you have every right to reproach him for his desertion of you. But I was
very young, I was poor, I did not know what it is to be a father--and I
have blamed myself so bitterly for that sin!"
Paul threw himself into his father's arms, begging him to say no more,
and Sans-Cravate added:
"You must forget the past, and think of nothing but your present
happiness."
"Yes," said Paul, pressing his former comrade's hand. "But since I am
taking Albert's place here, your sister must accept now what he and my
father have done for her.--Am I not carrying out your wishes in this,
father?"
"Yes, my son," was the reply; "indeed, from this time forth I shall
approve whatever you do."
"Shake!" said Sans-Cravate to Paul; "I will accept anything from you; if
you should offer me a million, I'd take it--I must make up for my
infernal stupidity with regard to you. But my sister's waiting for
us--and--and----"
Sans-Cravate whispered the name of Elina. Paul instantly asked his
father's permission to leave him a moment; and Monsieur Vermoncey gave
it, on the condition that he would bring Adeline to him, whom he desired
to embrace, and that Madame Desroches would remain and talk with him at
greater length about his son. The old lady asked nothing better.
In a very few minutes, Sans-Cravate and Paul were with Adeline, who, in
accordance with her brother's suggestion, had gone to see little Elina
and had told her of the great change in Paul's position. When the two
friends arrived, they found the little dressmaker weeping bitterly,
because she was persuaded that her lover, now that he had become rich,
would no longer think of marrying her.
Paul hastened to console Elina, and Sans-Cravate said:
"You must strike while the iron's hot, and present your sweetheart to
your father right away; at this moment, he can't refuse you
anything--later, nobody knows."
Paul approved this suggestion; but Elina was afraid to go to Monsieur
Vermoncey's; she trembled at the thought, and refused; it required all
her lover's eloquence, all the entreaties of Adeline and her brother,
to induce her to accompany them. They succeeded at last in allaying her
terror, and ere long the two girls stood before Monsieur Vermoncey.
Sans-Cravate presented his sister, whose sad, sweet face and lovely eyes
brimming with tears aroused Monsieur Vermoncey's most affectionate
interest; he embraced her and called her his daughter. Then he fixed his
eyes on little Elina, who was trying to hide behind a curtain, and said,
with a smile:
"But who is this other young lady?"
Paul stepped forward, blushing, and told his father of his love for
Elina; he dwelt upon the delicacy of the girl, who loved him when he had
nothing and offered to give him her little fortune; then he told of the
care she had lavished on him during his illness.
Monsieur Vermoncey went behind the curtains and led her forth, as red as
a cherry, into the middle of the room; he kissed her on the forehead,
and said to her:
"You desired to make my son happy when he had nothing; now that he is
rich, it is only fair that he should do as much for you."
"Ah! that is what I call talking!" cried Sans-Cravate. "Look you,
monsieur, do you know what this comes to? why, that you've recovered all
your children to-day!"
On returning home with his sister, Sans-Cravate was very gay and happy;
but he glanced constantly from side to side, as if he hoped to meet
someone. Adeline noticed it and smiled to herself, but said nothing.
Early in the evening, someone knocked softly at the door of their room.
"Hark! who can have come to see us?" said Sans-Cravate, looking at his
sister; "I don't know of any visitor we expect."
Adeline made no reply, but went to open the door, and Bastringuette
stood before them.
Sans-Cravate was so agitated that he could not speak; his first impulse
was to throw his arms about the tall girl's neck; but he checked
himself, because he reflected that the fact that Paul was not her lover
did not prove that she was not attached to somebody else.
Bastringuette remained standing in front of him; she glanced coyly at
him, and finally, as if she divined his thoughts, she held out her hand,
saying:
"I was a flirt--you were ugly--but I love you still, and after this you
needn't be afraid, because, you see, a woman's like a saucepan: when it
has once been on the fire, it's better than a new one."
Sans-Cravate threw his arms about her.
"To make sure you don't change again, I'll marry you!" he said.
"That ain't always the safest way," rejoined Bastringuette, with a
smile; "but as I've been a little free before marriage, I promise you I
won't be afterward."
"And I'll take you to Auvergne, to live with my father; how does that
strike you?"
"To Auvergne--I should say so! I'm so fond of chestnuts."
A few weeks later, Paul led pretty Elina to the altar; she had ceased to
be a dressmaker at the same time that her lover had ceased to be a
messenger. And good Madame Desroches consented to live with the young
couple, who treated her as their mother.
As for Madame Baldimer, she had left Paris for America immediately after
Albert's death.
Albert's friends continue to stroll on the boulevards, cigar in mouth.
Mouillot is still a high liver, Balivan as distraught as ever, and
Dupétrain still insists on putting people to sleep. Monsieur Varinet no
longer lends five hundred francs on an olive, because he is afraid of
having to keep it too long in his purse, and Monsieur Célestin de
Valnoir, having obtained his release from Sainte-Pélagie, bends his
energies to piling up other debts.
Madame Plays continues to disregard her husband's rights; but she cannot
endure the sight of Tobie; she holds him in horror, because she believes
that he killed Albert. Young Pigeonnier consoles himself for the rigor
of the superb Herminie with Aunt Abraham's fortune and his reputation
for valor.
On the day before his departure for Auvergne with his sister and
Bastringuette, Sans-Cravate saw two men in the street, handcuffed
together, on their way to the Préfecture, escorted by gendarmes. He
recognized Laboussole and Jean Ficelle. The latter seemed a little
abashed to be seen with such an escort; but Monsieur Laboussole kept up
a continual outcry of:
"It's a mistake of the gendarmes; they take us for somebody else! That
trick's been played on me seven or eight times before!"
"That's how I should have ended, perhaps," thought Sans-Cravate, as he
looked after them, "if I'd listened to that ne'er-do-well's advice! for
there's no mistake about it, when a man keeps going on sprees, and never
works, he seldom comes to a good end."
LITTLE STREAMS
I
FOUR AT THE RENDEZVOUS
It was just five o'clock in the afternoon, when a fashionably dressed
young man, of comely aspect, and possessed of an attractive countenance,
although his large blue eyes sometimes expressed a decided penchant for
raillery, entered the café which stands, or stood, at the corner of
Faubourg Poissonnière and the boulevard, on the right as you turn into
the latter.
The young man looked into the first room, then into the others in
succession, and at last said to himself:
"No one! not a single one of them has come! Probably not a single one of
them will come! Five years is quite long enough to forget an
appointment. However, I remembered it. I am sure that they are not all
dead, for I met Dodichet within two months, and I saw Dubotté at the
theatre less than a week ago. Lucien is the only one I haven't heard of
for some time. Well, I'll wait a while. Everyone is entitled to the
fifteen minutes' grace."
And the young man, whose name was Adhémar Monbrun, seated himself at a
table, took up a newspaper, ordered a _petit verre_ of chartreuse, and
read a review of the play which had had a successful first performance
the night before, but which the newspaper critic abused because the
author was not a friend of his. Which fact, luckily, was not likely to
prevent the play from making its way and achieving a long run, because
the public was beginning to take at their true value the articles of
those aristarchs of the press, who took for their motto, generally
speaking: "No one shall be allowed to have any cleverness except
ourselves and our friends."
Adhémar had not been reading the paper two minutes, when a man, who had
just entered the café, walked straight to the table at which he was
seated, and tapped him on the shoulder, saying:
"Well, my boy, here I am, too; as prompt as the sun in pleasant weather.
I didn't forget our appointment, you see. Good-afternoon, Adhémar, I am
delighted to see you once more! You're well, I trust? So am I, as you
see. Everybody says that I have a prosperous face. Indeed, sometimes it
irritates me to hear it, because I have noticed that prosperity often
has a stupid look. But I hope that mine isn't so bad as that!"
This second individual was a man of about thirty years, who looked fully
as old as he was, because he was a little inclined to corpulency; rather
below than above medium height, with a full, high-colored face, always
wreathed in smiles, a forest of light hair which curled naturally,
china-blue eyes, as round as a cat's, and large mutton-chop
whiskers--such was Philémon Dubotté, who considered himself a very
good-looking fellow, and paid court to all the ladies except his own
wife, whom he neglected shamefully, but who, on the contrary, adored
him, and was always lavishing caresses on him. But the ladies are often
like that: the colder you are with them, the more ardent they are with
you; perhaps I shall be told that it is because they want to warm you.
Adhémar shook hands with the new-comer.
"How are you, Philémon! come and sit down. Yes, you have a look of
robust health which does one good to see!"
"I haven't the look of it only, I beg you to believe. I'm as rugged as
Porte Saint-Denis. By the way, is Porte Saint-Denis still standing?"
"Yes, to be sure!"
"I didn't know; so many things are being demolished in these days! Well,
then, I repeat: I'm as rugged as Porte Saint-Denis."
"I see that you remembered."
"Why in the devil shouldn't I?"
"In five years one forgets so many things, my friend!"
"In love, that may be; but not in friendship."
"Men forget in friendship, as well as in love. Memory is a rare thing in
this world, especially memory of the heart."
"Ah! there you are! the same as ever--no confidence in anything or
anybody!"
"Is it my fault, my dear fellow, if my confidence has always been
betrayed? Time destroys all our illusions, and in the last five years I
have lost an infernal lot of them."
"Well, I haven't lost anything at all. I still adore the fair sex,
which, I venture to say, repays my adoration with interest--too
earnestly, in fact. For I have a wife--you don't know my wife, I
believe? I'll introduce you to her; my dear fellow, she adores me, she
idolizes me! It's a genuine passion. When she goes half a day without
seeing me, she's as good as dead: she doesn't eat, she pines and
languishes, sometimes she weeps even. When I come home, I have to scold
her. 'Éléonore,' I say--her name's Éléonore--'why, Nonore, what does
this mean? What! can't I stay out a little late with friends, without
finding you in tears when I come home?' And she throws her arms round my
neck, and says: 'I thought you'd fallen off the top of an omnibus! I beg
you, my love, don't ride in the three-sou seats. Go inside, Philémon, I
implore you; ride inside; you'll make me so much happier!'--That's the
kind of a woman my wife is, and I assure you it's an infernal bore to be
loved like that!"
"You complain because the bride is too fair, but it won't always be so."
"I trust not--poor Nonore! If she knew how unworthy I am of such
adoration--for I am a double-dyed villain: I can't see a pretty face
without ogling it. Ah! I see Lucien yonder. Well, well! I really believe
we shall have the whole party."
The individual who was approaching the table at which the two friends
were seated was a young man of twenty-six, tall and slight, and
extremely thin; his face was pale, but his features were rather fine;
the expression of the eyes was very sweet, and his manners as well as
his speech were calculated to inspire interest. His dress was extremely
neat, but did not denote affluence; his black frock-coat, buttoned to
the chin, had evidently been brushed frequently, and you would hardly
have dared to detain him by grasping one of its skirts, lest it should
remain in your hand. His black cravat showed only a tiny bit of collar,
and his hat seemed to have been scrubbed with water; but his gray
trousers were spotlessly clean; and his shoes, albeit not of patent
leather, were carefully polished. The young man's name was Lucien
Grischard.
As soon as he caught sight of him, Adhémar rose and extended his hand,
crying out:
"How are you, Lucien, dear old Lucien! how glad I am to see you! for
it's a long while--nearly two years--since I laid eyes on you."
"That is true, Monsieur Adhémar, and I am very glad to see you, too. I
have been waiting impatiently for this day, which was to bring us
together."
"Why on earth do you call me _monsieur_, and not Adhémar, as you used
to? Am I not still your old boarding-school comrade?"
"Forgive me! but that was so long ago, and for the last five years you
have had nothing but success in literary and dramatic work; you have
become a celebrity! while I have remained in obscurity."
"My dear Lucien, if celebrity is to result in separating us from our
friends, we ought to shrink from it instead of longing for it. I fancy
that mine hasn't yet acquired such dimensions as to make me a subject of
envy."
"Oh! pray don't think that I ever had a suspicion of that sentiment when
I heard of your triumphs. On the contrary, I was always overjoyed, and
said to myself: 'He, at least, is making his way!'"
While this third member of the party was talking with Adhémar, the
sandy-haired Philémon scrutinized him with unremitting attention, and
the aspect of the threadbare coat and the cleaned hat did not seem to
add great zest to his friendship; however, he too shook hands with
Lucien, and said to him in an almost patronizing tone:
"Good-afternoon, Lucien! how are you, my boy? Sapristi! you haven't put
on much flesh since I saw you last!"
"I can't say the same for you, Philémon, for you are almost the shape of
a barrel."
"Oh! a barrel; that's putting it a little strong; but, after all, I
would rather resemble a barrel than the barrel of a gun."
Instead of losing his temper at this comparison, Lucien laughed
heartily, while Adhémar interposed with:
"Well, well, messieurs, how's this? old schoolfellows meeting after five
years, and making unkind remarks to each other! is that the way to meet
after a lustrum has passed over our heads, and have you become so
sensitive that you lose your tempers over a jest?"
"Oh! I am not angry in the least," replied Lucien; "far from it;
Philémon's remark made me laugh, as you see."
"For my part," said Dubotté, "I confess that I can't endure being
compared to a barrel; any sobriquet you please, except that. But I don't
bear Lucien any ill will. Come, sit down here with us, my dear fellow,
and take something."
"Thanks; but we're not all here yet: someone is missing--Dodichet."
"Oh! we can't count on him. Was Dodichet ever a man of his word? Why, he
doesn't know what it is to keep a promise! He's a good fellow enough,
but an erratic, rattle-brained creature, who always has a thousand
schemes on hand, but never carries out one of them, and never remembers
one day what he said the day before."
"The devil! you judge him rather harshly, Philémon!"
"I am simply telling the truth. However, I've seen very little of him
for five years; he may have mended his ways."
"No," said Adhémar; "Dodichet is just the same; I have happened to meet
him several times, and I have been sorry to see that our old friend has
not grown any more sensible. He was in a position to succeed, for he's
not a fool, and he inherited some money from his parents; but he thinks
of nothing but enjoying life, of making _bonnes blagues_, as he
expresses it; and they don't always succeed; some of them have cost him
dear. I believe that he is almost ruined now; and, unfortunately, he
hasn't yet decided upon any profession."
"Poor Dodichet!" said Lucien; "he must be very unhappy, then."
"He, unhappy! oh! he'll never be that. He laughs at everything,
everything is _couleur de rose_ with him; and he is convinced that he
will have a fine house, horses and carriages, and a hundred thousand
francs a year, some day. He has a very happy disposition."
"Why, here he is, on my word!" cried Philémon; "yes, it's really he--he
has remembered our appointment. Well, he has a better memory than I
supposed."
Another person had, in fact, entered the café. It was a man of
twenty-six or twenty-seven years, of medium height, well set up, with
dark brown hair, a slightly flushed face, sharp eyes, turned-up nose,
and a huge mouth--everything, in short, which denotes a jovial
companion. His costume was a little eccentric: his trousers were
unconscionably full in the legs and very tight at the hips; his
waistcoat was of Scotch plaid with enormous squares, and his coat was so
short that it barely covered half of his posterior. On his head was a
gray hat of an indescribable shape, but remotely resembling a snail's
shell. Lastly, he carried in his hand a light cane with an ivory head,
which head he was forever stuffing into his mouth or his nose, and at
times he scratched his ear with it. Such was Monsieur Fanfan Dodichet,
who, on entering the café, swung his cane in such a way as to strike a
newspaper out of the hands of an old habitué of the place, who was
reading it as he sipped his glass of beer.
The old gentleman looked up and cast an angry glance at the person who
had torn his newspaper into strips; and Dodichet, instead of apologizing
for his awkwardness, laughed in his face, and remarked:
"They'll bring you the _Tintamarre_; it's much more entertaining. I am
sure that you were bored by what you were reading; I saw that when I
came in, and I said to myself: 'There's a man who longs to change his
paper; I'll give him an opportunity.'"
Without waiting for a reply, Dodichet examined all the occupied tables;
and discovering at last the persons he sought, shouted, as if he were in
his own house:
"Ah! there they are! those are they! O happy fate!"
Then he began to sing:
"'Les montagnards, les montagnards,
Les montagnards sont réunis!'"
"For heaven's sake, hold your tongue, Dodichet!" said Dubotté, affecting
not to see the hand which the new-comer held out to him; "you will
compromise us. The idea of singing like that in a café! What do you look
like, anyway? These people will be giving you a sou!"
"Well! if everybody here gives me a sou, that will make a very tidy
little sum; but our handsome blond is always afraid of compromising
himself! He is truly superb, this Dubotté!--Do you know, Dubotté, you
make me think of the sun, on my word! I can't look at you without
squinting. But aren't we all here? Good-evening, messieurs! I haven't
forgotten our appointment of five years ago, you see. That surprises
you, doesn't it? well, it surprises me too, on my honor! Ah! there's
Lucien, dear old Lucien, whom I haven't seen, I believe, since our
agreement.--Give us your hand, Lucien--
"'Cette main, cette main si jolie!'"
"Good God! is he going to sing again? I'm going away, then."
"No, Phoebus, don't be alarmed, I won't sing any more--not to please
you, but because I want to talk with Adhémar and Lucien.--Ah!
Adhémar--there's a friend that is a friend; you can always find him when
you want him. But Dubotté! his scent tells him when anyone's going to
ask a favor of him, and he runs away like a stag. I said, like a stag;
the simile is a little _risquée_ perhaps, as our friend is married; but,
never mind! I have said it, and I won't take it back."
"Oh! I'm not offended, Dodichet. When a man has a wife like mine, he is
above such jests."
"You're content with your wife, eh? so much the better, I'm glad of
it.--But I say, messieurs, is that all you're going to take? For my
part, the weather makes me thirsty."
"Very well! order some beer."
"Beer! oh, no! that's too vulgar; punch, rather."
"Who ever heard of drinking punch just before dinner?"
"Why not? all hours are alike to good fellows!--Punch, waiter! rum
punch--and see that it's good; say it's for a connoisseur.--Won't you
have a glass of punch, too, my dear Lucien? it warms you up and makes
you lively!"
"No, thanks; I won't take anything; I don't need anything."
"Oh! yes, you do; pardieu! you'll take some punch with us; just remember
that it is I who invite you!"
"But I'll answer for it that it won't be he who will pay," said Adhémar,
in an undertone.
However, when the punch was brought, they all concluded to partake.
Dodichet immediately poured out a second glass for himself, humming:
"'J'en veux goûter encore, pour en être certain.'"
But Adhémar silenced him by saying:
"Messieurs, we four, born at Troyes----"
"The home of hashed veal," said Dodichet.
"Oh! Dodichet, you are not going to keep interrupting Adhémar, are you?"
"Not I; I simply desired to confirm his statement that we were all born
at Troyes.--Go on, Adhémar."
"Five years ago, we four happened to meet in this same café. I was then
twenty-four years old, and I had been in Paris for some time; but
Philémon Dubotté and Lucien had just arrived, and Dodichet had run
through the inheritance of only one of his uncles. We were old
schoolfellows. Do you know what we said when we met here?"
"Perfectly. Each one of us declared: 'I intend to succeed; to make a
name and station for myself; and I ask only five years to do it in.'"
"Exactly; and we agreed then to meet again here at the end of five
years, in order to find out whether we had succeeded and had reached our
respective goals."
"Very good."
"Now, let each of us in turn tell where he stands, and whether he has
arrived at the goal which he had in view.--Begin, Philémon."
"Oh, yes! it's Dubotté's place to begin, because he's the dean in years.
Go on, fascinating blond."
"Dean in years! I'm not so sure of that."
"Pshaw! between ourselves, there's no use in prevaricating; we all knew
one another's ages at school."
"True; but we're not at school now."
"Ha! ha! that's good, that is; it ought to be framed. Dubotté, you are
well over thirty-one."
"Not very much; only three months."
"That makes you thirty-one and a quarter."
"You're at least twenty-eight yourself, Dodichet."
"I don't conceal my age: I am twenty-seven and a half, Adhémar
twenty-nine, and Lucien twenty-six; he's the youngest of the lot. So
far, so good. I move that Phoebus proceed."
"All right.--Messieurs, I have no reason to complain of destiny. Having
obtained a position in the Interior Department, where my assiduity, my
zeal, and my fine handwriting procured me rapid promotion, I soon
married; I found a very attractive young lady, who had a good-sized
dowry; I was introduced to her; she liked me and declared that she would
be happy to marry a man employed in the Interior Department. Our
nuptials were celebrated. I have every reason to congratulate myself: my
wife adores me, she sees only through my eyes. My emoluments are
respectable; I am able to live pleasantly; so that I might fairly say
that I have arrived, that my position is assured; but no, messieurs, I
have not yet reached the height to which I aspire. For I am ambitious: I
want to be a sub-prefect, or at least the head of a bureau; but I hope
to arrive before long. _Dixi._"
"Heard and noted. Now it is Adhémar's turn."