they don’t make fun of us.--Look you, a few days ago, a German baron
arrived here, a former friend of my wife; and a man of the highest
extraction, and he paid me the most flattering compliments on my
marriage.”
“The deuce! he must have a fine German accent, must this baron!”
“Why, no, not very much; he swears in German, that’s all. Well, since he
has been here, he dines and breakfasts with us almost every day; he
dined with us to-day again, and we drank a certain pomard--ah! such
pomard!--he drinks straight, does the baron--and I held my own with
him.”
“Ah! I am not surprised that you didn’t see where you were going just
now.”
“Nonsense! I never get drunk myself.”
“What are you looking for now?”
“I am looking for Monsieur de Schtapelmerg.”
“Good God! what did you say?”
“I said I was looking for Monsieur de Schtapelmerg; that’s the baron’s
name.”
“He has a name that requires study to be pronounced in a becoming
manner.--So he was with you, was he?”
“Yes, we came out together after dinner--to take a look at the country.
He probably left me, at the call of nature; and I was so absorbed in my
search that I didn’t notice that I was alone.”
“Have you lost anything, pray, that you were engaged in such an
absorbing search?”
“Oh, no! I am seeking a method of ascertaining the age of trees simply
by looking at the trunk.”
“I should never have suspected that that was what you were seeking. You
are getting to be beyond me; I am no longer on your level. Was it your
wife who commissioned you to ascertain that?”
“As if women ever meddled in science! It’s an idea that came into my
head as I contemplated the magnificent lindens in our avenue. You
haven’t seen our avenue yet, have you?”
“I have seen nothing, as I have just arrived; but when you have found
out the age of a tree, what will you do with it?”
“Oh! you distress me, Freluchon! When one makes a scientific discovery,
one endows one’s country with it, and the country rewards one. It may
lead to anything!”
At that moment a vinous voice arose in the distance, calling:
“Hallo there! Belleville! damnation! Belleville! What in the deuce has
become of our friend? Ho there! you fellows!”
“Hark! it seems to me that I hear the baron’s voice!” said Chamoureau;
“he is looking for me.--This way, baron, this way! It’s getting dark,
and this village isn’t lighted with gas as yet.”
Croque was tipsy; but as he was accustomed to being in that condition,
he was quite firm on his legs, and even essayed to twirl his cane from
time to time. However, as he walked toward Chamoureau, he failed to
notice rather a deep rut, and he fell at full length in the road.
Thereupon he emitted a string of oaths calculated to appall a carter.
“Bless my soul!” cried Chamoureau, “I believe that Monsieur de
Schtapelmerg has made a false step!”
“I am inclined to think that he has fallen altogether,” observed
Freluchon.
And the two gentlemen went to assist Croque, who could not succeed in
extricating himself from the rut.
“Ah! _cré nom, tarteiff!_ a thousand million colored pipes! What in the
devil’s the sense of roads like this! this is a vile hole of a place,
this village of yours. When you dig holes, you ought to put lamps by
’em. Isn’t there any mayor here--_cré coquin_?”
“I hope you’re not hurt, my dear baron?”
“_Ouiche!_ do I ever hurt myself? I’ve fallen farther than that--when I
jumped from a first-floor, yes, and a second-floor window!”
“Take hold of me, monsieur; there, that’s right.”
“Hallo! there’s somebody else! is it neighbor Luminot?”
“No, dear baron, it isn’t our neighbor Luminot; it’s one of my friends
from Paris, Freluchon, who has come down this evening so as to come to
our fête to-morrow.”
“Oh! it seems he was afraid of missing the coach, was friend
Tirebouchon!”
“I didn’t say Tirebouchon, baron, but Freluchon.”
“And if I should choose to murder your name, monsieur,” retorted the
diminutive youth, “I might call you something extremely vulgar!”
Croque, who was once more on his feet, rubbed his nose and strove to
recover his self-possession, muttering:
“Monsieur, I had no intention--I didn’t mean--however, a name’s a name,
and after all, if I’ve offended you--ten thousand sauerkrauts! I am all
here; I don’t retreat, at cards or at table.”
“Monsieur le baron, I am persuaded that you do not retreat anywhere; but
you have not offended me; call me Tirebouchon if it amuses you, and I
will join in the laughter.”
“A thousand kirschwassers! if you’re not satisfied----”
“But I tell you, on the contrary, that I am perfectly satisfied. I am
not like Chamoureau, who doesn’t want to be called by his own name.”
“Cha--Cha--Chamou--what’s that you say? De Belleville’s name is Chamou?”
“Formerly--before my marriage,” stammered Chamoureau, “I may have had
another name, but the moment I dropped it, I ceased to have it!”
“I say, that’s a good one! My sister didn’t tell me that, the hussy!”
“Who’s your sister?” cried Chamoureau.
Croque saw that he had been imprudent. To make his interlocutors forget
it, he began to pretend to be in a quarrelsome mood once more.
“Never mind about that!” he said; “I’m an old soldier, I am, triple
sauerkraut! I’m a bully boy who has shown his mettle, I am--in all sorts
of ways, do you hear, Monsieur--Cornichon?”
“Ha! ha! very good! very pretty! we are pleased to make puns on my name,
are we? Go on! The pomard makes you clever--_spirituel_.”
“What! the pomard makes me spirituous--_spiritueux_! What business is it
of yours? If I have been drinking pomard, it didn’t belong to you; you
haven’t got the like of it in your cellars, you miserable
Chonchon--Torchon!”
“Oh! Monsieur de--excuse me if I don’t finish your name; I’m afraid
you’re a bit quarrelsome in your cups. Come, let’s not get excited; I
helped you out of your wheel-rut, and to reward me, you propose a duel.
There! there! let’s be good friends.”
But the more mildness Freluchon displayed, the uglier Croque became,
because he thought that the other was afraid of him. He advanced upon
the young man, twirling his cane and talking in a tone that seemed to
proceed from the depths of his chest.
“I tell you, you’re a shrimp. Yes, I have been drinking pomard--what
business is it of yours, ten thousand smoked hams! I have a right to
drink at Belleville’s, and you haven’t. I’ll drink as much as I please,
and I’ll smash your jaw!”
“Oh! baron, baron, this is disgusting talk! surely you are anxious to
return to your rut.”
“What’s that about a rut? I’ll chuck you into it!”
But, as Croque raised his cane over Freluchon’s head, the latter dealt
him such a well-directed blow with his fist, that the self-styled baron
fell back into the hole from which they had lifted him and lay there for
some moments before he recovered his breath.
“Mon Dieu! you have killed him!” cried Chamoureau.
“If I did kill him, it would be no great loss to mankind, for this baron
of yours, who swears by sauerkraut and kirschwasser, gives me rather a
poor idea of the company I shall meet to-morrow at your house.”
“Why, he’s a very _comme il faut_ man; he’s rather hot-headed, that’s
all.”
“Oh! I have an idea that this baron is brummagem; and furthermore----”
“Mon Dieu! what am I going to do?”
“Don’t be alarmed, Chamoureau, such fellows are hard to kill. Look, what
did I say? he’s moving a paw already.”
“Let’s help him to get up.”
“Oh, no! not I. I don’t help ingrates twice over!”
Croque raised his head, opened one eye, looked all about him, and
stammered:
“_Credié!_ what a crack! It was magnificent! I’ve been hit before, but
never anything like that; it sobered me off in an instant!”
“Well, baron, if you say so, I’ll begin again.”
“Thanks! oh! no, I thank you! I’ve had enough; I’ve had my
reckoning.--De Belleville, give me your hand, old fellow.”
When he was on his feet once more, Croque walked toward Freluchon and
offered him his hand, saying:
“Young man, you’re a fine fellow; you have my esteem; let’s be friends.”
“Ah! you’re satisfied now, are you, monsieur le baron? You don’t want to
fight any more?”
“I am perfectly satisfied. Shake! I am very glad to have made your
acquaintance.”
“And I was certain that it would end like this. Bonsoir, messieurs; I am
going to hunt up Edmond.”
“Until to-morrow, Freluchon; we rely on you. Try to bring Monsieur
Edmond; my wife has invited him too.”
“Parbleu! I don’t doubt it; but I don’t know what he means to do. Until
to-morrow.”
“No ill-will, Monsieur--Merluchon?”
“Oh! not the slightest, baron.”
Croque and Chamoureau walked away arm-in-arm, leaning on each other.
Freluchon soon arrived at Madame Dalmont’s. Edmond was at the piano with
Agathe, but Honorine was thoughtful and melancholy, for her new friend,
Paul, had not come to see them.
Freluchon enlivened the company by describing what had taken place
between himself and the Baron von Schtapelmerg.
“Is that the gentleman whom you thought so ugly?” Agathe asked her
friend.
“Yes, and I haven’t changed my opinion.”
“Frankly,” said Freluchon, “I have rather a poor opinion of that man,
who talks about nothing but sauerkraut and kirschwasser; I never heard a
genuine baron swear as he does. And then he let fall some words
which--impressed me. I propose to study this baron.--Are you going to
Madame de Belleville’s ball to-morrow, Edmond?”
“I have no desire to.”
“You make a mistake; I have an idea that it will be very interesting.”
“Go there for a moment,” said Honorine; “otherwise they will say that we
kept you from going.”
“What do I care?”
“Go,” said Agathe, “if for nothing more than to satisfy yourself whether
those people do say unkind things about us.”
“That reason persuades me, dear Agathe, although I do not believe that
anyone dares to speak ill of you. No matter; I will go to Madame de
Belleville’s ball.”
“And I,” said Freluchon, “shall go first to the dinner, yes, and to the
breakfast--to everything, and try to sit next the Baron von
What’s-his-name at table. I will ply him with drink, and then I fancy
that I shall hear some curious things.”
The two young men left the ladies, and as they passed Poucette,
Freluchon, who attempted to ascertain whether the young peasant wore a
hoop-skirt, received a kick on the shins from her clogs.
XVI
THE BLACK HEN
A gentleman, dressed in the height of fashion, alighted from the railway
train and walked slowly up the steep hill leading to Chelles. As he
walked along, this gentleman looked all about, pausing sometimes to
admire the landscape.
“The suburbs of Paris are charming,” he said to himself; “how many
people go a long distance in search of sites and points of view which
are far inferior to these! But one never does justice to what is close
at hand--to what one can enjoy without trouble and expense! We must
needs go to Italy, where it is too hot, where most of the inns are
detestable, where the living is wretched, and where there is still
danger of being attacked by brigands; for it is good form to go to
Italy!--Or we must needs go to Switzerland, where we freeze to death,
where we destroy our respiration climbing mountains, where we walk on
the edge of precipices of which the mere sight gives one vertigo, where
we drink a lot without ever being hilarious, where everybody goes to bed
with the hens, where the cooking doesn’t approach the French cooking.
But it’s good form to go to Switzerland!--We go to England, where there
is always a fog, blended with a dense smoke which makes the eyes ache;
where one is expressly forbidden to indulge in any form of amusement on
Sunday; where a shilling goes little farther than a sou does here; where
the cooking is even worse than in Switzerland and Italy. But a trip to
England cannot be dispensed with.
“And people laugh at me, forsooth, because I have always preferred
Montfermeil, Ville d’Avray, Meudon, Montmorency, Enghien, Saint-Cloud,
Champrosay, Saint-Germain, Vincennes, L’Isle-Adam, yes, even poor little
Romainville, to England, Switzerland and Italy!
“But what do I care for their sneers? I have always had common sense
enough to do what I pleased, instead of feeling compelled to do as
others do, when it would have displeased or bored me to do it. The man
is a great fool who, instead of following his inclinations, his tastes,
his desires, says to himself: ‘But if I do this, people will laugh at
me!’ especially when you consider how grateful the world is for what you
do for it! Will it prevent the world from crying you down, from
slandering you, from turning you to ridicule at the first opportunity?
No, indeed! on the contrary, it will grasp the occasion in hot haste.
Then, why incommode yourself for the world?
“O ye charming hillsides that surround Paris! I have never wearied of
visiting and admiring you. I have left it to chronic tourists to fatigue
themselves with long and difficult journeys, while I, at Asnières or
Neuilly, feasted my eyes on the verdant islets that embellish the Seine;
and at Romainville, so sneered at by people who do not know it, I have
found, while walking near the fort, or on the low hills overlooking
Pantin, views of an immense expanse of country, of which a native of
Zurich or Lucerne would not have been ashamed.
“I have been to Villemomble, to Gagny, and many times to Couberon--too
many times, indeed! for that was where that fatal episode happened. But
I have never before been to Chelles. One has never seen everything! Even
if you confine yourself to a radius of ten or twelve leagues around
Paris, some village always escapes you.
“And it is at Chelles that Madame de Belleville has bought a country
estate--a very pretty, very elegant place, they say. But why at Chelles,
so near Couberon--a region which must recall painful memories, to say
the least? It seems very strange to me; that woman never does anything
without some motive, some object. And I determined upon this little
excursion in order to discover her motive.
“O my superb Thélénie! it’s of no use for you to change your name and
residence and style of living; I have sworn not to lose sight of you,
and you shall not escape me.
“She refuses to tell me what she did with my son; and I am certain that
that child is in existence. If he were dead, she would have furnished me
with proofs of his death, in order to avoid my importunities. But let
some chance circumstance place her at my mercy, and then she will be
forced to speak.”
While pursuing these reflections, Beauregard had reached the first
houses of the village. Desiring to ascertain the location of Thélénie’s
estate, he stopped and looked about, proposing to question the first
peasant who should pass. Soon he saw an old fellow, with a shrewd,
cunning air, approaching him, holding against his breast an object for
whose safety he seemed most solicitous.
As Beauregard was about to step forward to meet this peasant, the latter
was accosted by a bourgeois who came from another direction.
Our fine gentleman from Paris, who was in no hurry at all, leaned
against a tree, saying to himself:
“Let us wait a bit; perhaps I may learn something about the people of
this region.”
“Come, come, Père Ledrux; I was getting impatient, so I came to meet
you,” said the bourgeois to the peasant.
“Here I am, Monsieur Jarnouillard, here I am; I was just going to your
house; I couldn’t finish my work before.”
“Have you been working for Madame de Belleville, too?”
“I should say so! I’ve been working there these three days; fixing
borders and flowers, raking paths, and trimming bushes!”
“Haven’t they a gardener of their own?”
“Yes; but that man can’t do everything. Bless me! there’s so many
preparations for the party to-night! Oh! it’s going to be splendid! no
one ever saw anything finer in a king’s palace. Colored lamps hung in
garlands; and rare flowers--flowers that I myself don’t know! They’ve
sent for big boxes of ‘em--like Madame Droguet; and they’ve had lots of
new baskets made.”
“Those people seem to like to throw their money out of the window!”
“Well! they spend a lot; but they seem able to afford it. You’re going
to the party, I suppose, Monsieur Jarnouillard--you and madame?”
“Parbleu! I should say so! I’ve had to have my coat turned, and my wife
has bought an embroidered collar. It’s ruinous, you see; but let’s come
to our business, Père Ledrux: I asked you if you happened to have a hen
to sell me--cheap--second-hand.”
“Tutu--turlututu.--That’s good, Monsieur Jarnouillard! a second-hand
hen! You says: ‘I want a good layer’; and I’ve brought you a famous
one.--Here, look at this hen!”
“Ah! she is black.”
“Well, why not? they’re the best, because it’s been noticed, as a
general rule--Black hens are the best, you see.”
“Is there any reason for that?”
“There must be a reason; I don’t know what it is, but there is one, for
sure.--But yes, I do know it--it’s because the roosters like hens of
that color best.”
Monsieur Jarnouillard had taken the hen and was examining it in every
part; he even lifted up her feathers, so that the peasant cried:
“I say! do you propose to pluck her?”
“No; but I want to know what I am buying. She’s very thin.”
“Thin! You call that a thin hen! Why, she’s in fine case; and then, good
layers are never fat; they’re just like women: when they get very
plump--no more children, no more little ones; the fun’s all over.”
“Ah! you know that, do you--and you a gardener?”
“I have heard Doctor Antoine Beaubichon say so often enough.”
“Well! what price do you want for your hen? Madame Jarnouillard’s the
one who has taken a whim for having fresh eggs; for, as for me, I don’t
care anything about them.”
“If you don’t want a hen, what made you ask me for one?”
“How much do you want for your hen?”
“Well! if I sell her to you for four francs, it’s none too much--if she
gives you three eggs a day.”
“Do you take me for a child just out of a crib?”
“Oh, no! deuce take it! if children was born like you, all shrivelled
and shrunk, then there wouldn’t be any young folks.”
“Name me a reasonable price.”
“You call four francs too much--for a black hen--and one like this!”
“Sell me one that isn’t black; I don’t care.”
“Just now, this is all I’ve got. Come, I don’t want to be hard with you;
give me three francs, and take her.”
“Not if I know it!”
“Well then, how much will you give me for her?”
“Thirty sous--that’s quite enough!”
“Thirty sous, for a black hen of this breed! A splendid hen! Come, give
me fifty sous.”
“No!”
“What a skinflint this Monsieur Jarnouillard is!--Come, forty sous, and
call it a bargain.”
“I won’t give a sou more than thirty!”
“Oh well! if that’s so, give me back my hen this minute. Bless me! you
want all for nothing, and even then you must make a profit; I ought to
have known that I couldn’t do business with you.”
“Because I don’t allow myself to be taken in!”
“No, but you take other folks in!”
“Père Ledrux!”
“Monsieur Jarnouillard!”
“No harsh words, I beg.”
“Give me back my hen!”
“Here she is. It isn’t too late; thirty sous.”
“I’d rather eat her!”
Monsieur Jarnouillard walked away, leaving Père Ledrux with his hen,
which he looked at with an ill-humored air, then abruptly replaced under
his jacket. Whereupon Beauregard, who had been much amused by the
conversation that he had overheard, walked up to the peasant and said:
“I’ll buy your hen!”
“You, monsieur,” ejaculated the gardener, surprised by the offer of this
fine gentleman, whom he had not previously observed.
“Yes, I; won’t you sell her to me?”
“Oh, yes! indeed I will; but it seems sort of strange that you should
buy her, because you don’t look like a dealer in hens, or eggs.”
“In truth, that is not my business; but there must be a beginning to
everything. I’ll give you a hundred sous for your hen; does that suit
you?”
“A hundred sous! pardi! I should think it did suit me! She’s yours,
monsieur.”
And the peasant made haste to offer the hen to Beauregard. But he,
taking a five-franc piece from his pocket, handed it to Père Ledrux,
saying:
“Yes, a hundred sous, cash, and here it is; but on one condition.”
“What is it, monsieur?”
“That you will keep the hen at your place and take care of her.”
“Ah! monsieur leaves her with me as a boarder?” rejoined Ledrux,
pocketing the five francs.
“Yes; does that displease you?”
“Not at all--just the opposite; I don’t ask anything better. Monsieur
can flatter himself that he’s bought a splendid hen.”
“Does she lay often?”
“Well! that depends on the sun; there’s times when she does. Shall I
keep the eggs for monsieur, too?”
“No, no! I’ll give them to you.”
“You see, she eats a good deal, this hen does; why, she’s always hungry;
and what I get for the eggs won’t buy enough grain for her.”
Beauregard began to laugh as he watched the peasant’s weasel face.
“Does it make monsieur laugh because I say this hen needs a lot of
grain?”
“No; I was simply thinking that you understand business perfectly; but
never fear, I’ll reimburse you in full for all this fowl costs you.”
“Oh! I ain’t afraid, monsieur; I said that just to warn you, because I
rather think monsieur don’t belong round here?”
“No, I have never been to Chelles until to-day.”
“And I can guess why monsieur has come to-day!”
“You can guess?”
“I see by monsieur’s looks that he must be one of Monsieur and Madame de
Belleville’s guests, and that he’s come for the party they’re going to
give at their place to-day.”
“I am, as you say, acquainted with the persons you mention.”
“Very fine folks!”
“I fancy that you haven’t known them long?”
“No, they’ve only been here about two months.”
“And you know already that they are fine folks?”
“Oh! that’s the way folks talk, you know. When a person spends a lot of
money and pays, we say: ‘They’re fine folks.’”
“And when they are poor creatures who live on little or nothing and
undergo innumerable privations, you don’t say that of them, eh?”
“Ha! ha! what you say’s true all the same, monsieur.”
“Do you belong here?”
“Yes, monsieur; florist and gardener by trade; Père Ledrux. Everybody
knows me!”
“And I’ll wager that you know everybody?”
“Well! it’s sure enough that I go about everywhere in the way of my
trade; and then a body talks a bit, you know; it sort of rests you.”
“In that case, as I require some information, as I wish to know
something about the society of this neighborhood, I think that you are
just the man I want.”
“Monsieur couldn’t apply in a better quarter. As for the hen’s
board----”
“Here’s five francs more for the first outlay; for, from what you tell
me, I see that it costs a great deal to feed her.”
The old peasant put the second five-franc piece in his pocket, saying:
“But I’ll take such good care of her! You won’t know her after a little
while. If monsieur would like to come to our house to see where I
live----”
“Yes, but first, you must show me Madame de Belleville’s place.”
“That’s easy; we get there by turning to the right.”
“And on the way, you will tell me what houses are to let here.”
“I say! is monsieur coming to live at Chelles, too?”
“Perhaps--for a short time.”
“Our village is getting to be mighty fashionable; we’ve got lots of fine
folks from Paris. But I can’t think of any houses to let.”
“If I cannot get a house, I will be content with a room--at some
farmer’s; I am not hard to suit, I simply want to be in the country
air.”
“If monsieur ain’t hard to suit, we can find that, I guess. Pardi! a
room--why I’ve got one myself I could let you have. I could sleep in my
loft--it’s all one to me.”
“Well, Père Ledrux, we will look at your room; but show me first the
house of these ‘fine folks,’ who give a party this evening.”
“In a minute, monsieur; we go this way.”
As Beauregard and the old peasant were starting, Monsieur Jarnouillard
appeared at a bend in the road, shouting:
“Five sous more, Père Ledrux; come, I’ll give you thirty-five sous for
your hen.”
“Not likely!” retorted the gardener with a shrug. “You wouldn’t take her
for four francs just now! I’m glad you didn’t! it will teach you to
haggle.”
XVII
RECOGNITION
On that same morning preceding the fête she was to give, Thélénie,
desirous to escape for a moment the turmoil that reigned in her house,
and still anxious to learn whom the dog belonged to who had defended the
little boy when she attempted to chastise him, had ordered her horse
saddled, and, leaping upon him with the fearless grace of a circus
rider, galloped away in the direction of the Tower.
In a very short time the intrepid equestrian reached her destination.
She skirted the park walls, then slackened her horse’s pace in order to
examine the house, of which she could see the turret.