passed close to us, and pretended not to know us. What does it all mean?
is that a messenger's dress? Anyone would swear he was a drummer. You
see yourself that there's something crooked, some mystery."
Sans-Cravate was not listening, for he had run after Paul; although the
younger man walked very rapidly, Sans-Cravate soon overtook and passed
him; then, planting himself in front of him, he barred his passage,
saying in a bantering tone which ill concealed his anger:
"Where are you going so fast? _Bigre!_ seems to me, you're dressed
mighty fine for a messenger who stands on the street corner to do
errands."
Paul was thunderstruck when he recognized Sans-Cravate; but he strove to
overcome his annoyance, and replied:
"I am not doing errands to-day, and when a man isn't working he is free
to dress as he pleases."
"That may be! but, still, nobody ever meets us in such a rig, not even
on Sunday."
"No," said Jean Ficelle, who had overtaken his two confrères, and joined
in the conversation with a bantering leer; "no! we ain't so stylish as
that! Gad! what a swell! Paul must have some other trade that pays
better than ours, to wear such togs! And think how stingy he is with us,
never willing to treat his friends to a glass!"
"I do what I choose! I am not accountable to anyone for my actions,"
retorted Paul, with an angry glance at Jean Ficelle; "I don't play the
spy on other people, and I care mighty little what is thought of me by
people who had better learn to behave themselves, first of all!"
With that, Paul hurried away, while the two messengers looked at each
other with a disappointed expression.
"What an insolent brat he is, the little foundling!" cried Jean Ficelle;
"don't that deserve a hiding--when a puppy without any father or mother
puts on airs like that? He insulted you again."
"Me?" said Sans-Cravate, in surprise; "how did he insult me, I'd like to
know?"
"Didn't you hear what he said: 'There are people who had better learn
how to behave themselves before they spy on other people?'--He looked at
you when he said that."
"I thought you was the one he was looking at."
"Oh, no! He spotted you."
"Well, one thing's certain, and that is that Paul isn't with
Bastringuette, and that I was wrong to think they were together."
Sans-Cravate seemed less distressed; it was evident that his jealousy
had partly disappeared. But Jean Ficelle rejoined, with a shrug:
"They ain't together now--that's true. But what is there to prove that
they didn't separate just now? Perhaps Bastringuette ain't so far away.
I have my ideas. See, I'll give you a comparison: it's like the way a
cat insists on staying in a garret because he smells mice there; it's no
use to try to drive him out----"
"_Sacrédié!_ Jean Ficelle, you tire me with your comparisons! Come,
let's go and see the _Francs-Lapins_; we are going to spree it a bit,
you know. I'm all ready."
Instead of complying, Jean Ficelle pointed to a house with a passage, on
the left, and said:
"That's where our fine gentleman came from; and perhaps we might be able
to find out where he'd been."
"You think Paul came out of that house, you say?" said Sans-Cravate,
walking in that direction.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure of it. I was looking straight ahead, and there was
no one coming. And all of a sudden someone came out of that passage, and
it was him."
Sans-Cravate stopped in front of the house, and finally decided to enter
the passageway, which was rather dark, with no sign of a concierge's
quarters. Jean Ficelle followed his comrade, and, after examining the
passage for a moment, they walked toward a dark, winding staircase at
the rear.
"Shall we go up?" said Jean Ficelle.
"Where shall we go? Who shall we ask for?"
"_Dame!_ I don't know. But we can act as if we'd made a mistake. We'll
ask for a midwife for a woman who's in a great hurry for one. How's that
for a game! Or we can ask if Monsieur Paul, ex-messenger, lives in the
house."
"No, no!" cried Sans-Cravate, going back into the street. "After all,
Paul was right when he said we ought not to play the spy on him, that
he's free to do what he pleases. I have a feeling that it's a mean
business to try to find out people's secrets. I don't like the job at
all. Let's go."
Jean Ficelle said no more, but followed his comrade, in evident ill
humor, turning his head every minute to look at the house they had just
left. Suddenly he seized Sans-Cravate, who was a little ahead of him, by
the arm, and exclaimed in a shrill voice:
"Look! there you have Paul's secret--coming out of that passageway. Ah!
I'd have bet my life on it!"
Sans-Cravate turned, and saw Bastringuette come out of the house they
had just left and turn into Rue Barbette. The tall girl walked quite
slowly, and stopped for a moment to take out her handkerchief and wipe
her eyes, as if she had been crying; then she walked on.
Sans-Cravate had ample time to examine her; there was no doubt that it
was she. He even recognized the silk handkerchief she took from her
pocket, for it was a present he had given her. He could not take his
eyes from his mistress; his face flushed, and his whole frame shook
convulsively.
"It's her," he muttered; "in the same house with him. There's no mystery
now--they were together, that's clear as day, the traitors! and, of
course, to-day ain't the first time they've met there!"
He started to run after Bastringuette, who had not seen him; and Jean
Ficelle, who hoped there would be a scene, rubbed his hands and smiled
to himself. But his hope was soon crushed; Sans-Cravate stopped, making
a mighty effort to restrain his passion, and retraced his steps.
"No," he said, "I won't go after her; for I might forget myself. When
I'm angry, I don't know what I'm doing, and I might do some harm. No;
let's go in the other direction!"
"Pardieu! suppose you did give her a beating--a jade that deceived
you--I don't see where there'd be any great harm done! Why shouldn't you
take that little satisfaction?"
But Sans-Cravate was not listening; he had walked away, and was already
at some distance. Jean Ficelle finally decided to follow him, saying to
himself:
"Never mind; he's out for good with his wench, and I'm quite sure the
young fellow will get what he deserves, when there's a good chance. Then
Sans-Cravate will consent to come and play a little game with his
friends, and I'll fleece him at _table-basse_ or _biribi_."
XV
THE DRESSMAKERS
Imagine eight young women assembled in a large room, called an
_atelier_[H] probably because it contains no furniture except a very
broad and long table and some chairs.
On the table, which might be considered a counter as well, were
scattered different fabrics--silk, linen, cotton, and muslin; there was
a great number of small pieces, cut in different shapes; there were
dresses just begun, others almost finished, others still in the piece;
and there were ribbons, fringes, lace, and a multitude of the odds and
ends used by dressmakers, who have the art of imparting grace and value
to all such things; we men do very wrong to laugh at them, for they take
so much pains with their work solely to please us; and if women were not
coquettish, we should be the ones most taken in.
The eight girls were seated around the _travail_--that is the name now
given to the large cutting table; it used to be called _établi_, but
that word is now used only by working people; and you must remember that
a dressmaker is not a workgirl, but an artist in dresses.
The young women were from fifteen to twenty-eight years of age, the
average being about twenty-two. Some were very pretty, some exceedingly
ugly, and some had faces of the type which does not attract attention,
but which often pleases because it possesses what is commonly called
_la beauté du diable_--that is to say, youth. If the devil always
retains that element of beauty, he is a very fortunate fellow; and we
know a great number of ladies, once beautiful, who would be well content
to-day with the _beauté du diable_.
They were all sewing more or less busily, which fact did not prevent
their talking. Some had their faces bent over their work, and took
little part in the conversation; but there were several who talked
constantly, who were unwilling to keep silent even when one of the
others tried to tell something, and who, by talking very loudly,
succeeded in making themselves heard above all the rest. At times, this
produced a din of voices by no means pleasant to the ear; indeed, it was
not unworthy of the name of _charivari_.
Young Elina was one of the eight; she was incontestably one of the
prettiest of them, also one of those who spoke least; she was superior
to her companions in every respect.
One of the others, whose ugliness was most noticeable, and whose duty it
seemed to be to overlook the work, doubtless because she had no love
affairs to distract her thoughts, was also one of those whose mouths
were almost never closed. But a tall damsel of twenty-four, whose face
was not without charm and intelligence, but who was open to the reproach
of being somewhat too free in her speech and manner and expression, ran
a close second to the forewoman. A stenographer would have had much
difficulty in following those two when they were in a talking mood, so
to speak; and they almost always were.
Now, let us listen to the conversation, and try, amid all that chaos, to
discover its subject and purport.
"What have you done with the gray silk, Mademoiselle Laura?"
"It's under your nose, you big goose; your nose is so long, you could
touch it with it."
Mademoiselle Laura was the tall young woman we have mentioned; as she
worked and talked, she kept her hips in motion as if she were dancing
the _cachucha_. The forewoman's name was Mademoiselle Frotard, and she
who had asked for the silk was a stout girl whose intelligence seemed to
have been entirely absorbed by her corpulence; her name was Julienne,
but her companions took the liberty of calling her Julie, Jules, and
sometimes _Potage_. She had an excellent disposition and never lost her
temper.
"Who's got the pink satin?"
"That will be a handsome dress--satin and velvet. Is it for a duchess?"
"Oh, no! it's for an actress at the Opéra-Comique; they dress ever so
much better than the great ladies."
"Speaking of the Opéra-Comique, they say that there's boxes there with
salons; is that so, Mamzelle Laura?"
"Well, rather, nephew."
"Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we must work and not idle so; here's a
wedding dress that must be done to-morrow; Madame Dumanchon has promised
it."
"It seems to me, we work well enough, mademoiselle; we don't take our
eyes off our work. What more do you expect us to do? We haven't got
twenty fingers!"
"That's all right, Mademoiselle Augustine; do you think I don't see you
laughing and looking at Euphémie, who can't do anything but laugh?
Humph! how stupid it is to laugh all the time, at the least thing--and
often without knowing why!"
"I never laugh without knowing what I'm laughing at, mademoiselle!
You're mistaken; I know very well what I'm laughing at."
"Well, tell us what it was that amused you so just now."
"Just now? why, I looked up and saw Jujules gaping and trying to sneeze
at the same time; and she made up such an absurd face! Ha! ha! ha! she
looked exactly like the milkwoman's donkey at the corner of the street."
"I, look like a donkey!"
"Hush, Potage, you haven't got the floor! I belch it from you, as an
ancient orator said."
"Oh! Mademoiselle Laura, for heaven's sake, be a little more decent in
your language; you often say things that ought not be said in a workroom
of young ladies; Madame Dumanchon don't like it, and she holds me
responsible."
"What's that? what are you singing to us? You accuse me of being
indecent just because I say: 'I belch it from you'! That's a little
rough, on my word! if you read the least bit of history, you'd know that
anecdote, which isn't the least bit immoral, Mademoiselle Frotard; and
for all you're so squeamish to-day, I've heard you sometimes fire words
at us--I don't know where you picked 'em up, but they were a little
tough."
"I, fire words at you!--Oh! if I went to the Bal Saint-Georges, like
you, I might learn some very pretty things; but I defy anyone to say
they ever saw me in such places."
"It's just as well you don't go; what would you do there? you probably
wouldn't be invited to dance! and that would make you sick. By the way,
let me tell you that the Bal Saint-Georges is a very nice place; the
company there's a very good sort, and I pride myself on being one of the
most regular attendants at these Ball-Clubs, as the wrinkled old
_gentlemen_ call 'em, who go there to dance the _anglaise_ and other
national jigs."
"Where's the piece of velvet I just put down here? Have any of you taken
it, mesdemoiselles?"
"You've got it in your dress."
"So I have; great heaven! what was I thinking about?"
"Ha! ha! she sticks things in her bosom and then goes looking for 'em!
She'll end by looking for her nose."
"And she won't find it; she's flat-nosed."
"Ha! ha! ha!"
"Good! there goes Euphémie again!"
"Bless my soul! how can I help laughing, when you say such silly
things?"
"Look at Elina--she don't laugh, and she don't keep her tongue clacking;
so she gets ahead with her skirt."
"Oh! Elina's preoccupied; she's been very pensive for some time; that's
why she don't talk."
"I didn't suppose I was forbidden to think," rejoined little Elina
gravely, and without raising her eyes.
"Of course not; thoughts are free, and they use their freedom! they're
very lucky, our thoughts are; they can travel, they can run about the
fields and go into whatever company they choose; while we have to sit
here, planted on our chairs, and sew all day long! God! what fun! When
shall I have a million a year, so that I can coddle myself and sleep and
eat méringues all day? Oh! méringues--they're a high-toned delicacy, I
tell you!"
"What are they made of?" asked stout Julienne, looking at Laura, who
replied with the utmost seriousness:
"Preserved snails. The next time you go into a confectioner's, ask him
for a snail méringue, and see how good it is!"
"Come, come, mesdemoiselles, we mustn't talk so much. Madame will soon
be back, and this ball dress don't get on at all; and, you know, we
still have two wedding dresses to finish this week."
"Two wedding dresses! Everybody seems to be getting married! I don't
know why nobody marries me;--and you, Julienne, wouldn't you like to get
married?"
"Me? oh, no, mademoiselle! on the contrary, I'd hate it."
"You would? Why, pray?"
"Because my cousin told me that when you're married you can't sleep
alone any more; and I like to kick my legs about in bed, and I know it
would bother me to have someone with me."
"Oh! what a simpleton you are, big Julienne! you sleep with your
husband, and that don't prevent your kicking your legs about--not by any
means!"
"How do you know that, Mamzelle Laura? Are you married?"
Mademoiselle Laura contented herself with an impatient gesture,
muttering:
"Do let me finish; you disturb me when I am trying to make Turkish
points. Oh! what a sigh Elina just gave! Haven't you finished moving,
young dreamer?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; it was all done this morning."
"Ah! that's why you came later than usual?"
"I spoke to Mademoiselle Frotard about it."
"Who moved you? Was it Sans-Cravate, the Lovelace of the cooks of the
neighborhood?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Then it must have been his mate--Jean Ficelle. He's a very clever
youth. I sent him once to carry a letter to someone, on important
business, and I saw that he was full of intelligence.--Pass me the
Scotch thread, Sophie."
"Oh! mesdemoiselles, you know very well that Elina has a messenger she
always patronizes--one Paul, who puts on airs when we pass, which I
consider altogether too cheeky; I propose to tell that young man of the
people what I think of him some fine day!"
"Isn't a messenger as good as other men?" muttered little Elina,
angrily. "Why hasn't he the right to look at us?"
"As good as other men! a messenger!" cried a young woman with an
affected manner, a mocking smile, and a shrill voice; "fellows who live
on street corners or in wine shops! Great God! if one of them should
presume to stare at me very long, I'd soon show him his place."
"What nonsense!" said stout Julienne; "they're always in their place!"
"You see, I haven't any low tastes. I wouldn't go out with a man who
didn't have gloves and trouser-straps!"
"Oho! she reminds me of that tall Hélène who used to work here, and had
the brass to say to us: 'I don't go with any men but those that have red
morocco boot tops; I don't have anything to say to a man who has black
leather ones, because they don't go with patent-leather boots.'"
"I didn't know that honest men were canaille," retorted Elina, flushing
with anger; "I thought no one was ever called by that name but villains
and rascals."
"Hallo! here's Elina showing fight!" cried Laura; "_dame!_ you attacked
her on a sensitive spot. Bah! I've broken my needle; that's the fifth
one to-day. That makes Euphémie laugh. It's very funny, ain't it?"
"Ha! ha! ha! five needles [_aiguilles_]! I thought she said five eels
[_anguilles_]!"
"Oh! my dear, eels don't break; you can do whatever you please with
eels--even to making a _matelote_."
"I know a song about 'em," said Julienne, "where it's said that eels are
like young girls."
"The deuce! Potage has made me prick myself," rejoined Mademoiselle
Laura; "she refers to something they sing at the Opéra-Comique:
"'Eels and young girls alike,
All's fish that comes to my net.'
There you have it; I heard it in _Mazaniello;_ and that's a mighty fine
opera, I tell you! I saw it at a theatre in the suburbs, where they had
three supers to represent the Neapolitan populace in revolt; one of the
three was a little old man of fifty or sixty, with a red cap, who kept
running into the wings to turn up a lamp that threatened to go out, and
finally took the lamp down altogether and held it in his hands during
the grand final chorus, of which the words were:
"'Death, death to the tyrants!'
I believe. And when he was singing, as he was anxious to put spirit into
it, he waved the lamp as if he was threatening the audience, so it
seemed as if he intended to kill the tyrants with lamp oil. At last,
right in the middle of the chorus, one of the three musicians who
composed the orchestra stood up and shouted, as mad as you please:
'_Sacrédié!_ Monsieur Fiston, don't hold your arm out so far; you're
throwing oil on me! My coat's all spotted! Is it the fashion now to sing
in opera with a lamp in your hand?'--Mon Dieu! I never laughed so much
in all my life!"
"What a lucky creature that Laura is! she goes to the theatre very
often."
"Oh! I used to go much oftener. I had an acquaintance who stuffed me
with tickets and all sorts of delicacies."
"A gentleman?"
"To be sure--and a very pretty fellow he was. I never saw a man wear his
cravat so jauntily; he used to tie it in the most enticing rosette----"
"Mademoiselle Laura, you're beginning to say improper things again!"
"Pshaw! Mademoiselle Frotard, is there any law against my knowing a
good-looking man? I believe I have a right to have known more than one;
I'm twenty-four; I don't make any secret of my age, and I don't play the
prude. I certainly don't claim to be a perfect innocent----"
"I'd like to see those boxes with salons; I shan't be happy till I've
been in one."
"You must get your lover to take you, some day when he's in funds."
"My lover's never in funds; I don't know what he does with his money; he
wouldn't treat me to a glass of cider! He pretends that he puts every
sou in the savings bank against the time we get married."
"Believe that and drink water, my poor Sophie!--Pins, please."
"The large scissors."
"Here they are."
"However, he took me to the theatre once, because somebody'd given him
the tickets. That day, I remember, we dined in my room, on very little,
and I was very hungry at the theatre; it was a theatre on the boulevard,
and the play was a long melodrama. At half-past eleven we still had
four acts to see. But in the play, where the scene was a farmhouse, and
peasants coming home from work, all of a sudden they brought on a big
wooden bowl and went to eating cabbage soup. It was real cabbage soup, I
can tell you, and it was smoking hot and smelt awful good. Imagine the
effect it produced on us, hungry as we were!--'I've a good mind to apply
at once to be admitted to the chorus,' I says to Oscar; but he had
already got up and opened the door of the box, where we were all alone,
and called the opener; when she came, I heard him say: 'Madame, my
wife's in a situation where it ain't safe to refuse her anything--a
situation in which women are subject to the strangest whims and the most
extraordinary desires; you understand what I mean--she's enceinte. Well,
after a dinner fit for the angels, at Véry's, here she is acting like a
madwoman because she smells the cabbage soup they're eating on the
stage. She wants some of it, says she must have it, and threatens me
with a plate of soup as offspring if I don't satisfy her craving. Isn't
there some way of doing it, madame? there's no sacrifice I'm not capable
of making to prevent my wife's giving me a cabbage for a son.'--The
opener, hoping to be handsomely paid, replied: 'Never fear, monsieur;
I'll just go down and tell 'em at the office, and they'll send word on
to the stage; your wife shall have some cabbage soup, I promise
you.'--'A thousand thanks, madame,' says Oscar. 'Please go and ask for a
lot of it at once, for in her present condition, when we dine at a
restaurant, my wife always eats soup enough for four, and it doesn't do
her a bit of harm.'--The box opener went off, and Oscar came back to his
seat. You can judge whether I wanted to laugh. 'Keep quiet,' says my
lover, 'and try to look as if you were in the condition I said you
were; we are going to sup at the expense of the management; it won't
hurt them, and it will give us great pleasure.'--And, sure enough, in a
few minutes the opener came into the box with a pretty little soup
tureen, a deep plate, and a spoon, which she offered me with a most
amiable smile.--'Madame shall have all she wants,' she says; 'they've
filled the tureen, so that madame can satisfy her craving.'--'You are a
thousand times too good,' says Oscar; 'but I hope that you will be
satisfied with me, too.'--With that, the woman bows to the ground, and
goes off, shutting the door behind her. No sooner were we alone, than
Oscar filled the plate for me, but kept the spoon and began to gulp down
all that was left in the tureen; as there was only one spoon, I had to
wait till he'd finished before I could eat my plateful; but the soup was
fine, I assure you. When we had finished, Oscar called the box opener
again, and gave her the tureen and plate and spoon.--'Would you believe
that my wife would eat it all!' he says. 'It's incredible what feats a
woman in her condition will perform!'--The opener said that she was
delighted that I had satisfied my craving, and off she went again with
the things we had given back to her. As soon as she was out of sight, my
lover says to me: 'Put on your hat and shawl, and be all ready to
go.'--Then he looked out in the corridor, but was flabbergasted to see
our box opener sitting there in her chair; she had given the things to a
lemonade boy to carry back to the stage. Oscar swore between his teeth,
but as he was one of the kind that's never embarrassed, he says: 'Wait
till the end of the next act.'--The act ended very soon; then he
motioned to me to get up, I took his arm, and we went out of the box. I
leaned on him as if it was very hard for me to walk. As we passed the
opener, Oscar says to her: 'What do you suppose it is now, madame? this
wife of mine insists on having an ice. Gad! what strange ideas Nature
has!'--'But, monsieur, you could just as well have had it brought to
your box.'--'True, but I think it won't do my wife any harm to have a
breath of air. Keep our seats for us, madame; is it a long
intermission?'--'Not very, monsieur.'--'Come, then, my dear love; let's
make haste, for I'm very much interested in the play, and I don't want
to lose a scene. Be sure and keep our box for us, madame.'--With that,
Oscar pulled me along, and we left the theatre, with not the slightest
desire to return. The box opener didn't even get the price of the
cricket she had pushed under my feet. And that's the only time my lover
ever treated me."