I FALL A SACRIFICE TO MRS. GRUNDY.
"A word with you, if you please, Basil Arbuthnot," said Dr. Chéron,
"when you have finished copying those prescriptions."
Dr. Chéron was standing with his feet firmly planted in the tiger-skin
rug and his back to the fireplace. I was busy writing at the study
table, and glancing anxiously from time to time at the skeleton clock
upon the chimney-piece; for it was getting on fast towards five, and at
half-past six I was to take Josephine to the Opéra Comique. As perverse
fortune would have it, the Doctor had this afternoon given me more
desk-work than usual, and I began to doubt whether I should be able to
dine, dress, and reach the theatre in time if he detained me
much longer.
"But you need be in no haste," he added, looking at his watch. "That is
to say, upon my account."
I bowed nervously--I was always nervous in his presence--and tried to
write faster than ever; but, feeling his cold blue eye upon me, made a
blot, smeared it with my sleeve, left one word out, wrote another twice
over, and was continually tripped up by my pen, which sputtered
hideously and covered the page with florid passages in little round
spots, which only needed tails to become crotchets and quavers. At
length, just as the clock struck the hour, I finished my task and laid
aside my pen.
Dr. Chéron coughed preparatorily.
"It is some time," said he, "since you have given me any news of your
father. Do you often hear from him?"
"Not very often, sir," I replied. "About once in every three weeks. He
dislikes letter-writing."
Dr. Chéron took a packet of papers from his breast-pocket, and ruffling
them over, said, somewhat indifferently:--
"Very true--very true. His notes are brief and few; but always to the
purpose. I heard from him this morning."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes--here is his letter. It encloses a remittance of seventy-five
pounds; fifty of which are for you. The remaining twenty-five being
reserved for the defrayal of your expenses at the Ecole de Médecine and
the Ecole Pratique."
I was delighted.
"Both are made payable through my banker," continued Dr. Chéron, "and I
am to take charge of your share till you require it; which cannot be
just yet, as I understand from this letter that your father supplied you
with the sum of one hundred and five pounds on leaving England."
My delight went down to zero.
"Does my father say that I am not to have it now, sir?" I asked,
hesitatingly.
"He says, as I have already told you, that it is to be yours when you
require it."
"And if I require it very shortly, sir--in fact, if I require it now?"
"You ought not to require it now," replied the Doctor, with a cold,
scrutinizing stare. "You ought not to have spent one hundred and five
pounds in five months."
I looked down in silence. I had more than spent it long since; and I had
to thank Madame de Marignan for the facility with which it had flown. It
was not to be denied that my course of lessons in practical politeness
had been somewhat expensive.
"How have you spent it?" asked Dr. Chéron, never removing his eyes from
my face.
I might have answered, in bouquets, opera stalls, and riding horses; in
dress coats, tight boots, and white kid gloves; in new books, new music,
bon-bons, cabs, perfumery, and the like inexcusable follies. But I held
my tongue instead, and said nothing.
Dr. Chéron looked again at his watch.
"Have you kept any entries of your expenses since you came to Paris?"
said he.
"Not with--with any regularity, sir," I replied.
He took out his pencil-case and pocket-book.
"Let us try, then," said he, "to make an average calculation of what
they might be in five months."
I began to feel very uncomfortable.
"I believe your father paid your travelling expenses?"
I bowed affirmatively.
"Leaving you the clear sum of one hundred and five pounds." I bowed
again.
"Allowing, then, for your rent--which is, I believe, twenty francs per
week," said he, entering the figures as he went on, "there will be four
hundred francs spent in five months. For your living, say thirty francs
per week, which makes six hundred. For your clothing, seventy-five per
month, which makes three hundred and seventy-five, and ought to be quite
enough for a young man of moderate tastes. For your washing and
firewood, perhaps forty per month, which makes two hundred--and for your
incidental expenses, say fifteen per week, which makes three hundred. We
thus arrive at a total of one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five
francs, which, reduced to English money at the average standard of
twenty-five francs to the sovereign, represents the exact sum of
seventy-five pounds. Do I make myself understood?"
I bowed for the third time.
"Of the original one hundred and five pounds, we now have thirty not
accounted for. May I ask how much of that surplus you have left?"
"About--not more than--than a hundred and twenty francs," I replied,
stripping the feathers off all the pens in succession, without
knowing it.
"Have you any debts?"
"A--a few."
"Tailors' bills?"
"Yes, sir."
"What others?"
"A--a couple of months' rent, I believe, sir."
"Is that all?"
"N--not quite."
Dr. Chéron frowned, and looked again at his watch.
"Be good enough, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, "to spare me this amount of
useless interrogation by at once stating the nature and amount of
the rest."
"I--I cannot positively state the amount, sir," I said, absurdly trying
to get the paper-weight into my waistcoat pocket, and then putting it
down in great confusion. "I--I have an account at Monceau's in the Rue
Duphot, and..."
"I beg your pardon," interrupted Dr. Chéron: "but who is Monceau?"
"Monceau's--Monceau's livery-stables, sir."
Dr. Chéron slightly raised his eye-brows, and entered the name.
"And at Lavoisier's, on the Boulevard Poissonnière--"
"What is sold, pray, at Lavoisier's?"
"Gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made linen..."
"Enough--you can proceed."
"I have also a bill at--at Barbet's, in the Passage de l'Opéra."
"And Barbet is--?"
"A--a florist!" I replied, very reluctantly.
"Humph!--a florist!" observed Dr. Chéron, again transfixing me with the
cold, blue eye. "To what amount do you suppose you are indebted to
Monsieur Barbet?"
I looked down, and became utterly unintelligible.
"Fifty francs?"
"I--I fear, more than--than--"
"A hundred? A hundred and fifty? Two hundred?"
"About two hundred, I suppose, sir," I said desperately.
"Two hundred francs--that is to say, eight pounds English--to your
florist! Really, Mr. Arbuthnot, you must be singularly fond of flowers!"
I looked down in silence.
"Have you a conservatory attached to your rooms?"
The skeleton clock struck the half hour.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, driven now to the last extremity, "but--but I
have an engagement which--in short, I will, if you please, make out a
list of--of these items, ascertaining the correct amount of each; and
when once paid, I will endeavor--I mean, it is my earnest desire, to--to
limit my expenditure strictly to--in short, to study economy for the
future. If, in the meantime, you will have the goodness to
excuse me...."
"One word, young man. Will the fifty pounds cover your debts?"
"Quite, sir, I am confident."
"And leave you something in hand for your current expenses?"
"Indeed, I fear very little."
"In that case what will you do?"
This was a terrible question, and one for which I could find no answer.
"Write to your father for another remittance--eh?"
"I--upon my word, I dare not, sir," I faltered.
"Then you would go in debt again?"
"I really fear--even with the strictest economy--I--"
"Be so obliging as to let me have your seat," said Dr. Chéron, thrusting
the obnoxious note-book into his pocket and taking my place at the desk,
from which he brought out a couple of cards, and a printed paper.
"This ticket," said he, "admits the holder to the anatomical course for
the term now beginning, and this to the lectures at the Ecole Pratique.
Both are in my gift. The first is worth two hundred francs, and the
second two hundred and fifty. I ought, perhaps, in strict justice, to
bestow them upon some needy and deserving individual: however, to save
you from debt, or a very unpleasant alternative, I will fill them in
with your name, and, when you bring me all your bills receipted, I will
transfer to your account the four hundred and fifty francs which I must,
otherwise, have paid for your courses out of the remittance forwarded by
your father for that purpose. Understand, however, that I must first
have the receipts, and that I expect you, on the word of a gentleman,
to commit no more follies, and to contract no more debts."
"Oh, sir!" I exclaimed, "how can I ever--"
"No thanks, I beg," interposed Dr. Chéron. "Prove your gratitude by your
conduct; do not trouble yourself to talk about it."
"Indeed, sir, you may depend--"
"And no promises either, if you please. I attach no kind of value to
them. Stay--here is my check for the fifty pounds forwarded by your
father. With that sum extricate yourself from debt. You know the rest."
Hereupon Dr. Chéron replaced the cards and the printed form,
double-locked his desk, and, with a slight gesture of the hand, frigidly
dismissed me.
I left the house quite chopfallen. I was relieved, it is true, from the
incubus of debt; but then how small a figure I had cut in the eyes of
Dr. Chéron! Besides, I was small for the second time--reproved for the
second time--lectured, helped, put down, and poohpoohed, for the second
time! Could I have peeped at myself just then through the wrong end of a
telescope, I vow I could not have looked smaller in my own eyes.
I had no time to dine; so I despatched a cup of coffee and a roll on my
way home, and went hungry to the theatre.
Josephine was got up with immense splendor for this occasion; greatly to
her own satisfaction and my disappointment. Having hired a small private
box in the least conspicuous part of the theatre, I had committed the
cowardly mistake of endeavoring to transform my grisette into a woman of
fashion. I had bought her a pink and white opera cloak, a pretty little
fan, a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet. With these she wore a
decent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of her
own wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own clever
fingers. Thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettish
little every-day cap, and looked, I regret to say, more like an
_ouvrière_ than ever. Aggravating above all else, however, was her own
undisguised delight in her appearance.
"Are my flowers all right? Is my dress tumbled? Is the hood of my cloak
in the middle of my back?" were the questions she addressed to me every
moment. In the ante-room she took advantage of each mirror we passed. In
the lobby I caught her trying to look at her own back. When we reached
our box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there as
if she expected to be admired by the whole audience.
"My dear Josephine," I remonstrated, "sit back here, facing the stage.
You will see much better--besides, it is your proper seat, being the
only lady in the box."
"Ah, _mon Dieu!_ then I cannot see the house--and how pretty it is! Ever
so much prettier than the Gaiété, or the Porte St. Martin!"
"You can see the house by peeping behind the curtain."
"As if I were ashamed to be seen! _Par exemple_!"
"Nay, as you please. I only advise you according to custom and fashion."
Josephine pouted, and unwillingly conceded a couple of inches.
"I wish I had brought the little telescope you gave me last Sunday,"
said she, presently. "There is a gentleman with one down there in
the stalls."
"A telescope at the opera--the gods forbid! Here, however, is my
opera-glass, if you like to use it."
Josephine turned it over curiously, and peeped first through one tube
and then through the other.
"Which ought I to look through?" asked she.
"Both, of course."
"Both! How can I?"
"Why thus--as you look through a pair of spectacles."
"_Ciel!_ I can't manage that! I can never look through anything without
covering up one eye with my hand."
"Then I think you had better be contented with your own charming eyes,
_ma belle_" said I, nervously. "How do you like your bouquet?"
Josephine sniffed at it as if she were taking snuff, and pronounced it
perfect. Just then the opera began. I withdrew into the shade, and
Josephine was silenced for a while in admiration of the scenery and the
dresses. By and by, she began to yawn.
"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" said she, "when will they have done singing? I have
not heard a word all this time."
"But everything is sung, _ma chére_, in an opera."
"What do you mean? Is there no play?"
"This is the play; only instead of speaking their words, they sing
them."
Josephine shrugged her shoulders.
"Ah, bah!" said she. "How stupid! I had rather have seen the _Closerie
des Gênets_ at the Graiété, if that is to be the case the whole evening.
Oh, dear! there is such a pretty lady come into the opposite box, in
such a beautiful blue _glacé_, trimmed with black velvet and lace!"
"Hush! you must not talk while they are singing!"
"_Tiens!_ it is no pleasure to come out and be dumb. But do just see the
lady in the opposite box! She looks exactly as if she had walked out of
a fashion-book."
"My dear child, I don't care one pin to look at her," said I, preferring
to keep as much out of sight as possible. "To admire your pretty face is
enough for me."
Josephine squeezed my hand affectionately.
"That is just as Emile used to talk to me," said she.
I felt by no means flattered.
"_Regardez done!_" said she, pulling me by the sleeve, just as I was
standing up, a little behind her chair, looking at the stage. "That lady
in the blue _glacé_ never takes her eyes from our box! She points us out
to the gentleman who is with her--do look!"
I turned my glass in the direction to which she pointed, and recognised
Madame de Marignan!
I turned hot and cold, red and white, all in one moment, and shrank back
like a snail that has been touched, or a sea-anemone at the first dig of
the naturalist.
"Does she know you?" asked Josephine.
"I--I--probably--that is to say--I have met her in society."
"And who is the gentleman?"
That was just what I was wondering. It was not Delaroche. It was no one
whom I had ever seen before. It was a short, fat, pale man, with a bald
head, and a ribbon in his button-hole.
"Is he her husband?" pursued Josephine.
The suggestion flashed upon me like a revelation. Had I not heard that
M. de Marignan was coming home from Algiers? Of course it was he. No
doubt of it. A little vulgar, fat, bald man.... Pshaw, just the sort of
a husband that she deserved!
"How she looks at me!" said Josephine.
I felt myself blush, so to speak, from head to foot.
"Good Heavens! my dear girl," I exclaimed, "take your elbows off the
front of the box!"
Josephine complied, with a pettish little grimace.
"And, for mercy's sake, don't hold your head as if you feared it would
tumble off!"
"It is the flowers," said she. "They tickle the back of my neck,
whenever I move my head. I am much more comfortable in my cap."
"Never mind. Make the best of it, and listen to this song."
It was the great tenor ballad of the evening. The house was profoundly
silent; the first wandering chords of a harp were heard behind the
scenes; and Duprez began. In the very midst of one of his finest and
tenderest _sostenuto_ passages, Josephine sneezed--and such a sneeze!
you might have heard it out in the lobbies. An audible titter ran round
the house. I saw Madame de Marignan cover her face with her
handkerchief, and yield to an irrepressible fit of laughter. As for the
tenor, he cast a withering glance up at the box, and made a marked pause
before resuming his song. Merciful powers! what crime had I committed
that I should be visited with such a punishment as this?
"Wretched girl!" I exclaimed, savagely, "what have you done?"
"Done, _mon ami!_" said Josephine, innocently. "Why, I fear I have taken
cold."
I groaned aloud.
"Taken cold!" I muttered to myself. "Would to Heaven you had taken
prussic acid!"
"_Qu'est ce que c'est?"_ asked she.
But it was not worth while to reply. I gave myself up to my fate. I
determined to remonstrate no more. I flung myself on a seat at the back
of the box, and made up my mind to bear all that might yet be in store
for me. When she openly ate a stick of _sucre d'orge_ after this, I said
nothing. When she applauded with both hands, I endured in silence. At
length the performance came to a close and the curtain fell. Madame de
Marignan had left before the last act, so I ran no danger of
encountering her on the way out; but I was profoundly miserable,
nevertheless. As for Josephine, she, poor child, had not enjoyed her
evening at all, and was naturally out of temper. We quarrelled
tremendously in the cab, and parted without having made it up. It was
all my own fault. How could I be such a fool as to suppose that, with a
few shreds and patches of finery, I could make a fine lady of
a grisette?
* * * * *