Ver.07/27/01*END*
This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them. D.W.]
MONSIEUR, MADAME AND BEBE
By GUSTAVE DROZ
Antoine-Gustave Droz was born in Paris, June 9, 1832. He was the son of
Jules-Antoine Droz, a celebrated French sculptor, and grand son of Jean
Pierre Droz, master of the mint and medalist under the Directoire. The
family is of Swiss origin. Gustave entered L'Ecole des Beaux Arts and
became quite a noted artist, coming out in the Salon of 1857 with the
painting 'L'Obole de Cesar'. He also exhibited a little later various
'tableaux de genre': 'Buffet de chemin de fer' (1863), 'A la Sacristie'
and 'Un Succes de Salon' (1864), 'Monsieur le Cure, vous avez Raison' and
'Un Froid Sec' (1865).
Toward this period, however, he abandoned the art of painting and
launched on the career of an author, contributing under the name of
Gustave Z.... to 'La Vie Parisienne'. His articles found great favor,
he showed himself an exquisite raconteur, a sharp observer of intimate
family life, and a most penetrating analyst. The very gallant sketches,
later reunited in 'Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe' (1866), and crowned by the
Academy, have gone through many editions. 'Entre nous' (1867) and 'Une
Femme genante', are written in the same humorous strain, and procured him
many admirers by the vivacious and sparkling representations of bachelor
and connubial life. However, Droz knows very well where to draw the
line, and has formally disavowed a lascivious novel published in Belgium
--'Un Ete a la campagne', often, but erroneously, attributed to him.
It seems that Gustave Droz later joined the pessimistic camp. His works,
at least, indicate other qualities than those which gained for him the
favor of the reading public. He becomes a more ingenious romancer, a
more delicate psychologist. If some of his sketches are realistic, we
must consider that realism is not intended 'pour les jeunes filles du
pensiannat'.
Beside the works mentioned in the above text, Gustave Droz wrote: 'Le
Cahier bleu de Mademoiselle Cibot (1868), 'Auteur d'une Source (1869),
'Un Paquet de Lettres' (1870), 'Babolain' (1872), 'Les Etangs' (1875),
'Tristesses et Sourires (1883), and L'Enfant (1884).
He died in Paris, October 22, 1895.
CAMILLE DOUCET
de l'Academie Francaise.
CHAPTER I
MY FIRST SUPPER PARTY
The devil take me if I can remember her name, notwithstanding I dearly
loved her, the charming girl!
It is strange how rich we find ourselves when we rummage in old drawers;
how many forgotten sighs, how many pretty little trinkets, broken, old-
fashioned, and dusty, we come across. But no matter. I was now
eighteen, and, upon my honor, very unsuspecting. It was in the arms of
that dear--I have her name at the tip of my tongue, it ended in "ine"--
it was in her arms, the dear child, that I murmured my first words of
love, while I was close to her rounded shoulder, which had a pretty
little mole, where I imprinted my first kiss. I adored her, and she
returned my affection.
I really think I should have married her, and that cheerfully, I can
assure you, if it had not been that on certain details of moral weakness
her past life inspired me with doubts, and her present with uneasiness.
No man is perfect; I was a trifle jealous.
Well, one evening--it was Christmas eve--I called to take her to supper
with a friend of mine whom I esteemed much, and who became an examining
magistrate, I do not know where, but he is now dead.
I went upstairs to the room of the sweet girl, and was quite surprised to
find her ready to start. She had on, I remember, a square-cut bodice,
a little too low to my taste, but it became her so well that when she
embraced me I was tempted to say: "I say, pet, suppose we remain here";
but she took my arm, humming a favorite air of hers, and we soon found
ourselves in the street.
You have experienced, have you not, this first joy of the youth who at
once becomes a man when he has his sweetheart on his arm? He trembles at
his boldness, and scents on the morrow the paternal rod; yet all these
fears are dissipated in the presence of the ineffable happiness of the
moment. He is free, he is a man, he loves, he is loved, he is conscious
that he is taking a forward step in life. He would like all Paris to see
him thus, yet he is afraid of being recognized; he would give his little
finger to grow three hairs on his upper lip, and to have a wrinkle on his
brow, to be able to smoke a cigar without being sick, and to polish off a
glass of punch without coughing.
When we reached my friend's, the aforesaid examining magistrate, we found
a numerous company; from the anteroom we could hear bursts of laughter,
noisy conversation, accompanied by the clatter of plate and crockery,
which was being placed upon the table. I was a little excited; I knew
that I was the youngest of the party, and I was afraid of appearing
awkward on that night of revelry. I said to myself: "Old boy, you must
face the music, do the grand, and take your liquor like a little man;
your sweetheart is here, and her eyes are fixed on you." The idea,
however, that I might be ill next morning did indeed trouble me; in my
mind's eye, I saw my poor mother bringing me a cup of tea, and weeping
over my excesses, but I chased away all such thoughts and really all went
well up till suppertime. My sweetheart had been pulled about a little,
no doubt; one or two men had even kissed her under my very nose, but I at
once set down these details to the profit and loss column, and in all
sincerity I was proud and happy.
"My young friends," suddenly exclaimed our host, "it is time to use your
forks vigorously. Let us adjourn to the diningroom."
Joyful shouts greeted these words, and, amid great disorder, the guests
arranged themselves round the table, at each end of which I noticed two
plates filled up with those big cigars of which I could not smoke a
quarter without having a fit of cold shivers.
"Those cigars will lead to a catastrophe, if I don't use prudence and
dissemble," said I to myself.
I do not know how it was, but my sweetheart found herself seated on the
left of the host. I did not like that, but what could I say? And then,
the said host, with his twenty-five summers, his moustache curled up at
the ends, and his self-assurance, seemed to me the most ideal, the most
astounding of young devils, and I felt for him a shade of respect.
"Well," he said, with captivating volubility, "you are feeling yourself
at home, are you not? You know any guest who feels uncomfortable in his
coat may take it off . . . and the ladies, too. Ha! ha! ha!
That's the way to make one's self happy, is it not, my little dears?"
And before he had finished laughing he printed a kiss right and left on
the necks of his two neighbors, one of whom, as I have already said, was
my beloved.
The ill-bred dog! I felt my hair rise on end and my face glow like red-
hot iron. For the rest, everybody burst out laughing, and from that
moment the supper went on with increased animation.
"My young friends," was the remark of that infernal examining magistrate,
"let us attack the cold meat, the sausages, the turkey, the salad; let us
at the cakes, the cheese, the oysters, and the grapes; let us attack the
whole show. Waiter, draw the corks and we will eat up everything at
once, eh, my cherubs? No ceremony, no false delicacy. This is fine fun;
it is Oriental, it is splendid. In the centre of Africa everybody acts
in this manner. We must introduce poetry into our pleasures. Pass me
some cheese with my turkey. Ha! ha! ha! I feel queer, I am wild, I am
crazy, am I not, pets?" And he bestowed two more kisses, as before. If
I had not been already drunk, upon my honor, I should have made a scene.
I was stupid. Around me they were laughing, shouting, singing, and
rattling their plates. A racket of popping corks and breaking glasses
buzzed in my ears, but it seemed to me that a cloud had risen between me
and the outer world; a veil separated me from the other guests, and,
in spite of the evidence of my senses, I thought I was dreaming. I could
distinguish, however, though in a confused manner, the animated glances
and heightened color of the guests, and, above all, a disorder quite new
to me in the toilettes of the ladies. Even my sweetheart appeared to
have changed. Suddenly--it was as a flash of lightning--my beloved, my
angel, my ideal, she whom that very morning I was ready to marry, leaned
toward the examining magistrate and--I still feel the cold shudder--
devoured three truffles which were on his plate.
I experienced keen anguish; it seemed to me as if my heart were breaking
just then.
Here my recollections cease. What then took place I do not know. All I
remember is that some one took me home in a cab. I kept asking: "Where
is she? Where? Oh, where?"
I was told that she had left two hours before. The next morning I
experienced a keen sense of despair when the truffles of the examining
magistrate came back to mind. For a moment I had a vague idea of
entering upon holy orders, but time--you know what it is--calmed my
troubled breast. But what the devil was her name? It ended in "ine."
Indeed, no, I believe it ended in "a."