on your head, Artaban, to show what you can do."
The little fellow instantly put his hands on the floor, with his head
down and his legs in the air, and made the circuit of the salon in that
fashion; but when he put his feet down, he struck the legs of a small
table on which the coffee cups had been set out; the shock knocked two
of them to the floor, and they were broken. Monsieur Mirotaine made a
great outcry:
"The devil take you with your gymnastics! There's two cups smashed! What
sort of a crazy idea is it--to make a child walk on his head; and in a
salon, too!"
"Bless my soul! don't lose your temper over two cups; and see, here's
one of them that has only the handle broken."
"It takes away all its value, none the less."
"I'll give you two others."
"Oh, yes! people say that, but no one ever replaces anything. Do you
propose sending your son to the circus, that you make him do such tricks
as that?"
"No; I am going to make a lawyer of him."
"Do you expect him to try cases, walking on his hands?"
"My dear friend, gymnastics is always a good thing, in every station of
life. A lawyer may have occasion to show how a thief went to work to
climb into a window; he'll make a poor fist at it if he doesn't know
anything about gymnastics."
The ladies appeared in the salon, accompanied by Madame Trichon.
"What has happened?" inquired Aldegonde; "I heard my husband shouting."
"Nothing, dear madame, a trifle!"
"He calls two handsome cups nothing, which his son broke while he was
walking on his head."
"Does your son walk on his head? Dear me! I should have liked to see
that."
"He can do it again."
"No, no, I don't want him to do it again--he'll smash all the china
we've got!"
"Very well; something else, then--to show you how strong the lad is
already.--Artaban, hold out a chair at arm's length.--That won't
endanger your cups, Mirotaine.--Come, Artaban, pick out a chair."
The boy took one of the salon chairs, and, although he did not actually
hold it at arm's length, kept it in the air for some time; and then, as
he felt tired, instead of putting it down on the floor, he suddenly
threw it over his shoulder, so that the legs struck Madame Trichon, who
was standing behind him, in the face.
"Oh! I am wounded!" she cried, putting her hand to her face; "my nose is
broken!"
"No, no, madame; it's nothing at all!" said Monsieur Brid'oison; "your
nose is still in place; just a little scratch, that's all!"
"Water! cold water, I entreat you! so that I can bathe my face."
"Your son's gymnastics is very pretty, indeed; I congratulate you!" said
Monsieur Mirotaine; "but I hope that he won't give us any more of it!"
"It was because you were in his way; if it hadn't been for that, he'd
have put the chair down in front of him. Never mind, he's going to be a
fine, strong man; I'm very glad I named him Artaban; he'll have a right
to be proud."
Madame Putiphar was the next to arrive, then Monsieur Callé. The latter
was a young man of twenty-five, who resembled the heads that hair
dressers put in their windows; he was combed and perfumed like a waiter;
his chestnut hair was divided by a parting that started from the nape of
the neck. He was an exceedingly stupid youth in appearance, and his
language accorded perfectly with the expression of his face, which
always wore a surprised look; he never entered a salon except sidewise,
and never knew what to do with his hat.
This young man glanced furtively at Aldegonde and turned crimson as he
shook hands with her husband. Madame hastened to put him at his ease by
relieving him of his hat. Monsieur Callé bowed to everyone, including
little Artaban, who acknowledged his courtesy by executing a handspring.
As for Madame Putiphar--she made herself quite at home at the
Mirotaines', and, after making a courtesy, she lost no time in asking:
"Haven't they come yet?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, it's only half-past five, and I said that you didn't dine till
six; they're not late."
"Do you expect other guests?" Monsieur Brid'oison asked the host.
"Yes, two gentlemen--whom I don't know."
"What! you ask people to dinner whom you don't know?"
"They come on some--family business."
"And, you see, I know the gentlemen," interposed Madame Putiphar, "and I
answer for them. First, there's Monsieur Dodichet, a commission merchant
in sugar, a delightful young man, of the best tone, and as gallant as
any knight; and his intimate friend, Count Miflorès, an Italian, rich as
an English lord, who is looking for a young lady to marry--without any
dowry."
"Ah! very good; I see--we understand.--You understand, Égilde, don't
you?"
Madame Brid'oison was intent on fastening back one of the corkscrew
curls, which persisted in trying to get into her mouth; so she contented
herself with an affirmative smile. The dealer in wardrobes added, in an
undertone, taking care to move away from Juliette:
"We mustn't act as if we knew the count's intentions, for he wouldn't
like it. He thinks that we don't know them, and that he is invited
solely because he's Monsieur Dodichet's friend; in that way, you see, he
can talk with Juliette and not be embarrassed."
"Very well; still, you did well to warn us. I wouldn't mind a drop of
absinthe while we're waiting for dinner--in some water; that opens up
the appetite."
"My dear friend, if you want to drink absinthe, you may go down to the
café at the corner of the street; don't hesitate."
"Why? haven't you any here?"
"What! absinthe?--a rank poison!"
"Poison when you take it pure; but with plenty of water----"
"There's no doubt but what it's the fashion nowadays," said Madame
Putiphar.
"And the count may ask for it, you think?" queried Aldegonde.
"He or his friend Dodichet."
"Then we must send out for some."
Monsieur Mirotaine stamped the floor angrily, as he cried:
"Plague take Brid'oison with his absinthe! Why need he have asked for
it? I refuse to buy any! If these gentlemen ask for it, you must say
that we've just broken the bottle.--Do you drink absinthe, Monsieur
Callé?"
"Oh! no, indeed! never, monsieur."
"Good! that proves that you have a good stomach, which does not need any
stimulants to help digestion."
"All right! everyone to his own opinion! When Artaban's twelve years
old, I shall have him drink absinthe before his gymnastics."
"That will cap the climax!"
VII
A MIXED DINNER PARTY
At five minutes to six, the bell rang loudly.
"Here they are!" said Madame Putiphar.
Thereupon each one of the company assumed an air worthy of the occasion.
Aldegonde's face took on an amiable expression, Monsieur Mirotaine did
his best to smile, Madame Trichon wiped her nose, and the others looked
exceedingly curious. Juliette alone did not put herself out; she was
depressed; she had hoped that they would not come.
Goth announced: "Monsieur le Comte Mimiflorès and Monsieur Beaubrochet."
Maid-servants almost always have the knack of murdering the names that
are given them. Dodichet entered the room as jauntily as if it were a
tavern, leading his intimate friend by the hand. The friend in question
was a man of about thirty-five, of medium height, rather stout than
thin, who strove to conceal his utter nullity and stupidity beneath an
imposing manner; he had one of those faces which tell absolutely
nothing; but he tried so hard to impart some expression to his eyes that
he almost made them haggard. His dress was irreproachable, even stylish;
but he wore his clothes awkwardly, and carried himself in a way to make
people think that he was uncomfortable in them.
Dodichet saluted on all sides, almost laughing outright; he took
Monsieur Mirotaine's hand, shook it violently before that worthy had had
time to respond to his salutation, and hastened to say in a loud tone:
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Mirotaine; I have long
desired an opportunity, and when it presented itself I grasped it. We
shall do some business together, Monsieur Miroton--I beg pardon,
Mirotaine--and I am a sharp customer and never meddle with anything that
isn't sure."
"Monsieur--I certainly----"
"Allow me to introduce my intimate friend, Count Miflorès, a wealthy
Italian, who would stand behind me if necessary.--He is anxious to
marry, you know," continued Dodichet, in an undertone, "and doesn't want
any dowry."
"Yes, monsieur; I was told----"
"Sh! enough! you mustn't seem to know.--Come, Miflorès, and let me
present you to these ladies. You are bashful, I know, but that shouldn't
keep you from offering the fair sex all the homage that is due them."
Dodichet's assurance, his loquacity and his fine phrases, had the effect
that they usually have upon people with little or no wit; everybody
considered him delightful, and especially Juliette, to whom he
whispered, as he introduced Miflorès:
"Don't be alarmed; he won't marry you. I am a friend of Lucien!"
Juliette could not restrain a faint cry of delight.
"What's the matter?" Aldegonde inquired.
"Nothing!" Dodichet replied; "my foot involuntarily struck
mademoiselle's.--I didn't hurt you, I trust?"
"Oh, no! monsieur, you didn't hurt me."
"Then all is for the best, as Voltaire says in _Candide_. But is it in
_Candide_? Faith! I am not sure; I have read so much in my life that I
am all mixed up; I confuse my authors. Somebody asked me lately who
wrote _Le Mariage de Figaro_, and I said Monsieur d'Ennery. I was
wrong."
"My friend Brid'oison here bears the name of one of the characters in
that play," said Monsieur Mirotaine.
"Ah! monsieur's name is Brid'oison? A fine name! a pretty name! which
recalls a very--intellectual character."
"I try to be worthy of my name," said Monsieur Brid'oison, with dignity.
"You are quite capable of it, monsieur. Do you stutter?"
"No, indeed."
"That's a pity; but it may come in time."
"And this is my son Artaban, who is already very strong in gymnastics."
"Is that so? Well, I am not surprised; the little fellow has Hercules
written all over his face."
"Do you think so?"
And Monsieur Brid'oison, pleased beyond words, patted his son on the
cheek and said to him:
"Do you hear? you resemble Hercules!"
"In what way, papa?"
"I don't know, but in some way."
The supposititious marrying man stood perfectly stiff in the middle of
the salon, at a loss what attitude to assume, but scratching his nose
very often to keep himself in countenance. He had not said a word as
yet, but had contented himself with bowing.
"Monsieur le comte doesn't say anything," whispered Madame Putiphar to
Dodichet. "Why on earth doesn't he open his mouth?"
"Never you fear; he'll open it at dinner time."
"He seems very proud."
"That will pass away at the table."
"Ask him what he thinks of Juliette."
"Fascinating! he told me when he came in."
"How did he know which was she?"
"What a question! she's the only girl here; all the other women have
worn breeches--have seen fire, I mean."
Goth announced dinner, whereupon Monsieur Miflorès exclaimed:
"Good enough!"
"It would seem that the count is hungry!" muttered Monsieur Mirotaine.
"I agree with him perfectly," said Monsieur Brid'oison.
Dodichet nudged his friend, to signify that he must offer his arm to the
hostess. Meanwhile, he offered his own to Juliette, and on the way to
the dining-room found time to say a few words in her ear which caused
her face to glow with happiness.
They took their seats. Madame Trichon grumbled and made a wry face when
she found herself beside little Artaban. Monsieur Brid'oison, offended
because she dreaded his son's proximity, insisted that her seat should
be changed; but Aldegonde objected, and Madame Trichon held her peace.
The soup was served. While it was being passed to her guests, Aldegonde
happened to glance at the dishes of hors-d'oeuvre, and called to her
servant:
"Goth, didn't you put on the table all the pickles and pickled onions I
gave you?"
"Why, yes, madame, every one."
"Well, I certainly had many more than that; it's very strange!"
"Does madame think I ate any of 'em? Madame knows very well that I never
take anything--especially as everything's kept locked up in this house!"
"Enough! enough!"
"This soup is delicious!" cried young Callé, who had his programme by
heart, and knew that he must find everything excellent.
"And the radishes too!" muttered Aldegonde; "my servant has certainly
been helping herself!"
"We must all live," said Dodichet. "May I ask you to drink a glass of
wine with me?"
After drinking, Dodichet made a wry face.
"Excellent burgundy!" cried Callé.
"But terribly weak!" rejoined Dodichet. "However, perhaps this bottle
wasn't well corked."
Monsieur Miflorès ate and drank, and still did not say a word. Meanwhile
Juliette, whose fears were all done away with by Dodichet's confidential
communication, spoke to her neighbor occasionally, as she offered him
something. The soi-disant count contented himself with bowing as he took
what she offered, but did not speak.
"Your friend is very silent," Aldegonde observed to Dodichet; "he hasn't
a word to say to my stepdaughter, although she seems to be very amiable
to him--which is a great surprise to me, I must confess."
"She probably finds monsieur le comte to her liking," said Madame
Putiphar; "he's a very fine-looking man, and no mistake."
"I venture to hope that he will talk at dessert."
Dodichet leaned back and struck his friend on the shoulder.
"Well, Miflorès," he said, "haven't you anything to say to your
neighbors? they're surprised at your silence."
"I don't like to talk when I'm eating," replied the person addressed,
whose mouth was, in fact, full.
"Oh! what exquisite fish!" cried Callé, who had just been served with
pike.
"It's a pity it has so many bones," said Dodichet.
At that moment, Madame Brid'oison began to cough as if she were
strangling.
"Well! well! my wife has swallowed a bone!" said Brid'oison.
But Égilde informed him by signs that it was not that which made her
cough, but one of her corkscrew curls which had got into her mouth.
"Oh! in that case, I've no sympathy for you. What an absurd idea it is
for women to wear their hair so long!"
Monsieur Mirotaine passed his time offering everybody water. Monsieur
Callé was the only man who accepted it, the result being that the host
looked kindly upon him. Young Artaban, who had been very quiet thus far,
began to toss his knife and fork in the air, to the great displeasure of
Madame Trichon, who said to him:
"That's not the way to behave in company, my boy; at the table you
should sit very still, and not play with the knives and forks."
Monsieur Brid'oison, who admired his son's skill, answered for him:
"Artaban isn't playing, madame; he is juggling at this moment like the
East Indians; they call it juggling. They have balls which they toss in
the air with great dexterity; having no balls, Artaban uses his knife
and fork; it's harder, and more dangerous. But don't be alarmed; Artaban
is too skilful to hurt himself."
"That may be, but he'll hurt me! he'll throw his fork in my face, and
the chair was quite enough for me!"
"But, madame, I will answer for my son. He's as light-fingered as a
monkey!"
Monsieur Brid'oison had hardly finished the sentence, when the fork,
badly aimed by Artaban, struck Madame Trichon on the chin, just on a
level with her teeth. She gave a loud shriek and sprang to her feet in a
rage.
"It's outrageous! it's shameful!" she cried; "he has sworn to disfigure
me! I insist on sitting at a small table; I will not sit by this little
blackguard any longer!"
Monsieur Brid'oison turned scarlet when he heard his son called a
blackguard; he mumbled something between his teeth, which, luckily, was
drowned by the crash of several plates which the maid dropped, thereby
driving Monsieur Mirotaine to despair. Meanwhile, at a sign from
Aldegonde, Monsieur Callé had risen and changed seats with Madame
Trichon. Thereupon peace was restored, albeit Monsieur Brid'oison
continued to mutter:
"Blackguard! call my son Artaban a blackguard! If that woman was a man,
she'd have had to give me satisfaction for that!"
The two bottles of Château-Léoville were brought, and Dodichet, having
tasted it, exclaimed with the liveliest satisfaction:
"Good! this can fairly be called wine; and it's delicious, too! an
intoxicating bouquet!"
"Will you have some water in it?" said Monsieur Mirotaine, offering him
a carafe.
"Water in such wine as this? why, it would be downright profanation! I
most earnestly hope that no one will think of spoiling it with
water.--Miflorès, my dear count, just taste this wine! It will make you
eloquent."
"If it does make him eloquent, it will surprise me greatly," said
Monsieur Brid'oison to Callé, who was ogling Aldegonde, who was
scrutinizing Miflorès, who was gazing in admiration at his brimming
glass.
"How they do eat and drink!" thought Monsieur Mirotaine, stifling a
sigh; "but I don't see that this supposed marrying man tries to get
acquainted with my daughter. To make up for it, the commission merchant
in sugar is very loquacious; he impresses me more or less as a
_blagueur_. Mon Dieu! suppose that my dinner is thrown away!"
Dodichet kept the claret in circulation, but was always careful to help
himself first. Monsieur Miflorès succeeded at last in saying:
"Yes, it's a very good wine."
Callé outdid all the rest by exclaiming:
"This wine is perfect nectar!"
The two bottles were soon emptied.
"Give us some more, Monsieur Mirotaine," said Dodichet; "you see how we
honor it."
"I haven't any more," Mirotaine replied, "those were my last two
bottles."
"Oh! what a pity!"
"But you will have some champagne in a moment."
"If it's as good in its way as the claret, it will be ambrosia."
The champagne arrived with a _crême à la vanille_, which Goth proudly
placed on the table.
"Ah! now for the sweets!" cried Dodichet.
"It's a _crême à la vanille_," said Aldegonde.
Whereupon Miflorès spoke for the second time.
"So much the better!" he cried.
"He has spoken!" said Madame Putiphar.
"Yes, but not to Juliette."
"That will come with the champagne, no doubt."
Aldegonde served everybody with cream, and everybody made haste to taste
it; but, in a moment, exclamations rose on all sides:
"Bah! what on earth is this?"
"What an extraordinary taste!"
"Mon Dieu! how nasty it is!"
"In the first place, it isn't sweetened at all!"
"If that was all! But the taste and the smell! I know that taste, but I
can't remember what it is."
Aldegonde summoned the cook, who appeared at once.
"What did you put in your cream, Goth? it has a most peculiar taste."
"I put in what I always do, madame: milk, whites of eggs, a little of
vanilla--I didn't have much of that to put in, my word!"
"And sugar?"
"Yes, the candied sugar monsieur gave me wrapped up in paper; I put it
all in."
"Ah! I know what it smells of!" cried Dodichet; "it's camphor; your
cream is flavored with camphor!"
"What does this mean, Monsieur Mirotaine?" said Aldegonde, looking
sternly at her husband; "was it camphor you gave Goth, instead of
sugar?"
"If it was, I must have taken the wrong package," said Mirotaine,
slightly embarrassed. "As a matter of fact, I have several packages of
camphor in my desk--and I must have mixed them with the sugar."
"There is no further doubt, monsieur, that it was camphor you gave the
servant."
"Luckily, we know that it isn't injurious," said Dodichet. "Come on!
let's open the champagne; that will help us to forget the camphor."
One and all eagerly held out their glasses; the champagne foamed--but
only for a moment; and when everybody had tasted it, there was a
profound silence; a silence that was most unpleasant, under such
circumstances, and was equivalent to a general "Sh!" as on the stage.
At last, Dodichet, who was always outspoken, exclaimed:
"Sapristi! this champagne isn't as good as your claret! The man who sold
this to you, Monsieur Mirotaine, sold you too."
"What do you say? Sold me! Why, it's Cliquot, Cliquot _crémant_."
"That stuff, _crémant!_ as much as I'm a bishop! I'll get you to give me
your dealer's address, so that I may avoid him."
The champagne having proved a flat failure, and Aldegonde having no
other wine to offer, the dessert came to grief; and they soon left the
table, to take their coffee in the salon.
VIII
DRAMATIC SCENES
The guests were not in that vivacious frame of mind which generally
signalizes the end of a dinner. To be sure, they had not had much to
warm them up; the vin ordinaire was watered, the champagne resembled
vinegar; the claret alone had made a success, but two bottles were a
very small allowance for eleven people, especially when one of them
appropriated half of it.
Madame Trichon was still brooding over the blow from a fork on her chin,
and from a chair on her head. Monsieur Brid'oison was sulking because
his son had been called a blackguard; his wife continued to swallow her
hair; Madame Putiphar and Aldegonde were disturbed by the Italian
count's silence with Juliette; the last-named alone was in a charming
mood, and was ably seconded by Dodichet, who, from time to time, hid his
face in order to laugh at Miflorès.
The coffee had just been brought, and Aldegonde was filling the cups,
when Monsieur Brid'oison offered Monsieur Mirotaine his snuffbox,
saying:
"Try this, and tell me what you think of it."
"Why, you know perfectly well that I don't take snuff."
"This brand is well worth departing from your habit."
Monsieur Mirotaine took a pinch and stuffed it into his nose, with a
sign of approbation. But the pungent powder soon produced its inevitable
effect upon one who was unaccustomed to its use: Monsieur Mirotaine
sneezed twice in rapid succession, and the second time the effect was of
such a nature that he was obliged to resort to his handkerchief in hot
haste, in order to wipe his nose. So he thrust his hand hurriedly into
his pocket, and pulled out his handkerchief so quickly that with it he
sent pickles, radishes, and onions flying about the room.
Everybody was dumfounded; they gazed in amazement at the hors-d'oeuvre
strewn about the floor and on the furniture. Madame Trichon alone
uttered a cry of pain; the poor woman had no luck; she had received an
onion in the eye, and, as it was pickled, it caused the delicate spot it
had struck to smart vigorously.
"How is this, monsieur? is it possible that you put some of the
hors-d'oeuvre in your pocket?" said Aldegonde. "And to think that I
suspected poor Goth! Fie, monsieur, for shame! that is unpardonable!"
Instead of asking his wife's forgiveness, Monsieur Mirotaine was on his
hands and knees, picking up the delicacies he had unwittingly taken from
his pocket. As for Madame Trichon, she went off to weep by herself in a
corner, declaring that there was a conspiracy to disfigure her.
While they were taking their coffee, Dodichet said to his friend:
"Come, Miflorès, for heaven's sake talk a little! try to make yourself
agreeable to the ladies. You act like an oyster, my dear fellow."
"I didn't ask you to bring me here; it was you who insisted on my
coming, saying that it would inspire confidence in the master of the
house, with whom you hoped to do a big business."
"That is true, perfectly true; that is why I passed you off for an
Italian count."
"Oh! I don't care about that."
"Lying a little more or less doesn't matter; and you are lying by
calling yourself Miflorès, when your real name is Seringat; a pretty
name, by the way, which reminds one of a canary [_serin_], a flower
[_syringa_], and a syringe [_seringue_]. Miflorès isn't your name."
"It was my mother's, so I have a right to take it."
"At all events, you don't want these people to know your real name, and
what happened to you, do you?"
"No, no! never! I would rather--I--don't know what."
"Well, I know the whole story."
"But you promised to keep it secret, my good, kind friend."
"Yes; but on condition that you'll be obliging, that you'll do
everything for me that I ask you to do."
"That's agreed. Do you want more money? Tell me."
"Not now; but try to be amiable, amusing, polite, while you are here;
that's all I ask of you at present."
"I will try right away."
Whereupon my gentleman went to the hostess, took her hand, and kissed it
several times.
"What does that mean; does he expect to marry my wife?" thought Monsieur
Mirotaine.