smash your nose so that I'll defy you to blow it!"
Sans-Cravate's eyes were so eloquent of his determination, that the
servant, having involuntarily stepped back, deemed it prudent not to
resist him, and decided to go to his master, to whom he said:
"There's a very savage and rough-mannered messenger outside, who insists
on speaking to monsieur. Shall I turn him out of doors?"
Monsieur Vermoncey thought that the man had probably come to bring him
news of Paul, for whom he had found a place, and whom he had sought in
vain at his usual stand.
"Show him in," he said.
This command was most unwelcome to the servant, who returned to
Sans-Cravate and said sullenly:
"Come in; monsieur consents to receive you;--these masters are most
astonishing with their whims."
Sans-Cravate trembled slightly, but did not hesitate; he entered the
study and found himself in Monsieur Vermoncey's presence.
Albert's father was seated in front of the fire; he turned his head and
scrutinized Sans-Cravate, who, after opening the door, stood on the
threshold, afraid to go forward.
"Well, what do you want with me? speak!"
Sans-Cravate felt that his throat was parched and that he had no saliva
in his mouth; some instants passed before he could articulate a word,
but at last he stammered:
"Monsieur, it is--it is about--about monsieur your son."
"My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, who instantly recalled the first
time that Paul had come to see him, and feared that another duel was on
the carpet. "My son--what has happened to him?--is he in danger? Speak!"
"No, monsieur; no, he is not in danger; and when I say that it's about
him--I should say that I have come on my own account, that it's myself
who---- _Sacrédié!_--excuse me, monsieur, but I am so worked up--it
ain't fear--but it makes me feel queer. One minute, monsieur; my mind is
coming back, and, after all, why shouldn't I dare to speak to you? you
are an honorable man. I'm a miserable fool to tremble so--now, it's all
over!"
Monsieur Vermoncey looked at Sans-Cravate with more interest, and waited
with some curiosity for him to explain himself.
"My name is Étienne Renaud," the messenger continued, in a firm voice;
"I come from Auvergne; I came to Paris to be a messenger, and they have
given me the name of Sans-Cravate here; it's a nickname of no
consequence, and I don't mind it. My regular stand is on the corner of
Rue du Helder and the boulevard."
"I remember now that I have seen you there," said Monsieur Vermoncey,
"and that you have a young man named Paul for your comrade. Have you
come to give me news of him?"
Sans-Cravate made a wry face at the name of Paul, and continued:
"No, monsieur; no, it hasn't anything to do with him. I must tell you,
monsieur, that I left a very pretty sister in Auvergne, who is seventeen
years old now; a lady in Clermont took a fancy to her and insisted on
taking her into her family, to give her an education, like a young lady.
My sister's an honest girl, d'ye see, monsieur; leastways, she was till
the devil sent a young gentleman from Paris down that way, and he began
to hang about the house. He saw my Liline and thought she was
pretty--_dame!_ it would be hard for anyone not to think so,--the
sweetest little face in Auvergne; and now she has distinguished manners,
so that anyone would swear she was a princess! Well, monsieur, to cut it
short, this young man--who's a good-looking fellow, too, worse luck! and
all the women like him--well, he seduced my sister! The poor child! she
believed in love right away, as you believe fine weather's coming when
you see the first swallows. He told her a lot of things to turn her
head, and made her believe my father had refused to give him her hand;
which ain't true, I am sure, for my father loves her too dearly to
refuse to give her to the man she loves. In short, he promised, swore,
that he'd marry her, if she'd consent to come to Paris with him; and my
sister believed it all, she never thought for a moment that the young
man meant to deceive her, so she yielded to his entreaties. She came to
Paris with her--her lover--I might as well say the word. And the young
man who did all this is your son, monsieur, Monsieur Albert!"
"My son!" cried Monsieur Vermoncey, fastening his eyes upon
Sans-Cravate, unable to believe that he had heard aright. "My son has
done that! Oh, no! you are mistaken; you have been misinformed."
"Oh! it's only too true, monsieur; there's no chance of any mistake. I
know Monsieur Albert well; I've been his messenger a long while; and as
he always spoke pleasantly to me, I liked him--yes, I was fond of him;
his good humor, his pleasant manners, his happy disposition, perhaps his
very faults--all fascinated me too. In fact, I would have jumped into
the fire for him; and he knew it, and he always came for me when he had
some shady errand to be done. I hadn't seen him for more than two
months, and I'd concluded he was travelling somewhere, when he came
after me at my stand about half-past nine this morning."
"This morning?"
"Yes, monsieur; it ain't an old story, you see.--'Sans-Cravate,' he
says, 'I've brought a lovely girl back to Paris with me, but my father
mustn't know anything about it. I took lodgings for her a long way off,
on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain; but I have just found out that one of
my father's intimate friends lives on that street now.'"
"True--Monsieur Delmas. Well?"
"'And so,' he went on, 'as I don't want to meet anybody I know when I go
to see my young friend, I've hired another apartment, on Rue
Grange-aux-Belles, near the canal.'--In short, monsieur, he employed me
to move the furniture from Rue de Grenelle to the new lodgings in a
great hurry, and to wait till he brought his lady there. I agreed, of
course, and did what he told me to do. I finished the job before two
o'clock, and I had gone out to rest a bit, for I was tired out, when the
concierge came and told me they had arrived and the young man had gone
right away again. I went to see the lady, to find out whether she was
satisfied with the way I'd fixed her furniture. You can judge of my
feelings when I recognized my sister Liline in the girl Monsieur Albert
had abducted. She cried when she saw me, and kissed me, and begged me to
forgive her; then she told me how it had all happened, just as I have
told you; and she begged me not to get angry, because she is perfectly
sure her lover will marry her as he has promised."
"My son has done that! abducted a virtuous girl! and seduced her! Oh!
that is very bad--it is----"
Monsieur Vermoncey did not finish his sentence, but hid his face in his
hands.
"I am only a poor, uneducated messenger, monsieur. But I have my honor,
and I care all the more for it, d'ye see, because it's all I've got. At
first I cried with my sister, and broke her heart by telling her that
her seducer was probably a fickle fellow who only intended to deceive
her as he has a thousand other women; but she seems so convinced of his
love; and then, she's so sweet and pretty, poor Liline! After all, why
shouldn't Monsieur Albert love her sincerely? That thought brought back
my courage, and I comforted her and made up my mind right off to come
and tell you the whole story, because you're the young man's father, and
it can't be fixed without your consent. I thought, monsieur, that you
would listen to the voice of poor people who may be ruined by your
son--but who can be made very happy by you, if you choose."
Sans-Cravate ceased to speak; he was satisfied with his performance. In
truth, his sister's plight had made him almost eloquent; for we never
lack moving words, words that go to the heart, when we follow the
heart's promptings.
Monsieur Vermoncey said nothing, but seemed absorbed in thought. The
messenger anxiously awaited the words that were to come forth from his
mouth, and to decide his sister's fate; but he dared not urge him to
speak, and his eyes alone bore witness to his impatience.
At last, Monsieur Vermoncey rose, went to Sans-Cravate, put his hand on
his shoulder, and said:
"Come, my friend, let us try to forgive a young man's wrong-doing, all
the consequences of which he failed to realize. I am rich; I will take
it upon myself to look after your sister's future, and that of your
whole family; your father, in his old age, shall have everything to make
life pleasant, and----"
"What's that? what's that?" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, stepping back and
looking Monsieur Vermoncey squarely in the eye. "What are you coming at
with all your talk about money? It isn't money that we ask, but the
honor that your son has taken away from us and must give back. In a
word, monsieur, for I don't go to a place by thirty-six roads, I have
come here to demand your consent to Monsieur Albert's marriage to my
sister."
"My son marry your sister!" rejoined Monsieur Vermoncey, with a slight
upward movement of the shoulders. "Nonsense, my friend; surely, you
can't think of such a thing; such a marriage is impossible! There are
distinctions, conventions, in society, which we are bound to respect. In
fact, my son cannot ally himself to a--messenger!"
"Then why could he dishonor my sister?" cried Sans-Cravate, in a loud
voice and with an angry glance at his interlocutor.
"Hush, my friend, not so loud, for heaven's sake!" rejoined Monsieur
Vermoncey, astonished by the tone the messenger had assumed. But
Sans-Cravate paid no heed; he was no longer the timid creature who
trembled when he entered the presence of the man of the world and could
not speak to him without stammering; now he was a brother demanding
justice for his sister, and firmly resolved to obtain it.
"Monsieur," he said, "I am no boaster; I haven't come here to fling
words in the air without any result; I have come to tell you what is
going to happen. Either monsieur your son will marry my sister, you
understand--either he'll marry her, or I'll kill him--unless he kills
me. But as I believe there is such a thing as divine justice, and I am
the injured party, I can afford to think that I shall kill him."
Monsieur Vermoncey dropped into a chair.
"Kill my son!" he cried; "my Albert! the only child left to me--the only
tie that binds me to life! Do you mean to kill me too?"
"Then consent to his marriage to my sister, monsieur, and don't think
you'll have any reason to blush for the connection. There's nothing
dishonorable, monsieur, in being connected with honest folk who never
injured anyone. The dishonorable thing is to carry trouble and despair
into a family, to seduce a girl, and to abandon her when she may be
carrying within her a token of her weakness; and if that should be so,
monsieur, what would become of the child? He wouldn't have any
father--he----"
Monsieur Vermoncey sprang to his feet, ran to Sans-Cravate, and grasped
his hand, saying:
"You are right, my friend, and I must give way. Yes, I consent to my
son's marrying your sister."
"Can it be possible?" cried Sans-Cravate, jumping for joy; "you
consent--you are willing? I am not deceiving myself?"
"Yes, my friend, I consent; you have my word; but you must leave your
present business; I will find you some more suitable employment."
"Oh! whatever you choose, monsieur; mon Dieu! I'll go back to the old
home, I'll take care of the barnyard, I'll never go out of the house, if
you say so."
"Never fear, my friend; I will arrange matters so that we shall all be
satisfied. Go and get your sister, and bring her back with you; I will
receive her as my daughter, and I desire that the marriage ceremony be
performed at the earliest possible moment."
"Oh! this is too much good fortune! I knew that you were a good man. I
will love you as I do my own father; and my poor sister, my Liline, how
happy she will be! Why, it's enough to make one crazy with joy!"
And Sans-Cravate danced about the room, overturning furniture, laughing
and singing. Monsieur Vermoncey was obliged to quiet him, and to remind
him that his sister was expecting him.
"Oh, yes! you are right," was the reply; "my sister's waiting for me,
and I don't hurry and tell her! What a fool I am! And that poor
Monsieur Albert, who is with her, no doubt! I'll go right away and tell
them how kind you are; and I'll bring them back to your arms. Oh! it
won't take me long, I promise you."
A minute later, Sans-Cravate was in the street, and he ran without
stopping to the house where he had left his sister. He was drenched with
perspiration when he arrived. He entered the house and was already on
the stairs, when the concierge called him.
"Well, comrade, where are you going so fast?"
"Parbleu! to see my sister. The pretty little lady who moved in to-day
is my sister."
"I don't know anything about that, but you won't find her."
"What! has she gone out--alone?"
"No--with the young gentleman who brought her here; he came back just
after you went away."
"Well! they'll be back soon, no doubt. Do you know which way they went?"
"No; and I don't think they'll be back for a long while. The gentleman
sent for a cab, and put in the satchel of clothes they brought here this
morning. Then he gave me the keys to the apartment, and said: 'Just air
the rooms a little, now and then.'--And with that, he put the little
lady in the cab, got in beside her, and good-day. It's my opinion
they've left Paris."
"Gone! they have gone!" ejaculated Sans-Cravate. "Great God! Monsieur
Albert probably thought that his father wouldn't forgive him; he was
afraid he'd have to part with Liline. Oh! what a misfortune! But they'll
write, I hope. Didn't my sister leave any word for me?"
"Not a word; but I saw she was crying when she got into the cab."
"She was crying--poor girl! and they'd have been so happy, if they had
only waited for me!"
Sans-Cravate was in despair; but as he could learn nothing more from the
concierge, he returned to Monsieur Vermoncey and told him of the abrupt
departure of the lovers.
Albert's father was greatly distressed by the news, and he at once sent
to his son's apartment to ascertain whether he had left a letter for
him. The servant brought back a short note, which had evidently been
written in great haste and contained these words only:
"Excuse my absence, father; I am compelled to go away again, and
this time without saying good-bye to you. But don't be anxious; you
will hear from me often, and I hope to see you again before long."
"And he don't say where he's going!" murmured Sans-Cravate. "What a
pity! you could have written to him at once that he could come back,
that everything was forgiven."
"Perhaps he will tell me where he is, in his first letter," suggested
Monsieur Vermoncey; "then I will write to him, or else we will both go
and join them."
"Ah! yes, yes, we will do that, that's a fine idea; but till then I must
be patient. Will you allow me, monsieur, to come often to ask whether
you have heard from your son?"
"Whenever you choose, my friend; you are no longer a stranger to me.
Here, Étienne, take this purse, and give up your trade; from this moment
you do not need to earn money."
Sans-Cravate declined the money that was offered him, and replied, in a
melancholy tone:
"No, monsieur, not yet; my sister ain't your son's wife as yet; until
then, let me stay as I am."
Monsieur Vermoncey's persistent entreaties could not shake his
determination.
"Let's hope they will come back," he said, as he went away, "or that we
shall soon find out where they are."
He returned to his stand, lost in thought, with no desire to laugh or
dance, and saying to himself:
"Was it because he learned that Liline had found her brother that
Monsieur Albert carried her off so quick?"
XXVII
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
When Paul lay on the ground, unconscious, after he had been wounded on
the head and arm by his fall, Bastringuette had hastened to the spot;
and seeing Sans-Cravate walk rapidly away, she had partly divined the
cause of the younger man's deplorable condition.
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried the girl; "they have been fighting--or,
rather, Sans-Cravate insisted on fighting this poor boy, who ain't
strong enough to stand up to him. And it must have been jealousy that
made Sans-Cravate do it--because he saw me talking to Paul. I'm the
cause of his hard luck--or my beastly coquetry, my foolish idea of
changing lovers, when I was well off. But that's how it always is in
love; when you're well off, it bores you, and you want to change; when
you're badly off, you stay as you are."
While she talked thus to herself, Bastringuette did what she could for
the young messenger. The people who had collected talked about carrying
him to the nearest hospital, but Bastringuette cried out at the word:
"I guess not much! You don't catch me letting this poor boy go to the
hospital while I have a decent place to take him to! He must have rooms
somewhere himself; but as he can't talk just now, he can't tell us where
they are. Anyway, it will be more convenient for me to nurse him and
make herb tea for him in my room; for these boys never have a kettle fit
to boil water in."
So the flower girl sent for a cab; they lifted the wounded man into it,
after she had bandaged his head and arm as well as she could; then she
gave her address--Rue des Martyrs, near the barrier--and when they
arrived there, Paul was taken up to her room, with the assistance of the
cabman and the concierge, and placed on her bed.
As may be imagined, Bastringuette's domicile was not luxurious. Her
apartment consisted of a bedroom and closet, on the fifth floor, under
the eaves. She called it the sparrows' entresol.
The furniture was very modest: a wooden cot-bed, a cherry commode, six
cane-seated chairs,--or rather six chairs that needed to be reseated,--a
small table, a mirror, a foot-warmer, and a stove. So much for the
bedroom. As to the closet, it contained a row of pegs, on which nothing
was ever hung. But the aspect of the bedroom was not unpleasant and did
not indicate downright poverty, thanks to the spotless cleanliness that
prevailed.
The bed was surrounded with calico curtains, always very white; there
were also two little curtains of the same material at the window,
taking the place of one large one. On the commode, on the little table,
and on the window sill, there were almost always flowers, some in pots,
some in blue carafes. Flowers were Bastringuette's one luxury, and more
than once she had breakfasted on a crust of bread in order to have
flowers during the winter, when she did not sell them.
After placing Paul on the bed, Bastringuette went to one of her
neighbors and asked her to go for a doctor. The tall girl was popular in
the house, because she was light-hearted and clever; and they loved to
hear her talk, and repeat in her homely language all the flattering
speeches made to her by the men who bought flowers of her.
When they learned that the flower girl had a wounded man in her room,
the neighbors all wanted to help: one went for a doctor, another for a
druggist; this one had a remedy of her own preparation, that one an
infallible ointment; so that when Paul opened his eyes he found himself
surrounded by women of all ages, all talking at once, and all anxious to
cure him, offering ointment, herb tea, plasters, and blisters, each with
at least three phials in her hand. Luckily for the wounded man, the
doctor came and restored peace among the women, who were disputing with
one another as to whose remedy should be preferred. The doctor began by
throwing all the phials out of the window, then turned his would-be
confrères out of the room; and having examined the patient, found that
the wound on the head was severe but not dangerous, that he had sprained
his arm when he fell, and that what he most needed were rest and good
nursing.
Paul looked about the room in amazement. When the doctor had gone,
Bastringuette said:
"Now, try to be calm and quiet; let me take care of you, and don't talk!
the doctor says you mustn't. You're in my room; that vexes you, perhaps,
but, _dame!_ I didn't know your address, and I wouldn't let you be taken
to the hospital. It don't put me out a bit, don't you be afraid; I'm my
own mistress, and I snap my fingers at what folks say! I know well
enough that there's some people always ready to see something wrong in
whatever anyone does, and who'll think you're my lover. I don't care for
that. There was a time when I'd have liked right well to have you, I
don't deny it; I had fallen in love with you; you made my head queer,
like a sunstroke. And that was when I turned my back on poor
Sans-Cravate! I made a great success of that. You told me right out that
you loved somebody else--and then--there was what I heard, what I found
out about you. I saw plain enough, then, that you was too far above
me--by the way you acted. Hush! don't speak, the doctor says you
mustn't. You don't like what I say, so I'm done, it's dead; I won't
mention it again. When chance let me into your secret, you made me swear
to keep quiet about it; but that's no reason why I can't tell you,
between ourselves, that it's a noble thing you're doing, and you ought
to have the prize of virtue, the prize of---- Well, you're moving your
lips, so I'll shut up. Now, go to sleep, or try to go to sleep; and when
you wake up, perhaps you'll have a pleasant surprise--no one knows!"
"You are too good," murmured Paul, in a weak voice; "but I am in your
way here; you ought to have let me----"
"Hold your tongue this minute! I ought to have let you be taken to the
hospital, eh? That would have been a sweet thing to do! when I was the
cause of it all--yes, it was my nonsense! If I hadn't made eyes at
you--in fact, if I hadn't tried to catch you, would Sans-Cravate have
hit you? Now, he hates me, and he's quite right; but he's all wrong to
fight you, because it ain't your fault. Come, go to sleep; the doctor
said you must sleep; and I tell you again that you ain't in my way; I've
got another bed in the closet, and I'll sleep on that. I'm going out to
get the medicines the doctor ordered; I shan't be gone long."
Bastringuette left the room; and Paul closed his eyes, praying heaven to
deal kindly with him, because his existence was still necessary.
Toward evening, after several hours of restless slumber, he opened his
eyes; two faces were leaning over him, waiting for the moment of his
awakening. Paul uttered a cry of surprise when he recognized Elina.
"Yes, it's Mamzelle Elina," said Bastringuette; "it's your sweetheart. I
went and waited for her at her dressmaker's door, so's to tell her what
had happened to you, and I had an idea she'd come back with me. That's
why I said perhaps you'd have a pleasant waking-up."
Paul held out his hand to the little dressmaker, who gazed at him with
eyes full of love and tears as she said:
"Oh, my friend! you are wounded! what a misfortune! But still I'm very
happy that Bastringuette came and told me. She told me how it occurred,
too. A horrid drunken man pushed you and knocked you down; she happened
to be passing and saw you lying on the ground, unconscious, and had you
brought here to her room. She's a dear, good girl, and she loves you
almost as much as I do. I should have been so anxious, so unhappy, when
I didn't see you! I should have thought again that you had stopped
loving me. But now I'll come and see you every day; yes, monsieur, every
day; in the morning when I go to my work, and at night before I go home
to my aunt's.--What is it, monsieur? don't you want me to?"
"If your aunt should find it out," Paul murmured, "she would scold you,
and I don't want to expose you to----"
"What an extraordinary man!" cried Bastringuette; "he's willing to be
loved, but he don't want anybody to do anything for him. Bless my soul!
mademoiselle will get up a little earlier and go home a little
later--what a hardship! She'll tire herself, perhaps, to get here a
little sooner; but she'll see you, and that'll do you good and her too."
"Oh! yes, my dear," said Elina, "let me spend every minute I am at
liberty with you; let me help Bastringuette; I shall be so happy when I
see you getting better every day! and the first time you go out, you
will lean on her and me. Oh! you shall see how I can take care of you,
too; I look like a light-headed little thing, but I won't be that any
more; I mean that you shall be satisfied with me."