than little Astianax would have taken them in very bad part; but he, on
the contrary, accepted them as the truth; he smiled and twisted his
mouth into the shape of an ace of spades, while his eyes shot flames to
right and left.
Violette restrained the intense desire to laugh caused by young
Astianax’s contortions of feature; she said as she arranged her flowers:
“Come, monsieur, choose. Do you want a bouquet? Here’s a very pretty
one,--as monsieur doesn’t take it.”
“Yes--that is to say, you must make me one; but I’ll explain what you
must put in it: I want some heliotrope--that’s the flower of witty
people; then some myrtle--that means interest, affection; and a tulip in
the centre--that means an honest heart, decent behavior.”
“What, my dear Astianax, does the tulip mean all that?” said Jéricourt,
laughingly; “I should never have suspected it. The devil! you are very
learned about flowers. Go on--what else do you want?”
“A few red carnations--they mean that one would fight at need for the
object of one’s love; I put them in for myself, you understand; then a
poppy and some immortelles--they promise strength and health, and they
will please my father, for he is always thinking that he’s sick; he took
a bottle of lemonade only this morning--you know, the kind of lemonade
that purges.--Surround the whole with pansies, and I shall have a
bouquet full of meaning--a genuine _selam_.”
“Bravo, young man, bravo! With such bouquets you will make your way very
rapidly with the ladies!”
“This one is for papa; but later, I hope----”
“I am very sorry, monsieur,” said Violette, “but I can’t make such a
bouquet as you want; I have no red carnations; you will hardly find any
at this season, and I haven’t any myrtle, or any poppies.”
“The devil! that’s annoying; but I should be sorry to apply to another
flower girl; on the contrary, I mean to give you my custom.”
“I am quite sure, monsieur, that no other flower girl will have what you
want--not in this quarter, at all events. Take my advice, monsieur, and
buy this bouquet that I was offering to monsieur--just roses and
violets; it’s very pretty, and it’s the last one; I haven’t got anything
left to make one like it.”
“I don’t say that it isn’t very nice, but it doesn’t express my
meaning--and it isn’t a _selam_, either.”
“But just see the pretty roses, the lovely buds! Anybody would say it
was a lovely bouquet.”
“And I agree with anybody; the bouquet is as pretty as the seller; and
faith! that’s saying a great deal!”
These last words were uttered by a gentleman of mature years, dressed
with some elegance, whose bearing, whose manners, and whose smile even,
instantly pointed him out as one who frequented the best society. His
features were regular, refined and distinguished; but they also
indicated that their owner had taken a great deal out of life; his face
was worn, the flesh beneath his eyes was puffed out, his forehead and
cheeks were furrowed with wrinkles. In a word, he was naught but a
remnant of a very good-looking man, but he still had the _comme il faut_
manner, the intelligent eye, and the slightly impertinent and satirical
tone.
This individual was leaning on a very handsome cane, holding in his
right hand an eyeglass through which he was examining Violette; he had
paused in front of her booth and listened to her last words; and with
his eyes fixed upon her lovely face, he muttered between his teeth:
“It’s strange! there is a resemblance--to whom I can’t say; but I know a
face like that.”
Jéricourt and little Astianax were greatly surprised when they saw the
newcomer take the bouquet from the girl’s hands, saying:
“How much for this bouquet?”
“Three francs, monsieur.”
“Three francs! Pardieu! that’s nothing at all; bouquets seem to be cheap
in this quarter. I’ll take it. Here, my pretty flower girl, pay
yourself.”
And he handed Violette a five-franc piece; whereupon little Astianax
stood on tiptoe and cried:
“But I bargained for that bouquet before you did, monsieur, and I am
going to buy it. You can’t purchase it, not you.”
The gentleman contented himself with a disdainful glance at the young
man as he repeated:
“Here, my girl, pay yourself.”
At this point Jéricourt thought fit to take part in the discussion. He
stepped between Astianax and the stranger, and, assuming a
self-sufficient tone, remarked to the latter:
“I was the first one who negotiated for that bouquet; so the flower girl
has no right to sell it to anybody else, as I am ready to pay the price
she asked. Be kind enough to give it to me, monsieur;--do you
understand?”
The elderly gentleman simply turned his eyeglass on Jéricourt, and
holding his head a little sidewise, said with an ironical smile:
“When I was your age, monsieur, I never allowed anything that I had in
hand to be taken from me, and I have clung to that habit as I grew
older;--do you understand?”
The gentleman’s self-assured manner and the tone of persiflage in which
he made this retort surprised our man of letters, who did not know just
what to do; but it was not so with little Astianax, who was furious
because the stranger seemed to pay no heed to him, to treat him like a
child. He stepped up to him, looked him in the face as well as he could,
and shouted, in a voice which anger made exceedingly shrill:
“I don’t know why monsieur didn’t answer me! You see, I don’t allow
myself to be insulted! I don’t propose to be treated like a child, I
don’t! I have plenty of spunk, I have!”
“So! you are spunky, are you, my good friend?” rejoined the gentleman,
turning his glass upon Astianax. “Indeed! so much the better! I
congratulate you, for it may be a good thing for you when you grow up.”
“What’s that? when I grow up? I am nineteen years old, monsieur, and at
that age one isn’t afraid of anybody!”
“Nonsense! nonsense! that isn’t possible! You mean nine.”
This remark made little Astianax tremble with rage; he stamped the
ground and seemed disposed to rush at the gentleman, who continued to
stare at him and even ventured to smile as he scrutinized him. Violette,
fearing that the little man would resort to violence, had risen to
restrain him, and Jéricourt, whom the quarrel seemed to amuse, was
wondering what would happen next, when the scene changed as suddenly as
when the manager’s whistle is heard at the Opéra.
On the boulevard, however, Chicotin Patatras acted once more as the
scene-shifter.
Georget’s friend had been sauntering about the Château d’Eau for several
minutes; being desirous to spend during the morning all the money that
he had left from the day before, the young rascal had breakfasted so
sumptuously that his brain was a little excited, and he felt in the mood
for perpetrating a practical joke. In this frame of mind, he had noticed
that several gentlemen were standing in front of the flower girl’s
booth, and he soon recognized Jéricourt as the man whom he had tried to
throw down on the preceding day. He said to himself instantly:
“Why shouldn’t I do to-day what I missed doing yesterday? My little
Georget don’t like that scented dandy; he’s there again, prowling round
the flower girl; if I knock him over, I shall be doing a friend a favor,
and then too it’s fun for me. I must go about it playfully; Chopard
ain’t here to push me--that’s a shame.--Ah! pardi! I’ll just go and grab
that cabby’s glazed hat, as he stands dreaming there by his horses; of
course he’ll chase me, and I’ll run between my man’s legs.”
Chicotin put his plan into execution forthwith. The cabman, bereft of
his hat, ran after the _gamin_, shouting at the top of his lungs; he
fled in the direction of the flower girl and hurled himself suddenly
against the legs of someone, whom he bowled over, while the others
hastily stepped aside; but Chicotin had missed his aim again; it was not
Jéricourt, but little Astianax, who was sprawling on the asphalt.
“Upon my word, Mademoiselle Violette, it’s impossible to stop in front
of your booth, it seems!” said Jéricourt, turning angrily away. “I
congratulate you on the way you treat your customers, and especially on
the champion you have chosen for that purpose. If it’s for him that you
insist on remaining a flower girl, it doesn’t speak well for your
taste.”
“What’s that? what did the dark-haired dandy say?” cried Chicotin,
rising and tossing the cabman his hat. “I didn’t understand his
apology.”
“I don’t know what the gentleman said,” exclaimed Violette, “but I do
know this, Monsieur Chicotin, that you have played the same trick two
days in succession on people who were standing in front of my shop; and
I propose that it shall stop; if not, I know to whom to complain.”
During this exchange of words, young Astianax had risen, with a lump on
his forehead, and both knees of his trousers torn; because he wore
straps under his feet, which inevitably caused the cloth to tear at the
slightest strain.
The rents that he saw in his trousers seemed to distress young Astianax;
he heaved a deep sigh and muttered:
“Sapristi! and it’s only the second time I have worn them!”
Thereupon, giving no further thought to the bouquet or to his quarrel,
the little fellow walked rapidly away, trying to hold his hands over the
holes in his garments, which his short coat did not cover.
Meanwhile the elderly gentleman had held the bouquet in his hand, still
leaning rather heavily on his cane.
“Nobody will dispute possession of these flowers with me any more,” he
said at last. “My two rivals have abandoned the ground; it’s a dangerous
place, it seems, if I am to believe what that gentleman said.--Ha! ha!
you rascal! is it true that you amuse yourself throwing down
mademoiselle’s customers?”
“Oh, no! it’s only a joke, monsieur!” Chicotin replied slyly; “but I
have bad luck, I never hit the ones I aim at.”
“Were you aiming at me, pray?”
“No, indeed, monsieur; of course not!”
“Because, you see, I have the gout, and if you had knocked me down, it
might have been a more serious matter for me than for that little man,
who ought not to have lost the habit of tumbling yet.”
“Oh! monsieur, if I had had that misfortune, I should never have
forgiven myself; but I’d have picked you up.”
“That would have been most generous on your part; but I prefer that you
shouldn’t have any occasion to pick me up. You look to me like a genuine
ne’er-do-well; but I don’t dislike knaves of your sort.”
“Monsieur’s a good judge.”
“Would you like to come with me? I’ll give you an errand to do.”
“Yes, monsieur, why not? And you won’t be sorry that you chose me; I do
errands in first-class shape!”
“Very good! if I am satisfied with you, I will give you my work. What’s
your name?”
“Chicotin--nicknamed Patatras because----”
“Parbleu! I have a shrewd suspicion why you had that name given you, if
you always make your entrée as you did just now, by throwing people
down.--But this pretty flower girl doesn’t like the way you treat her
customers, and she is right.”
“Bless me! monsieur,” said Violette, “it’s the second time in two days
that he has run into my counter like that.”
“It’s the last time, Mamzelle Violette; I promise you I won’t do it
again; I’m done.”
“This girl is really lovely!” muttered the gentleman, as he paid for his
bouquet. “Whom in the devil does she look like? Faith! I’ve known so
many!--Follow me,” he said, turning to Chicotin.
He walked away, leaning on his cane and putting his left foot to the
ground with great precaution, which necessarily kept him from walking
fast.
And Monsieur Chicotin followed him, taking several steps very rapidly,
then falling back to cut a caper or some monkey trick.
“If we keep on at this pace,” he said, “we shan’t beat the railway
train.”
X
A DOMESTIC INTERIOR
In a very handsome salon of an apartment on Boulevard Beaumarchais, in
one of those fine houses recently built, which make that quarter one of
the most attractive in Paris, three persons were assembled: Monsieur
Glumeau, his wife and his daughter.
We know the ladies. Monsieur Glumeau, formerly a commission merchant,
was a man of fifty years, of medium height, who had never been handsome,
but who might have possessed some attractions when he was young, thanks
to his light hair, his china-blue eyes--there are people who like
china-blue eyes--and above all, to his slender figure, his shapely leg
and his small and well-arched foot. As he grew older, Monsieur Glumeau
had not taken on flesh like his excellent wife, but had retained a
youthful appearance, especially when seen from behind; as to his face,
that had become considerably wrinkled, but his eyes were still
china-blue, and although he no longer possessed his fair hair, he had
replaced it by a wig of the same color.
It is probable that Monsieur Glumeau’s features would not have undergone
so sudden a revolution, except for the mania that he had contracted of
drugging himself, of putting himself on strict diet for the slightest
indisposition. The dread of being ill constantly tormented the
ex-commission merchant, and by dint of taking care of his health, he had
succeeded in ruining it. His ordinary reading was the fourth page of the
large newspapers; he took note of all the infallible remedies announced
and extolled by their inventors; he often bought them although he had
not the disease which they were supposed to cure; but he would take them
all as a matter of precaution, saying to himself: “If I should have this
disease, I shall have the remedy at hand.”
To this weakness of mind, far from agreeable in a family, Monsieur
Glumeau added the pretension of shining in conversation. He constantly
sought to make sharp or clever remarks; but as he was never able to
think of any, he often halted on the way, which fact imparted much
incoherency to his speech. Lastly, having formerly been what is called
a fine dancer, he had retained much liking for that exercise, wherein he
could at his pleasure exhibit his foot, of which he was very proud, and
upon which he kept his eyes fixed as he danced.
After retiring from business with a very considerable fortune, which had
recently been added to by an inheritance, Monsieur Glumeau had purchased
a country house at Nogent-sur-Marne; there he had had built in his
garden a small theatre, where in the summer his family and friends
indulged in the pleasure of theatrical performances, being actors and
spectators in turn. Monsieur Glumeau liked to receive company; the
presence of guests made him forget his imaginary diseases; as his wife
and his children were also fond of pleasure, the ex-commission
merchant’s house was one of those where one was always certain to pass
one’s time agreeably; ceremony and etiquette were banished from it, and
everyone was at liberty to do what he pleased; the company was sometimes
a little mixed but it made up in quantity what it lacked in quality.
At the moment of which we write, the head of the family was in the act
of drinking a cup of tea into which he had squeezed the juice of a
lemon, because when he woke that morning he had a bitter taste in his
mouth.
“I think that this will do me good,” said Monsieur Glumeau, as he drank
his tea in little sips; “lemon juice in tea clears up the bile.”
“But why will you have it that you’re bilious, my dear? Your complexion
is very clear, you are not yellow.”
“You say I am not yellow, my dear love; that’s a question! I am a little
yellow--on one side of my nose; and I don’t propose to wait until I am
as yellow as a pumpkin before I take a purgative.”
“Do you mean to say that you propose to purge yourself again? That would
be the last straw. You took Sedlitz water a fortnight ago.”
“What does that prove, if I need it again?”
Madame Glumeau shrugged her shoulders, exclaiming:
“You make yourself sick by dosing yourself, Edouard!”
“Why no, my dear love, one doesn’t make oneself sick by taking care of
oneself; on the contrary, it prevents one from being sick.”
“You know that we have company to dinner to-day. I trust that you don’t
propose to select this moment to take medicine.”
“I am not talking about medicine to-day; but listen: just now I was
reading in my paper the announcement of a most valuable discovery.”
“Something to prevent potatoes from being sick?”
“Oh! I am not talking about potatoes!”
“But, my dear, they are so useful, so nourishing, so valuable, so----”
“Let me alone with your potatoes; I don’t like them. What I am talking
about is an infallible remedy for the gravel.”
“But you haven’t that, monsieur!”
“No, but I might have it!”
“What a misfortune it is to be afraid of all diseases!”
“I am not afraid of them, madame, but I simply am on my guard against
them; it isn’t from fear, it’s from prudence, from common sense.”
“Bless my soul! if all men resembled you, it would be amusing.”
“What do you mean by that, Lolotte?”
“I mean that by dint of thinking about diseases, you think that you have
them all, and it doesn’t tend to make you a lively companion in
society.”
“Madame, _si vis pacem, para bellum_.”
“What does that mean, monsieur?”
“If you wish for peace, prepare for war.”
“What connection has that with your lemon juice in tea?”
“It also means: If you want to be well, look after yourself as if you
were ill.”
“Oh! as to that, I don’t believe a word of it; do I dose myself,
monsieur? and you see how well I am!”
“It is a fact that you are getting too stout, my dear love; but if you
would have consented to take a little white mustard seed, you would have
lost flesh.”
“No, thanks, monsieur; I should probably have become like a lath, and I
prefer to remain as I am. To hear you talk, one would say that I was
enormous.”
“Not exactly, but you haven’t any waist.”
“I haven’t any waist! I haven’t any waist! Upon my word, I guess that
it’s your eyes that are diseased; you see crooked.”
“What! why do you say that my eyes are diseased? Is it because they are
red? Don’t joke, Lolotte, are my eyes swollen?”
“Ah! so I haven’t any waist! All men don’t think as you do, monsieur,
and in spite of my stoutness, if I chose to listen to all the pleasant
things that are said to me----”
“Madame! you forget that your daughter is here.--Eolinde, come and look
at my eyes; it seems to me that they sting.”
Mademoiselle Eolinde was looking over a volume of plays; instead of
answering her father, she cried:
“We must play _La Forêt Périlleuse_, papa, and I will be the fair
Ca--Ca--Camille!”
“Yes, my child, yes, we have already decided to give that play,” said
Madame Glumeau; “and we are going to have here to-day all the people who
are to take part in the first piece to be given at our country house, in
order to distribute the rôles. But the other piece is what hasn’t yet
been chosen. We must have a very lively vaudeville.”
“Oh, mamma! let’s give _Estelle, ou Le Père et La Fille!_”
“I should like to know if you call that a lively vaudeville! My dear
girl, when we have theatricals in our house, for our amusement, we
mustn’t undertake to make people weep, for the only result is to make
them laugh. As a general rule, you are all very bad, but that is what is
wanted; the worse actors you are, the more laughter you cause; if you
acted well, it would be very dull, I fancy.”
“Oh, mamma! how you ta--ta--talk, just because you--you--do--do--don’t
act yourself!”
“If I did, I should try to be funny, that’s all; but I should know my
lines, I tell you that; and you never know yours.”
During this conversation between the mother and the daughter, Monsieur
Glumeau had risen, had stationed himself in front of a mirror, and was
looking at his eyes with a persistent scrutiny which finally ended in
making his sight blurred; whereupon he paced the salon, muttering:
“I must get some eye salve; I ought to have a recipe somewhere.”
“But there’s nothing the matter with your eyes, monsieur!” cried Madame
Glumeau impatiently; “you apparently propose to make yourself blind now!
Why don’t you take the elixir of long life, and have done with it?”
“That wouldn’t be such a bad idea, madame!”
“Oh, yes! do as your friend Boutelet did. Do you remember what happened
to him, because he drank heaven knows how many bottles of the elixir of
long life in six months? He died of it!”
“Perhaps he would have died six months earlier if he hadn’t drunk it!”
“After three o’clock and Astianax has not come home,” said tall Eolinde;
“it isn’t very kind of my brother, for he was to bring us a collection
of plays to choose from!”
“Wasn’t it his neighbor, Monsieur Jéricourt, that young author who lives
on the fourth floor, who was to lend your brother the plays?”
“Yes, mamma.”
“He has a very attractive look, has that young man, we must invite him
to come to our play in the country; eh, Edouard?”
“I have no objection; isn’t he a newspaper man too?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry for that; we must try to have a few newspaper men; they go
everywhere in society, they write articles about everything they see,
and perhaps they would speak of me in the paper, and I should see myself
in print; that would be very nice!--Whom have we to dinner to-day?”
“Why, you must know as well as I do, my dear.”
“Ah! _bigre!_ I really believe that I have a pain in my stomach.”
“Oh dear! that would be the last straw.”
“No, it’s nothing, it’s going away; I was in a constrained position.”
“We expect to dinner Monsieur and Madame Dufournelle; Madame Dufournelle
wants to act; she will be terribly awkward on the stage, I fancy, but
that’s her business!”
“She is graceful and pretty, and I believe that she will make a success
of it.”
“Oh! that’s just like a man! to call that woman pretty, just because she
is always laughing, and because she is a great flirt; indeed she
carries it so far sometimes as to be almost indecent in her behavior
with men!”
“Upon my word, Lolotte! where did you see that?”
“I have seen it more than once; and in our own house, in the country,
with you, when she asked you to run after her and defied you to catch
her! Monsieur ran like a deer, and then you both disappeared behind a
hedge.--You had no pain in your stomach that day!”
“Madame! really, you should not say such things; your daughter can hear
you.”
“My daughter will be married some day, monsieur, and there’s no harm in
her being warned beforehand of the perfidy of the male sex. Besides,
Madame Dufournelle’s coquetry is evident to everybody. Her husband sees
nothing in all that! Poor fellow! so long as he has somebody to play
billiards with him, he doesn’t care about anything else.”
“He isn’t jealous, madame, and he is very wise; that proves that he has
some intelligence.”
“Ah! you think that, do you? I have known husbands of much intelligence
who were as jealous as tigers! Say rather that that fat Dufournelle is
not in love with his wife. Indeed, he’s too fat to be amorous.”
“Mon Dieu! what spiteful creatures women are! If a man is not jealous,
it’s because he doesn’t love them.--I suppose you’d like me to be
jealous, madame?”
“You, Edouard! Merciful heaven! that’s all you need,--to have that
disease, with all those which you think you have! that would be the
climax!”
“Say! suppose we play _Les B--b--bains à Do--do--domicile_?” cried
Eolinde, who was still looking over the plays. “I would be Ninie.”
“My dear girl, do you intend to take all the parts in the plays we
give?” said Monsieur Glumeau, admiring his feet. “It seems to me that if
you take one part, that will be quite enough; with your defective
speech, you know very well that you make plays last an hour longer than
they should, and you have a perfect mania for choosing long parts! The
last time we gave _Andromache_ everybody thought that your scene with
Orestes would never end!”
“Because it was in ve--verse, papa, which is harder for me to
pro--pronounce. But when it is p--p--prose, it goes all by itself.”
“So I see! But why in the deuce did you insist on giving a tragedy,
then?”
“Oh! my dear, they were quite right!” said Madame Glumeau; “for I assure
you that they were enough to make you die of laughter, and you yourself
in Pylades,--bless my soul! how fine you were!”
“Madame, you always take everything wrong. I played Pylades very nicely,
and if it hadn’t been for my helmet, that kept falling down over my eyes
and prevented me from seeing the audience, I should have made a very
good impression.”
“Why, you did make a splendid impression, my friend! you looked like a
blind man, and that was much more amusing!”
“You are very satirical, my dear love; it is very easy to see that you
don’t act!”