I wrote for the stage; my plays have had more success than I dared hope;
in that respect, fortune has constantly favored me, and I earn a good
deal of money. But I have been less fortunate in love; I have loved
women ardently; and when they told me that they loved me alone, I
believed it until I had proof to the contrary; but I have had that proof
so often that I am completely disillusioned. Thereupon I set about
studying the sex; I discovered that all women are coquettes, and
consequently that there is no dependence to be placed on their fidelity;
that made me a misanthrope, or rather a misogynist, for some time; but
then I said to myself that I must take the world as it is, and content
myself with forming liaisons with women which have no other end than
mere sensual pleasure. However, I am sure that I was born to love truly,
and that it would have made me perfectly happy to be loved truly in
return. That is where I stand: I have succeeded, so far as vanity and
wealth are concerned, but I have not succeeded according to the longing
of my heart; and, in my opinion, a man has not arrived when he is not
happy."
"Very good!" cried Dodichet; "now it's my turn. I am very different from
Adhémar, messieurs, in that I am very happy; for I pass my life enjoying
myself. However, I must agree that I have not as yet a well-defined
position; I have followed so many trades that you might call me an
all-around man. I have had places, in the government service and
elsewhere; but I have kept none of them--I don't know why; yes, I ought
to say, I do know why. Impelled by my irresistible tendency to jest, I
was forever trying to invent some amusing trick to play. When I was a
clerk in a fancy goods shop, I succeeded in mixing up all the different
things, putting on one shelf what should have been put on another, so
that, when customers came, nothing was ever in its place; my employers
shouted and swore, and I roared with laughter. As clerk in one of the
government bureaux, I had for chief a gentleman who never sat down
except on one of those round leather cushions which facilitate
respiration. One day, I abstracted that well-padded cushion, and
substituted for it one that contained nothing but air; when my chief
sank luxuriously into his easy-chair, the cushion burst and flattened
out, with a very compromising explosion. This trifling peccadillo caused
me to lose that place; there are people whose minds--I should say, whose
behinds--are so ill-fashioned! I must confess that, during these various
adventures, instead of earning money, I spent all my inheritances little
by little. But I still have some wealthy kinsmen; I am going to reform;
I have found my real vocation: the stage. Yes, messieurs; I am destined
to shine some day on the stage. I have not yet reached that point, it is
true; but you will see me there; and I propose that you come to this
café, a year hence, to congratulate me on my talent and my triumphs."
"So be it," said Adhémar; "and now it is Lucien's turn to speak."
"I begin, messieurs, by telling you frankly that I have not succeeded at
all; and yet I have not been enjoying myself--I have worked, worked
hard, I have tried several branches of business in a small way, but I
have not been successful; often, too, I have been deceived, _worked_, as
they say, by persons who were supposed to be my partners, but who
pocketed all the profits. But still I have not lost courage; I have just
invented a new kind of pin for ladies' use; something tells me that it
will be popular. I must tell you, too, that I am in love, and that the
father of the woman I love will not give his daughter to any man who is
not well settled in life."
"What's that! you are in love, my poor Lucien, really in love?" said
Adhémar. "Ah! that is what prevents you from succeeding! I pray you, do
not take that sentiment seriously, or you will be its victim in the end;
it will make you sad and unhappy, and then you will be laughed at."
"I beg your pardon, Adhémar; but I don't agree with you. On the
contrary, my love, far from making me unhappy, is my only comfort, my
only hope; it supports me in adversity; for the woman I love loves me,
and a word, a smile, from her makes me forget a whole week of gloom."
"The rascal is loved, you see," said Philémon; "he has won the girl's
heart to her father's beard; I know what that is, myself!"
"Shall I kidnap your charmer for you, Lucien? shall I think up some
trick to play on her daddy? Don't distress yourself--I am on hand!"
"No, Dodichet, I thank you; she is not one of the kind who allow
themselves to be kidnapped. She is virtuous and well brought up. She
will never give herself to anyone but her husband; and if she were
different, I should not love her."
"Very good. But who is this barbarous father who refuses to approve his
daughter's choice?"
"Oh! he is a miser, a curmudgeon, a man who has no regard for anything
but money. You will understand, from that, that he will not give his
daughter any dowry; on the contrary, he would be more likely to demand
one from his son-in-law."
"What does the old skinflint do?"
"Nothing, so he says; but, between ourselves, I think that he lends
money at usurious rates. He is rich, but he is always complaining of the
hard times; unluckily for him, he married a second time--a woman much
younger than himself, who is supposed to have brought him some money; he
wouldn't have married her otherwise. But she likes to enjoy herself, to
receive company now and then; and that drives Monsieur Mirotaine to
despair, for he wants to avoid any expense that can possibly be
avoided."
"Mirotaine, did you say, Lucien? Why, I know him; Mirotaine, formerly a
bailiff, who lives now on Rue Saint-Louis, in the Marais?"
"That's the very man. So you know him, do you, Philémon? Well, is my
portrait of him overdrawn?"
"No, indeed, not at all; he's an old hunks of the first order. He asked
me to come to his evenings, but I learned that for refreshments, in
summer, he gave cocoa."
"Delightful! And in winter?"
"In winter, it's much worse--hot cocoa. As you can imagine, that didn't
attract me; so I have never been."
"Cold cocoa and hot cocoa!" cried Dodichet; "it's hard to believe that.
Does the fellow deal in licorice root?"
"It's a pity, for his second wife isn't half bad; I would willingly have
flirted a little with her; but I didn't feel that I had the courage to
defy the cocoa!"
"And his daughter Juliette--isn't she charming?"
"I don't know her; I have never seen her."
"Her stepmother is determined to marry her. As she is a good deal of a
flirt, I think that she's jealous of her stepdaughter's beauty; she is
looking everywhere for a husband for her; I heard that she had gone so
far as to apply to a second-hand clothes woman, who arranges
marriages."
"I say! I say! What's that! Do second-hand clothes women make matches?"
"A great many, my dear Dodichet, a great many! The business pays well,
as you can imagine; they stipulate that they are to furnish the presents
that the groom always gives the bride. If the groom has no money to pay
for them, they offer to advance it, being certain of getting their pay
out of the bride's dowry."
"Do you know, that's a shrewd game! I have a mind to go into the
matchmaking business myself. Do you know the name of this hymeneal
procuress?"
"Madame Putiphar."
"The devil! the name is promising. I must see her and tell her to find
me a millionairess, and I'll share the dowry with her.--All the same,
he's a miserable old crow, is your Monsieur Miroton[P]--Mirotaine. He
must smell of onions. I really must play some good practical joke on
him."
"I beg you, Dodichet, do nothing of the sort; you would simply get
Juliette into trouble, and that wouldn't help my business any."
"Your business! Do you really flatter yourself, Lucien, that your pins
will enable you to marry the young woman?"
"If I make money, yes; but it will take a long time, and meanwhile
Madame Putiphar will find some man who, fascinated by Juliette's
attractions, will agree to marry her without a dowry."
"Poor Lucien! Give me your address; I'll come and see your pins, and try
to give them a puff."
"I live very modestly, on the sixth floor, on Quai Jemmapes, facing the
bridge, at the corner of Faubourg du Temple."
"Well, messieurs, I see that we are about to part without being able to
say, any one of us, that we have reached the goal for which we set out."
"I ask a reprieve for one year, messieurs. In a year, I shall have made
a name for myself on the stage. I shall have succeeded----"
"And I," said Lucien, "may have been successful in my new undertaking;
in a year's time, perhaps, I shall have started a little business of my
own."
"I shall be chief of a bureau or sub-prefect."
"Very good, messieurs," said Adhémar; "the reprieve for a year is
granted; as for myself, I don't imagine that it will change my position
at all."
Philémon Dubotté rose and left the table, saying:
"You are very pleasant companions, messieurs; but my wife expects me to
dinner, and if I should be late again I should find her weeping in her
soup. Au revoir, and may destiny be propitious to you!"
And the handsome blond departed.
"He goes off without paying," said Dodichet; "our friend doesn't stand
on ceremony."
"He probably forgot it," said Lucien; "but we three will pay."
"Sapristi! I find that I forgot to bring my purse!" said Dodichet,
feeling in his pockets.
Adhémar smiled and made haste to pay the waiter, saying:
"Allow me to be your host, messieurs; it will give me great pleasure. I
believe you know my address, my dear Lucien; do come to see me
sometimes."
"Thanks, my dear Adhémar; I shall not forget your invitation.--Adieu,
Dodichet!"
Lucien Grischard also took his leave.
"He is proud," said Adhémar, as he and Dodichet left the café together.
"He doesn't come to see me, because he is poor and doesn't choose that
anyone shall help him."
"Well, then, he's wrong. I am not like that, thank you," rejoined
Dodichet; "a man shouldn't be proud with his friends. And so, Adhémar,
d'ye see, I don't hesitate to say to you: I have left my purse at home;
pray lend me a hundred sous. I will pay you the next time I see you."
"My dear Dodichet, I like above all things to oblige my friends, but you
abuse your privilege. I have lent you many hundred-sou pieces, which you
are always going to repay--but you never do."
"Very good! listen: lend me ten francs, and I'll pay back a hundred sous
right away."
Adhémar could not help laughing, and, on the strength of the jest, lent
Dodichet a hundred sous.
II
A BURNING DRESS
Let us leave Philémon Dubotté to return to his wife, casting languishing
glances at all the passably pretty women he meets on his way; let us
leave Lucien Grischard to muse upon possible methods of earning money
without departing from the pathway of honor; and Fanfan Dodichet to
cudgel his brains to invent a practical joke to play on Monsieur
Mirotaine, who regaled his company with cocoa; and let us follow
Adhémar, who had no schemes in his head except that of a comedy of which
he was just planning the dénouement.
Our author followed the boulevard; he walked rather slowly, paying no
attention to the passers-by; but suddenly he stopped short, or rather
turned and flew toward a lady a few yards away, whose dress had taken
fire as she walked over a burning match which one of those gentlemen who
have the noble habit of smoking while they walk had thrown away, after
lighting his cigar or his pipe, without even taking the trouble to step
on it and extinguish it. If our friends would do so much, they would at
least relieve women from the risk of such dangerous accidents; but what
does a smoker care if a dress does burn, and its wearer too? He has his
smoke, and the rest is all right. In very truth, we have good reason to
exclaim: _O tempora! O mores!_
The lady's dress was of some thin material; the flame rose quickly to
her waist, and she had not discovered that she was on fire; but when she
was suddenly conscious of being seized by two strong arms, which
arrested and stifled the flames at the risk of burning themselves, the
lady uttered a shriek, and demanded of the man in whose embrace she was
by what right he presumed to take her in his arms. Adhémar replied by
pointing to her dress, one side of which was badly burned.
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I understand now," she exclaimed. "Pray forgive me!
Was I really on fire?"
"Yes, madame; you must have walked over a lighted match; I happened,
luckily, to be within a few steps; and although I do not always see what
is taking place beside me, I did see the flame just as it was beginning
to make rather rapid progress; and I hastened to your assistance without
stopping to ask your permission; I thought that you would not take it
ill of me."
"Ah! monsieur, I am so grateful to you! But you have burned yourself!"
"Only a little, on the left hand. It's a mere trifle."
Meanwhile, the idlers and other inquisitive folk, who always come up
when the danger is over, began to collect around the lady and Adhémar.
"What is it?"
"What has happened?"
"A lady burned----"
"Throw water on her!"
"It's all out. Her dress is baked a little, that's all."
"She can buy another."
"What about the gentleman who is so close to her?"
"It was probably he who burned her--with his cigar."
"Then he ought to be arrested and taken to the police station."
"Why, no; he's the one who extinguished the lady; and got a pretty burn
on his left wrist into the bargain."
"The deuce! if he plays the fiddle, that will bother him."
The hero and heroine of the adventure hastened to force their way
through the crowd and to go into a pharmacy, which, luckily, was only a
few steps away.
The lady sat down, and asked for a glass of orange water, to restore her
strength after the shock she had received. Adhémar showed the druggist
his burned wrist, which was first bathed in cold water, then covered
with something guaranteed to heal the burn in a short time. But he had
to submit to have his arm bandaged and to carry it in a sling for a
while, for the wound was of considerable size.
While all this was being done, our two friends had time to look at each
other, and--which was natural enough--tried to make out each other's
individuality. The person who had nearly been burned to death was about
twenty-five years of age, tall and slender and well built; her face,
which usually wore a grave expression, became very attractive when she
smiled; her black eyes were beautiful and very expressive, and the
eyebrows which surmounted them were thin, but perfectly arched. Her hair
was black, her Niobe-like nose but slightly prominent. Taken all in all,
she was a very comely person; she was stylishly dressed, and her manners
denoted high social position.
Adhémar discovered all this while his arm was being dressed. On her
side, the lady had scrutinized the man who had rendered her such a
signal service, and we know that the scrutiny could not be unfavorable
to him.
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, I am terribly distressed. You are really badly
burned," she said, while Adhémar's wrist was being bandaged.
"Oh! no, madame; it will very soon be all right."
"Yes," said the druggist, "very soon; but you will probably carry the
mark of this burn to your dying day."
"Well, it will be an honorable scar!--Pray consider, madame, that you
might have been seriously burned; what does this amount to, compared
with the danger by which you were threatened?"
She made no direct reply, but looked down at her dress and cried:
"It is impossible for me to go out in this condition; the whole skirt of
my dress is burned. Is there no way of getting a cab?"
"Surely, madame," the druggist replied; "I will send for one for you."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you, monsieur."
Adhémar, the bandaging being completed, seemed to hesitate as to what he
should do; but at last he bowed, and said to his companion:
"As you have no further need of my services, madame, I will take my
leave of you."
The lady blushed slightly, but she detained Adhémar, saying with some
hesitation:
"Excuse me, monsieur, for keeping you longer; but I should be very glad
to know the name of the gentleman who risked his--who was badly burned
in my service?--Mon Dieu! I am too presumptuous--I beg your pardon."
"There is nothing presumptuous in your request, madame; on the contrary,
it is most flattering to me."
And, as he spoke, Adhémar took his card from his pocket and handed it to
her. She took it, looked at it eagerly, and her face assumed an
expression of satisfaction.
"I know you already by name and reputation," she said, looking up at
Adhémar with a smile; "I have had the pleasure of seeing most of your
plays, and I congratulate myself upon this opportunity of telling the
author how many pleasant moments I owe to his talent."
Adhémar could not control a feeling of pride, which showed itself on his
face. What dramatic author, poet, or novelist would be entirely
insensible to such praise, especially when it is uttered with a charming
smile by an intelligent mouth? From the mouth of a fool a compliment
sometimes has a foolish sound, and sometimes produces an absurd effect.
"I am very fortunate, madame," Adhémar replied, "if my works have
afforded you any diversion; your praise almost makes me vain of my
success. Do you like the theatre, madame?"
"Very much, monsieur."
"And you go often?"
"Why, yes, as often as a woman can go who is all alone in the world and
must always find some friend who is willing to go with her; for a lady
cannot go to the theatre alone; it is neither amusing nor proper."
"Ah! madame is--madame has no----"
"I am a widow, monsieur."
"That is what I meant to say, madame. Forgive me--I am the presumptuous
one--but I should be very happy to know----"
"For whom you have risked your life and burned yourself, and whether the
person was worth the trouble?"
"Oh! madame, pray believe that that is not what I was about to say. In
the first place, it seems to me that every person who is in danger
deserves to be assisted, whatever her appearance or her rank. But with
you, madame, I could not be otherwise than flattered to have had this
adventure. I see that my question was indiscreet, and I withdraw it."
"And I, monsieur, on the contrary, am determined that you shall know
whom you rescued so unselfishly; I like to believe that you will not
regret your action."
"It is enough to see you and talk with you, madame, to form a most
favorable opinion of you, and----"
"Oh! you know that it is not safe to trust to appearances, monsieur.
They are very deceitful, especially in Paris. Take this--take it, I beg
you!"
As she was speaking, she had taken from a dainty little reticule the
card which she offered to Adhémar; he took it at last, and put it in his
pocket without glancing at it.
The messenger returned and informed the lady that her carriage was
waiting. She thanked him, and was about to go, after bowing to Adhémar,
when he offered her his hand, saying:
"Will you not allow me to escort you to your carriage, madame?"
"With great pleasure, monsieur."
They went out of the druggist's shop together, the lady having passed
her arm through her escort's, because the sight of a gentleman leading a
lady by the hand, on the boulevard, in broad daylight, would have caused
all the loiterers to stop and stare; less than that is enough to attract
the attention and arouse the curiosity of the Parisian, who is
excessively prone to loiter, and seizes on the wing every possible
opportunity to kill time.
They soon reached the carriage, which the lady entered; then she said to
Adhémar:
"It may be that your injured arm will pain you if you walk, monsieur.
Will you not allow me to take you home, or wherever you wish to go?"
"You are a thousand times too kind, madame; but I do not desire to cause
you so much trouble, and I assure you that my hand doesn't pain me at
all."
She did not insist, but pursed her lips as one does when one is annoyed.
Then she bowed low to Adhémar, and said to the cabman:
"No. 40, Rue de Paradis-Poissonnière."
The cabman closed the door, mounted his box, and drove away; and
Adhémar, standing on the same spot, looked after it, muttering:
"Why on earth did I refuse to let her drive me home? What a fool a man
is, sometimes! You long for a thing--for it would have given me great
pleasure to spend a longer time with her--and you refuse it! Why? I
haven't any good reason to give myself, even. But, yes, I have one! She
is good-looking, I feel certain that she would attract me, that I should
speedily fall in love with her; and I do not propose to fall in love
again! But does that purpose involve a resolution not to form an
agreeable intimacy? And then, what right have I to assume that this lady
would have listened to me?--Let us see what her name is. As for her
address, I remember that; she told the cabman loud enough."
He took the card from his pocket and read:
"Nathalie Dermont--nothing more; and there's no _widow_ on the card. Why
is that omitted? But still, if her husband has been dead some time,
she's not bound to go on styling herself _widow_. She's an exceedingly
attractive woman! A pretty face and figure, and nothing stupid about
her! Ah! that is the principal thing to guard against; for a stupid
woman is deadly! However, I haven't wasted my day, at all events."
III
A DEALER IN SECOND-HAND CLOTHES
Dodichet had as his mistress for the moment--or, rather, as his
companion in pleasure, for, as he had money only occasionally and by
chance, he rarely indulged in the luxury of a mistress--he had, we will
say, for an intimate acquaintance a young woman who danced in the ballet
at one of the smaller theatres, and who was always ready to accept an
invitation to dinner or supper, when he was sufficiently in funds to
allow him to extend such an invitation.
Dodichet betook himself to the abode of this stage artist, whose name
was Boulotte, and who lived on the fifth floor of a house on Faubourg du
Temple. Mademoiselle Boulotte, who was in the act of compounding a new
kind of mineral rouge, with bricks pounded up in flour, uttered a cry of
joy when Dodichet appeared.
"Have you come to take me to dine at the restaurant?" she said. "My
word! but it comes just at the right time; I've had nothing but a
sausage to-day, and that's too light."
"No, Boulotte; no, dear angel of my dreams,--when they are golden,--I
have not come to invite you to dinner; because the tide is low, and I
don't propose to take such a woman as you to any cheap place."
"Oh! that wouldn't make any difference to me! there are cheap places
where they give you very good stewed rabbit. But still, if you haven't
any money, I'll give you half of my black radish and fried potatoes,
which I'm just going out to buy."
"You are a dear, good child; you share with a friend all that you
possess. That isn't very much, to be sure; but it's all the more
creditable of you to give away half of it. Thanks, my dear love, but I
cannot accept the feast you offer me. I am on the lookout for a certain
person; I saw him two days ago, but at sight of me he ran like a thief;
I couldn't catch him, but I shall sooner or later!"
"Is it somebody who owes you money?"
"No; he doesn't owe me any, but he'll give me some, all the same. Oh!
I'll worm it out of him, and without remorse too, as he's very rich.
Then, I'll give you a regular Belshazzar, with truffles and champagne!"
"Why will this man give you money?"
"Because I know his secret."
"What sort of a secret?"
"If I should tell you, it wouldn't be a secret any longer."
"So you think I am very leaky, do you?"
"My dear little Boulotte, when I know a secret, which may be the goose
with the golden eggs to me, I should be a great fool if I gave it away.
But let's drop the subject; that wasn't what I came here for. Boulotte,
you must do me a favor."
"One, two, three! go on, don't hesitate; for I'm quite sure you don't
want to borrow money of me."
"What do you take me for? You probably know some of the women who sell
second-hand clothes and such things, don't you?"
"Yes, I know several of 'em; but they have pretty poor stuff. Do you
want to buy me a shawl?"
"Nonsense! do you know one named Madame Putiphar?"
"Madame Putiphar? No, I don't know her; do you want to make her
acquaintance?"
"Yes, and I counted on you to find her for me."
"Oh! that's easy enough! I'll ask Sara and Clara and Cora--they know so
many of those women. In two days I shall be able to give you all the
information you want concerning this honest tradeswoman."
"Very well. To assist you in your investigations, you can say that she
arranges marriages."
"That's very definite! they all do."
"Really! I fancy that they disarrange a good many too. No matter--do my
errand; I leave you to your radish and your fried potatoes; don't eat
too much. You will see me again in three days; and if I have found my
man, we will have, not stewed rabbit, but a salmi of truffled partridges
together."
Three days later, Dodichet called again on Mademoiselle Boulotte, and
found her still at work on her mineral rouge, for which she hoped to
obtain a patent. Dodichet was radiant; he waltzed into the room, and
began by taking the _figurante_ in his arms and whirling her about
without giving her time to put down her brick and her hammer, despite
her cries: