which it is impossible to mistake, and which attract one's eye
instantly."
"You are too gallant, monsieur; but I beg your pardon--I am looking for
somebody, and I am afraid----"
"Do not look for him, it is useless; he will not come--at least, not at
this moment."
"What! what do you mean?"
"That I come from Albert Vermoncey, my intimate friend, who is prevented
by important business from joining you just yet."
"What do you say? he has told you--why, that is very indiscreet on
Monsieur Albert's part. Really, men are a hundred times more garrulous
than women!"
"That is true! O mon Dieu! how true it is!"
"I trust that you do not believe----"
"I believe only that Albert is very fortunate when he is with you."
"That is too kind of you! but what did he tell you to say to me?"
"To offer a thousand excuses--and then, to escort you to a place where
he will join us--a little later."
"Ah! he will join us--and he has sent you to keep me company?"
"If you will be good enough to accept the substitution."
"This seems to me rather inconsiderate on Monsieur Albert's part. I
don't know if I ought to believe you."
"Here's a letter which he gave me for you, so that you might have full
confidence in me."
Madame Plays took the letter, opened it, recognized Albert's signature,
and tried to read it; but it was too dark, so she folded the letter and
put it in her bosom, saying:
"I will read it later; but I see that Albert did really send you to me.
What a harebrained performance! it is characteristic of him! Well, where
are we to wait for him?"
"I will escort you. Will you deign to accept my arm?"
"I must. Oh! this is too absurd; but I can't help laughing at the idea.
Ha! ha! what a madman that Albert is!"
Madame Plays took Tobie's arm, and leaned heavily upon it, because it
tired her to walk; but her cavalier did not complain; he mistook for a
tender pressure what was simply the result of the lady's embonpoint,
and, in his turn, he began thus early to press amorously to his side the
arm that was passed through his.
Pigeonnier led Madame Plays toward the Champs-Élysées. He knew that he
would find in that direction an abundance of restaurants with private
dining-rooms. It was so late, that the lady had surely dined; and he was
not sorry for that, because he would have to regale her with ices or
punch only, which were much less expensive; he had already considered
all these little details. He preferred not to spend the twelve francs he
had obtained on his coat, for he wanted to keep something with which to
play bouillotte, hoping to win enough at that game to pay for his share
of the dinner.
"Are you taking me to the Circus?" asked Madame Plays, when she saw that
they were going toward the Champs-Élysées.
"No. That isn't where Albert is to meet us, but at a nice little
restaurant over yonder."
"A restaurant! but I have dined!"
"Really--you have dined? Ah! that's a pity; however, we can take
something all the same."
"You act as if you weren't certain of the place where Albert is to meet
us."
"I beg your pardon--look--that is the place."
"What! under that mountebank's tent?"
"No; behind it--that café. Yes, that's the place."
Tobie led his charge into a sort of café, and told the waiter who came
forward to meet them to show them to one of the private rooms on the
first floor. Madame Plays did not seem at all alarmed when she heard her
escort ask for a private room. She was afraid of nothing; indeed, she
was strong enough to check any enterprise which did not please her. So
she followed with an assured step as the waiter led them upstairs, then
through a passageway, and opened the door of a small room looking on the
Champs-Élysées.
"What can I offer you?" inquired Tobie of his charming companion; "ices,
punch?"
"I will take an ice."
"Very good.--Waiter, some ices."
As the waiter left the room, Madame Plays exclaimed:
"Why don't you tell him that a gentleman will come and ask for us?"
"Ah! yes, to be sure."
And Pigeonnier ran out of the room, overtook the waiter in the hall, and
said to him:
"Don't bring any biscuits or macaroons or cakes with the ices; madame
doesn't like any of those things; nothing but ices, you understand."
"We always serve them with ices," replied the waiter, with an offended
air; "but you're not obliged to eat them."
"Yes; but I tell you it isn't worth while to serve them."
"Very well, monsieur."
The corpulent young man danced back to the room in which he had left his
charge, who had removed her hat and shawl.
"Excellent," said Tobie to himself; "she is making herself at home; she
made no fuss about coming to a private room, so I conclude that the
affair will go of itself."
"What can we see from here, I wonder?" said Madame Plays, walking to the
window.
"Oh! nothing attractive," said Tobie, who preferred that the window
should remain closed. "We are right above those travelling showmen, who
have set up their booth close to the house, and exhibit bears and
panthers and other monsters, I believe. If I were the proprietor of this
restaurant, it seems to me that I wouldn't have them so near."
"Why not?" said his fair companion, with a smile; "everybody must live,
must they not?"
"Everybody, yes, but not monsters. On my word, I detest monsters--but I
idolize beauty."
As Tobie concluded this sentence, he took Madame Plays's hand and
imprinted a kiss upon it; the charming creature allowed her hand to be
kissed without objection.
The waiter brought the ices; as he placed them on the table, he looked
with amazement at the lady who did not like biscuits; he spent a long
time arranging the ices and spoons, and when he had finished he did not
leave the room; so that Pigeonnier was obliged to say to him:
"That's all right; when I want anything, I will ring."
The waiter departed at last, and Tobie seated himself beside Madame
Plays, placed an ice in front of her, and said:
"I trust that you will not be like this to me."
"What do you mean? flavored with vanilla?"
"No, no; I meant that--if you would not be like ice to me----"
"Indeed! Is that what Albert told you to say to me?"
"Oh! but you know--when one's friends are not by--and one has a burning
heart--and one finds one's self beside such a charming woman----"
The waiter suddenly opened the door and said:
"I didn't bring any biscuits or macaroons, because madame doesn't want
any."
"What! who told you I didn't want any?" demanded Madame Plays.
"Why, monsieur----"
Tobie's face became purple; he glared savagely at the waiter, and
interrupted him with:
"What's that you say? what nonsense is this? I said: 'If your biscuits
aren't fresh, I don't want any; if your macaroons are old, keep
them.'--I do not wish to offer madame anything that is not--worthy of
her."
"But, monsieur--just now, out in the hall, why--that wasn't----"
"If you don't hear straight, it isn't my fault. Go! we have heard
enough; leave us."
The waiter made no reply, but glanced at Tobie with a cunning
expression, as he left the room.
"That waiter is an idiot," said Tobie, eating his ice; "he made me lose
the thread of my discourse."
"So Albert is detained by important business? a rendezvous with some
other woman, perhaps? Doubtless you know all about it, as he confides
his most profound secrets to you. All men are villains when they are
together."
"One thing is certain--that I am very happy; and as for his confidence,
I would willingly abuse it."
"Upon my word, that is very pretty!"
"Listen; if I had the good fortune to be in favor with so lovely a woman
as you, I wouldn't send a friend to stay with her during my absence."
"It is true that that indicates----"
"Vast self-conceit, or perfect indifference."
"Ha! ha! how you abuse your friend!"
"The absent are always in the wrong; that proverb will be true as long
as the world lasts."
"Do you think so? Perhaps I don't agree with you."
"Oh, yes! oh, yes! do agree with me! When one has eyes that----"
Again the waiter opened the door, and entered the room with two dishes,
one filled with biscuits, the other with macaroons.
"There! they are perfectly fresh," he said, as he put them on the table.
"Taste them. They were baked yesterday."
Madame Plays burst out laughing, for Tobie's eyes were like pistols;
however, he dared not say anything, and the waiter was about to leave
the room, when Madame Plays, having finished her vanilla ice, called him
back.
"Waiter, bring me a fruit ice; what fruits have you?"
"We have strawberry, madame--and vanilla."
"I know you have vanilla, as I have just eaten one. But I ask you what
fruit ices you have."
"We have strawberry, madame--and vanilla."
"I understand--you have nothing else."
"I beg pardon, madame; we have mixed ices too."
"What flavors?"
"Strawberry and vanilla."
"Bring me a strawberry, then.--And you, monsieur, won't you take a
strawberry ice?"
This question was addressed to Tobie, who did his utmost to look pleased
as he replied:
"Oh, no! I never eat more than one ice, myself. I shouldn't dream of
doing it. I have noticed that if you eat more than one, they are likely
to do you a lot of harm; they give you cramps in the stomach."
"Oh! I could eat a dozen; I could eat them all day, without the least
bad effect."
"The devil!" thought Tobie; "it's lucky they haven't anything but
strawberry and vanilla."
The waiter went out and soon returned with the strawberry ice. Again he
busied himself arranging the plates and glasses and spoons, but he left
the room at last. Madame Plays attacked the strawberry ice, tasting also
the macaroons and biscuits.
"The cost is climbing up," said Tobie to himself; "this woman eats a
great deal. If I don't divert her attention by making love to her, both
dishes will soon be empty. I have heard it said that women must always
have one sense at work. Let's try to give her something else to think
about."
He drew his chair nearer to Madame Plays, looked her in the eyes, and
heaved a tremendous sigh. The fair creature, who was of a very jolly
disposition, exclaimed, with a smile:
"Mon Dieu! Monsieur Tobie, what's the matter with you? You make eyes at
me, and breathe so hard!"
"Ah! madame--I see that Albert did very wrong to send me to you."
"How so? do you repent of having conferred a favor on your friend?"
"But if that favor deprives me of my repose, my happiness, my peace of
mind!"
"Ha! ha! you are joking. How is your repose endangered, pray?"
At that moment, the showman, standing directly beneath the window of the
room occupied by Tobie and his charge, began to announce the performance
by tapping with a stick on a huge picture placed beside the entrance of
the booth. His voice was so shrill and penetrating that it was
impossible for persons in the private rooms not to hear every word he
said, even when they paid no attention; and the following dialogue
between the young man and his fair companion was necessarily interrupted
by the mountebank's periods:
TOBIE (_trying to take Madame Plays's hand_).
You ask me how my repose is endangered. Is it possible that you have not
divined! Great God!
THE SHOWMAN.
The show is about to begin, messieurs and mesdames; it is about to
begin.
MADAME PLAYS.
Let alone my hand! you are sitting very close to me.
THE SHOWMAN.
Now is the time! the time has come! the show is about to begin!
TOBIE.
Ah! I would like to be even closer. I would like----
THE SHOWMAN.
Come in! come in! buy your tickets! there won't be enough for everybody!
MADAME PLAYS.
That fellow is insufferable with his yelling!
TOBIE.
Oh! I am not listening to him. I think only of you, whom I adore. Ah! if
I could obtain a little corner in your heart!
THE SHOWMAN.
There are seats for six sous, four sous, and some for two sous, for the
convenience of the public.
MADAME PLAYS.
But, Monsieur Tobie, really I was very far from expecting this! My heart
does not give itself so quickly; and to win it----
THE SHOWMAN.
Military men are admitted for half-price, and may keep on their spurs.
TOBIE.
Ah! if it were necessary to love you like Orlando Furioso, I am capable
of it. My love is boundless.
THE SHOWMAN.
It is a wonderful, astounding, miraculous exhibition.
MADAME PLAYS.
But how long have you loved me? It seems to have taken you all of a
sudden! I can hardly credit it. Pray, what is there about me that
attracts you so?
THE SHOWMAN.
Curiosities such as were never seen in any part of the world.
TOBIE.
What is there about you, madame! You ask me that? Why, in my eyes, you
are a divinity!
THE SHOWMAN.
An ostrich with a neck as long as a giraffe, who shows his tongue when
you don't ask him to.
MADAME PLAYS.
Hush! you say as much to many other women, I am sure. Tell me, Monsieur
Pigeonnier, how many mistresses have you?
THE SHOWMAN.
Three panthers, which perform all sorts of tricks.
TOBIE.
Mistresses! I have none! and if I had the good fortune to please you,
you would be to me----
THE SHOWMAN.
A real camel, which is absolutely tireless, and stays on its back whole
days at a time.
MADAME PLAYS.
Mon Dieu! how tiresome that man is! hasn't he nearly done? (_She nibbles
a biscuit._)
THE SHOWMAN.
This is the hour for feeding the animals.
TOBIE.
Oh! let me kiss that soft, white hand, let me caress that shapely arm.
THE SHOWMAN.
This is the hour when the male camel plays all sorts of tricks on his
mate.
MADAME PLAYS.
That clown sets my nerves on edge. What an idea to bring me here! Albert
isn't very considerate in his choice of a rendezvous. Oh! Monsieur
Pigeonnier, stop that; I won't allow you to touch my knees in that way.
THE SHOWMAN.
Buy your tickets!
TOBIE (_trying to put his arm round Madame Plays's waist_).
What a graceful figure; you remind me of Venus.
THE SHOWMAN.
There is still room inside; if you are pleased with the show, tell all
your friends and acquaintances.
MADAME PLAYS.
Well, well! what are you doing, Monsieur Tobie? such presumption!
THE SHOWMAN.
The curtain will rise in a moment, and you will see what you will see!
At this point, Madame Plays rose with an impatient gesture, crying:
"Oh! I cannot stand it any longer! such things as that clown says! they
are too hateful to listen to!"
"He has finished; yes, he certainly has finished his announcement; that
noise means that the people are going into the booth."
The booming of a bass-drum and several blasts of a bugle followed the
conclusion of the showman's speech. A few greenhorns and idlers entered
the booth; but most of the spectators walked away, being well aware that
what one sees at the door of such spectacles is always much more amusing
than the exhibition inside.
Tobie took Madame Plays by the hand and led her back to her seat, for he
was eager to renew the conversation, which was just becoming
interesting. The fair dame made no objection, but said, as she resumed
her seat:
"Albert doesn't come, and his behavior begins to have a very strange
look."
Pigeonnier threw himself at her feet, crying:
"Even so! if he doesn't come, that is an additional reason for you to
forget him, to take your revenge, to yield to me."
Madame Plays seemed to hesitate, and somewhat abated her severity toward
the young man at her feet; but, as she was arranging her collar, her
hand came in contact with the letter she had placed in her bosom. She
took it out, saying:
"By the way, I couldn't see to read Albert's letter, on the boulevard.
Let us see what he says, and in what terms he recommends you to me.
After that, I will decide whether I ought to listen to you."
"Read it! read it!" cried Tobie, thinking that Albert's letter could not
fail to have an effect favorable to himself.
Madame Plays read the letter to herself; but as she read on, her cheeks
flushed, her eyes shot fire, and her face assumed an expression of the
most intense indignation. To understand this change, we must remember
that the heedless Albert had written his letter while his friend
Mouillot was preparing the menu for their dinner. With no suspicion of
what he was doing, but thinking that he was writing only the sentences
which came into his mind, he had interspersed some of the dishes which
Mouillot mentioned aloud for the behoof of the company; the result was
an epistle thus conceived:
"Charming creature, you know how dearly I love you.--For three,
that will be enough. Your image is constantly before me.--Calf's
head _en tortue_. To save you the annoyance of waiting for me at
our rendezvous, I send one of my intimate friends--perfectly fresh.
He will stay with you--with white sauce."
Madame Plays did not choose to read any further; she crumpled the note
in her hands, threw it on the floor, sprang quickly to her feet, glaring
at Tobie with an expression he was utterly unable to understand, and
said to him in a voice that trembled with anger:
"Do you know the contents of this letter, monsieur?"
"Do I know it! Why, certainly, dear lady; I dictated part of it to my
friend."
"Ah! you dictated it, did you? Then you and your friend are a pair of
low-lived curs!"
With that, Madame Plays dealt Tobie a blow that nailed him to his place
in utter stupefaction; then, seizing her hat and shawl, which she
hardly took time to put on, the wrathful beauty rushed from the room,
not deigning to bestow a glance on the person she left there.
Poor Pigeonnier did not stir for several minutes, he was so paralyzed by
what had happened to him. At last, he rose and began to pace the floor,
crying:
"Ah! this is too much! a blow, because I handed her a letter of
recommendation; a blow, when, just before, she had let me touch her
knee, and---- It is inconceivable! And, with all the rest, I am out of
pocket.--Waiter! waiter!"
The waiter appeared; the expression of his face was even more ironical
than before. Tobie had four francs fifty centimes to pay. He paid it,
sighing profoundly, and saying to himself:
"If only I can win it back at bouillotte!"
At that moment the showman began again, tapping the canvas with his
stick:
"Walk in, messieurs, mesdames; you will see what you will see. Buy your
tickets! if you are not satisfied, you'll get your money back."
"The devil take you!" muttered Tobie, as he left the room. "I am not at
all satisfied; I have spent money recklessly to-day, and I shan't get it
back!"
VIII
THE WINE SHOP.--SCENES AMONG THE COMMON PEOPLE
On the first floor of a wine shop on Rue Saint-Lazare was a room
containing several tables; the room was reached by a staircase, which
started from the shop itself and ended almost in the middle of the room
in question, which was frequented by drinkers who desired to be more at
their ease than was possible below.
The room was ordinarily occupied by workmen, loafers, and an occasional
peddler. The workmen, after a laborious day, came to the wine shop to
take a modest meal and to rest their tired limbs; the others, after
idling the greater part of the day, came thither to spend a large part
of the night in the same occupation.
Those who had done no work, and consequently had earned nothing,
generally spent the most money. Economy is almost always the companion
of toil; dissipation, of idleness.
A journeyman mason sat at one of the tables, eating with evident
enjoyment a piece of cheese, washed down with a mug of wine; the
tempting invitations of his comrades were powerless to induce him to
spend another sou, for he was determined to save money and not remain a
mere journeyman all his days.
Near by sat a carpenter, with a red nose, bloated face, and eyes
blinking with the vapors of wine; he had already emptied several
bottles, and, instead of going home to his waiting family, was all ready
to drink some more, inviting his acquaintances and even strangers to
join him, in order to find an excuse for further tippling, aye, to spend
the last sou of the wages he had just received, and for which his wife
was waiting in order to buy bread for their children.
At another table was a man about fifty years of age, with gray hair and
enormous whiskers, whose costume indicated no special profession. His
chin was buried in a piece of ticking, which served him as a cravat; he
wore a coat, but it was torn and patched and much too short for him;
trousers whose color was no longer distinguishable, fastened behind with
strings instead of buckles. On his head was a round hat, if the name can
properly be given to a piece of felt torn in several places, and with
only a few small fragments of brim. But all this did not prevent the
individual in question from carrying his head erect, scrutinizing
everybody who came in, drumming on the table with his knife by way of
accompaniment to the songs he sang under his breath, and, in a word,
making as much noise as many parties produced, although his repast
consisted of only a glass of beer and a piece of bread.
Among the tables surrounded by customers, there was one at which a
supper was being served that aroused the envy of most of the other
occupants of the room: it was the table occupied by Sans-Cravate, his
mistress, and the other two messengers.
The flower girl was seated beside Sans-Cravate, who ate, drank, laughed,
talked, sang, and served his guests with food and drink--all without a
moment's rest; at times, indeed, he succeeded in doing several things at
once.
Mademoiselle Bastringuette did not seem to share her lover's merry
humor; she ate heartily, but spoke very little. From time to time, she
fixed her eyes on Paul, who sat opposite her; but he always avoided
meeting them, the result being that he kept his own eyes on his plate
much of the time.
Jean Ficelle sat opposite Sans-Cravate; he did honor to the supper, and
handled his knife and fork with great dexterity; but that did not
prevent his glancing constantly to right and left, and seeing everything
that took place in the room.
"Who wants some rabbit--a little more of the _gibelotte_?" said
Sans-Cravate, helping himself from an enormous dish, in which the party
had already made a considerable breach. "No one speaks, so I help
myself."
"Give me just a bit," said Jean Ficelle, passing his plate.
"That's right!" cried Sans-Cravate, as he helped his comrade; "you're
all right, you are! You never lag behind at table. But Paul--what a
sluggard! he don't eat, he hardly drinks;--are you sick, my boy?"
"No, indeed," Paul replied, with a smile; "but I am not very hungry."
"Monsieur has something on his mind, and that fills the stomach at the
same time!" muttered Bastringuette, sucking a bone.
"Never mind," rejoined Sans-Cravate; "I don't propose to scold him, as
long as he came, although he don't seem to be enjoying himself any too
much with us."
"_Dame!_ we ain't in the dressmaking line, you know," said
Bastringuette, in a sarcastic tone; "we don't help dress the swells, we
don't spend the day in rooms with waxed and polished floors!"
"Do I?" said Paul, glancing sternly at Bastringuette.
"No; but you're acquainted with people that put on airs and wear gloves!
Upon my word," continued Bastringuette, with a sigh, "I've a right good
mind to change my trade. I'm not going to sell flowers any more; I'm
going to fly higher."
"And sell oranges, eh?" said Sans-Cravate.
"Bah! better than that."
"Herrings, then?"
"What a fool! I tell him I'm going to rise in the world, and he wants me
to lower myself to herring! I'm going to be a trousers maker, and save
up money; save up money to buy a shop with. I sew well enough now, and
I've always had a liking for trousers; that's not surprising, as my
mother used to sell 'em under the pillars in the Market."
"Well, don't you worry, sun of my heart; if I often have days like
to-day, I'll soon have enough nuggets to buy you a well-stocked shop."
"Oh, yes!" retorted Bastringuette, with a shrug; "all I've got to do is
depend on you! it's surprising how you save money; you don't even know
how to make people pay what they owe you----"
"What's that? does anyone owe you money?" cried Jean Ficelle, gazing at
Sans-Cravate in amazement. "Do you mean to say you've got funds
invested? have you had a legacy without telling a friend anything about
it? Pass me some more rabbit, then."
"No, no! do you pay any attention to what Bastringuette says? she's
talking about some people that I helped to move. There was mighty little
to move, and it didn't tire me much; and then, I'd sawed half a cord of
wood and done a few errands, so that they owed me six or seven francs,
perhaps--a magnificent sum!"