I can walk home as comfortably as you
please.' So I started; but Jean Ficelle started with me, and the second
day my money was all gone. However, I got there after a while. I saw my
sister, who was fifteen then--I am six years older than she is; she is
almighty pretty, and such fine manners and language! There's a Madame de
Clermont, who has taken a fancy to her and often sends for her to go and
visit her. Then my poor father is left all alone in the village. But he
says: 'I can't interfere with what that lady chooses to do for my
child's good.'--He hoped I would stay with him, but I couldn't. When a
man has had a taste of this rascally Paris, can he make up his mind to
live in a village?--I said to my father: 'I am in a fair way to get
rich; I must go back to Paris, or else I shall miss my opportunity; I
will come back when I have money enough.'--And off I went; and when I
got here, my trousers were torn so that you could see my posterior; and
at the barrier, they thought I was trying to smuggle, and ran after me,
singing out: 'What are you hiding there?'--'I'm hiding nothing,' says I;
'on the contrary, I'm showing too much; collect a duty on it, if you
choose.'--And---- Well, you don't seem to be listening. So much for
talking to a lover; it's the same as talking to yourself."
While Sans-Cravate was speaking, Paul had turned his eyes toward the
dressmaker's windows again, and seemed, in fact, to have ceased to
listen to his comrade. But at that moment the third messenger, who had
not spoken, uttered a grunt of satisfaction and jumped up from the
bench, crying:
"I have it, I have done it; oh! I have it as neat as you please!"
"What is it that you have, Jean Ficelle?" asked Sans-Cravate.
The person addressed raised his head and replied, with a disdainful
glance at his comrades:
"Oh! something that I can use to take greenhorns in."
"Another new game, I'll bet; for you're a very devil of a gambler!"
"Well, why not? Games of chance are tabooed in Paris, but the sharks and
blacklegs in good society find a way to play, all the same. They have
secret meetings, where they can ruin themselves as nice as you please,
on the pretence of having a little dance."
"How do you know?"
"Oh! I know everything. Well, then, why shouldn't the small fry, the
less select society, have the same chance? But they go about it more
openly. The men who run games of chance set them up in the open air, all
ready to cut stakes at sight of a policeman or a detective. You don't
know anything about it, you fellows; you are greenhorns. Just listen to
me a minute, for your instruction."
"A nice kind of instruction we are likely to get from you, I fancy."
"But it's always a help, even if it's only to keep you from being taken
in by sharpers.--Come, Sans-Cravate, come and sit down with me."
Sans-Cravate concluded to take his seat on the stone bench, beside Jean
Ficelle, who continued, with the important air of one who considers
himself much more intelligent than those to whom he speaks:
"Near the barriers, under the arches of the bridges, on the outer
boulevards, and in the neighborhood of the wine market, are the places
where you will usually find the men in blouses and plain caps who are
called _croupiers_, which means: men who run a game. In the summertime,
if you should go and look under the arches of the bridge over the canal
near Pont d'Austerlitz, you would see a number of games in full blast.
You see groups of men--first, the _croupiers_ and their confederates
(for wherever there's games of chance, there's confederates); then,
peasants, countrymen, and workmen with their loaves under their arms;
these are the pigeons, who let themselves be plucked by the bait of a
possible gain."
"What a lot this Jean Ficelle knows!--You seem to have made a study of
it!"
"In my own interest, in order not to be a pigeon! They play _biribi_,
_table-basse_, _jarretières_, _trois noix_, and sometimes _loto_; but
the first three are played most. The game of _jarretières_, you know,
consists in sticking a pin into the edge of a piece of cloth. The man
who runs the game always uses the skirt of his frock-coat. If I had one
on, I'd show you how it's done. He lifts up one corner, presses it very
tight, and holds it out to you in such a way that to stick a pin into
the edge seems to be the simplest thing in the world."
"Well?"
"But not much; because the _croupier_, when he picks up the hem of his
coat, is smart enough to turn it under; so that you always stick your
pin into the middle of the cloth when you think you're sticking it into
the edge."
"I'd stick it into his ugly mug!--And _table-basse_, what's that?"
"You see a little table with a lot of little, numbered holes. They hand
you a dicebox, with some balls; you throw the balls on the table at
random, and they roll into the holes; then they add up the numbers and
give you the prize corresponding to the total. The big prizes are never
won; you never get the silver watch, the piece of plate, or the drinking
cup, that they show to entice you; but a flint and steel, or a
save-all--that's all your twenty sous ever wins."
"Very pretty, indeed! a choice lot they must be! But what did you mean
just now when you sung out: 'I've got it! I know how it's done!'"
"Oh! that's the most popular of all the games--_biribi_."
"_Biribi?_"
"I'll show you that; you play it with just three cards, see; and one of
'em's _biribi_. Look, the ace of hearts! Now, to win, all you have to do
is guess where _biribi_ is. But the _croupier's_ skill consists in
always showing you the under card, and that is always _biribi_; then he
moves his cards this way and that, and you think you can follow it with
your eyes. Like this: now, follow the ace of hearts, follow it
carefully; do you know which of the three it is now?"
Sans-Cravate, who had kept his eyes on the cards, placed his hand on one
of them, saying:
"This is the ace of hearts."
"How much do you bet?"
"A glass of beer."
"Done!"
Jean Ficelle turned the card and showed his wondering comrade that it
was not _biribi_.
Sans-Cravate was stupefied. Jean Ficelle repeated the trick twice, and
won two more glasses of beer.
"Are you a sorcerer?" cried the other.
"Oh, no! But you don't see that, when I move the cards about, I always
throw the one that's on top, although I make believe to throw the one on
the bottom. That's how they gull the peasant, who thinks he hasn't taken
his eyes off _biribi_. But if by any chance the pigeon guesses right,
just when he's going to put his hand on the card which is really
_biribi_, a confederate, who is always on hand, says to him: 'Not that
one, my man; the other one, to the left. I am sure of it, and, to prove
it, I'll bet a hundred sous.' The peasant is persuaded by the
confederate's confidence, he takes up the card on which the other has
bet five francs, and he is _smoked_.--I say there, you man of sighs,
come and play _biribi_ with us a while."
Paul glanced at the cards and shook his head.
"I don't care for card playing," he said.
"We must kill time, especially when we've nothing to do. Come and play
for a glass of beer--that won't ruin you."
"I don't want to play."
"Humph! what a poor cuss that fellow is!" said Jean Ficelle, turning
back to Sans-Cravate. "He'll never spend a sou with his friends. I don't
call that being a man, myself."
"Paul is more sensible, wiser, than we are; he saves his money and he
does well."
"Saves his money--hum! I don't feel so sure what he does with his money;
he gets mighty little good out of it. He's pale as an egg, and his
jacket's all patched at the elbows. _Dame!_ perhaps he spends it all to
seduce his girl. Women aren't to be caught with nothing but sighs. They
like to have money spent on 'em--dressmakers, especially. They say that
they have to have dinners and theatre tickets and jewelry. Little Elina
probably spends it all for him. She has the look of a sly little
coquette----"
On hearing Elina's name, Paul ran up to Jean Ficelle, seized his left
arm, and shook it roughly.
"What's that you say?" he exclaimed. "You dare to talk about
Mademoiselle Elina! If I am not mistaken, you had the effrontery to make
remarks about that young lady! Be careful, Jean! I am not ill-tempered;
but if you should be unlucky enough to insult her, why, I would stamp on
you as I do on these cards!"
"Let alone of me, I say! Will you let alone of me? Stupid fool--to walk
on my cards!"
"A terrible calamity! A fine business for a messenger, isn't it? to
learn thieves' and blacklegs' tricks, to study ways of cheating other
people! Instead of handling cards so skilfully, you would do much better
to mend your _crochets_ and your saw. But you prefer to play cards!"
"Ah, ça! isn't it about time for the fellow to stop? What airs he puts
on! and why, I should like to know! A miserable foundling, with no
father nor mother--and he undertakes to preach to other people! Go and
hunt up your parents--that would be a better business for you."
Paul lowered his eyes at the word _foundling_, and his face assumed an
expression of profound sadness; he released his hold on Jean's arm, and,
stepping back to the wall, stood leaning against it without speaking a
word.
But Sans-Cravate, who knew that nothing wounded Paul so deeply as to be
reminded that he had been abandoned by his parents, and who saw the
sorrowful expression of his face, rose abruptly and shook his clenched
fist under Jean Ficelle's nose, saying:
"You're a miserable cur! and if your nose wasn't so turned-up already
that I can see your brain, I'd turn it up a little more for you. You
know that the poor fellow is unhappy because he knows nothing about his
family; but it isn't any crime, and it's better to have no family at all
than to come of low-lived stock! But it hurts him when anyone speaks of
it; and you remind him of it on purpose! It was a mean, dirty trick! I
have a good mind to thrash you. Come, try a little bout with me; I'll
give you a good dust bath, to cool you off."
Sans-Cravate had already seized Jean about the waist; but Paul hastened
to intervene, and forced Sans-Cravate to release his hold.
"I don't want you to fight my battles," he said. "When I choose to teach
Jean a lesson, I can do it myself all right. A man is always strong when
he is not afraid. When he called me a foundling, he said no more than
the truth, and I have no right to thrash him for that. But let him
beware how he insults Mademoiselle Elina, or makes such remarks as he
made just now about dressmakers--for then he would have a chance to see
what my arm weighs."
Jean Ficelle eyed Paul contemptuously, and muttered, with a shrug:
"Yes, he's about as strong as a flea; he can't carry a commode
upstairs!"
But a glance from Sans-Cravate made him change his tone on the instant,
and he added, with an affectation of good humor:
"But why does he throw my cards on the ground? if it amuses me to play
_biribi_, ain't I at liberty to do it? _Vive la charte!_ When all's said
and done, Sans-Cravate, you owe me three glasses of beer; are you going
to pay them?"
"With what, I wonder? I wouldn't ask anything better than to rinse my
gullet, for I'm dried up with thirst; but I haven't a _monaco_!"
Thereupon Jean Ficelle went up to Sans-Cravate, and whispered in his
ear, with a glance at Paul:
"Borrow a little tin of him; you're a friend of his, and friends always
lend to each other. If I had any, it would be at your service; but I'm
as strapped as you are."
"Paul has no more than the rest of us," replied Sans-Cravate, in an
undertone; "I saw him breakfasting this morning on an old dry crust and
a glass of cocoa! When a man eats a meal like that, it means that he
ain't lined with gold."
"But what does he do with his money, then? for he earns more than we do;
his luck is indecent. As all the women of the quarter think he's
good-looking, they always choose him to do their errands; the windfalls
pass us by, and are all for him. So he must have money, for he never
spends any; he always refuses to play cards, or drink, or go to the wine
shop. I tell you again, he's a mean cuss, who saves up his money, like
the miser he is!"
"There you go again! Jean Ficelle, you're spoiling for a thrashing. Paul
is my friend, and I like him; let him do what he pleases with his money,
it's none of our business. One thing I'm sure of is that he's a fine
fellow, for I saw him one evening run after a gentleman and give him
back a twenty-franc piece he'd given him by mistake for twenty sous. I'm
not sure you'd do as much, Biribi."
"Bah! who knows! You're stuck on that greenhorn; and yet, if I chose to
be mean, I could tell you some things about him that would open your
eyes; but you see things crooked----"
"What are you talking about? More nonsense, I'll bet."
Jean Ficelle pretended to hesitate and to reflect as to whether he
should say anything more, but at that moment three young men turned into
Rue du Helder from the boulevard and walked toward the messengers.
"Ah! here come customers!" cried Sans-Cravate; "I shall have some supper
to-night!"
IV
DIVERS COMMISSIONS
Albert, Célestin, and Tobie walked toward the messengers, while
Sans-Cravate went forward to meet Albert, who employed him regularly and
always paid him handsomely; so that the young Auvergnat felt a strong
liking for the young man, whose free and easy manners and fascinating
air pleased him mightily.
"There's a young man who knows what's what, who amuses himself and
enjoys life!" he would exclaim. "_Crédié!_ if I had his figure and his
money, that's the kind of a life I'd like to lead! Three or four
mistresses at once! that must be rather pleasant and amusing! a fellow
would have no time to be bored."
So it was that Sans-Cravate listened with a smile on his lips and with
interest and attention to what Albert said after leading him aside:
"Take this letter and carry it to Madame Baldimer, Rue Neuve-Vivienne;
the address is on the envelope. I think that she is not at home; but if
by any chance she is, you will ask for an answer; if not, go there
again, about eight o'clock, to get the answer; and bring it to me at the
Maison-Dorée restaurant, where I shall be at that time."
"Very good, monsieur. By the way, can I go up to the lady's apartment?"
"Yes, yes. You need take no precautions; there's no father, or husband,
or aunt. And, Sans-Cravate, go to my house also, on Rue Caumartin, and
ask the concierge if there are any letters for me; if there are, he'll
give them to you, for he knows you; and you will bring them to me at the
same place."
"Very good, monsieur; I understand."
Albert placed a five-franc piece in Sans-Cravate's hand, and left him.
Meanwhile, Célestin de Valnoir had taken Jean Ficelle, who was his
favorite messenger, aside and handed him a letter, saying in a very low
tone, after looking about to make sure that nobody could hear:
"Carry this note to Madame Baldimer--the lady to whose house I have sent
you several times."
"Yes, monsieur, I know; I will go upstairs, as usual, and ask for
Mamzelle Rosa, the lady's-maid, saying that I come from you."
"Exactly. And if Madame Baldimer is not at home, Rosa will tell you
where you can find her; go there, and bring me the lady's answer at the
Maison-Dorée restaurant, where I shall dine. I will speak to the waiter,
and he will let me know when you arrive."
"Very good, monsieur."
"By the way, it is possible that the gentleman who has just employed
your comrade Sans-Cravate may be sending him also to Madame Baldimer's.
As he must not know that I am sending you there, be prudent; let
Sans-Cravate go first, and don't go in until he has come out."
"Never fear; I didn't get the sobriquet of Ficelle for nothing. He shall
not know where I am going."
"Very well."
Célestin turned his back on the messenger, and joined Albert, who had
returned to the boulevard.
Tobie Pigeonnier, meanwhile, had led Paul under a porte cochère, and
there, after making sure that he was so far away from his two friends
that they could not hear him, he said to the messenger:
"My boy, are you clever, faithful, and intelligent?"
Paul gazed in surprise at the little fellow who asked him the question
with an air of mystery, as if he were about to admit him to the secret
of a conspiracy.
"As to being faithful, monsieur," he replied, "it is my duty; I should
be doubly guilty in my calling, if I betrayed the confidence of those
who are good enough to employ me. At all events, monsieur, I am well
known in the quarter, and you can inquire about me. As to my cleverness
and intelligence, I have, as a general rule, had no difficulty in
carrying out my instructions."
"Good, very good. I see that you are not too dull; you are the man for
me, for I detest dull-witted people. Listen to me with the closest
attention; stay--let us go a little farther; I have reasons for not
wanting those gentlemen to hear what I have to say to you. There--let us
stop in this corner. You will go---- By the way, what is your name?"
"Paul, monsieur."
"Paul; very good. You will go to the Temple, Paul, to the Temple
Market--you know--where they sell clothing and linen for both sexes, and
footwear too."
"I know the place, monsieur."
"You will go into the market, near the rotunda, where the stalls
are,--they are called _ayons_,--to the part occupied by the milliners."
"Does monsieur mean the dealers in old hats?"
"Old hats!--why, they sell new ones too, and wreaths of flowers, almost
new, and ladies' caps--in fact, all the pretty gewgaws that women
always dote on. You will ask for Madame Abraham--she is well known--she
is one of the largest dealers in the place."
"Madame Abraham; very well, monsieur."
"You will hand her this letter. Do you know how to read?"
Paul could not restrain a faint smile as he replied:
"Oh! yes, monsieur; very well."
"So much the better; I am very glad, because, in that case, you won't
make any blunder."
But as he was not fully convinced that the messenger had told him the
truth, Monsieur Tobie held up the letter he was about to give him, and
said:
"What does that say?"
"_To Madame Agar Abraham, wholesale milliner, Marché du Temple._"
"That's right, that's quite right; you read perfectly. You will give
this letter, then, to Madame Abraham, and she will hand you some money
for me; I have funds invested in her business. You will take the money,
and--and----"
At that point, Tobie, seeing that a gentleman and lady were passing,
raised his voice almost to a shout, and threw his head back and his
chest forward: