through the window, and I recognized him right off. I'm very glad to
find him in the same hotel; he's a good friend of mine, is Seringat, and
he comes from Pontoise.'
"I looks at him, and I says:
"'But you're mistaken, monsieur; I haven't got any Seringat in my
house.'
"'Excuse me, madame, but I saw him go out of this house this very
minute.'
"'The man you saw go out of this house is named Miflorès, and not
Seringat, and he never told me that he came from Pontoise.'
"'Apparently, madame, he's concluded to change his name; but I am
perfectly sure that the person who just went out is named Seringat,
formerly a druggist at Pontoise. Parbleu! I know him well; I've often
bought insect powder of him to kill fleas. Poor Seringat! he's had a
hard time. His wife--you see what I mean? The whole town knew about it;
somebody even went so far as to write a song about him. Stay! I remember
one verse. It goes to the tune of the _Carillon de Dunkerque_.'--And
with that, he begins to sing:
"'Ce pauvre Seringat!
Il a fait tant d'éclat,
Que tout Pontoise a su
Qu'il était, ma foi, cornu!'
"Then he goes back to his room, saying:
"'To prove that it's him, you'll see me throw myself into his arms when
he comes back. Be kind enough to let me know.'
"So he goes back to his room; and I don't deny that I didn't care much
whether the other man was the hero of the song or not. In about a
quarter of an hour, Monsieur Miflorès came back. As soon as I saw him, I
runs and says to him:
"'Is it true, monsieur, that your name's Seringat, and that you came
from Pontoise? There's a man in the house who says he recognized you. He
even knows a song about you. He asked me to let him know as soon as you
came in.'
"At that, I saw the poor man change color; he rolled his eyes around and
clenched his fists, and he says to me:
"'Madame, I forbid you to let that man know. Make up my bill; I am going
up to get my baggage and leave the house instantly.'
"It was no use for me to promise not to say anything to the other one;
he wouldn't listen to me. He went up to his room, packed his valise,
came down again, paid me my money, and went off. But Monsieur Ronflard
had seen him through the window. So he comes running down again.
"'What!' he says; 'has he gone? didn't he wait for me? Oh! but I'll
catch him!'
"And with that, he ran out to try to overtake his friend. He saw him in
front of him, but the other turned and, seeing that he was being
followed, began to run as if the devil was after him. Monsieur Ronflard
was obstinate; he ran after him, and it seems that he kept calling to
him:
"'Stop, don't run like that, Seringat! it's Ronflard; don't you know
me?'
"The man from Pontoise ran all the faster. Somebody who saw them
scurrying through the streets told me he thought they were running for
the firemen. To cut it short, Monsieur Miflorès came to the river; he
went down to the shore, saw a boatman pulling down stream, and motioned
to him to take him aboard. The man rowed to the bank and laid a plank
for him to come aboard. At that moment, Monsieur Ronflard came up and
began to sing at the top of his lungs:
"'Ce pauvre Seringat!
Il a fait tant d'éclat,
Que tout Pontoise a su
Qu'il était, ma foi, cornu!'
"Poor Monsieur Miflorès no sooner heard that song than he rushed onto
the plank; but he made a misstep and fell into the water. The current
dragged him away--it seems that he couldn't swim. And when they
succeeded in fishing him up, he was dead!"
"Dead! Can it be that he is dead? Poor Seringat!--for that really was
his true name.--Well! there's no doubt that your Monsieur Ronflard did a
good stroke of business then!"
"Why, monsieur, he seemed to be terribly distressed; he had the jaundice
on account of it, and he only left Paris yesterday.--'I must go and tell
Madame Seringat she's a widow,' he says to me, when he went away; 'I
feel sure that it won't make her feel so badly as I do.'"
Dodichet did not recover for several minutes from the shock he had
received. Then he sat down at a table and said:
"Be kind enough to give me my plate of snails, madame, with some bread
and wine; for, after all, if I don't eat them, that won't bring poor
Seringat to life. That's why I prefer to eat them."
The landlady hastened to serve Dodichet, and remained with him to talk,
that being her greatest enjoyment. Dodichet heaved a faint sigh from
time to time, but he did not waste a mouthful.
"Does monsieur find my snails to his taste?"
"They're very good, madame, and perfectly cooked. You almost make me
like the dish, and I am forgetting the loss I have suffered.--Poor
Seringat!"
"Is monsieur a great loser by his death?"
"Yes, indeed! I have lost--all that I had in prospect."
"Did he owe you money?"
"No, not exactly. But it amounted to the same thing."
"You will fall back on your friend's wife--his widow, I mean--won't
you?"
"No; I have no claim on her. There is nothing left for me but to
dedicate one last sigh to the deceased, and think of something
else.--How much do I owe you, madame?"
"Sixteen sous in all, monsieur, for the snails and wine and bread."
"Well, that's not dear, on my honor! When I want to treat my mistress,
I'll bring her here; especially as I see no prospect of a dinner at
Brébant's."
Dodichet paid his bill and left the old hotel of which he had formerly
held such a low opinion, but which he was now very glad to know, looking
upon it as a possible resource in adversity. He bent his steps toward
Boulotte's abode. As the wine he had taken with his snails had not gone
to his head, he reflected on his position. The two blows which he had
received in rapid succession annihilated all his hopes, and made even
his present very precarious. However, he would not allow himself to be
cast down; his heedless nature kept him from worrying about the future.
Such natures are much to be envied, so some people declare. They never
borrow trouble, and everything is rose-colored in their eyes!--I am not
of that opinion; heedlessness means disorder, and disorder means ruin;
and that is the fate of such happy-go-lucky natures.
When Dodichet arrived at the young ballet dancer's, she was not, as
usual, making mineral rouge with bricks, but was engaged in drawing a
dainty little network of veins on her temples, with indigo. At sight of
her lover, she threw aside her brush and ran to embrace him.
"Here you are! How glad I am! Tell me all about your début and your
triumph. I am sure you had wreaths thrown to you, and made plenty of
conquests! You were so handsome as Joconde! How many recalls did you
have?"
"They recalled me, that's true enough," Dodichet replied, dropping into
a chair, "but I didn't choose to go back; because they wanted to play a
low trick on me. I had just time to escape, in a policeman's cloak and a
fireman's helmet."
"What sort of a tale is this? What new practical joke have you been
playing?"
"Well, it was a very poor one; the audience at Quimper-Corentin had the
cheek to hiss, to send me to the devil; and I turned round and showed
them my other face. At that, there were shouts and yelling and a great
hullabaloo; and, as I have just told you, I had hardly time to get
away."
"Is it possible? And what's become of your pretty costume?"
"I sold it, on my way back, to get a pair of trousers and a coat."
"So your début--you've got to begin again, eh?"
"Thanks, no! I have no desire to try it again in the same line. My voice
won't come back."
"Oh! you smoke too much! I told you so! Luckily, your aunt's dead; a
friend of yours told me."
"Yes, my aunt's dead, that's true; but she disinherited me!"
"Oh! my poor boy! what a grind! But, thank heaven! you still have your
gold mine--the man who can't refuse you when you ask him for money--the
man with the mystery!"
"My dear girl, the man with the mystery has followed my aunt's example;
that is, he hasn't disinherited me, but he's dead."
"Oh! mon Dieu! Did someone mention Pontoise to him?"
"Better than that: someone sang him a song that was written about him at
Pontoise, in which they poked fun at him about his accident; for I can
tell you now what it was that that jackass was so afraid people would
find out. Sieur Seringat had a very pretty wife, whom he believed to be
a regular Lucretia. The fellow had the bad habit of making sport of
deceived husbands, of laughing at their expense, and saying that no such
misfortune would ever happen to him. But, lo and behold! one day, at an
outdoor fête, our Seringat saw a veiled lady in the distance, just at
dusk, slip into an isolated summer house, where, not long after, she was
joined by a young officer. Feeling sure that the lady he had seen was
the wife of one of the leading men of the town, Seringat got together
several young men, confided his discovery to them, and guided them to
the pavilion, which was not lighted, but which they entered, carrying
torches, on the pretext of illuminating it. Whom did they find there?
Whom but Madame Seringat, in criminal conversation with the young
officer! Who was sheepish and shamefaced then? Who but Seringat; for all
the husbands in Pontoise revenged themselves on him, and that same
evening his misadventure was known all over the town. Seringat, in his
rage and vexation at becoming one of that class at which he had always
laughed, left Pontoise the next day, swearing never to return. He took
the name of Miflorès, and anybody who knew him could get anything out of
him by threatening to disclose his name and his adventure. In fact, he
was drowned not long ago, because a man from Pontoise chased him,
calling him by his real name, and singing a couplet in which he was
ridiculed about his accident. In his haste to escape, Seringat, who was
trying to get aboard a boat, made a misstep, fell into the river, and
was drowned.--Now you know, my dear girl, how I made him lend me money.
He had so much self-esteem, and was so vexed at wearing a pair of
horns, that you had only to threaten to tell about it, to obtain all you
wanted."
"Well, he was a Gribouille, on my word! to throw himself into the water
for fear someone would know he had taken a fancy to _the yellow_! If all
the husbands that happens to should run into the river, the fish would
get a good fright!--And what are you going to do now, my poor Dodichet?"
"I am going to make a cigarette."
"That won't keep you alive."
"True; but to-morrow I shall go to see the theatrical agent. I'll tell
him that I've changed my line, that I play the legitimate drama now, the
leading rôles, Frédérick Lemaître's and Mélingue's and Dumaine's. He'll
soon find me an engagement in some large town; for I don't propose to
play in holes in the ground any more. I want a chance now to display my
talents on a vast stage!"
"You're sure you have talents, are you?"
"Pardieu! everyone has; the only thing is to find them. A famous thinker
has said: 'How many people have come into the world and left it without
unpacking all their merchandise!'"
"What does that mean?"
"Don't you understand? You grieve me! That means that many people are
born with talents and faculties which events, fatality or poverty, do
not permit them to develop, to make manifest. Now, do you see, something
tells me that I have dramatic genius in my stomach!"
"Dear me! And do you mean to force it out?"
"I mean to find my real vocation. Meanwhile, would you like me to treat
you to snails? I know a place where they cook them in a way to make you
lick your fingers."
"Thanks, I prefer something else!"
"After all, I still have a little money in my pocket, and I'll take you
to Bonvalet's. Come, O Boulotte! On the way, I will purchase a number of
dramas, and this evening I will learn the leading rôles by heart."
"I think I see you!" said Boulotte, putting on her jaunty little hat;
"this evening you will smoke!"
XIX
THE END OF THE YEAR
After forming the resolution never to see Madame Dermont again, Adhémar,
unable to resist successfully his intense longing to meet her, to catch
a glimpse of her, even at a distance, suddenly determined to go to
England. He gave himself hardly time enough to pack a valise, took
plenty of money, and hurried to the railway, which took him to Boulogne,
whence he soon crossed the straits. He thought that he could escape from
his memories by leaving his country, and went at once to London. He
passed six weeks there, which seemed to him six years, did his utmost to
fall in love with an Englishwoman, and, failing miserably, returned at
last to Paris.
"I believe it will be easier for me to fall in love with a Parisian," he
thought; "at all events, it's all over, so far as Nathalie is concerned;
I never think of her now, and she probably spends her time with the
young man that she met at the Jardin des Plantes. After this, the sight
of her will not make the slightest impression on me, and my heart would
beat no faster if I should meet her face to face. I no longer love
her!"
However, his first act, on reaching Paris, was to go and gaze at the
windows of her whom he declared that he no longer loved. He walked up
and down in front of her house for a long time, scrutinized everybody
who went in or out, and returned home at last, saying to himself that
that was simply the remains of an old habit, and that it would soon wear
out.
For a week he continued his daily promenades on Rue de
Paradis-Poissonnière. On the eighth day, as he was going in the same
direction, he remembered that it was just a year since he and his three
friends had met at the café at the corner of the boulevard and Faubourg
Poissonnière, and that they had all agreed to meet at the same place at
the end of a year. So he changed his direction and went to the café,
being curious to see whether his friends had remembered the appointment,
and at the same time ready to seize any opportunity to obtain even
momentary relief from his one haunting thought.
On entering the café, Adhémar spied Philémon Dubotté taking his ease
with a glass of punch and a newspaper.
"Bravo!" cried Philémon, as they shook hands; "here are two men of their
word! two men with a memory! I never doubted you, my dear fellow. How
are you? You look a little pale. Didn't the air of London agree with
you? I understand you have been in England?"
"Yes; the London air isn't very clear. It is composed in great part of
smoke and fog; but it's not unhealthy, I believe, as the neighborhood of
the sea drives away the noxious vapors."
"Did you make a lot of conquests over there? But of course you did."
"On the contrary, I kept clear of all intrigues."
"You astound me! I mean to go to England for the express purpose of
finding out how the English women make love."
"Be careful! they take it more seriously than our French women do."
"Meanwhile, my dear Adhémar, you see before you the happiest man in
Paris. I have arrived, my dear fellow, in every sense of the word. I am
chief of a bureau--the position which was the one object of my ambition;
and in my family relations I have nothing left to desire. My wife used
to be perfectly killing with her affection; she would have liked to be
hanging on my arm all the time; I have cured her of that nonsense, and
now she lets me go out without her whenever I choose; sometimes, indeed,
she is the first to suggest it. There's a young man who comes to the
house to play cards with her, and who takes her to the theatre and to
drive. I had great difficulty in accustoming her to it; but now the
thing goes all alone, and she leaves me as much liberty as I can
possibly desire. Well, Adhémar, what do you say? haven't I steered my
ship pretty well? Why don't you congratulate me?"
Adhémar, who had smiled in rather an equivocal way while the handsome
blond boasted of his good fortune, made haste to reply:
"You have reached your goal, my dear Dubotté, and, as you are satisfied,
there is nothing for me to do but congratulate you."
"Gad! I should be hard to suit if I wasn't satisfied. And you must be,
too, my dear fellow, for your success is uninterrupted, and you earn a
lot of money."
"Happiness doesn't always depend on money alone."
"What about the other two fellows? have you any news of them?"
"No; I have been away from Paris, you know."
"Between ourselves, I am afraid poor Dodichet has turned out badly. He
amused himself by perpetrating practical jokes that were much too
dangerous, sometimes. I found him one day at poor old Mirotaine's, where
he had brought a supposititious marrying man. I recognized the latter as
a druggist from Pontoise, with a wife of his own. The result was
confusion, disillusionment, revolution! That was a very poor joke."
"I heard about that. Yes, Dodichet wastes his whole life inventing such
monkey tricks, which raise a laugh for the moment, but never have a
beneficial result for the man who perpetrates them."
"I am sorry, for Dodichet is a good fellow at bottom."
"A good fellow! We think we have said everything, when we remark, in
speaking of a man: 'He's a good fellow.'--For my part, I consider that
that epithet is almost always applied to a person with whom it is
advisable to avoid any intimate connection, for the good fellow is
constantly doing idiotic things: he squanders his money like a fool,
and, when it's all gone, thinks it the most natural thing in the world
to borrow and never pay. He owes his tailor, his shoemaker, everybody he
deals with. He never has a sou in his pocket; but if you ask him to join
a party of any sort, he always accepts, and you have to pay for him.
Sometimes he will even invite you to dine at one of the best restaurants
in Paris; he will entertain you magnificently, sparing neither truffles
nor champagne; but when it comes to paying the bill, which may amount to
forty francs, he will find only fifty sous in his purse and ask you to
advance the rest. He will make an intimate friend of anybody he happens
to meet, and sometimes finds himself playing billiards with sharpers,
because he is so trustful that he calls people whose names he doesn't
know his friends. He never keeps a promise; he constantly feeds on
chimerical illusions, and flatters himself that he is going to win a
million of money, when he hasn't a sou in his pocket. That's the kind of
person a 'good fellow' is: frankly, I prefer a bad one."
As Adhémar finished, an individual, very shabbily dressed, his body
encased in an old, greenish frock-coat, buttoned to the chin, with not a
particle of linen in sight, with a shocking round hat, almost brimless,
on his head, and patched and muddy old boots on his feet, entered the
café with a very pronounced limp, and halted in front of the two
friends.
"Well, well!" he cried, "don't you know me? Here I am, faithful to our
appointment of last year."
"Dodichet!" cried Dubotté and Adhémar in one breath.
"Yes, messieurs; Dodichet himself: slightly the worse for wear, and
exceedingly hard up, as you see; but still ready to laugh when occasion
offers!"
"But you are limping, aren't you?"
"Mon Dieu! yes, I am limping, and it's for life too; I shall always
limp--it's the result of a fool's trick, an experiment, which I will
tell you about directly. But make room for me at your table."
"With pleasure; will you have some grog, or beer?"
"Thanks; if it's all the same to you, I prefer a beefsteak."
"Waiter, a beefsteak for monsieur."
"With an endless supply of potatoes."
The beefsteak was brought; Dodichet consumed it, together with two
loaves of bread and three carafes of water; it was evident that the
poor fellow needed recruiting. His two old friends respected his
appetite, and asked no questions until he had finished.
"Messieurs," said Dodichet, "having been disinherited by my aunt, and
that old fool of a Seringat having fallen into the water while running
away from one of his friends who sang a song to him based on his
conjugal misadventure, I had no choice but to decide upon some definite
course of action. I told you a year ago that the stage was my vocation.
I still think so; but I must confess that I was not wildly applauded as
a tenor--I smoked a little too much on the day of my début; to cut it
short, I was not fortunate at Quimper-Corentin. On my return to Paris,
the dramatic agent, to whom I made known my desire to play Frédérick
Lemaître's parts, told me to go at once to Carpentras, where the leading
man had burst a blood vessel while chasing someone who owed him three
francs fifty. So I went to Carpentras; I introduced myself to the
manager with that self-assurance to which I am subject. He welcomed me
joyfully, and said to me: 'We want to give an extra performance
to-morrow, for the benefit of wet-nurses with no children to nurse; I
mean to give _Trente Ans, ou la Vie d'un Joueur_, and, to end the show,
I have a young man from Pithiviers, who's as good at hair-raising leaps
as Léotard. Can you play Frédérick's part in _Trente Ans_?'--'I'll play
it for you right away, if you want,' said I, with a laugh. 'Don't be
alarmed; I have it at my finger tips.'--That wasn't quite true; but, as
I had seen the play very often, I thought to myself: 'I know the
entrances and exits; that's the main thing; when the lines escape me,
I'll try pantomime, or else I'll think up something that will suit the
situation.'--The manager was overjoyed; he announced his extra
performance, as well as my début, and that of a second Léotard. The
critical moment arrived; the theatre was full, and the receipts
fabulously large for that place. They began _Trente Ans_, and I didn't
know a single line of the rôle of Georges.--Well! I played it like an
angel! The townspeople, as they didn't know the play, had no suspicion
that I was substituting my own words for the author's; my fellow actors
opened their eyes; but when they got confused, I pushed them so hard
that they had to speak. In a word, the play came to an end amid
tremendous applause; I was recalled, and acclaimed to the skies. The
manager embraced me and told me that I was engaged. At that moment, a
letter was handed him; it was from his acrobat, who told him that his
father had summoned him to Pithiviers to help prepare an unusually large
order of pies, and that he was going at once. My manager was in despair.
He had promised a performance on the trapèze, and the audience expected
it; if he failed to give it, they would have the right to demand their
money back, and he wouldn't have given it back for anything under
heaven. Seeing the manager's embarrassment, I asked him to show me what
the acrobat was supposed to do. He was to run at full speed, jump
through a hoop covered with paper, and come out on the other side high
enough in the air to seize a rope which hung down a little beyond the
hoop. 'Is that all?' I asked, with a scornful laugh; 'why, that's a mere
_pons asinorum_! I do much more than that when I toy with gymnastics. Be
calm; give me the tights, and I'll show you some jumping that will be
quite equal to that of your Pithiviers tumbler!'--The manager leaped on
my neck, informed me that he doubled my salary,--which did not
compromise him much, as he had not as yet offered me anything,--then
went and told the orchestra to play the Tartar March while I was
dressing; after that, he would have an announcement to make to the
audience. He went to the front of the stage, bowed, and announced that
his acrobat had accidentally sprained a ligament, and that the artist
who had just played the part of Georges would take his place. Everybody
praised me to the skies. 'What a man!' they said; 'he takes Frédérick's
rôles and Léotard's at the same time!'--Meanwhile, I was doing my utmost
to get into the acrobat's flesh-colored tights. I had great difficulty,
for they were terribly scant for my rotund form; however, I got into
them at last. The three blows were struck; the orchestra played the
triumphal march from _La Muette_ for me; I appeared, and was greeted
with uproarious applause. To show my elasticity, I executed three
handsprings before the audience; at the third, I tore my tights
horribly, and showed them something besides my elasticity. However, that
did not deter me; and the audience, thinking that I had another costume
under my tights, and that I was making a lightning change in full view,
applauded all the louder. That encouraged me, excited me! I ran onto the
springboard, and jumped through the paper hoop; but, meaning to seize
the rope as I came down, I jumped too high, and seized nothing but one
of the wings, which came tumbling to the stage with me, and the fall
dislocated my knee; that put an end to the performance.