drank, and touched glasses; the bottles rapidly succeeded one another;
their brains began to get heated, especially Sans-Cravate's, which took
fire very easily. Ere long, Jean Ficelle called for a pack of cards.
"I'll play you a game of piquet, Laboussole," he cried; "piquet, the
honest man's game--just for fun, to pass the time, and to see if you
know how to play it."
"I play like an oyster," rejoined Laboussole; "but still I'll play
whatever you say. Because I always assert that luck may come my way.
Let's have a drink!"
The waiter brought the cards. Jean Ficelle took them and sat down
opposite Laboussole.
"Sans-Cravate don't play," he said; "he don't like cards."
"Why shouldn't I play, eh?" cried Sans-Cravate, with a violent blow on
the table. "Piquet! why, that's my favorite game; I'm very strong at
it."
"Well, you shall play after a while," replied Jean Ficelle, winking at
his vis-à-vis. "Let me give the inspector of fleas a beating first."
The game began; the players announced that they were playing for two
francs the game, but no money was put up. Laboussole lost three games in
succession; whereupon Jean Ficelle rose, with a laugh, and said:
"You certainly ain't on your game, old man. I've got six francs to eat
up; that's not bad, and I don't want you to ruin yourself treating us."
Sans-Cravate took Jean Ficelle's place, after asking Laboussole:
"Have you had enough?"
"I! nonsense! do I ever cry _baby_? I'm always on deck when a friend
proposes a game. Besides, as I said just now, luck may come my way;
she's a female, so she ought to change often. What are we playing for?"
"Whatever you say."
"A thirty-sou piece----"
"The devil! that's rather high!"
"We must make the game interesting."
"All right; thirty sous it is."
The game began; Jean Ficelle took his stand behind Sans-Cravate.
Monsieur Laboussole frequently looked up into the air, as if to invoke
Fortune and implore her to smile upon him; but his eyes always met Jean
Ficelle's, who signalled to him with his fingers.
Sans-Cravate lost the first game; and Monsieur Laboussole cried, with
his most affable air:
"You see, my boys, luck may turn any time; that's what I rely on."
"My revenge!" cried Sans-Cravate.
"Always, my boy! always at your service; a well-bred card player never
refuses a revenge, under penalty of being called a _carotteur_; and I've
never been called that. But let's have some wine first and drink a
bumper! Cards make me horribly thirsty."
Jean Ficelle undertook to fill the glasses. Sans-Cravate lost the second
game, and demanded another, which he also lost; but Laboussole did not
cease to exclaim:
"You play much better than I do; I can't imagine how I succeed in
beating you!"
Sans-Cravate continued to demand his revenge, which Laboussole was
always eager to accord; while Jean Ficelle took care that the glasses
should be filled as soon as they were empty. The wine and the game soon
bewildered Sans-Cravate to the point that he hardly knew what he was
doing; his adversary, on the other hand, retained his sang-froid, and
combined with it all his social talents. It was not long before
Sans-Cravate found that he had lost all the money he had with him; he
had not enough left to pay for the wine they had drunk, a part of which
was chargeable to him.
"I'll pay for you, and you may owe it to me," said Jean Ficelle. "I am
not capable of leaving a friend in a hole."
Sans-Cravate was astounded to find himself without a sou, for he had
thirty francs in the morning. He felt in all his pockets, and cried:
"How's this? I have lost all my money! I want to keep on playing and
make myself good! I'll play on credit."
But Laboussole moved his chair away from the table and rose, saying:
"I'd like nothing better than to give you your revenge, my boy, but this
is the time of day when I have to attend to my duties. I have three
houses to inspect to-day; and if a sign of an insect should be found in
one of them to-morrow, I should lose my job. A job worth three thousand
francs a year, with lodging, candles, and perquisites, don't grow on
every bush. So I am obliged to leave you, my bucks; but we will meet
again soon; I'll look you up at your place of business on the street
corner, and I'll give our worthy friend Sans-Cravate all the revenge he
wants. Au revoir, my friends!"
Monsieur Laboussole shook hands with each of the messengers. When he
took Jean Ficelle's hand, he left in it half of the money he had won
from his comrade,--probably in accordance with a previous
understanding,--then left the room, saying:
"The next time I see you, friends, I'll give you a prospectus of our
enterprise, so that you can see if you wouldn't like to take some
shares. You can buy three shares for seven francs ten sous. Dividends of
twenty per cent are guaranteed, and you get in addition portraits of the
inspectors, which you can have framed, if you choose."
When Laboussole had gone, Jean Ficelle paid the bill and took
Sans-Cravate away. He made no resistance; he was dazed by the wine he
had drunk, and in a savage humor because he had lost his money, and,
more than all, because he had gambled; for he knew in his heart that he
was not acting the part of an honest man, and that Jean Ficelle's
company was a constant incitement to evil. When a man's conscience
speaks to him in that way, when he listens to its reproaches, and, while
trying to drown its voice, is none the less dissatisfied with himself,
there is still room for hope that he will return to the path of
respectability.
The messengers had been walking together for some time, at a somewhat
uncertain pace. Jean Ficelle, who loved to talk grandiloquently, and who
credited himself with the art of hoodwinking his hearers, was presenting
his comrade with a comparison to prove that the gambler who has lost all
his money is much nearer to winning than he whose pockets are full.
Sans-Cravate listened, without paying the slightest attention; his face
was flushed, his expression alert and quarrelsome; he did not step aside
for anyone, and he had more than once roughly jostled persons who passed
him, and had nearly thrown them down.
"Look out what you're doing," said Jean Ficelle; "you're running into
everybody! You'll get yourself into trouble!"
"Why don't they get out of the way? So much the worse for them! and if
anyone isn't satisfied, just let him say so."
Suddenly, as they were walking along the canal, Sans-Cravate spied a man
talking earnestly with a woman on a street corner. To utter an
exclamation, come to a halt, and grasp his companion's arm so hard that
he made him cry out, was a matter of an instant with Sans-Cravate.
"What in God's name's the matter?" demanded Jean Ficelle, almost
terrified.
"It's him--and her! Yes, there they are together. Look--over there, at
the corner of that street!"
Jean Ficelle looked; he recognized Paul talking to Bastringuette, with
great earnestness and with an air of mystery.
"_Pardi!_" he exclaimed; "the turtle-doves have evidently met here by
appointment--a long way from our neighborhood, so as not to be seen. How
this fits in--when you was just saying that you'd never seen Paul with
your fly-away! You see 'em now."
"Yes--and I still doubted! Ah! the villain! but he's got to pay me for
his treachery!"
"What are you going to do? Come, Sans-Cravate, no knock-down fight. Just
give him a clip--he well deserves it--and then, off we go! for,
although there ain't many people passing, we must look out for loafers."
Sans-Cravate paid no heed to what his comrade said, but strode rapidly
toward Paul; Bastringuette had left him, and he was walking away by the
canal, when Sans-Cravate planted himself in front of him.
"You don't go any farther," he cried.
"Is it you, Sans-Cravate?" said Paul, looking up at him. "Great heaven!
what's the matter? You look like a madman!"
"The matter is that you're a coward, a sneak!"
"Sans-Cravate!"
"Who was that with you a minute ago?"
"Bastringuette."
"And she ran off when she saw me, because she was afraid I'd give her a
beating; but I don't beat women, I don't; I take my revenge on men--and
you've got to fight with me!"
"Sans-Cravate, you are entirely mistaken--I give you my word of honor. I
am not Bastringuette's lover; I have never mentioned the word _love_ to
her; besides, you know perfectly well that I am in love with another
woman."
"That proves that you love two at once, that's all! Oh! you can't fool
me any more with your wheedling ways. You're a blackguard, a traitor--I
know you now. Come, coats off!"
"Sans-Cravate, you are not in your right mind at this moment. When you
are not so excited, you will listen to me."
"No, no, not a word! I've swallowed your insults and been called a
coward long enough. It's time to put an end to it."
"But you are mistaken; listen to me."
"I tell you, I won't; we must fight."
"I have told you before that I will not fight with you."
"Then I'll find a way to force you to."
"Yes, yes," said Jean Ficelle, from behind Sans-Cravate; "when a man
entices a friend's mistress away from him, he can't refuse to give him
satisfaction."
Paul cast a contemptuous glance at Jean Ficelle, and was about to answer
him, when Sans-Cravate rushed at him like a madman and shook his fist in
his face, crying:
"Will you fight?"
"No, for you are drunk! I am bound to overlook your foolish behavior."
"Oh! that's it, is it?"
And Sans-Cravate, utterly beside himself with jealousy, jumped at Paul,
and, seizing him around the waist, threw him against the wall of the
canal. The young man tried to save himself; but he stumbled and
staggered, and, as he fell, his head struck a large paving stone which,
unluckily, had been left lying there; its sharp edge made a deep wound,
and the blood soon formed a pool about the wounded man.
Paul did not utter a sound; but Sans-Cravate, when he saw the blood
flowing from the wound, stood as if turned to stone, horror-stricken,
and his face became ghastly pale. Jean-Ficelle seized his arm.
"Let's be off!" he said; "let's be off! you've given him his dose, and
that's all that was needed; now let's cut sticks."
"But he is wounded, he's bleeding," muttered Sans-Cravate.
"Bah! just a scratch--a trifle; that's none of our business."
"No, I won't leave him so; the least I can do is to carry him to that
shop yonder, to have his wound dressed."
Sans-Cravate stooped over Paul, who, in addition to the wound on his
head, had a badly bruised arm. To take off his jacket and turn back his
shirt sleeve, to see whether the arm was seriously injured, was the work
of an instant; as he bared Paul's forearm, he saw a small, perfectly
distinct, blue cross. He was about to carry the wounded man to a shop
near by, when Bastringuette came running up; seeing Paul wounded and
bathed in blood, she cried:
"What an outrage! they have murdered him! poor boy! poor Paul!"
And the tall girl, kneeling on the ground, raised the messenger's head
and examined it. At that moment, several persons, attracted by her
outcry, drew near the wounded man. Once more Jean Ficelle pulled
Sans-Cravate by the arm, saying:
"Well! they don't need you here, you see; he'll be well taken care of."
"That's true; you are right--as she is with him, there's nothing for me
to do here. Let's go!"
As he spoke, Sans-Cravate hurried away with his comrade, not once
turning his head to look back, as if he were afraid to meet
Bastringuette's eye.
XXV
AN EVENING PARTY.--A SOUVENIR
There was a brilliant reception at the house of a wealthy foreigner, who
had taken up his abode in Paris because he had concluded that the people
of that city have learned most thoroughly the secret of enjoying
themselves, of varying their amusements, and of doing themselves credit
with their wealth. He was absolutely right; and as the Parisians are
very fond of people who give them dinners, concerts, balls, routs--in a
word, festivities of every sort, the residence of the wealthy foreigner
became the usual rendezvous of a large number of people, and his
receptions were always crowded.
It may be that those persons who insist upon knowing in whose company
they are, who are afraid to sit at a card table with a gentleman or lady
whose social position is not definitely fixed, might have found much to
criticise in the society which was wont to assemble in the salons of
Monsieur Grazcernitz (such was the wealthy foreigner's name); but as the
number of those who like to be entertained is very considerable, he was
always certain of having an abundance of guests.
To obtain an invitation from Monsieur Grazcernitz, it was sufficient to
have cut a figure in society, to have made a name for one's self in
letters, art, or commerce, to be able to sing an aria or a ballad with
taste and expression, to tell an anecdote interestingly, or even to make
a pun. To the ladies, the wealthy foreigner was even more indulgent; a
pretty woman, a woman of fashion, a blue-stocking, an unknown or
unappreciated artist, were always welcome in his salon. One often met
there people whom one never met on the fashionable promenades or at the
theatre; just as we may meet at a railroad station a friend whom we have
not seen for several years, a mistress who, we supposed, had gone to
Russia, an old artist whom we believed to be dead--in a word, someone
whom we should vainly seek in the streets of Paris.
Now, Monsieur Grazcernitz's salons were frequently honored by the
presence of Monsieur and Madame Plays. Monsieur went thither as his
wife's escort, and madame to display her charms and her dresses, and to
make conquests. It was at that house that she had made Albert
Vermoncey's acquaintance.
Madame Baldimer also was an habitué of the wealthy foreigner's salons.
It was at his receptions that she had been named the fair American.
Balivan, the absent-minded painter, was also to be met with there, and
the jovial Mouillot, Dupétrain the magnetizer, the young man with the
white eyebrows, and Monsieur Célestin de Valnoir, who possessed the art
of insinuating himself everywhere.
Tobie Pigeonnier had obtained an introduction to Monsieur Grazcernitz a
short time before the loss of his olive; he had been overjoyed to find
himself at a function where punch, ices, cake, and delicacies of all
sorts, were served in great profusion to the guests. Since the adventure
of the fetich, he had not dared to show his face in Monsieur
Grazcernitz's salon, and that was not one of the least of his
annoyances.
Madame Baldimer had just been announced. She entered the salon under the
escort of Monsieur Dupétrain, who, by dint of telling her that he
possessed the power of magnetizing and putting to sleep anybody that she
chose, had succeeded in inducing her to receive him.
The fair American was magnificently dressed, and resplendent with
diamonds and jewelry; the beauty of her face and the splendor of her
costume attracted every eye, and a circle soon formed about her.
"That Dupétrain's a lucky dog!" said a very ugly little man; "he is
Madame Baldimer's escort, she accepts his arm. How can anyone understand
such a whim? to select for her cavalier an ugly creature--with nothing
to recommend him--while so many good-looking young men, men of real
merit, are paying court to her!"
"What does that prove?" rejoined a gentleman, laughing in the last
speaker's face. "You don't suppose Dupétrain is that woman's lover, do
you? on the contrary, she accepts his arm because he's of no consequence
at all. Besides, she has been courted by many other men, who have been
no more fortunate for having acted as her cavalier. That lovely creature
impresses me as being inclined to amuse herself at the expense of every
man who is attentive to her."
"Do you think so? Haven't some of them fought duels for her?"
"Yes; I believe there has been a duel; but I don't know who the parties
were."
The arrival of two new guests changed the subject of conversation.
Monsieur and Madame Plays entered the salon. The host went forward to
meet the superb and massive Herminie, saying:
"Mon Dieu! madame, what a pleasure it is to see you! we have been
deprived of that pleasure so long! What has become of you? For more
than two months you haven't been seen in society! I have asked about you
several times, and been told: 'Madame Plays has gone into retirement in
one of her country houses; she receives no one and sees no one; in fact,
she has turned hermit.'"
Madame Plays affected a languorous air, as she replied:
"It is true--I haven't been into society for a long while! Ah! I would
like never to return to it."
"What! shun society at your age, madame, when you have been its
brightest ornament! Why, that is not lawful; it's a crime, it's
downright robbery!--Would you allow it, Monsieur Plays?"
Monsieur Plays tried to imitate his wife's manner, as he said:
"My wife took me with her to one of our estates; it was very dull; there
were only we two, and we had no visitors; for we didn't tell anybody
where we were going, we went off all of a sudden, as if we were ashamed
of it. But still, when something has happened to afflict one--you
understand--and my wife certainly had good cause for tears in----"
Madame Plays pinched her husband's arm, and whispered:
"Hush! that's enough; hush! Who asked you to say that?"
Monsieur Plays held his peace, and pretended to have a paroxysm of
coughing as an excuse for not finishing his sentence. Monsieur
Grazcernitz took the fair Herminie's hand and led her to a seat on a
divan, with divers other ladies, with whom she soon entered into
conversation.
But after a few seconds, the lady at the robust creature's right rose
and walked into another salon; in a short time, the lady at her left
likewise rose and vanished, and the fair Herminie was left alone on the
divan. Thereupon several young men approached her and favored her with
an assortment of the insipid, commonplace flatteries of which such a
prodigious supply is ordinarily consumed in fashionable salons.
A young man who had talked with Madame Plays a few minutes left her
abruptly, and observed to one of his friends:
"That's a most extraordinary thing; I can't understand it."
"What do you mean?"
"You see that lady over there, with whom I was talking just now?"
"Madame Plays?"
"Yes. Well, my dear fellow, I can't imagine what kind of perfume she has
about her, but it's absolutely insufferable."
"The deuce you say!"
"It's like the smell of stale tobacco; it's perfectly sickening."
"Impossible."
"Look! there's Alfred leaving her now; let's see what he says.--Alfred!"
"What is it?"
"You were just talking with Madame Plays; did you smell anything?"
"Oh! parbleu! that was what made me leave her. I like to smoke a cigar,
but a lady who smells like a guardhouse isn't at all agreeable. She must
chew! that's the only explanation."
"She probably adopted the habit in her retirement."
"We must go and ask her husband."
"Oh, no! I should never dare."
"It's evident that you don't know Monsieur Plays! I'll bet you that I
dare. Follow me, without making it apparent, and you'll see."
The young man who had spoken last walked up to Monsieur Plays, whom he
discovered in an adjoining room, standing near a whist table and
watching the game with close attention.
"Well, Monsieur Plays," said the young man, bowing to him, "you seem to
be much engrossed by the game?"
"Yes; I am watching it rather closely."
"Are you studying the fine points of whist?"
"I study everything."
"You must be a fine whist player."
"On the contrary, I don't understand the game yet; for ten years, I've
been watching it; but I hope that, by dint of watching, I shall learn it
finally. My wife absolutely insists on my learning it; that is why I
never lose a chance to look on."
"Speaking of madame, Monsieur Plays, she seems to have become a
_lionne_[O] in her retirement."
"A _lionne_! my wife! Why, no; far from it, I assure you! on the
contrary, her disposition has become more tractable; she is very mild
and gentle now."
"You don't understand me, Monsieur Plays; by _lionne_, we men of fashion
mean an eccentric woman, one who is very far advanced in the modern
ideas of progress."
"What! you think my wife is advanced?"
"And, I may say, a woman who smokes. Isn't it a fact that Madame Plays
indulges in that pleasure now?"
"My wife smoke! never! Oh! you are entirely mistaken. I can guess why
you ask me that; you noticed that she smelt of tobacco, didn't you?"
"Faith! yes, Monsieur Plays, I did notice it; and, if I must tell you, I
am not the only person in this company who has noticed it."
"I believe you; oh! I can readily believe you, as I have noticed it
myself, and this evening isn't the first time that my wife has exhaled
an odor of smoking tobacco. Ever since she took me off to our country
place, where we lived like bears, I have noticed that same odor; and I
have said to myself more than once: 'My wife smells of tobacco, and it
seems to me that the smell is getting stronger and stronger.'"
"And you haven't asked madame what caused it?"
"I beg your pardon; one day I ventured to say to her: 'Herminie, are you
in the habit of smoking in private? if you are, don't mind me, I beg
you; smoke as much as you please!'"
"Well?"
"Well, my wife considered my question very impertinent, and she punished
me--that is to say, she ordered me not to---- But, excuse me, this seems
to be a very interesting hand; a gentleman has just made the _odd_; I
must try to understand."
Monsieur Plays turned his attention to the whist table once more, and
the young man walked away with his friends, having obtained no new
light.
While this conversation was taking place, Madame Baldimer, noticing
Madame Plays alone on a divan, went and seated herself by her side. The
two ladies were slightly acquainted, having met rather often at Count
Dahlborne's receptions, and Herminie had no suspicion that it was the
fair American for whom the fickle Albert had purchased a shawl like
hers.
"What has become of you lately, madame? it seems an age since we saw you
at any sort of festivity; and everybody has been lamenting it."
The tone in which Madame Baldimer spoke might, to some people, have
seemed slightly satirical; but Madame Plays saw only amiability therein,
and she replied, with a long-drawn sigh:
"I thank you, madame; it is too kind of you to believe that people think
of me; but I have been in close retirement, as was very natural after
the painful event of which I was the cause, and for which I reproach
myself so bitterly! Ah! I dared not show my face!"
Madame Baldimer, after putting her smelling-bottle to her nose, with a
muttered: "This is very strange; it smells like a tobacco factory here!"
leaned toward Madame Plays, and said:
"You say that you were the cause of a painful occurrence?"
"To be sure; can it be that you have not heard of it?"
"I have not the faintest idea what you mean."
"I supposed that it must have made a great sensation in society, and
that is why I ran away and dared not come back! And you have not heard
of the duel?"
"A duel!"
"Certainly; a duel about me--that is to say--I had no idea it would go
so far. Mon Dieu! there are some women who like nothing better than to
have men fight for them; but my remorse is terrible!"
Madame Baldimer bestowed a piercing glance on Herminie, as if she wished
to fathom her thoughts.
"Who was the man who fought for you, madame?" she asked.
"Monsieur Albert Vermoncey and Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier, two hot-headed
youths who adored me. Oh! what a misfortune it is to arouse such
passions! That young Albert had deceived me, it is true; but that was no
reason---- Oh! how wrong it was of me to say that I wished to be
avenged!"
"Monsieur Albert fought a duel for you, you say? When?"
"The day before I left Paris for the country--about two months and a
half ago."
"Well! what was the result of this duel?"
"Horrible, madame, shocking! Poor Albert was killed by that little
Tobie--killed with a sword-thrust! That is the calamity of which I am
the cause, and for which I shall never forgive myself!"
Madame Plays covered her eyes with her handkerchief; but, instead of the
emotional outburst which she anticipated from Madame Baldimer, she was
surprised to hear that lady say, with a sarcastic smile:
"Abate your remorse, madame; do not be so heart-broken, I entreat you;
for the men who get themselves killed for your sake are still in
remarkably good health."
"What! what do you mean by that, madame?" cried the fair Herminie,
restoring her handkerchief to her pocket.
"I mean that young Albert Vermoncey is not dead."