perhaps; or rather, they are making great preparations to receive this
baroness whom they expect.”
“Nonsense! really? a baroness of what?”
“What do you say? a baroness of what?--A baroness, that’s all I know.”
“And that’s why these ladies leave us like this! Aren’t we as good as a
baroness, I should like to know?”
“Hush, Eléonore!”
“Bah! I don’t care a snap of my finger for their baroness!”
“It’s after half-past five,” said Monsieur Mangeot to his sister; “I
trust they will give us some dinner soon; I am half starved!”
“I fancy that you have time to tighten your waistband; they are
expecting a baroness, so Monsieur Camuzard told us just now.”
“Oho! confound it! I must admit that at this moment I would much rather
see a stuffed turkey than a baroness. They are capable of making us wait
till six o’clock. I don’t know anything more intolerable than not to
give your guests their dinner at the appointed time. If you mean to dine
at half-past six, don’t invite me at five; for otherwise, I would make
my arrangements accordingly and take something to stay my stomach.--Ah!
the door opens--it is the long-desired baroness, no doubt.”
“No, it’s Madame Glumeau coming back.”
The buxom Lolotte had, in fact, reappeared in the salon; she tried to
catch her husband’s eye, but she was obliged to stop and welcome the
guests who had arrived during her absence. She had much ado to get rid
of Monsieur Chambourdin, who embraced her, and of young Kingerie, who
trod on her dress. At last she succeeded in joining Edouard, whose
contortions were becoming alarming, and whispered to him:
“It’s all ready in your dressing-room.”
Glumeau’s face beamed.
“Go, my dear,” his wife added aloud, “and see if the table is laid as
you wish; if the names of the guests are arranged to your satisfaction.”
“Yes, yes, you are right; I will go; but we can’t sit down, you know,
until Madame de Grangeville comes.”
“All right, all right! but go.”
Glumeau did not wait to be told again; he hurried toward the door,
saying to himself:
“At last I can take it!”
But as he opened the door, he found himself face to face with a very
fashionably dressed lady who was just about to enter. The unhappy host
stopped short, saying:
“It is written that I shall not take it!”
XII
THE BARONNE DE GRANGEVILLE
The Baronne de Grangeville, the latest arrival at Monsieur Glumeau’s,
was a lady who had once been exceedingly pretty, and who was still
rather attractive; by artificial light she appeared no more than
thirty-six years old; by daylight, about thirty-nine; we are not certain
how she appeared by twilight.
It might be that Madame de Grangeville had not passed her fortieth
birthday, but it would have been dangerous to make that assertion,
because she was always so carefully gotten up, even in the most trivial
details of her toilet, because she was always dressed in such perfect
taste, made use of such delicious perfumery, and carried herself so
gracefully, that she would inevitably be always young.
The baroness’s arrival created a sensation in Monsieur Glumeau’s salon,
for it should be said that none of the guests there assembled had
previously met that lady, to whom the Glumeaus had been introduced at a
third house, where, delighted with her affability, they had invited her
to dine with them.
The master of the house, despite his interesting situation, could not do
otherwise than offer the lady his hand to escort her to his wife, who
received the baroness with an effusion of cordiality and satisfaction
which seemed overdone to some of the guests.
“She is very good-looking,” said Monsieur Dufournelle to his wife, who
whispered:
“No! you should say, she has been.”
“But I say yes, she is now; she is a person who still makes conquests, I
am sure.”
“Ah! I am glad to hear that, my dear; it makes me think that I shall
continue to be attractive for a long time to come.”
“A lovely dress, a very distinguished bearing!” said Monsieur Camuzard
to his daughter.
Mademoiselle Polymnie scrutinized it all without winking, and replied
simply:
“Her dress is too long-waisted.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the facetious Chambourdin, tapping Monsieur Mangeot on
the shoulder, “that’s rather a dainty bit still, eh? What do we think of
it, friend Mangeot?”
“I think that it’s almost six o’clock, and that I am starving to death!”
“As the baroness has arrived, dinner will probably be served.”
“Why, no--look--there’s Glumeau running away now! Do you see how he
slinks off? Where in the devil can he be going?”
“We must keep him here.”
But the gentlemen were too late that time; Monsieur Glumeau finally
succeeded in leaving the salon; he would have left one of his coat tails
there rather than not go.
Amid all the reflections and comments to which Madame de Grangeville’s
entrance had given rise, a single person had said not a word--that
person was Monsieur de Merval. However, he had scrutinized the baroness
no less closely, perhaps even more closely, than the others had done,
and his expression, as he looked at her, seemed to indicate that it was
not the first time that he had seen her; being a man of the world,
however, he was able to conceal his sensations.
As for her who was at that moment the cynosure of every eye, she was not
embarrassed for an instant by all the glances that were bent upon her;
smiling at one and all most graciously, acknowledging Madame Glumeau’s
curtsies, addressing a pleasant word to Mademoiselle Eolinde, she
displayed as much ease of manner as if she were in her own house until
the moment that her eyes met Monsieur de Merval’s. Then a surprised
expression, a faint suggestion of dismay, blended with the smile that
played constantly about her lips; but, like Monsieur de Merval, she
speedily recovered her self-possession; her emotion was only momentary.
Young Astianax reappeared in other clothes and was greeted with cheers
by Chambourdin and Dufournelle, who told him that all the ladies had
looked at his trousers.
The little fellow lost no time in presenting his respects to the Baronne
de Grangeville, to whom he delivered a complimentary address that lasted
a long time, while Monsieur Mangeot persisted in whispering to his
neighbors:
“I say, are we never going to dine? It’s after six; I was very hungry,
but you will see that my appetite will have vanished when we sit down at
the table.”
“Where is the famous bouquet you were going to present to your father,
young hidalgo?” Chambourdin asked the son of the house.
“The bouquet? Oh! don’t mention it, my dear Chambourdin! It was that
infernal bouquet that caused the accident to my trousers.”
“Did you undertake to pick the flowers yourself, pray? Have you been
flitting about the fields, my little shepherd?”
“No; it’s a long story! There’s a flower girl--who is very pretty--oh! I
tell you she’s a beauty!”
“Enough, enough, you scamp! I don’t wish to know any more;--but you may
give me the flower girl’s address.”
Madame de Grangeville continued to talk with Madame Glumeau and
Mademoiselle Eolinde; but the rest of the guests assumed that morose and
surly air which always invades a salon when dinner is delayed too long.
Some looked at the ceiling, others walked about the room, concealing
their yawns; this one consulted the clock at every instant, another
stretched himself out in an easy-chair and tapped the floor impatiently.
But at last the door of the salon opened, and a servant appeared and
said:
“Madame is served.”
Instantly the scene changed; faces became amiable once more, lips
smiled; there was a general movement, a murmur of satisfaction passed
about the room, and stout Dufournelle ran to offer his hand to the
mistress of the house, eager to escort her to the dining-room. But,
while accepting his proffered hand, Madame Glumeau still hesitated; she
wondered whether they ought to sit down without her husband.--At that
moment he appeared; he walked proudly and quickly; he carried his nose
in the air and his foot gracefully arched; he was not the same man who
was squirming and making wry faces a short time before. Madame Glumeau
drew a long breath and said to herself:
“It seems that it did him good.”
Glumeau shot through his guests like an arrow and offered his arm to the
baroness, who accepted it. They adjourned to the dining-room and took
their seats at the table in the order established by the cards. Madame
de Grangeville naturally was seated beside the host, and Monsieur
Camuzard was on her other side. Madame Glumeau had seated Monsieur de
Merval beside herself, so that that gentleman was at some distance from
the baroness; not so far, however, that his eyes did not meet hers from
time to time; and, strange to say, at such times Monsieur de Merval
always lowered his first.
When their appetites were appeased sufficiently to permit the guests to
be agreeable, or at least to try to appear so, the conversation became
animated, and they turned at last to the subject which had led to that
festivity--the performance to be given on Monsieur Glumeau’s little
stage in the country, and the distribution of parts.
“Unless something better is suggested, we propose to give _La Forêt
Périlleuse_,” said Madame Glumeau.
“Very good,” said Chambourdin; “but in addition to the speaking parts,
we must have robbers, a band of robbers.”
“We will find some,” said Glumeau; “robbers are not what we lack.”
“The deuce! are they abundant in the neighborhood of your country
house?”
“Don’t joke, Chambourdin; if you do, nothing will ever be decided, and
we must arrange everything to-day; we go into the country next week,
and we must give the play at the end of June, no later.”
“Of course, with a theatre in the woods, we mustn’t wait until the bad
weather begins.”
“Well then, we will say _La Forêt Périlleuse_; my servants and my
gardener will be the robbers.”
“Oh! very good! excellent!”
“I will p--p--play the fair Ca--Ca--the fair Ca--Ca--Camille.”
“You are entitled to.”
“And my b--b--brother the robber chief.”
“Better and better--just as it used to be at Nicolet’s!”
“I say, I really believe Chambourdin is laughing at us! What do the
company think?”
“No indeed! but it’s lawful to laugh, isn’t it?” said Chambourdin; “I
don’t imagine that you are going to act with sober faces all the time.
Besides, am I not one of your troupe? I will take whatever part you
wish--a robber, a tyrant, a victim. But allow me to make one suggestion;
instead of your _Forêt Périlleuse_, which is not wonderfully clever, and
in which there is only one female part--and that one doesn’t come on in
the first act--why don’t you give _Roderic et Cunégonde_? That’s a
splendid parody on the fashionable melodrama, and full of wit from end
to end; indeed, it’s by the late Martainville, who had wit to sell, so I
have been told; for I never knew him.”
Chambourdin’s suggestion was generally approved, except by Mademoiselle
Eolinde, who regretted the fair Camille; but they gave her the part of
Cunégonde, which was more in her line, because there are no long
speeches in it.
“But there’s a child in _Roderic et Cunégonde_,” said Monsieur Mangeot.
“That’s all right! we’ll make one.”
“What do you say? you’ll make one?”
“To be sure, of pasteboard; with a doll; that’s simple enough.”
“But the child has something to say.”
“That makes a difference; we will have one that can talk; at a pinch I
will play the child myself.”
“No, no,” said Monsieur Glumeau, “we’ll have my gardener’s little one;
he’s a very smart child.”
“Are there any other female parts?”
“There’s a peasant--little Colas; we’ll turn him into a girl--little
Colette.”
“That’s right; and Mademoiselle Polymnie will take the part.”
“She would have made a little Colas quite as well!” whispered Madame
Dufournelle to Chambourdin, who replied:
“Such things are thought, not said.”
“There’s one piece chosen,” said Mangeot, “so far so good; but you are
going to give something besides that, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course; we must have a very lively farce.”
“Have you made your selection? If not, I suggest _Il y a plus d’un Ane à
la Foire_.”
“Yes,” said Dufournelle, “that’s very amusing; we saw it, didn’t we,
Eléonore?--She laughed so much that we came near having to leave the
theatre.”
“I don’t know that play,” said Monsieur Camuzard. “Are there actually
any asses in it?”
“There are three--but they’re dressed as men.”
“Ah! very good!”
And the old gentleman turned to the baroness and said: “I don’t
understand, do you, madame?”
The baroness looked at her neighbor with an ironical expression, and
replied:
“Have you never seen any, monsieur?”
“Any what, madame?”
“Asses dressed as men.”
“I don’t think so--that is to say--Ah! I see, it’s a metaphor!--That’s a
very unkind thing to say.”
“Do you think so, monsieur? I don’t.”
The play suggested was adopted; then they desired a third, to begin the
performance.
“Yes,” said Chambourdin, “when you take so much trouble to put
yourselves in training, you must give full measure--a performance
_complet_, like an omnibus. I am going to propose a jolly farce, a
little one-act affair with three characters: _Œil et Nez_.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Dufournelle; “do you remember, Eléonore? when we saw
it, you laughed so hard that--really you laughed too heartily.”
“I had already suggested that,” said little Astianax; “I know the part
of Tityrus.”
“And I will be the Eye, if you choose,” laughed Madame Dufournelle.
“And I the Nose,” said Chambourdin.
“But what on earth can this play be in which there’s an Eye and a Nose?”
queried Monsieur Camuzard, appealing once more to his neighbor. “I can’t
imagine, can you, madame?”
“I, monsieur? Why I am accustomed to seeing them in all the plays that
are acted, and it doesn’t seem at all strange to me.”
Far from satisfied with this reply, Monsieur Camuzard dropped his chin
on his cravat and his nose beneath his spectacles.
The choice of plays being made, they sent out for books, in order to
distribute the rôles during the evening. Then they left the table and
returned to the salon, where other guests, invited for the evening, were
already assembled.
In the confusion that takes place when a number of people pass from one
room to another, it is very easy to approach a person to whom one has
something to say. A lover never lets that opportunity escape him, when
he has not been seated beside the lady of his thoughts at dinner.
On this occasion it was a lady, who, as if without design, seated
herself in a corner of the salon where a gentleman was already standing.
The lady was the Baronne de Grangeville, and she said to Monsieur de
Merval in an undertone:
“Have I changed so very much, pray, that Monsieur de Merval does not
recognize me?”
“Pardon me, madame--I recognized you perfectly the instant that you
arrived.”
“In that case, why did you not speak to me?”
“You have changed your name and I supposed that you did not wish to be
recognized; I respected your incognito.”
“If I have changed my name, you must be well aware of the--the reason;
you must have learned of what--of what happened to me.”
“People say so many things in society, madame, that one never knows what
to believe, and in my opinion the man who believes nothing is wisest.”
“Ah! monsieur, if one could foresee--could conceive what would happen!”
“Why, there are some things that one can easily foresee.”
The baroness cast a penetrating glance at Monsieur de Merval, then
rejoined:
“You are not married?”
“No, madame.”
“Faith, I am inclined to think that you have done as well to
abstain!--Will you not do me the pleasure to come to see me?”
“You do me much honor, madame; and if it will not be indiscreet----”
“Oh! not in the least; I am absolutely my own mistress. We will talk of
the past; that will not rejuvenate me, but it will give me pleasure.
You will come, won’t you?”
“I shall take advantage of your permission, madame.”
“Here is my card.”
Madame Dufournelle, who always knew what was taking place in the salon,
no matter where she happened to be, whispered to her husband:
“The baroness seems to be talking with Monsieur de Merval a great deal.”
“What of that? isn’t everybody here talking?”
“Yes, those who know one another.”
“Perhaps they know each other.”
“It looks to me very much that way; she just put something in his
hand--something like a small piece of paper. What can it be?”
“Instead of worrying about that, go and select a part; they are just
bringing the books.”
“A part. Oh! I mean to have a good one; I don’t propose that they shall
make me play a supernumerary, or Monsieur Camuzard’s sweetheart--it’s so
agreeable when he speaks to you; he would kill a fly on the wing! And
it’s of no use to try to get away from it, for he has a mania for
talking into your face.”
“What do you expect, my dear love? everybody hasn’t a perfumed breath.”
“No, indeed! I should think not! in fact, it’s a sad thing to see how
rapidly mankind is degenerating! But there are people who seem to take
pleasure in poisoning one. Nowadays, three-fourths of the young men
carry about an odor of tobacco, of pipes, of the barracks, that turns
the stomach of a person who doesn’t smoke; and women, as a general rule,
haven’t adopted that habit.”
“And then,” said Chambourdin, who had overheard their conversation, “we
have people with poor digestions--it’s dangerous to speak to them after
dinner. And there are some too with decayed teeth; I can’t forgive them,
for they might go to a dentist, who would make them inodorous. We also
have ladies who lace too tight and ruin their stomachs in that way.”
“Oh! really, monsieur, I don’t believe that!”
“I will procure you the testimony of physicians, madame, to the effect
that many ladies, married and unmarried, have attempted to make their
waists so slender, have so squeezed their poor bodies, that the internal
organs have suffered, and foul breath has arrived after some time. What
madness! what idiocy! Ah! mesdames, the most willowy, the most slender
waist will never be worth a fresh, pure breath, which is an
indispensable accompaniment of beauty!--Dufournelle, I trust that we are
going to have a little one?”
“A little what?”
“Parbleu! a little game of bouillotte--you and I and Monsieur de Merval,
and that little villain of a Miaulard, who has just arrived sneezing; he
always has a cold in his head.”
“Oh! messieurs, you think of nothing in the world but your cards; how
nice it is of you, instead of playing with us!”
“Playing what?”
“Why, little games.”
“More or less innocent.--I’ll do it, on condition that I am allowed to
play blindman’s-buff sitting down, and that the ladies guess who I
am.--Ah! good! if that unlucky Kingerie hasn’t upset a Carcel lamp, and
Mademoiselle Glumeau’s dress is covered with oil! That youth is really
very dangerous in company!”
“Oho! there’s a different sort of thing over yonder! Just look at
Mademoiselle Polymnie and Monsieur Astianax playing battledore and
shuttlecock, and seated, at that!”
“Why, no, they’re going to play cup and ball; they both have pointed
sticks in their hands.”
“It’s a new kind of shuttlecock, monsieur: instead of hitting it with a
racquet, somebody, not long ago, invented cornets to catch it in; but
it’s a much prettier way that they do it now: the shuttlecock has a hole
at the end, and you have to catch it by sticking the point into the
hole.”
“That’s a game that the ladies enjoy greatly; it is immensely popular in
salons.”
“But it must be rather hard.”
“Mademoiselle Polymnie is very strong at it, they say; she has asked
young Kingerie to come to count the strokes.”
“Thus far I haven’t seen him do anything but pick up the shuttlecock,
which the players don’t seem to catch on their sticks.”
And Chambourdin walked toward them, saying:
“Oh! what a pretty game! I am sorry that I didn’t see the beginning. How
many times have they caught it in succession, Monsieur Kingerie?”
“Once!” the young man replied, as he stooped again to pick up the
shuttlecock.
Many more guests arrived, and as the salon was crowded, Mademoiselle
Polymnie and her adversary were obliged to abandon their game, evidently
to the intense dissatisfaction of the young lady.
“It’s a pity,” she said; “we were beginning to play so well!”
“How does she succeed, I wonder, when she plays badly!” said Madame
Dufournelle laughingly.
But the master of the house, having no pain in his stomach, insisted
that they must dance. The bouillotte players were removed to an
adjoining room, and an amateur took his place at the piano and played a
polka, then a redowa, then a mazurka; for the quadrille is sadly
neglected now; it is abandoned for new-fangled dances, which the dancers
do not know in most cases, and which, consequently, they dance very
poorly. The old-fashioned quadrille ventures to show its head only at
long intervals nowadays, and it is treated with a discourtesy which will
end by banishing it altogether.
Monsieur Glumeau took possession of a young lady of fourteen, with whom
he danced the polka, redowa and mazurka without removing his eyes for a
moment from his feet, which, however, was not likely to distress his
partner. And Madame Glumeau, proud of the agility displayed by her
husband, exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm:
“Ah! what a good thing it was that he took it!”
“What? a dancing-master?” queried Monsieur Camuzard. But Madame Glumeau
turned away without replying and requested Monsieur Kingerie to leave
the piano, as he had already broken several strings.
About eleven o’clock Madame de Grangeville vanished from the salon,
after looking about in vain for Monsieur de Merval. But he had departed
some time before, and the elegant baroness, who had counted upon a
gentleman to escort her home, entered her cab all alone, frowning and
muttering:
“Ah! men aren’t so agreeable as they used to be!”
XIII
THE GOUTY GENTLEMAN
The gouty gentleman had followed the boulevards, walking toward the
small theatres; when I say small theatres, I do it in accordance with an
old habit, which it would be well to lay aside. Indeed, there are on
Boulevard du Temple theatres which are very far from being small; and
then too, even at the small ones sometimes they give works which are
much superior to those which are played at the large ones.
The gentleman turned into Rue Charlot, in the heart of the Marais,
walking very slowly, because of his lame foot, and also because he never
failed to stop and turn around whenever a pretty face passed; which
caused Chicotin to say:
“This old boy seems to be a connoisseur! I ought to have let myself out
by the hour, and I should have made a handsome thing of it!”
The gentleman finally stopped in front of a small furnished lodging
house, of very modest appearance, on Rue de Bretagne. He turned to the
messenger and said with a smile:
“Here we are, this is my hotel. It doesn’t come up to Hôtel Meurice, or
even to Hôtel des Ambassadeurs! Other times, other hotels.--Follow me.”
Chicotin followed the gentleman, who went up to the third floor and
entered a room comfortably furnished, but without taste or style or
harmony; the bed was mahogany, the bureau oak, and the chairs walnut;
the bed curtains were modern in style; but there were curtains at the
windows which were suitable for a peasant’s cottage at best; in short,
all the articles of furniture seemed to swear at finding themselves
together, and the occupant of the room also made a wry face at finding
himself surrounded by such things.
He threw himself down on a sort of couch, on which castors had been put
to give it some resemblance to an easy-chair _à la Voltaire_, and said
to the young messenger who had remained in the middle of the room:
“Well, what do you say to this? It is magnificent, isn’t it?”
Chicotin shook his head as he replied:
“Well! it isn’t bad, but I’ve seen better.”
“Good! I am very glad to see that you know a thing or two! The fact is
that this house is furnished in the most wretched fashion! I have no
idea where they could have picked up all this stuff; a second-hand
dealer would never recognize himself here; and when one has lived a long
while at the Hôtel Meurice, one finds a terrible difference! But still
one resigns oneself to it, when one cannot do otherwise. Wait while I
write a line; then you will carry my letter and this bouquet. Just pull
that bell over there.”
Chicotin pulled the bell; a maid-servant, covered with a layer of dust
from top to toe, answered the summons and said: