dine at the Maison-Dorée; it is my favorite restaurant. You will ask the
waiter for Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier. I am very well known at the
Maison-Dorée."
"I understand, monsieur."
The people who were passing being out of earshot, the stout youth
continued in an undertone:
"One moment, Paul; that is not all. If by any chance--for we must
provide for everything--if Madame Abraham should not give you any money
for me--merchants are sometimes a little short--if, I say, Madame
Abraham should give you nothing for me, then, and only then, you will go
to the house where I live, on Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins--the address
is on this other letter, and you know how to read. You will go there and
give this letter to my concierge, Madame Pluchonneau,--the name is on
the envelope,--and tell her you will wait for an answer. You may be
obliged to wait some time, for I have told my concierge to do an errand
for me. But you will wait in her lodge, she has a very fine lodge. Then
my concierge, when she returns, will hand you some money, which you will
bring to the Maison-Dorée."
"Very good, monsieur."
"You are sure that you understand, messenger? If you receive money from
Madame Abraham, who will doubtless hand you with it a memorandum of the
amount, then it will not be necessary to go to my house, and you will
bring back the letter for Madame Pluchonneau. But if you get nothing at
the Temple, then go to Rue de la Ferme-des-Mathurins."
"I understand perfectly, monsieur."
"Off with you, young Paul! You can send word to me by the waiter; don't
give me my answer before those other gentlemen. Secrecy, above all
things!"
"Very good, monsieur."
"Go! I will give you a handsome _pourboire._"
And Tobie Pigeonnier returned to the boulevard and joined his friends,
who shouted to him when he came in sight:
"Come on! What a long while it takes you to send a message to your
charmers!"
"Here I am, messieurs. Oh! a man has to show some consideration. Let us
be fickle, if you will, but we must not forget to be gallant; that is my
nature."
While the young men walked away, the messengers came together again.
Sans-Cravate held up the five-franc piece he had received, crying:
"Paid in advance! a cart-wheel! what do you think of that! There's a
generous young man for you! I would fight for him."
"But you probably have got to go a long way for him," said Jean Ficelle,
with affected indifference.
"Oh, no! nothing at all. First to Rue Neuve-Vivienne--only two steps;
then to his house on Rue Caumartin, and from there to the Maison-Dorée.
It's all right in the quarter."
Jean Ficelle's eyes twinkled when he learned that Sans-Cravate was going
to Rue Neuve-Vivienne, and he made haste to say:
"I have got to go much farther than that--Faubourg Saint-Honoré--and I
ain't paid in advance."
"And I, too," said Paul, placing his _crochets_ behind a porte cochère,
"have got a long way to go, and I'm afraid it will take a long while."
"Where are you going?" asked Jean Ficelle.
"The gentleman who employed me told me not to talk; so it doesn't seem
to me that I ought to tell where he sends me."
"Bah! you sneak!" muttered Jean, with a shrug.
"Well, my friends," said Sans-Cravate, as he donned his fur cap, "the
day ends well. I don't know whether you'll be paid as generously as me;
but, at all events, I'll treat; let's have supper together to-night at
my regular little wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare. Does that hit you?"
"It does me," replied Jean Ficelle; "we'll meet there to-night, then;
it's agreed."
"I can't," said Paul; "I have business this evening; I must go to see a
certain person, a long way from here, and----"
"Nonsense, Paul! I won't listen to such reasons as that; you can attend
to your business to-morrow. I want you to have supper with us. I've
invited you two or three times, and you always refuse. _Crédié!_ if you
don't come to-night, I shall think you're proud, and afraid of lowering
yourself by sitting at the same table with me."
"Proud! proud of what, for God's sake?" muttered Jean, in so low a tone
that Paul could not hear him. The latter hesitated a moment before
replying:
"Oh! Sans-Cravate, you surely can't think that I am proud. Am I not a
messenger, like you?"
"Very well, then; you'll come, that's settled. I must be off and do my
errands. By the way, friends, if one of you sees Bastringuette before I
do, just tell her where we sup. If we should feast without her, I should
be a dead man to-morrow."
As he spoke, Sans-Cravate started off along the boulevard. Jean Ficelle
waited a short time, then took the same direction, muttering:
"To be afraid that a woman will scold you, and not dare to treat
yourself without her! that must be pleasant, on my word! And he calls
himself a man! I call him a milksop. The real men aren't those who
strike the hardest--but the sly dogs who know how to make dupes."
Monsieur Jean Ficelle had left the stand and Paul was about to follow
his example, after a parting glance at the house in which the
dressmaker lived, when a young woman with fair hair, blue eyes, and
smiling red lips came out through the porte cochère, and, having nimbly
crossed the gutter, walked toward the young messenger. She wore a coarse
linen dress, and a black apron fastened about her waist by a silk cord;
on her head was a very simple cap, unadorned with flowers or ribbons;
but the simplicity of her costume did not prevent people from noticing
her and, in many cases, from turning to glance after her; for her face
was very pleasant to look upon, her figure perfectly proportioned, her
carriage graceful, her gait light and springy; in a word, there was in
her whole aspect that indefinable something which at once attracts and
captivates the eye: a fortunate gift of nature, which carries with it
all other gifts in the case of the women who possess it. I say _women_,
because, in general, the _something_ in question applies to women rather
than to men. It is that indefinable something which compels us to submit
to the empire of two eyes which do not need to be very large or very
beautiful to lead us captive; it is enough if they have that
_something._ O ye who possess it, envy not the regular beauties, the
Greek or Roman profiles, the correct and faultlessly proportioned
features, of your rivals! If you are not of those women whom men admire,
you are of those whom they desire, and that is much better.
When he saw the girl coming toward him, Paul stood as if rooted to the
spot; he could not go away. He quickly removed his cap, and at the same
time lowered his eyes with a timid air, as if he dared not presume to
salute the young dressmaker, but desired to manifest his respect for
her.
But Elina stopped in front of him and said, with an amiable smile:
"Good-evening, Monsieur Paul! I am very glad to find you."
"Can I be of service to you in any way, mademoiselle? Pray speak; I am
at your disposition, day and night, whenever you choose. I am so happy
when you are good enough to employ me!"
As he spoke, Paul raised his eyes until they rested on the girl's face,
who seemed not at all displeased; but in an instant, as if he repented
of his temerity, he hung his head and sighed.
"You are always so obliging, Monsieur Paul, that I thought of you
for--listen, it is this: I live with my aunt, Madame Vardeine, who has
taken care of me since my parents died; she says that I owe her a great
deal of money, although my father left me a little something--fifteen
thousand francs, I believe; that isn't a fortune, but still it's enough
to live on, and one can be very comfortable with that, if one has a
trade too; isn't that so?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; with orderly habits and hard work, one may become
rich with that amount of money."
"Do you really think so? It must be very nice to be rich! Well, as I was
saying, my aunt is forever telling me that she does everything for me,
that I cost her a great deal, that I spend much more than my money
brings in--for she is my guardian. But, oh! Monsieur Paul, if you knew
what she gives me for my breakfast and dinner, you would say that it was
none too much! Luckily, I'm not a glutton, whatever she may say. Ten
sous for breakfast and dinner--can one be a glutton with that?"
"No, indeed, mademoiselle. But it is very wrong of your aunt to give you
so little for your food. Your money must certainly bring in seven
hundred francs a year--which would give you about thirty-nine sous a
day to spend. So if she gives you only ten sous for your board, she
keeps twenty-nine for your lodging."
"Oh! I think you must be mistaken, Monsieur Paul; my aunt says that my
money brings in barely twenty sous a day,--that's a long way from
thirty-nine,--and that she has to use some of her own to clothe me."
"I am not mistaken, mademoiselle. I know how to reckon, for I haven't
always been a messenger. For eight years, I was employed in a merchant's
office, and I worked over figures and accounts all day."
"Really, Monsieur Paul? Ah! I thought---- You don't look like a
messenger--like the others. You talk well, and you don't swear. Were you
obliged to take up this business?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; my benefactor died, and I had not a sou. As I
couldn't find a place, I thought it was better to be a messenger than to
idle away my time and live, as so many do, at others' expense."
"You are quite right. After all, there is nothing despicable in being a
messenger; you're not a servant, as the girls in our workroom are so
fond of calling you. Oh! they say that to make me furious, because I
always stand up for you."
"Stand up for me? You say that you sometimes talk about me in your
workroom?"
Mademoiselle Elina blushed as she replied:
"Oh!--that is to say--we talk about messengers in general--and as we
have employed you several times---- But I stand chattering here, when I
came down to buy something at the linen draper's, and I haven't told you
yet what I wanted to ask you. My aunt says that I talk too much. As far
as that goes, perhaps she is right; it's such fun to talk--not with
everybody, of course, but with people who--listen to you--and--that is
to say---- Mon Dieu! it seems to me that I am getting all mixed up, and
don't know what I am saying."
Paul ventured to glance at the pretty dressmaker once more. Her face
wore such a comical expression, as she twisted a corner of her apron in
her hands, that the young man smiled involuntarily, and his smile was
reflected on Elina's lips; for between two persons who are sympathetic a
smile is like a train of powder: the spark is hardly applied at one end
before it reaches the other.
"I wanted to ask you, Monsieur Paul, if you could come and help me move
to-morrow morning?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; with great pleasure."
"You must come very early, so that it can be all done before it is time
for me to go to my work."
"I will come as early as you wish, mademoiselle. Where are you going to
move?"
"Oh! in the same house. We live on Rue Taitbout, you know--for you have
sometimes been kind enough to carry my bundles home for me, because, you
said, they were too heavy for a young girl."
"It was a very great pleasure to me, mademoiselle. I am so happy when
you deign to permit me--when I can--when I have the honor----"
Paul stopped, for he found that he too was getting confused; but Elina
did not seem surprised; on the contrary, was it not natural that he
should have the same experience that she had had a moment before? should
not the same causes always produce the same effects?
"You see, Monsieur Paul, my aunt has found another apartment on the same
floor, the fourth, which isn't so dear, and where she says we shall be
quite as comfortable. She herself certainly will be, for she has a room
as large as her other one, with a splendid fireplace. But it isn't the
same with me; where we are now, I have a little room opening on the
little hallway. It's pretty small; just big enough for my bed, a commode
that was my mother's, two chairs, and a little table covered with red
leather, which father used for a desk. Those things are all that I have
that belonged to my parents, and I think a great deal of them. Well!
where we're going to-morrow, there's nothing for me but a little box of
a place, which was once part of a dark room used as a hall; and I never
shall be able to get my commode and table into it. But my aunt declares
that I shall be better off, that I shall be warmer, and that it's very
healthy to sleep in a loft."
"Your aunt is very blameworthy, mademoiselle, to make you sleep in a
loft, for it is very unhealthy, I say. You have the right to demand a
room for yourself. She must be very miserly. If you like, I will speak
to her, and make her understand that she mustn't treat you so cruelly,
that you are not a burden to her, far from it, but----"
"Oh! no, no, Monsieur Paul; if my aunt knew that I had dared to complain
of her, she would be angry and would scold me. No, you mustn't say
anything to her. After all, what difference does it make if I haven't a
room of my own? I am at home so little; I go away at eight in the
morning to my work, and I don't leave the workroom till nine at night,
sometimes later, when there's a press of work. So you see I am hardly
ever in my room except to sleep, and at my age one can sleep soundly
anywhere. And then, my aunt isn't really unkind, only she always thinks
of herself first. Oh! she never thinks of depriving herself of anything,
either for her breakfast or her dinner; but she says that a young girl
ought to be economical and abstemious; she is quite right, too, and I
assure you that with my ten sous I have all I need to eat. Indeed, there
are some days when I don't spend it all; I keep a little for the next
day, and then I have a feast. Mon Dieu! how I rattle on! My mistress
will tell me I have been gone too long. It is a question of helping me
to move, Monsieur Paul. As we are going to stay on the same floor, my
aunt told me to get the concierge to help me, as he and I could move
everything. But he is very old, and I'm afraid he isn't strong enough to
move the things with me; so, if you can come----"
"Certainly, mademoiselle; I will move everything, never fear; there will
be no need for you to tire yourself."
"Oh! I expect to help you. Well, then, Monsieur Paul, until to-morrow
morning! come early, won't you?"
"Before daybreak, if you wish, mademoiselle."
"Oh, no! it is light before five o'clock now; if you can come at
half-past five or quarter to six, that will be quite early enough."
"Very well, mademoiselle; I will be prompt."
"By the way, you must knock softly, so as not to wake my aunt; for she
gets up very late. We can move everything except her bed."
"We won't make any noise, mademoiselle."
"Adieu, Monsieur Paul! Oh, dear! now I don't know what I was going to
buy at the linen draper's; in talking with you, I have entirely
forgotten."
"Thread, perhaps--or ribbon--or needles?"
"No, no. Oh! what a head I have! Never mind; I'll go back and say they
hadn't any. Then madame will say that it's taken me a long time to find
that out."
"Don't you want me to go up to Madame Dumanchon's, mademoiselle? I'll
tell her that you have forgotten what color you were to buy, or how
much."
"Oh, no! for then they would know that I have been talking to you; and
the girls are always making fun of me now, because----"
"Because you are kind enough to employ me in preference to others?"
"Yes; and then, I--I said that you were above your calling. And I was
right too, as you were in a merchant's employ for a long while; but
still, they are so unkind! Well, it can't be helped; I must go back. I
will admit that I have forgotten what I came out for, and I shall be
scolded; but that's a small matter."
The girl turned and walked dolefully back toward the house opposite, and
was just passing through the door, when she suddenly jumped for joy and
ran back across the street, saying to Paul as she passed him:
"Whalebones, small, thin whalebones, to put in the back of a dress, I
remember now. Adieu, until to-morrow!"
Paul looked after her until she turned into the boulevard; and even when
he could no longer see her, he continued to gaze in that direction, as
if it prolonged his happiness. But in a moment he exclaimed:
"Mon Dieu! I have forgotten that young gentleman's errands!"
He was about to start and make up for the time he had lost, when he felt
a hand upon his arm. He turned and found that it was the flower girl who
was detaining him.
"Let me go, Bastringuette, let me go!" he said; "I am in a great hurry;
I have some errands to do."
"In a hurry, are you? I say! you didn't seem to be a minute ago, for
you've been having a nice little chin with the little dressmaker. She
plays a pretty game with her mouth, she does. You seem to have had lots
of things to tell her, flatterer!"
"It's just because I have been talking so long that I am behindhand. By
the way, Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate expects you to sup with him
to-night at his wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare. He means to treat
everybody."
"Shall you be in the crowd?"
"Why--perhaps so."
"I want you to be--if not, I won't go. Monster! who knows that I love
him, that I am cracked over his shape, and still he won't honor me with
a look, while he talks yards at a time with little hussies of
dressmakers!"
"I am not in the habit of making eyes at my friends' mistresses,
Bastringuette; and Sans-Cravate is my friend."
"I don't care a hang; I haven't sworn to love the same man and no one
else all my life. That would be too monotonous; it's all right for the
swells to take that kind of oaths and then break 'em. I prefer to act on
the square, and I wouldn't hesitate to say before Sans-Cravate that I am
stuck on you."
"You are mad. Let me go, I insist!"
Paul succeeded in releasing his jacket from the flower girl's grasp, and
ran off at full speed; while Bastringuette crushed one of her bunches of
violets, muttering:
"That's what comes of loving such beasts! Well, it don't make any
difference; the more he resists me, the more I love him. That's my
nature! we can't make ourselves over."
V
CLOSER ACQUAINTANCE
Before returning to the three young men who were about to enter the
Passage des Panoramas, let us say a few words with regard to them: it is
always well to know the people with whom one has to do.
Albert Vermoncey, whose external aspect was so captivating, had not
reached his twenty-second birthday, and yet he was leading the most
wildly dissipated life that a man can lead in Paris. Spoiled prematurely
by his success with the fair sex, he deemed himself in duty bound to
deceive all the women with whom he had dealings, to have several
mistresses at the same time, to keep ballet dancers, to seduce simple
bourgeoises, to make sport of grandes dames, and to amuse himself with
grisettes.
To lead such an existence, one must have wealth, or high office, or
unlimited credit. Albert had no office; he had completed the course of
study for the bar, and called himself an advocate. There is nothing more
advantageous to a man in Paris than to have studied for the bar; he may
do nothing, and still he has a profession. That is why young men of good
family, as a general rule, are very desirous to study law. But, in order
to cut a brilliant figure in that position, it is necessary to have
wealth in addition; for it is not the fashion to retain an advocate who
tries no causes, unless he becomes a business agent, in which case he
assumes the pompous title of _jurisconsult_, and has a _cabinet._
Knowledge of the law is a great advantage to a business agent, because
he is then in a position to handle business of all sorts. When he knows
the _Code_, the _Digest_, and the _Authentiques_, he can undertake
proceedings for separation, look after inheritances, adoptions, and
prosecutions; and those things do not interfere with his writing
vaudevilles or melodramas in his leisure moments. I should be much
embarrassed to mention anything that a man cannot do when he has studied
law.
But Albert had no _cabinet_, nor did he try causes; he had never been to
the Palais de Justice, and he thought of nothing but enjoying himself;
it is plain, therefore, that he was wealthy, or that his parents
were,--which is not altogether the same thing, although young men
sometimes overlook the distinction.
Albert's father was a man somewhat over forty years of age, who had once
been very handsome, and presumably had had his day of success with the
ladies. However, before he reached the age at which men are accustomed
to reform (when they reform at all), Monsieur Vermoncey had renounced
all worldly pleasures, as the result of a succession of cruel disasters
which robbed him of all that he held dearest.
Monsieur Vermoncey, whose only possession was his comely face, married
early in life a young woman of large wealth, and from that time fortune
smiled upon him. He plunged into speculation, was continuously lucky,
and soon found himself in possession of an income of twenty thousand
francs.
In his home, as in affairs, destiny seemed favorable to him. His wife
was amiable and gentle; he had married her solely for her fortune, but
he soon found that she deserved to be loved for herself, and, unlike
those husbands who are all fire and flame at first and then turn to
ice, he proceeded from indifference to love.
Four children were born of the marriage, at brief intervals. Albert was
the oldest, and he had two brothers and a sister. Monsieur Vermoncey was
happy, and proud of his numerous family; he was as good a father as
husband.
But that state of affairs was too happy to last; perfect happiness seems
to be contrary to the designs of Nature, for she speedily sends
something to disturb it. Perhaps it is to afford some compensation to
the unfortunate by showing them that suffering spares the greatest no
more than the smallest, the wealthiest no more than the poorest; to
prevent them from envying too keenly those in exalted station, and to
impress it upon them that sometimes under the humblest roof are to be
found those inestimable blessings, those joys of the heart, which all
the gold of Peru cannot buy.
The oldest child was but ten years old when Monsieur Vermoncey lost his
wife; this calamity was soon followed by the death of his youngest son;
two years later, his daughter also was taken from him; finally, Albert's
last brother followed his mother to the grave. So that, of his large
family, only one son remained to fill the places of all whom he had
lost.
These events had caused Monsieur Vermoncey the most profound grief,
which was always reflected on his features. His wife's death caused him
a very bitter pang, and the loss of each succeeding child intensified
his sorrow beyond words. He would often sit for hours at a time, crushed
to the earth by his thoughts; and when he raised his eyes, they bore an
expression of melancholy resignation which could not fail to touch the
hardest heart.
All his affection was concentrated on Albert, his only remaining child.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the young man had found in his
father a boundless store of indulgence, upon which he relied to obtain
forgiveness for his excesses.
However, Monsieur Vermoncey did not carry his weakness so far that he
did not see his son's failings; he had urged him to lead a more orderly
life; sometimes, even, he had tried to impart a tinge of severity to his
advice; but his intense affection for his son soon carried the day;
moreover, Albert always promised to mend his ways, and his father was
only too glad to believe him.
Unfortunately for Albert, he had become intimate with one of those men
who trade on the weaknesses of others, and who, not having means enough
to lead a life of dissipation, and lacking the talent to procure it,
attach themselves to those who are possessed of wealth, find a way to
make themselves necessary to them, to take part in all their follies, to
be included in all their parties of pleasure; so that they are able to
lead a most agreeable existence with a very modest income, or even if
they have not a sou. Paris swarms with such men. They are not thieves,
strictly speaking, for they do not rob you; they are not mere
_intrigants_, for they have a name and some position in society; but
they are shrewd fellows, who risk nothing and make the most of
everything.